14784	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 14784-h.htm or 14784-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/7/8/14784/14784-h/14784-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/4/7/8/14784/14784-h.zip) TIMID HARE The Little Captive by MARY H. WADE Author of "Little Cousin Series", etc. Illustrated by Louis Betts Whitman Publishing Co. Racine -- Chicago 1916 [Illustration: Cover Art] [Frontispiece: Buffalo Rib was a Handsome Youth.] CONTENTS CAPTURED BEFORE THE CHIEF THE NEW HOME HARD WORK THE CHANGE THE VISIT THE MISCHIEF MAKER THE HAPPY DAY THE DOG FEAST THE FESTIVAL MOVING DAY THE JOURNEY THE MEDICINE MAN THE WINTER HUNT List of Color Plates Buffalo Rib Was a Handsome Youth The Stone and Her Son Black Bull Were Hurrying Home "Sweet Grass, Listen to Me" [Missing from book] "I Soon Had a Fire Started" Black Bull Was Helpless Bent Horn's Mind Was Made Up They Looked With Wonder at the Medicine Man "Help Me, Great Spirit" [Missing from book] CAPTURED Swift Fawn sat motionless on the river-bank. "Lap, lap," sang the tiny waves as they struck the shore. "Lap, lap," they kept repeating, but the little girl did not heed the soft music. Her mind was too busy with the story White Mink had told her that morning. After the men had started off on a buffalo hunt Swift Fawn had left the other children to their games in the village and stolen away to the favorite bathing place of the women-folk. "No one will disturb me there," she had said to herself, "and I want to be all by myself to think it over." After she had been there for sometime. Swift Fawn drew out from the folds of her deerskin jacket a baby's sock, and turned it over and over in her hands curiously. Never had she seen the like of it before. How pretty it was! Who could have had the skill to weave the threads of scarlet silk in and out of the soft wool in such a dainty pattern? Was it--the child whispered the word--could it have been her mother? White Mink had always been so good to her, Surely no real mother could have been more loving than the Indian woman who had watched over her and tended her, and taught her from the time when Three Bears had brought her, a year-old baby, to his wife. Where he found the little one, he had never told. And so she was a white child. How strange it was! Yet she had grown up into a big girl, loving the ways of the red people more and more deeply for eight happy years. "Surely," thought the child, "I could not have loved my own parents more than I do White Mink and Three Bears." "I wish--oh, so hard!" she added with a lump in her throat, "that White Mink had not told me. I don't want to remember there ever was--something different." With these last words Swift Fawn lifted the little sock and was about to hurl it into the water, when she suddenly stopped as she remembered White Mink's last words. "I give this shoe into your keeping," the woman had said solemnly. "I have spoken because of my dream last night, and because of its warning I bid you keep the shoe always." With a little sigh, Swift Fawn drew back from the edge of the stream and replaced the shoe in the bosom of her jacket. Then she stretched herself out on the grassy bank and lay looking up into the blue sky overhead. How beautiful it was! How gracefully the clouds floated by! One took on the shape of a buffalo with big horns and head bent down as if to charge. But it was so far away and dreamlike it was not fearful to the child. And now it changed; the horns disappeared; the body became smaller, and folded wings appeared at the sides; it was now, in Swift Fawn's thoughts, a graceful swan sailing, onward, onward, in the sky-world overhead. The little girl's eyes winked and blinked and at last closed tightly. She had left the prairie behind her and entered the Land of Nod. She must have slept a long time, for when she awoke the sun had set, and in the gathering darkness, she was aware of a man's face with fierce dark eyes bent over her own. "Ugh! Ugh!" the man was muttering. "It is a daughter of the Mandans. A good prize!" As he spoke he rose to his feet and Swift Fawn, shaking with fear, knew that he was beckoning to others to draw near. A moment afterwards she was surrounded by a party of warriors. They were taller than the men of her own tribe, and were straight and noble in shape, but their faces were very stern. "They must belong to the 'Dahcotas,'" thought the child. "And they are our enemies." Many a tale had Swift Fawn heard of the fierce Dahcotas, lovers of war and greatly to be feared. It was a terrible thought that she was alone and in their power, with the night coming on. "Ugh! What shall we do with her?" the brave who had discovered her said to the others. "She is fair to look upon," replied one. "But she is a Mandan," was the quick answer of another. As he spoke he looked proudly at the scalp lock hanging from his shoulder, for he and his companions has just been out on the war path. "Let our Chief decide," said the first speaker. "It is best that Bent Horn should settle the question." "Ugh! Ugh!" grunted the others, not quite pleased at the idea. However, they said nothing more, and turned away, moving softly with their moccasined feet to the place where their horses were restlessly waiting to go on with the journey. Swift Fawn's captor now seized her hand, saying gruffly, "Get up." Dragging her to his horse's side, he lifted her up, bound her to the animal's back, leaped up after her and a moment afterwards the whole party were galloping faster and faster into the night. Hour after hour they traveled with never a stop. At last, by the light of the stars. Swift Fawn knew that she was nearing a large camp, made up of many tent-homes. BEFORE THE CHIEF As the party entered the camp the dogs came out to meet them, barking in delight at their masters' return. Swift Fawn's captor rode up with her to the largest of the tents, or tepees as the Dahcotas called them. Springing from his horse, he unbound the little girl, and again seizing her hand, drew the scared child into the lodge. A bright fire was blazing in the fireplace, for the night was cold. Beside it squatted a noble-looking brave, wrapped in a bear-skin robe, and with eagles' feathers waving from the top of his head. Chains of wampum hung around his neck and his face was painted in long, bright lines. Not far from him sat a beautiful and richly-dressed young girl, his daughter. She looked kindly at Swift Fawn as if to say: "Do not fear, little girl." "Behold, a child of the Mandans. I give her into your hands, great Chief," said Swift Fawn's captor to the brave by the fireside. Bent Horn seemed in no hurry to speak, as he looked keenly at the child who could not lift her eyes for fear. "Is the girl of the weak Mandans to live, or to be a slave among our people?" asked the warrior. Bent Horn was about to answer, as his daughter broke in: "Father, let her live. I wish it." The Chief turned toward the young girl with love in his eyes. He smiled as he said, "Sweet Grass shall have her wish." His face became stern, however, as he added: "That shrinking creature must be trained. Give her into the keeping of The Stone, and let this girl henceforth be known as Timid Hare." As Bent Horn spoke he motioned to Swift Fawn's captor to take her away, and the man at once led her out of the lodge and through the camp to a small tepee on the outskirts, where the old woman, The Stone, lived with her deformed son, Black Bull. THE NEW HOME Drawing aside the heavy buffalo-skin curtain which covered the doorway, the man shoved his little captive inside and followed close behind her. "Ugh, Timid Hare," he said scornfully. "This is your new home. Does it please you?" The child shuddered without answering, as she mustered courage to look about her. The fire on the hearth in the middle of the tepee was smouldering. With the help of its dim light the little girl could see piles of dirty buffalo robes on either side; the walls of the tent, also made of buffalo skins, were blackened by smoke. Long shadows stretching across the floor, seemed to take on fearful shapes in the child's fancy as the low fire, now and then, gave a sudden leap upward. Furthermore, the tepee was empty,--no face looked out from any corner; no voice spoke to the new-comers. "Ugh!" The man shrugged his shoulders as he grunted in displeasure. He was in haste to get to his own lodge where a supper of bear steak was no doubt awaiting him. "Where can The Stone be that she is not here, now that darkness covers the earth?" he muttered. "And the crooked boy away too!" The sentence was barely ended when the sound of quick, soft footsteps could be heard outside. The Stone and her son, Black Bull, were hurrying home. They had been gone all day, having gone to a clay pit miles away from the village to get a certain clay for making red dye with which The Stone wished to color some reeds for basket weaving. Night had taken then by surprise, and wolves howling in the distance made them travel as fast as the poor deformed youth could go. [Illustration: The Stone and her son Black Bull were hurrying home.] The Stone was the first of the two to enter the lodge. She was bent and wrinkled, and her cunning, cruel eyes opened wide with surprise as she saw her visitors. "Ugh! what does this mean?" she asked sharply, as she looked from the brave to the cowering child still held in his strong grip. "Are you bringing a daughter of the pale-faces into my keeping?" She ended with a wicked laugh. "Not much better--it is a child of the Mandans who fell into my hands. Better to kill her at once--a goodly scalp that!" With the words the man pointed to his captive's long and beautiful hair. He continued: "But Bent Horn says, No. Let The Stone take her into her keeping. So it is then--Timid Hare, shall draw water for you and wait upon you and your son." Black Bull, who had followed close upon his mother, stood staring at the captive with wild eyes. The poor fellow was small-witted, as well as deformed. He was eighteen years old, yet he had no more understanding than a small child. His face was not cruel like his mother's, however. His eyes were sad and spoke of a longing for something--but what that something was even Black Bull himself did not understand. As the little girl looked at him a tiny hope leaped up in her heart. "He will not be unkind to me, at any rate," she decided. "And I am sorry for him that he has such a mother." Following close upon this thought came another. It was of White Mink--dear, kind White Mink who was perhaps at this very moment weeping over the loss of her little Swift Fawn. "But there is no Swift Fawn--she is dead, dead, dead. There is now only Timid Hare, the slave of a wicked woman."--The child shuddered at the thought. She came to herself to hear The Stone saying, "Leave her to me and I will train her in the good ways of the Dahcotas." The man smiled grimly and went his way, and the woman turning to her charge said: "Come, don't stand there cowering and useless. Busy yourself. Pile wood upon the fire and put water in that kettle. My son and I are hungry and would eat, and the meat must yet be cooked." With The Stone's words came a blow on Timid Hare's shoulder. It was the first one the child had ever felt, and though it did not strike hard upon the body, it fell with heavy weight upon her aching heart. Stumbling about, she tried to do the old squaw's bidding, and the two soon had the supper ready. The Stone now served her son on his side of the fireplace, after which she herself began to eat her fill while Swift Fawn sat huddled in a dark comer, hungrily watching. "Take that," the woman said as she finished her meal, and she threw a half-picked bone to the little girl. Then she got up, put away whatever food was left from the supper, and began to spread out some buffalo skins, first for her son's bed on his side of the tepee, then on her own side for herself to sleep on. "You can lie where you are," she told Timid Hare, pointing to the pile of skins on which the child was crouching. Soon afterwards The Stone and Black Bull were quietly sleeping, while the little captive, with tears rolling down her cheeks, lay thinking of the kind friends far away and of the dreadful things that might happen on the morrow. All at once she remembered the baby's sock hidden in her dress, and of White Mink's words. Perhaps--perhaps--the sock would help her. But how? She must guard it, at any rate; not even The Stone should discover it. Kind sleep was already drawing near. The tired eyes no longer shed tears. Till morning should come, Timid Hare was free from trouble. HARD WORK The sun, shining into the tepee through the opening over the fireplace, roused The Stone to her day's work. She lost no time in setting a task for her little slave. Handing her a needle carved from the bone of a deer and thread made of a deer's sinew, she hade her sew up a rent in the skin curtain of the doorway. Poor Timid Hare! she had learned to embroider and to weave baskets in the old home, but sewing on heavy skins had never yet fallen to her share of the daily duties. "There will be time enough," White Mink had thought, "when the little fingers have grown bigger and the tender back is stronger." So now the hands were clumsy, and the stitches were not as even as they should be. The Stone watched her with a scowl and frequent scoldings; often an uplifted arm seemed ready to strike. But seeing that the child was trying to do her best, the expected beating did not come. After she and Black Bull had eaten their own breakfast of bread made out of wild rice, together with some buffalo fat, she gave a small portion to Timid Hare. Then she and Black Bull went out of the lodge, leaving the little girl alone at her work. How different--how very different--this home was from the one among the Mandans! The old one was so big and comfortable, and there was such a jolly household of parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts, and children of all ages gathered together under one roof. Then, too, the floor was so smooth and shiny, and the bedsteads, each one shut off by a curtain and made pretty with fringe and pictures, seemed almost like tiny sleeping rooms. Moreover, the banking of earth over the framework of the lodge kept out the chill winds and biting cold of winter. But here, in The Stoned tepee, where the skin covering was old and torn, one must often suffer. At least so thought Timid Hare as she looked up now and then from her work to get acquainted with her new home. "Besides, it is so small," she said to herself, "and only two people in the whole household before I came. How strange it is!" It was quite true that the ways of the Dahcotas were unlike those of the Mandans. Each family lived by itself and thus the home did not need to be so large. Timid Hare did not know this, nor that the people, as a rule, lived in great comfort. They preferred tents, rather than houses like those of the Mandans, of frame-work covered with earth because they liked to move from place to place and they could thus carry their homes with them. Yet their tepees were warm and comfortable because the covering of strong, thick buffalo skins was generally double. Fires were kept burning on their hearths in winter and supplies of food and clothing were easy to obtain from the wild creatures of the woods and prairies. What more could any red people wish? Timid Hare had heard her foster father tell much of the powerful Dahcotas and that they were rich, as Indians count riches. "Why are they so powerful?" she now asked herself. "Ugh! it was because of their fierce war spirit. It was this that made them drive other tribes before them, so that they became free to roam over the prairies and enjoy the richest hunting grounds." "I cannot help myself," now thought the child. "If I should run away, the braves would either find and kill me, or I should be devoured by the hungry wolves that go forth at nightfall." But might not Three Bears make up a war party and go forth to seek her? "Alas! that may not be," Timid Hare told herself. "My dear father would himself meet death at the hands of these cruel warriors." The rent in the curtain was nearly sewed up when Black Bull stole into the lodge. He wanted to talk to the little stranger with eyes sad like his own, and he did not wish his mother to know it. Behind Black Bull came his dog, wolfish-looking like most of his breed, but as Black Bull squatted in his corner, the animal crouched close at his master's side as though he loved him. "Poor fellow, he has a pet to follow him about just as I had at home," thought Timid Hare. "Perhaps by-and-by the dog may learn to love me too." There was a big lump in the little girl's throat, and she coughed as she tried to choke it back. "Hard work," said Black Bull as he watched her pulling the coarse thread through the buffalo skin and trying not to tear it. "Hard work," he repeated. "Too bad." Timid Hare nodded. "Good dog," she ventured after a while, looking at the dog with a sad little smile. "I had a dog; I loved him," she added. "Very good dog. He is my friend," replied the youth. "He goes with me everywhere--everywhere. He makes me--not lonely. I call him Smoke." Black Bull put his arm lovingly around Smoke's neck and the dog whined softly. It was the only way in which he could say, "I love you, poor master, if no one else does." "My people are great people," Black Bull went on. "They are very strong." Timid Hare nodded. "The Dahcotas are brave above all men. Their bands are so many I could not count them." The very thought of counting a large number made the simple-minded youth look puzzled. "And they are tall and strong of body beyond the red men of all tribes." Again Timid Hare nodded. But she also shuddered as she thought that she was in their power, a helpless captive. Then, as her eyes turned towards Black Bull, they filled with pity. Here was one of the Dahcotas, at least, who was not strong and tall and well-shaped. Nor would he do her harm, she felt sure. Black Bull had turned to his lute which lay on the floor behind him and begun to play a low, sweet tune when The Stone entered the lodge. She looked sharply at Timid Hare, and then at the work which the little girl had just finished. "Ugh! Ugh!" grunted the squaw. "You must learn to sew better than that, you little cringing coward. Ah, ha! I know something that may help you." The Stone cut the air with a switch that she held in her hand. "Something else may also help you to gain the spirit of a red woman. Of that, by-and-by. And now you shall fetch me fresh water from the spring. Black Bull, put yourself to some use. Show the girl where the water may be drawn." Handing an earthen crock to Timid Hare, she turned to her own work--that of making dye out of the clay she had got the day before. Timid Hare, holding the big crock as carefully as possible on her shoulder, followed Black Bull out of the tepee. It seemed good to be outdoors, even in a village of the Dahcotas. In the doorway of the next lodge stood a young woman with pleasant eyes and beautiful glossy hair. She looked curiously at the little girl, for she had just heard of her capture. She must have pitied the child, for she smiled kindly at her. Black Bull, catching the smile, said, "The Fountain, this is Timid Hare. Is she not strange to look upon--so fair? She must be like the pale-faces I have never seen." The Fountain had no chance to answer, for Black Bull now turned to his companion. "Hurry, Timid Hare, hurry, lest my mother be angry and beat you." As the two went on their way, the little girl saw other children like herself, playing together and laughing happily. One of them had her doll, and was carrying it in a baby-cradle on her back. She was pretending it was too small to walk, and was singing a lullaby to make it go to sleep. All the children stopped to look at the little stranger. "A Mandan! Oof!" cried one. "Her hair is not black like ours," said another. "Nor is her skin as dark. She is more like the pale-faces whom we hate," remarked a third. Then they turned to their play as if she were not worth noticing, and poor little Timid Hare blushed for shame. It was hard indeed that even the children should despise her. A little farther on she noticed a group of men dancing together in the sunlight. They were much taller than the Mandan braves, and noble to look upon, as Black Bull had said. But to the little girl holding in mind the capture of the day before, they seemed cruel and fearful even now while they were dancing. "The Dahcotas dance much--always," explained Black Bull, pointing to the men. "We have many, many dances. For everything there is a dance. When we feast, and before we hunt, when councils are held, when guests come among us, we dance. It is a noble thing to dance. Sometimes," he went on, "it is too make us laugh. Sometimes it is to make our faces grow long--so!" At this Black Bull's face took on a look of sadness as though he were grieving. Timid Hare was used to the dances of the Mandans, and she loved them. But they were not so many as those of the Dahcotas, she felt sure. Why, the night before, whenever she wakened, she heard the sound of dancing in different lodges in the village. "There is the spring. Now I go," said Black Bull, pointing it out half-hidden in a hollow shaded by clumps of bushes. The youth, with Smoke who had followed close at his heels ever since leaving the lodge, turned back and Timid Hare stooped down to fill the crock. As she did so her eyes met a pair of large black ones fastened upon her own, and just above the water's edge. They belonged to the chief's only son Young Antelope, who had come for a drink of cool water before going off on a hunting trip. He was a handsome youth. As he lay stretched out on the grassy bank above the spring he had heard the sound of Timid Hare's steps as she drew near, and looked up to see who it was. "Oof! the stranger," he said, but he did not scowl like the little girls whom the little captive had passed a few minutes before. The next minute he had sprung to his pony's back and gone galloping away. Timid Hare thought sadly of the dear foster-brother far away on the wide prairie, as she trudged back with her load to the tepee where The Stone awaited her. THE CHANGE "Bad," scolded the squaw as she looked into the crock and saw that some of the water had been spilled on the way home. She reached for her willow switch and used it twice on Timid Hare's back. "I have a nice little task for you," she said. "Do you see this?" She pointed to a dish full of a dull red dye. "It is for you," she continued. "No more pale-faces about us now. You are to take this dye and paint yourself--every part of your body, mind you. Then, when you have used this on your hair--" she pointed to a smaller dish containing a black dye--"we may be able to make a Dahcota out of you after all." "Waste no time," she commanded, as Timid Hare turned slowly to the dishes of dye. "I leave you now for a little while and when I come back--then I may like to look at you." The Stone left the lodge and Timid Hare was left to change herself so that even White Mink would not know her. Trained as she had been in the ways of all Indians, her tears fell often as she covered her body with the paint. She dare not leave one spot untouched, nor one tress of the beautiful hair that had been White Mink's pride. When the work was at last finished, there was no mirror in which to look at herself. Once--just once, during her eight years of life among the Mandans, she had seen a looking-glass. It was no larger than the palm of her small hand, and belonged to the chief into whose hands it had come from a white hunter years before. It was such a wonderful thing! Timid Hare thought of it now and wished that she might see the picture that it would of herself reflect. "When I am next sent to the spring," she thought, "I will seek the quiet little pool where some of the water lingers. Then, if the clouds give a deep shadow, I can see the Timid Hare I now am." "Good," muttered The Stone when she returned and examined her little slave. But when Black Bull noticed the change, he said nothing--only looked sad. Perhaps he felt that the little stranger had somehow lost herself. THE VISIT One day, soon after Timid Hare's coming, she was sent to the chief's tepee on an errand. The Stone and she had been gathering rushes for the chief's daughter Sweet Grass who wished them for a mat she was weaving. It was to be a surprise for her father; she meant it to be so beautiful that he would wish to sit on it at feasts when entertaining chiefs of other bands. The Stone and Timid Hare had spent many hours searching for the most beautiful rushes, and the old squaw was pleased at having succeeded at last. "Sweet Grass's mother will give me much bear meat for getting the rushes for her daughter," she thought. But to Timid Hare she only said: "Take these to the home of our chief and place them in the hands of Sweet Grass. Make haste, for she may already be impatient." The Stone did not know that Sweet Grass had ever seen Timid Hare, nor that she had begged her father for the child's life. The little girl was glad to go. She had thought many times of the chief's daughter, and of her kind face and gentle voice. Whenever she had gone near Bent Horn's tepee she had been on the lookout for Sweet Grass, but she had not been able to get a glimpse of her. As Timid Hare trudged along with her load she thought of that dreadful night after her capture. "I think I would have died of fright but for the sight of the chief's beautiful daughter," she said to herself. "But after she spoke, my heart did not beat so hard." Now, however, as she neared the chief's lodge, she began to breathe more quickly. The chief had such power! The Stone said ugly words to her and did not give her enough to eat; sometimes she beat her; but she would not do her terrible harm because the chief had given the order: Care for the child. Suppose he should change his mind! Trembling, Timid Hare stopped in front of the lodge. "Come in. I am waiting for you," called a sweet voice, for Sweet Grass, looking up from her work, had caught a glimpse of the little girl standing outside with her bundle. Timid Hare's heart leaped for joy. It was so good to have some one speak kindly to her once more. And the young girl who had spoken was so lovely to look upon! Her eyes shone like stars. Her long hair was bound with a coronet made out of pretty shells. Her robe of deer skin was trimmed with long fringe. Her moccasins, cut differently from those of the Mandans, were bound into shape with ribbons made of rabbit skin. Around her neck were many chains that made pleasant music as they jingled against each other. While Timid Hare was peeping out of the corners of her eyes at this beautiful sight. Sweet Grass was in her turn examining the little captive. "You are--changed," she said slowly. "What has The Stone been doing? Ugh! I see. She has tried to make a Dahcota out of you. Well, it may be well, and yet, I think I liked you better as you were before." "Lay the rushes here, beside me," she continued. "And now, little Timid Hare, tell me about The Stone. Is she good to you? And Black Bull--does he treat you well?" Sweet Grass was tender as a sister as she asked these questions and many others. And Timid Hare's tongue slowly became brave. She told of the hard work which The Stone made her do. She showed scars on her hands which the work had left. And--yes--there were also scars on the little back from the cruel touch of The Stone's switch. But Black Bull--poor Black Bull! The child spoke of him with loving pity. "I am sorry for him," she said. "He has only his dog to make him happy." "Would you like to live with me?" asked Sweet Grass, when the story was finished. "Oh-h!" The little girl drew a long sigh of wonder and delight. If only it were possible! "We will see. I will talk to my father by-and-by. And now you must run home. Good-by." The young girl bent over her work and Timid Hare ran swiftly out of the lodge and back to The Stone who was angrily waiting. "You must have stopped on the way, you good-for-nothing. Sweet Grass could not have kept you all this time," she scolded. The little girl made no answer. "Hm! has the child won the heart of the chief's daughter?" she muttered. "And next it would be the chief himself. That must not be. Moreover, no bear meat was sent me. Ugh!" THE MISCHIEF MAKER That afternoon the sun shone brightly. It was a beautiful day of the late Indian summer. Sweet Grass, taking the mat she was weaving, left the lodge and sought a pleasant spot near the spring to go on with her work. The Stone had been skulking about near the chief's lodge for several hours. She wanted to catch Sweet Grass alone and yet as if she had come upon her by accident. She stealthily watched the young girl as she made her way to the spring, but did not appear before her for some time. When she did, she held some fine rushes in her hands. "I have just found more. You will like them, Sweet Grass," she said, trying to make her harsh voice as soft as possible. The chief's daughter had never liked The Stone; and now, after hearing Timid Hare's story, it was not easy to act friendly. "For the child's sake, I must not show my dislike," she thought quickly. So she smiled, and looking at the rushes, said, "These are good, very good. I can use them for my mat." She turned to her work while The Stone stood silent, watching her. Then, suddenly, the old squaw bent over her and said, "Sweet Grass, listen to me. I sent the child of the Mandans to you this morning. She is bad--lazy--very lazy. Your father gave her into my keeping and I will train her, though it is hard. No one else would be patient with her wicked, lying ways. No one!" The Stone stopped as suddenly as she had begun. She hoped that she had succeeded in making Sweet Grass believe that the little captive was as bad as she had said. "Why do you talk? I do not care to listen to you," said the young girl, looking up into the ugly face bending over her. Then she went on with her weaving as though she were alone. There was nothing left for The Stone but to go on her way, muttering. "After this," she promised herself, "Timid Hare shall go little from my sight. I need her to do my bidding and save my steps. She must not be taken from me through any foolish fancy that Sweet Grass may have taken for her." THE HAPPY DAY That evening the chief, Bent Horn, sat by his fireside, smoking with his friends. Close beside him was his handsome son. On the women's side of the lodge Sweet Grass and her mother squatted, listening to the stories of the men. As the hours passed by, the visitors rose one by one and went home for the night's sleep. When the last one had gone Sweet Grass got up from her place and held out to her father the mat she had been making for him. A pretty picture had been woven into the rushes; it had taken all the young girl's skill to do it. "For you, my father," said Sweet Grass. The chief smiled. He was proud of his young son who gave promise of becoming a fine hunter. But he was also proud of this one daughter. He loved her so dearly that he could not bear to say, No, to anything she might ask of him. "My father," now said Sweet Grass, "I wish to speak to you of the child Timid Hare whom you gave into the keeping of The Stone." The chief scowled. "That pale-faced daughter of the cowardly Mandans? She may thank you that she still lives," he said sternly. "But I have seen her and talked with her, my father, and she has won my heart. I want her to live with me and serve me. Will you let it be so?" There was no answer. "And she no longer makes one think of the pale-faced Mandans. Her skin is now dark with paint so that she looks even as we do." The voice of Sweet Grass was tender with pleading. "I saw her at the spring one day," broke in young Antelope. "The hump-back, Black Bull, had just left her. Her eyes spoke fright, but also a good temper. Let my sister have her wish." The chief turned to his wife. In matters of the household the Indian woman generally has her will. "Let the child come and serve Sweet Grass," said the squaw who had a noble face and must once have been as beautiful as her daughter. "You shall have your wish." Bent Horn spoke as though not wholly pleased; but when he saw the delight his words gave Sweet Grass, his face showed more kindness than his voice. Two days afterwards a messenger from Bent Horn appeared in The Stone's doorway. "I bring you word from our chief," he told her. "The captive, Timid Hare, is to return with me. She will serve the maiden Sweet Grass." The Stone's ugly eyes filled with anger. Yet she did not dare refuse the command of the chief. "Go," she said turning to Timid Hare, who was busy at one side of the lodge pounding wild rice into flour. "Go, you cowardly good-for-nothing. Let the chief discover what I have borne." Timid Hare was almost overcome with delight. To serve the beautiful maiden, Sweet Grass! It seemed too good to be true. Yet it must be true, for The Stone, with uplifted arms, was fairly driving her from the lodge as she would a troublesome mosquito. As the little girl passed through the doorway she met Black Bull entering, with Smoke at his heels. Over the youth's eyes swept a cloud of fear at the unusual brightness in the little girl's face. He felt instantly that she was going to leave him. Sad as she had been, she had brought a little sunshine into the dreary home. "Good-bye, Black Bull," she whispered. "I will not forget you." Then, without a last glance at The Stone, she hurried on after the messenger who had come for her. When she reached the chief's lodge, there was Sweet Grass waiting for her with a kind smile. The maiden's mother, whom she had never seen before, was also in the lodge. The squaw was busily cooking the evening meal like any other red woman, though her husband was the chief of the whole band. Sweet Grass had just motioned to the little girl to take her place beside her, when Young Antelope burst into the tepee. The day before he had gone hunting, and when night came had not appeared. His mother and sister had worried at his absence, but the chief had said, "We will not fear. The lad has no doubt lost his way. But he knows how to care for himself." And now Young Antelope stood once more in the home, safe and happy! He had had an exciting adventure, and was eager to tell of it. Yes, he had lost his way out on the prairies. He was ashamed of this, for he had been taught that an Indian should always watch the winds and the heavens, and carefully mark every change in the appearance of the country over which he travels; then it is an easy matter to find his way back without trouble. But his pony was fleet of foot, and the birds he was seeking flew fast. After many, many miles had been covered and his game bag had been filled, he decided to return. But he was hungry; he thought of the tender birds he had killed and of the feast they would make. "I will rest for awhile and cook some of the game," he decided. All this he now told his mother on his return home. So eager was he to describe his adventure that he did not notice the little stranger squatting beside Sweet Grass, and looking at him with admiring eyes. "I soon had a fire started," he continued, "and then began to roast my game. Ugh! the feast was a fine one. But after it was over, I began the search for home. Then darkness fell suddenly and fast gathering clouds covered the setting sun. I was alone and far from you all. I could hear wolves howling in the distance. They were hungry as I had been." [Illustration: "I soon had a fire started."] The youth shivered. Then he went on: "But I remembered how to keep wolves from drawing too near. They do not love fire. I piled the brush high, and flames leaped up in the air. All night long I did this, and now, my mother and my sister, I am with you once more. No harm befell me." "You did well, my son," replied his mother. That was all, but her eyes shone with pride and gladness. So did those of Sweet Grass who exclaimed, "Those fearful wolves! How I hate them! But you are safe. They did not devour you; that is enough." THE DOG FEAST Soon after Timid Hare went to live in Bent Horn's lodge to serve his beautiful daughter, there was a good deal of excitement in the village. Messengers had come from other bands of the Dahcotas saying that their chiefs were about to make a visit to Bent Horn. They wished to talk over important matters in regard to the good of the whole tribe. Both braves and squaws were busy preparing for the great time. There would be dances and feasts, games and wrestling matches. The warriors must make ready their best garments and noblest head-dresses. They must use much grease and paint to look as grand as possible when receiving their guests. Sweet Grass and her mother had much to do getting ready for the celebration, and Timid Hare tried her best to help. She ran errands, pounded rice, brought wild sweet potatoes and dried berries from the pit in which the stores of food were buried, and tended the fire in which buffalo and bear meat were roasting, for much would be eaten during the visit which would last several days at least. Sweet Grass smiled upon her little helper. So did her mother. Both of them were pleased with the child, and came near forgetting that she was not one of their own people. Then came the day when word was sent through the village that the coming visit was to be celebrated by the Feast of the Dog. Different families would be asked to sacrifice the dog dearest to their hearts. Every one believed it would be a fit offering to the Great Spirit and would fill his heart with tenderness for his red children. It would also bind the hearts of the chiefs more closely together. As Timid Hare went through the village one morning--it was the last one before the visitors should arrive--she met Black Bull. It was the first time she had seen him since she had gone from his lodge. As she ran towards him he did not seem glad to see her. He simply looked at her pitifully. "What is the matter, Black Bull? Is there trouble? Tell me. Everyone else is happy over the coming good time." Timid Hare spoke fast. "My dog," he said brokenly. "My one friend must die. I must give him as a sacrifice, so my mother has said." The poor fellow began to cry. "Your dear Smoke! I am so sorry for you, Black Bull." Timid Hare's own eyes filled with tears. "So sorry," she repeated. "I will try to save him, though." The deformed youth looked wildly about him as he spoke, as though he feared some one besides Timid Hare would hear him. Then, without waiting for her to reply, he went off in the direction of the spring, beyond which was a sharp bluff. Below this bluff flowed a stream of water which in the autumn was deep--so deep that any one could drown in it easily. "I wonder what Black Bull meant when he said he would try to save Smoke," thought Timid Hare, as she stood watching. "He cannot save the dog. How hard it is! No one in the village seems to care for Black Bull. The Stone, his own mother, treats him cruelly. The dog is his only friend, as he says. I will tell my young mistress about him. It may be she can help him." As soon as Timid Hare had done her errand she ran home, still with the thought of Black Bull's trouble in her mind. She had been in the tepee only a few minutes before Sweet Grass noticed that something was the matter with her little maid. "What has happened, Timid Hare?" she asked. "Your face is long--so!" She drew her own mouth down at the corners and made herself look so funny that Timid Hare, sad as she felt, broke into a laugh. "It is Black Bull," she answered. "He is in trouble. It is greater than it would be with any one else in the village." Then she went on to speak of the youth's lonely life, and that even his mother treated him badly. Only one loved him: this was the dog Smoke who followed him wherever he went and who did not mock him as the children of the village sometimes did. Smoke was ever ready to smile at him in the one way dogs can--with his tail. It was Smoke's love alone that made Black Bull glad to live. And now--Timid Hare's voice broke as she went on to tell of what must soon happen. "Poor fellow!" said Sweet Grass softly. "Poor fellow," she repeated, half to herself. As it happened, Young Antelope was in the lodge when Timid Hare was telling the story. He was busy making a shield; he intended to wear it when first allowed to go forth on a war party with the older braves. But though he was busy at his work, he listened with interest to the words of Timid Hare. Soon afterwards he left the tepee and ran along the path leading to the spring. "If I see Black Bull," he thought, "I will speak kindly to him even if he is such a useless creature." When Young Antelope reached the spring he heard some one talking angrily. This was followed by a cry of fear. The sounds came from the direction of the bluff beyond, but the youth could see no one because of clumps of brush which shut off the view from any one at the spring below. Young Antelope hurried along, till suddenly he caught a glimpse of two figures on the very edge of the rocky summit of the bluff. One was that of Thunder Cloud, a worthless fellow; the other which he held struggling in his arms was that of The Stoned's deformed son. Black Bull was helpless; he was at the mercy of Thunder Cloud who was about to cast him into the stream below. [Illustration: Black Bull was helpless.] "What is this?" shouted Young Antelope. Thunder Cloud, startled, turned suddenly about. "I would punish this worthless fellow as he deserves," he answered. "Do you know what he dared to do? He brought his dog to yonder brush and fastened him in the midst. He thought to keep the animal from the sacrifice. Ugh! A wretched creature indeed. His mother bade me follow him." "Make him free," said Young Antelope with the air of a mighty chief. "My father will take care of him. As for you, go from my sight." Thunder Cloud, who had already set Black Bull on his feet, though he still clutched him tightly, let go his hold, and skulked away. "Let your dog loose," Young Antelope now ordered Black Bull who stood before him, still shivering from fright. "There! Now we will go to my father and let him settle the matter. Follow me." Black Bull, with Smoke capering about him in the joy of being set free, followed Young Antelope silently till the two neared the council house where Bent Horn was busy planning for the coming celebration. There, in the autumn sunlight, they waited till the chief should appear and the son whom he loved dearly should have a chance to ask for a certain boon. That night Black Bull went to sleep as happy as a king, even though his mother had just given him a beating. Smoke was safe! Another, Young Antelope, who had more treasures than he, was willing to make the sacrifice in his place. THE FESTIVAL The celebration was over and Timid Hare was tired out from excitement. Never before had she seen so many wonders. Why, the chief of chiefs, the chief of all the Dahcotas, had been one of the visitors and had slept in Bent Horn's tepee. Timid Hare herself had helped to serve him. And when he had gone forth to the council and to the feasts he was the grandest looking person she had ever beheld in her life. He wore a head-dress of war-eagle feathers. Thick and heavy was this head-dress, and beautiful were the feathers beyond compare. The great chief's face shone with grease, and was made fearful to look upon with much paint. On his robe were pictured the many battles in which he had taken part; it was trimmed with a heavy fringe of scalp-locks. His leggings and moccasins were richly embroidered with porcupine quills. He walked forth like a king. The children of the village trembled as they gazed upon him. Bent Horn looked grand also in his own robes of state. Many a day had his wife spent embroidering this robe with porcupine quills and trimming it with fringes of his enemies scalp-locks. Heavy chains hung around his neck. His long hair, which he had greased well, had been divided into two parts and crossed on the top of his head, where it was then gathered into a knot. "Bent Horn's head-dress is almost as handsome as that of the Great Chief," Timid Hare said to herself, as she watched the two men walking together towards the council house. The sun shone brightly throughout the whole celebration and the feasts were spread outdoors. The chiefs and braves sat in a half-circle at these feasts and the food was passed to them from steaming kettles. There was bear meat in plenty, fat and rich; baked turtles; juicy buffalo steaks and stews; but at the principal feast of all, only dog flesh was served. Then it was that the people of the village gathered in crowds around the feasters to watch and listen. Closest of all were the braves and their sons. Back of them were the squaws and their little daughters. Timid Hare, beside her young mistress Sweet Grass, listened with wonder to the noble speeches of the chiefs. Bent Horn spoke first of all. "My brother," he said to the Great Chief, "our hearts are almost bursting with gladness that you are with us today. "And you also"--Bent Horn continued, turning to one after another of the lesser chiefs, "we welcome you with gladness and feel that the Great Spirit has sent you to us. In token of our love we have killed faithful dogs that you may feast. May the Great Spirit bind us closely together. I say no more." As Bent Horn ended his speech he lifted before the eyes of the feasters a carved necklace made of the claws of grizzly bears, and his own robe of elk skins which he had just taken from his shoulders. Then he slowly rose and, going to the side of the guest of honor, he laid the gifts before him. Next, he took other gifts--embroidered moccasins and leggings--and presented them to the lesser chiefs. For a moment all were silent. Then the guests themselves made speeches, each one telling of his love for Bent Horn and his band, and giving rich gifts in return. And now the pipe of peace was lighted and brought to Bent Horn. Solemnly he pointed the stem to the north, the south, the east, and the west. Last of all, he lifted it towards the sun. Then he spoke. "How--how--how," he said slowly. Then in silence he smoked it, but only to take one long whiff, after which he held it in turn to the mouths of the other chiefs, that they might smoke it also. Not a word was spoken by any one during this solemn time. But as soon as the last guest had smoked, the dog-meat, floating in rich gravy, was brought from the steaming kettles and handed around in wooden bowls among the guests. All ate their fill. Then silently, they got up and went away. They had smoked and eaten the sacrifice together. Surely, they thought, there could be no better token of their friendship for each other. Timid Hare looked on from afar. She felt pride in her dear mistress's brother who had given up his own pet dog, in place of Black Bull. She was also filled with wonder at the greatness of the Dahcotas. "They are a mighty tribe," thought the little girl. She drew a long breath of sadness, feeling that she could never hope to go from among them. But when she afterwards looked on at the wrestling matches, races on horseback, and dances such as she had never seen before, she forgot everything else for the moment. Her eyes shone with excitement; her breath came quick. Never before, it seemed to her, had she seen such skill. When the entertainment of each day ended, however, and Timid Hare went to her bed of buffalo skins, she would lie thinking of the old home, of the loving White Mink, the kind Three Bears, and the good foster-brother Big Moose. Then tears would roll down over the little girl's cheeks and she would choke back a sob. "Can it be," she would think, "that the story White Mink told me before I was taken from her, is true? Am I truly a white child, and is she not my real mother?" Then the little captive would touch the baby's sock fastened by a cord of deer-sinews about her waist and next to her flesh. "It is safe," she would whisper to herself, "and no one here has discovered it--not even The Stone. It did not save me from being captured, but it may yet bring good fortune, even as White Mink hoped." MOVING DAY The visitors had all gone away and the village was once more quiet--that is, as quiet as it might be among the Dahcotas, the lovers of the dance and of music. Now and then some of the braves went forth on a war-party, or on a hunt after bears or buffaloes. But the buffaloes were scarce, they told their chief; the herds must have wandered far, and the hunters often returned empty-handed. This was bad, because the winter was drawing near and supplies of meat were needed for that long season of bitter cold. One morning Bent Horn rose earlier than usual and made his way to the council house. There he staid for some time talking with the medicine men and other leading braves of the village. Should there be a bear dance and a buffalo dance to call the attention of the Great Spirit to the needs of His people, that He might send plenty of prey nearer the village? Or should the band first move to a different part of the country, where no red man dwelt and where the buffaloes, at least, might be plentiful? When the talk was ended the men who had gathered at the council went their way. Bent Horn's mind was made up. "My people must move to a new camping ground," he said to himself. "We will journey to the eastward. In that direction, the hunters say, we are likely to draw near the feeding grounds of large herds of buffaloes. Tomorrow morning at sunrise we must be on our way." [Illustration: Bent Horn's mind was made up.] The news was quickly carried from one tepee to another and the squaws set to work with a will to prepare for moving. When Timid Hare heard the news she thought sadly: "Shall I go farther than ever from my dear White Mink?" The little girl had been so frightened at the time of her capture that she was not sure in which direction she travelled. There was not a moment now, however, to consider herself, as Sweet Grass and her mother kept the child helping them prepare for the moving. The stores of grain and other dry food, the dishes and kettles and clothing must be packed in readiness for the early start on the morrow. THE JOURNEY "Awake, Timid Hare, for there is a faint light in the eastern sky. The sun is already rising from his bed." At these words from Sweet Grass, Timid Hare's eyes burst wide open and she sprang from her bed. There was much to do at once, for the signal must be given to the whole village from the home of Bent Horn. So quickly did his squaw and young daughter work that a half-hour afterwards the walls of the chief's tepee were flapping in the morning breeze. Immediately afterwards the same thing happened to every other home in the village. Next, down came the tent poles of the chief's tepee, and then those of all the others. Timid Hare went quickly here and there, obeying the orders of her mistress. Ropes of skin must be brought to tie the poles into two bundles. The little girl must help hold these bundles in place, while Bent Horn's best pack horses were brought up and the bundles fastened against the sides of their bodies, and at the same time allowed to drag on the ground behind. "Quick, Timid Hare," Sweet Grass would say, pointing now to this bundle of bedding, and now to another of dishes or clothing. The horses were restless and the bundles must be well-fastened to the poles before they should be ready to start. Some of Bent Horn's dogs were also loaded in the same way. While Sweet Grass and her mother, with Timid Hare's help, were packing their own stores every other woman in the village was doing the same. In a wonderfully short time the procession was on its way, the squaws leading the pack horses. When they started out, however, the braves and youths, riding their favorite horses and ponies, were already far ahead. Timid Hare trudged bravely along beside her young mistress who led one of the pack horses. She carried a big bundle on her back. So did Sweet Grass and her mother. So did all the other squaws except those who were too old and feeble. "Let us move fast while we are fresh," Sweet Grass would say now and then when Timid Hare began to lag. "When the day grows old, then is the time to move like the turtle." As they travelled along. Timid Hare passed The Stone who looked at her with ugly eyes. The old squaw was thinking, "Had it not been for my sending the girl that day to Sweet Grass she would now be making my load light. Fool that I was!" Afterwards Timid Hare and her mistress talked with The Fountain, the pretty bride who lived near The Stone. The Fountain smiled pleasantly at the little girl. She said, "Sometime, Timid Hare, you shall come to see me in the new home. I may have a surprise for you." The sun had nearly set when word came down the line: "The chief has chosen a place for the new camp. It is beside a stream of clear water and the tracks of buffaloes are not far distant." Timid Hare was glad to hear the news, because her feet and back ached. She was not strong as an Indian girl of her own age should be and she knew it. "But I look like one," she said to herself. She was glad now that her body was stained. She had colored it afresh of her own accord just before the journey, for she felt she would not be jeered at by the children of the Dahcotas so long as her hair and body were of the same color as their own. When the new camping ground was reached, she was very tired. "But I must not show it," she thought. "I must be bright and cheerful." So she moved quickly, helping to set up the tepee and get supper for the family. But her eyelids closed the moment she lay down to rest, and she knew nothing more till the barking of the dogs roused her the next morning. At the same time she heard Sweet Grass and her mother talking together. "The Fountain was last seen when we stopped at a spring to get water in the late afternoon," one of them was saying. "I hope she is safe," replied the other, "and that the gray wolf was not abroad." Timid Hare shuddered. "Where can The Fountain be?" she wondered. "She is so good and so pretty, I hope she is unharmed." The very next moment a neighbor appeared in the door. "The Fountain has just reached us," she said. "She spent the night by the spring, and she now brings with her a baby son. He is a lusty child. May he grow up to be a noble warrior!" "I will go to her and give her my best wishes," declared the chief's wife. "It is a good sign for the new home that one more is added to our people." Soon afterwards Timid Hare and her young mistress were also on their way to visit the young mother. She was very happy. So was her husband. So was her baby; at least it seemed happy to Timid Hare as she looked at it nestling quietly in its mother's arms. The little girl longed for it to open its eyes. "By and by," The Fountain told her with a smile, "my son will awake. But now he must sleep, for he finds this world a strange one, and he is tired." "The Great Spirit has been kind to The Fountain," said Sweet Grass as she walked homeward with her little maid. "How powerful He must be," declared Timid Hare thoughtfully. "Whenever He speaks to us in the thunder and lightning I tremble with fear. But when I looked at the little baby just now I felt His love." THE MEDICINE MAN The next morning Timid Hare was allowed to go once more to visit The Fountain and her little son. The baby lay fastened into a pretty frame the young mother had made for him. The straps were embroidered with porcupine quills, and finished very neatly. As Timid Hare entered the tepee, The Fountain was about to lift the baby in his frame to her back. "I am going to see Black Bull," she said. "He is ill. He has not been well since before the Dog Feast." Timid Hare at once thought of a reason for Black Bull's illness,--he had worried much over the thought of losing his dog. But Young Antelope had not told her that he came near losing his life and of his terrible fright at the time. "Has the medicine man visited Black Bull?" asked Timid Hare. "Not yet." The Fountain shook her head sadly. "I doubt if The Stone cares whether her son lives or dies. But I am going to see the poor creature. Afterwards, if the medicine man has not been sought, I will ask my husband to get his help." The Fountain started on her errand, and Timid Hare went back to the chief's lodge to tell her young mistress what she had learned. On the way she passed a clump of trees beneath which she saw several people sitting and listening to the voice of a tall man who stood before them. He was one of the most powerful medicine men of the band. "He must be speaking of some great mystery," thought Timid Hare. "How noble he is! How much he must know! It may be that he is telling of the secrets he reads in the fire." Turning her eyes towards the listeners, she saw they were thinking deeply of his words. They looked with wonder at the medicine man. "Yes, he must be speaking of the secrets no one but he can discover." [Illustration: They looked with wonder at the medicine man.] When Timid Hare reached home she spoke of this medicine man to her mistress. "If only he could go to Black Bull, the sickness would leave the poor fellow," she said. Soon afterwards Sweet Grass herself sought the medicine man. She brought him presents of buffalo marrow, deer meat, and a juicy, well-cooked land turtle. Then she asked his help for the deformed youth, and he promised to go to him. The next day word came to the chief's lodge that Black Bull had gone to join the people of the grave. Though the medicine man had gone to him and worked his mysteries with songs and drum beating, the Great Spirit had not willed that he should live. "Better so," declared Bent Horn, when the news was brought to the lodge. "Black Bull was of no help to his people. He suffered, and was not happy. Better so!" "I will take his dog," Sweet Grass promised her sad little maid. "Smoke shall be cared for, though his master has left him." THE WINTER HUNT The new home proved to be a good one. Each time the hunters went forth they returned with a load of game. The squaws were kept busy drying buffalo and bear meat, packing away the marrow and cleaning the bones and skins. Every part of the animals was put to some use. The days of the long, cold winter were at hand, and all must work busily. Timid Hare had much to do, but sometimes she was allowed to play outside of the tepee with other children; they were kinder to her now that she lived in the chief's home. She had plenty to eat, and Sweet Grass and her mother treated her well, but she longed for something that was lacking here but was freely given in the old home: it was love. The snow fell thick and fast. It covered the prairie for miles in every direction. In some places it was deeper than Timid Hare was tall. A thick crust formed over the top. Young Antelope set to work to make himself new snowshoes. As he bent the hoops for the frames and crossed them with networks of leather strings. Timid Hare looked on with longing. She had had snowshoes of her own before, and she had enjoyed skimming over the snow fields on them, but they were far away--very far away. "I will help you make some shoes," Young Antelope told her, when he caught the look. "You can do the easy part, and I will do the hard." Timid Hare was pleased because Young Antelope did not notice her very often. The snowshoes were soon made and the little girl longed to try them. The very next day Young Antelope went out with the men on a winter hunt. There were large stores of meat in the village, but the cold was bitter and more warm buffalo robes were needed for beds and coverlets. Moreover, at this time of the year the fur of the animals was heaviest. "It will be easy to get our prey," Bent Horn said to his son the night before the hunt. "There is little snow on the south slopes of the hills, where the buffaloes will be feeding. We can take them by surprise and drive them down into the ice-crusted fields. They are so heavy that their feet will fall through. Then the hunter can draw near on his swift snowshoes, and will pierce the heart of his prey with his spear without trouble." "I will be such a hunter on the morrow," the youth had replied. "My spear is already sharpened. It shall bring death to more than one of the creatures that provide us with comfort through the moon of difficulty," as he had been taught to call the month of January. As Young Antelope skimmed along over the snow fields next morning, he thought more than once of the little captive at home. "She behaves well," he said to himself, "and she will be a good homekeeper when she is older. It may be--it may be--that I will yet choose her for my wife." Young Antelope was only sixteen years old, but he was already thinking of getting married! It was the way of his people. The girls married even younger than the boys--sometimes when only twelve or thirteen years had passed over their heads. It was therefore not strange that the chief's son should be considering what wife he would choose. With many of the braves away on the hunt, the village was quiet, and the squaws took a little vacation from their work, as on the morrow they must be very busy caring for the supplies brought home by the hunters. In the afternoon Sweet Grass said kindly: "Timid Hare, you have been a good girl and worked hard of late. You may have the rest of the day for play. Try your new snowshoes, if you like." The rest of the day--two whole hours before sunset! It seemed too good to be true. Never had such a thing happened to the child since she left the home of the Mandans. Without wasting a moment, Timid Hare got the snowshoes and left the tepee. For a moment she looked about her to see if any other little girl would like to join her in a skim over the fields. But all seemed busy at their games, and even now she was not enough at home with any one of them to ask them to leave their own play and go off with her, a captive. So, binding on the shoes, she started off alone. What fun it was to move so fast and so smoothly! How clear was the air! How delightful it was to feel the blood rushing freely through every part of her body! Her cheeks tingled pleasantly; her heart beat with joy. Mile after mile the child darted on in the opposite direction from that taken by the hunters in the morning. So happy, so free felt the child that she forgot how far she was travelling. Sometimes there were little rolls in the land. She would get up her speed as she approached them, so as to have force enough to reach the summit of a roll with ease. And then what fun it was to travel like the wind down the other side! On, on, on! and then suddenly, Timid Hare came to herself. Where was the village? In what direction? Could she not see smoke rising somewhere behind her, telling of the fires burning in the homes of the people? There was nothing, nothing, to guide her back--only some fields apparently untrodden in every direction. So light was the little girl's body that her shoes had rarely pressed through the crust. The short winter day was near its end. A bank of clouds was gathering about the setting sun, they told of an approaching storm; so also spoke the chill wind that blew in the child's face. Fright clutched at Timid Hare's heart. She thought of the power of the storm-king. Here, in the snowy wilderness, it seemed that she must perish. Was there no one to turn to in this time of danger? Yes. "Help me, Great Spirit," cried the child, lifting her hands towards the sky where she believed He dwelt. With that cry came a feeling that somehow her prayer would be answered. And at the same time Timid Hare remembered the little sock which she always carried in her bosom. She pressed a hand against the place where it should rest. Yes, it was safe. "White Mink had faith in it. So will I," Timid Hare said to herself. Many a time during the hard days with The Stone, she had repeated the same words. It had always helped her to do so. And now she turned in the direction she hoped was the village of the Dahcotas, but her feet felt numb. It was hard to travel. Hark! what was that? It seemed as though men's voices could be heard shouting to each other in the distance. They came nearer. Could it be that Sweet Grass had sent some of the village boys out after her? Nearer! Nearer! Timid Hare stood still, listening. If they would only hurry! She suddenly felt drowsy--the snow-chill was benumbing her whole body, and somehow she no longer cared whether she was found or not. She tottered, fell. The next thing she knew, she was lying in the arms of a man with kind blue eyes. He was smiling at her, and he was white! Another man, white like himself, was rubbing her arms and legs. "All right now," the first man was saying to the other. "Poor little thing! How did she ever get out here? That Dahcota village is a good dozen miles from here, and the child's moccasins tell that she is of that tribe." "We must waste no time in getting farther away from them ourselves," replied the other. "Little time would be wasted in taking our scalps if they caught us alone." "But we can't leave this helpless creature," said the first speaker. "Do you know, Ben, she must be about the age of my own little daughter if--" The man's voice broke suddenly. "Poor fellow--yes, I understand. You never will get over that blow. But, really, Tom, we must not stay here. The savages may be upon us any moment. Here, use this. It may bring her to." The speaker held out a bottle of cordial which the man who held Timid Hare held to her lips. She tried to swallow, but it choked her. "There," she said with a gasp, "it is enough," and she lifted herself up. "Good," said both men, who knew a little of the Indian tongue. "Oh, but my shoe!" cried the little girl in fright. It had slipped a little from its usual resting place, and she now missed it. In spite of being alone on the snow-covered prairie, with two strangers, her first thought was of the little talisman White Mink had given into her keeping. Oh! she could feel it pressing against her waist, and she gave a happy sigh. In the meantime, the men had decided that it would be best to take the child to their camp. The rest could be settled afterwards. "Can you trust yourself to your snowshoes again?" the man whom his friend called Tom asked her gently. She nodded, and with the help of one of her companions, they were bound on her feet. A biscuit was now given her--she had never tasted its like before--and she ate greedily. This was followed by another swallow of the cordial, and the little girl was ready for the start. Many miles were before her, but the men often took hold of her hands to give her fresh courage. Besides, she was greatly excited. What was coming? Were these strangers bringing her back to the village of the Dahcotas, or guiding her to something far different? From time to time one of the men struck a match--such a wonderful thing it seemed to Timid Hare--and looked at a tiny instrument he carried in his pocket. It seemed to tell him if they were travelling in the right direction. "How wise," thought Timid Hare, "the white people must be! Perhaps they are as wise as the medicine men!" And she--why, she was of their own race, though her stained skin did not show it! At the thought, she lifted her hand to her side. Yes, her treasure was safe! When it seemed to the child as if she could not move her feet longer, a faint light shone out in the distance. The camp of the white men would soon be reached. When the travellers at last arrived at the journey's end there was great excitement among the men who were anxiously watching for the return of their two companions. They had feared that their friends had lost their way and been overcome by cold; or more probable, that they had been killed or captured by the Indians. They were in the Dahcota country,--this they knew; also that these Dahcotas were fierce warriors and hated the white men. How surprised they were to see what they thought was an Indian child with their companions! How did it happen? What was to be done with her? But now, as Timid Hare almost fell to the floor of the warm, brightly lighted tent, all saw that she was quite exhausted. She must be fed, and afterwards sleep. There would be time enough to question her next morning. Hot soup was brought, and never, it seemed, had anything ever tasted so delicious to Timid Hare. And the heat of the burning logs--how pleasant it was! Timid Hare was too tired to be afraid, or even to think, and even as she ate, she fell sound asleep. She awoke next morning with her hand clutching the place where the sock lay hidden, and saw a kind face bending over her. It belonged to the same man who had held her when she roused from the snow-chill. "What is it?" he asked gently. He pointed to her hand. "It is--my charm. It is to bring me good." "May I see it?" The man's voice was so kind that it filled Timid Hare with perfect trust. "You will--help me?" The child's eyes were full of pleading. "Yes, little one." Slowly Timid Hare drew forth the sock. It was faded and soiled, yet the pattern in which the silk had been woven into the worsted was quite plain. "How did--Why, tell me at once how you got this." The man's voice was half stern, half pleading. "It was--so." With this beginning Timid Hare repeated the story as White Mink had told it to her. Many a time she had since told it to herself during her hard life with The Stone. It was such a strange story--so full of wonder to her still. The wonder of it was in her voice even now. The man listened with half-closed eyes, but saying never a word till she finished. Then, as in a dream, he said in a low tone: "It is my baby's sock--the pattern is one planned by my dear wife Alice who died out on this lonely prairie. And then--the sudden attack of the Dahcotas--and I made prisoner, while my baby Alice was left behind to perish. Afterwards I was rescued, though I cared little to live." "But child, child," he burst out, "though your eyes have the same color, the same expression as those of my dear wife, your skin is that of the red people." "I stained it--The Stone made me--and when I saw Sweet Grass liked me best so, I put on the color again and yet again." "God be praised! I have found my darling who, I thought, was lost forever." The man lifted Timid Hare and clasped her tenderly in his arms. And she--well, the little girl rested there content and happy. The next minute the rest of the party who had been out exploring, entered the tent with word that the start must be made at once. The clouds of the night before had lifted; the snow might not begin falling for several hours, and the most must be made of the morning towards reaching a larger camp where sledges would carry them a long ways towards a fur station. Great was the joy of the others when they learned the good fortune that had come to their friend, and merry was the whole party as it made its way onward. Yes, Timid Hare, or rather Alice, now more like the Swift Fawn she had been, was merry too. But as she went on her way to the new and beautiful life that would soon be hers, she begged her father to take her back by-and-by for a visit to her foster-parents and Big Moose in the Mandan village on the river. And he promised gladly. 
26799	----	INDIAN CAPTIVITY OF WILLIAM BIGGS _Heartman's Historical Series Number 37_ NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF _WILLIAM BIGGS_ AMONG THE KICKAPOO INDIANS IN Illinois in 1788 Written By Himself Eighty-one Copies Re-Printed In Nineteen Hundred and Twenty-two. Number ... of 81 Copies Reprinted. Also Five Copies Issued on Japan Paper. NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF WILLIAM BIGGS AMONG THE KICKAPOO INDIANS IN ILLINOIS IN 1788 In the year 1788, March 28th, I was going from Bellfontain to Cahokia, in company with a young man named John Vallis, from the State of Maryland; he was born and raised near Baltimore. About 7 o'clock in the morning I heard two guns fired; by the report I thought they were to the right; I thought they were white men hunting; both shot at the same time. I looked but could not see any body; in a moment after I looked to the left and saw sixteen Indians, all upon their feet with their guns presented, about forty yards distant from me, just ready to draw trigger. I was riding between Vallis and the Indians in a slow trot, at the moment I saw them. I whipped my horse and leaned my breast on the horse's withers, and told Vallis to whip his horse, that they were Indians. That moment they all fired their guns in one platoon; you could scarcely distinguish the report of their guns one from another. They shot four bullets into my horse, one high up in his withers, one in the bulge of the ribs near my thigh, and two in his rump, and shot four or five through my great coat. The moment they fired their guns they ran towards us and yelled so frightfully, that the wounds and the yelling of the Indians scared my horse so that he jumped so suddenly to one side of the road, that my gun fell off my shoulder, and twisted out of my hand; I then bore all my weight on one stirrup, in order to catch my gun, but could not. I had a large bag of beaver fur, which prevented me from recovering my saddle, and having no girth nor crupper to my saddle, it turned and fell off my horse, and I fell with it, but caught on my feet and held the mane; I made several attempts to mount my horse again; but the Indians running up so close, and making such a frightful yelling, that my horse jumped and pranced so that it was impossible for me to mount him again, but I held fast to my horse's mane for twenty or thirty yards; then my hold broke and I fell on my hands and knees, and stumbled along about four or five steps before I could recover myself. By the time I got fairly on my feet, the Indians were about eight or ten yards from me--I saw then there was no other way for me to make my escape but by fast running, and I was determined to try it, and had but little hopes at first of my being able to escape. I ran about one hundred yards before I looked back--I thought almost every step I could feel the scalping knife cutting my scalp off. I found I was gaining ground on them, I felt encouraged and ran about three hundred yards farther, and looking back saw that I had gained about one hundred yards, and considering myself quite out of danger. A thought then occurred to me, that I was as safe and out of danger as I would be if I were in the City of Philadelphia: the Indians had quit yelling and slacked their running--but I did not know it then. It being a tolerable cold morning and I was heavily clad, I thought perhaps the Indians would give me a long chase, and probably that they would hold out better than I could; although at that time I did not feel the least tired or out of breath. I concluded to throw off my two coats and shoes, as I would then be better prepared for a long race. I had my great coat tied around me with a silk handkerchief pretty much worn--I recollect tying it with a slip knot, but being in a hurry, it was drawn into a double hard knot; I tried some little time to get it loose--the longer I tried the harder the knot seemed to get, that stopped my running considerably; at length I broke it by some means, I do not know how. In the morning I forgot to put on my shot pouch before I put on my great coat, and then put it on over it. I pulled off the sleeves of my great coat, not thinking of my shot-pouch being over my coat, it having a very short strap, the coat got so tight in the strap that I could not get it loose for a considerable time. Still trying, it hung down and trailed on the ground, and every two or three steps it would wrap around my legs and throw me down, and I would catch on my hands and knees, it served me so several times, so that I could make no headway at running. After some considerable time, I broke the strap and my great coat dropped from me--I had no knife with me. The Indians discovered that something was the matter and saw me tumbling down several times. I suppose they thought I was wounded and could run no farther; they then set up the yell again and mended their gait running. By the time I got my great coat loose from me, and was in the act of pulling off my under coat, I was pulling off one sleeve I looked back over my shoulder, but had not time to pull it off--the Indians being within ten yards of me. I then started again to run, but could not gain any ground on them, nor they on me; we ran about one hundred yards farther and neither appeared to gain ground: there was a small pathway that was a little nearer than to keep the big road,--I kept the big road, the Indians took the path, and when we came where the path comes into the big road the Indians were within three or four yards from me--we ran forty or fifty steps farther and neither appeared to gain ground. I expected every moment they would strike me with their tomahawks--I thought it would not do to be killed running like a coward and saw no other way to make my escape than to face about and to catch the tomahawk from the first that attempted to strike me, and jerk it from him, which I made no doubt but I was able to do; then I would have a weapon to fight with as well as them, and by that means I would be able to make my escape; they had thrown down their guns before they gave me chase, but I had not fairly faced about before an Indian caught me by the shoulder and held his tomahawk behind him and made no attempt to strike me. I then thought it best for me not to make any resistance till I would see whether he would attempt to strike me or not. He held me by the shoulder till another came up and took hold of me, which was only four or five moments; then a third Indian came up, the first Indian that took hold of me took the handle of his tomahawk and rubbed it on my shoulder and down my arm, which was a token that he would not kill me and that I was his prisoner. Then they all took their hands off me and stood around me. The fourth Indian came up and attempted to strike me, but the first Indian that caught me pushed him away. He was still determined to kill me, and tried to get around to my back; but I still faced round as he was trying to get to my back--when he got up by my side, he drew his tomahawk the second time to strike me, but the same Indian pushed him off and scolded him very much--he let his tomahawk hang by his side, but still intended to kill me if he could get an opportunity. The other Indians watched him very closely. There were but four Indians that gave me chase, they were all naked except their breachcloth, leggins and moccasins. They then began to talk to me in their own language, and said they were Kickapoos, that they were very good Indians, and I need not be afraid, they would not hurt me, and I was now a Kickapoo and must go with them, they would take me to the Matocush, meaning a French trading town on the Wabash river. When the Indians caught me I saw Mr. Vallis about one hundred yards before me on the road--he had made a halt. They shot him in the left thigh about seven or eight inches above the knee, the ball came out just below his hip, his horse was not injured--he rode an elegant horse which carried him out of all farther danger--his wound mortified, he lived six weeks after he was wounded, then died. I understood their language, and could speak a little. They then told me to march; an Indian took hold of each of my arms, and led me back to where they shot at me, and then went about half a mile further off the road, where they had encamped the night before and left their blankets and other things. They then took off my under coat and tied my hands behind my back, and then tied a rope to that, tying about six or seven feet long, we then started in a great hurry, and an Indian held one end of the rope while we were marching. There were but eight Indians marched in company with me that morning from the camp. The other eight took some other route, and never fell in with us again, until some time after we got to their towns. We had marched about three or four miles from that camp when Vallis arrived at the fort, about six miles from where they caught me, where they fired a swivel to alarm the people who were out of the fort--when the Indians heard the swivel they were very much alarmed, and all looked that way and hallowed yough, yough. They then commenced running, and run in a pretty smart trot of a run for five or six miles before they halted, and then walked very fast until about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, when they separated, I supposed to hunt, having nothing to eat. The old chief and one of the other Indians kept on a straight course with me, we traveled about three miles, when we got a little way into a small prairie and halted about fifteen minutes, there one of the party fell in with us, he had killed a bear and brought as much of the meat with him as he could carry. We then crossed the prairie and came to a large run about one mile and a half from where we had halted to rest. By this time three Indians had joined us. We halted there, made a fire and roasted the bear meat, the other two Indians staid behind as spies. Whilst the meat was cooking, the Indians held a council what they would do with the Indian that wanted to kill me. He was a young fellow about 19 years of age and of a different nation, being a Pottowatema. They did not want him to go to war with them; they said he was a great coward and would not go into danger till there was no risk to run, then he would run forward and get the best of the plunder, and that he would not be commanded; he would do as he pleased; was very selfish and stubborn; and was determined to kill me if he could get a chance. They determined in their council to kill him. It is a law with the Indians when they go to war, if an Indian will not obey the counsels and commands of his captain or chief, to kill them. When their meat was cooked, they ate very hearty, and when they were done eating, three of the Indians got up, put on their budgets and started, this young Indian was one of them. I also got up to show a willingness to be ready. The old chief told me to sit down, and the three Indians started off. In about three or four minutes after we started, but varied a little in our course. We had not traveled more than one hundred yards when we heard the report of a gun. The old chief then told me that they had killed the Indian that wanted to kill me. The other two Indians fell in company with us before night. We then traveled till about 10 o'clock in the night, when we encamped at a large grove of timber in a prairie, about four miles from the edge of the woods; made no fire that night. We traveled about forty miles that day. After they rested a while they sat down to eat their jirk. They gave me some but I could not eat any. After they were done eating, one of the Indians was sitting with his back against a tree, with his knife between his legs. I was sitting facing him with my feet nearly touching his. He began to inquire of me of what nation I belonged to. I was determined to pretend that I was ignorant and could not understand him. I did not wish them to know that I could speak some Indian language, and understand them better than I could speak. He first asked me in Indian if I was a Matocush, (that is a Frenchman in English). I told him no. He asked me if I was a Sagenash, (an Englishman). I told him no. He again asked if I was a Shemolsea, (that is a long knife or a Virginian). I told him no. He then asked me if I was a Bostonely, (that is American). I told him no. About one minute afterwards, he asked me the same questions over again. I then answered him yes; he then spoke English and caught up his knife in his hand, and said "you are one dam son of a bitch." I really thought he intended stabbing me with his knife. I knew it would not do to show cowardice, I being pretty well acquainted with their manner and ways. I then jumped upon my feet and spoke in Indian and said manetway, kien, depaway, in English it is no, I am very good, and clapped my hand on my breast when I spoke and looked very bold; the other Indians all set up such ha! ha! and laugh that it made the other Indian look very foolish. He sat still and looked very sulky. After they had rested a while, they began to prepare to lay down. They spread down a deer-skin and blanket for me to lay on. They had tied a rope around my arms above my elbows, and tied that rope across my back, and a rope around my neck; they then tied the end of another rope behind to the neck rope, then down my back to the pinion rope; then they drew my hands forward across my stomach and crossed my wrists; then tied my wrists very tight; then tied my legs together, just below my knees; then tied my feet together with a rope round my ankles; then took a small cord and tied in between my wrists, and also between my ankles very tight, in order to prevent me from drawing out my hands or feet; they then took another cord and tied one end to the neck rope; then to the hand rope; then from the hand rope to the knee rope; they then took a rope about six feet long and tied one end to the wrist rope, and the other end to a stake about six feet from me stretched very tight, and an Indian laid on that rope all night; then they took another rope about the same length, and tied one end to the knee rope and the other end to a stake, and another Indian laid on that all night; then they tied a large half-dressed elk rope, one end to the back part of the neck rope which made a knot as big as my fist, the other end they tied to a stake about six feet from my head. When they finished their tying me, they covered me with a blanket. They tied me in the aforegoing way nine nights in succession; they had me stretched and tied so tight, that I could not move one inch to turn or rest myself; that large knot was on the back of my neck, so that I was obliged to lay on it all night, and it hurt my neck very much. I never suffered as much in the same length of time in all my life; I could hardly walk when we got out to their town. They never made me carry anything except a blanket they gave me to keep myself warm, when they took all my clothes from me. The Indians carried a deer-skin and blanket all the way for me to lodge upon. When my hands and feet became sore with the tying the Indians would always pull off my moccasins at night and put them on in the morning, and patch them when they would require it. The second day we started very early in the morning and traveled about thirty-five miles, which was the 29th of March. The third day we traveled about thirty miles, which was the 30th of March. They killed a deer that day--in the evening they took the intestines out of the deer and freed them of their contents, when they put them in the kettles with some meat and made soup, I could not eat any of it. The fourth day we traveled about twenty-five miles. We stopped about 3 o'clock in the afternoon at a pond. They staid there all night. They had some dried meat, tallow, and buffalo marrow, rendered up together, lashed and hung upon a tree about twenty feet from the ground, which they had left there in order to be sure to have something to eat on their return. They killed two ducks that evening. The ducks were very fat. They picked one of the ducks, and took out all its entrils very nice and clean, then stuck it on a stick, and stuck the other end of the stick in the ground before the fire, and roasted it very nice. By the time the duck was cooked, one of the Indians went and cut a large block out of a tree to lay the duck upon; they made a little hole in the ground to catch the fat of the duck while roasting. When the duck was cooked, they laid it on this clean block of wood, then took a spoon and tin cup, and lifted the grease of the duck out of the hole and took it to the cooked duck on the table, and gave me some salt, then told me to go and eat. I sat by and eat the whole of the duck, and could have eat more if I would have had anything more to eat, though I had no bread. I thought I had never eat anything before that tasted so good. That was the first meal I had eaten for four days. The other duck they pulled a few of the largest feathers out off, then threw the duck, guts, feathers and all into their soup-kettle, and cooked it in that manner. The fifth day we traveled about thirty miles. That night I felt very tired and sore, my hands, arms, legs and feet had swelled and inflamed very much, by this time; the tying that night hurt me very much, I thought I could not live until morning; it felt just like a rough saw cutting my bones. I told the Indians I could not bear it, it would kill me before morning, and asked them to unslack or unloose the wrist rope a little, that hurt me the most. They did so, and rather more than I expected, so much that I could draw my hands out of the tying, which I intended to do as soon as I thought the Indians were asleep. When I thought the Indians were all asleep I drew my right hand out of tying, with an intention to put it back again before I would go to sleep, for fear I should make some stir in my sleep and they might discover me. But, finding so much more ease, and resting so much better, I fell asleep before I knew it, without putting my hand back into the tying. The first thing I knew about 3 o'clock in the morning, an Indian was sitting astraddle me, drawing his tomahawk and rubbing it across my forehead, every time he would draw a stroke with the pipe of his tomahawk, he threatened to kill me, and saying I wanted to run away; I told him to kill away. I would as leave die as live. I then told him I was not able to run away. He then got off me, and the rest of the Indians were all up immediately. They then held a short council and agreed to tie me as tight as ever, and they did so. I got no more sleep that night. I never asked them to loose my ropes any more. The sixth day we traveled about thirty miles, and had nothing to eat that day. The seventh day we traveled about twenty-five miles; they killed a doe that day. She had two fawns in her, not yet haired. They stopped about four o'clock in the evening, and cooked the doe and her two fawns, and eat the whole up that night. They gave me part of a fawn to eat, but I could not eat it, it looked too tender. I eat part of the doe. The eighth day we traveled about twenty-five miles, and had nothing to eat that day. The ninth day we traveled about fifteen miles. We then arrived at an Indian hunting camp, where they made sugar that spring. About 11 o'clock in the forenoon, we had not yet anything to eat that day. The Indians that lived there had plenty of meat, hominy grease and sugar to eat. They gave us plenty of everything they had to eat. We were very hungry and ate like hungry dogs. When we were satisfied eating, the warriors went into a large cabin and I went with them, and immediately several of their friends came in to see them, both men and squaws, to hear the news. It is a custom with that nation for the squaws to demand presents of the warriors if they have been successful. After some little inquiry the squaws began to demand presents of the warriors; some would ask for a blanket, some for a shirt, some for a tomahawk; one squaw asked for a gun. The warriors never refused anything that was demanded. The manner in which they made their demand was, they would go up to an Indian and take hold of what they wanted. When the squaws were done with the warriors, there came a squaw and took hold of my blanket; I saw how the game was played, I just threw it off and gave it to her; then there came up a young squaw about eleven or twelve years old and took hold of my shirt, I did not want to let that go, as it was very cold day, and I let on I did not understand what she wanted. She appeared to be very much ashamed and went away. The older squaws encouraged and persuaded her to try it again; she came up the second time and took hold of my shirt again, I still pretended to be ignorant, but she held fast. I knew it would have to go. One of the warriors then stepped up and told me to let her have it. I then pulled it off and gave it to her. The old squaws laughed very much at the young squaw. I was then quite naked and it was a very cold day; I had nothing on me but moccasins, leggings and breachcloth. We remained there about 3 or 4 hours. The warriors then went out to the post to dance, they invited me to go with them to dance. I did so, they sung and danced around the war-post for half an hour. The old Indians would sing and dance sometimes out of the ring and appeared very lively. The warriors then marched right off from their dance on their journey. We had not got more than about 50 or 60 yards when I looked back and saw a squaw running with a blanket; she threw it on my shoulders, it fell down. I turned round and picked it up, it was a very old, dirty, lousy blanket, though it was better than nothing, as the day was very cold. We travelled about five or six miles that evening, then encamped in the woods. I suffered very much that night from the cold. The tenth day we traveled five or six miles in the morning. We got within a quarter of a mile of a new town, on the west bank of the Wabash river, where those warriors resided, about nine o'clock, and made a halt at a running branch of water, where the timber was very thick, so that they could conceal themselves from the view of the town. Then they washed themselves all over and dressed themselves with paint of different colors. They made me wash, then they painted me and said I was a Kickapoo. Then they cut a pole and pealed it, painted it different colors and stuck the big end in the ground, and cleared a ring around the pole for to dance in. The fifth night they cut a lock of hair out of the crown of my head about as thick as my finger, plaited it elegantly and put it in their conjuring bag, and hung that bag on the pole they contemplated dancing around, and said that was their prisoner, and I was a Kickapoo, and must dance with them. When they all got ready to dance, the captain gave three very loud halloes, then walked into the ring and the rest all followed him. They placed me the third next to the captain; they then began to sing and dance. When we had danced about half an hour, I saw several old men, boys and squaws come running to where we were dancing. When there were a considerable number of them collected, the captain stepped out of the ring and spoke to the squaws. He told them to carry his and the other warriors' budgets to the town; the captain then joined the other warriors and me in the dancing ring; he marched in the front and we danced and sung all the way from there into the town. Some of the old Indian warriors marched upon each side of us, and at times would sing and dance until we got into their town. We continued dancing until we got through the town to the war-post, which stood on the west bank of the Wabash river; danced round that about twenty minutes; they then marched into the town, took all the cords off me, and showed me a cabin, told me to go in there, they were good Indians, they would give me something to eat; I need not fear, as they would not hurt me. I accordingly went in, where I received a plenty to eat and was treated very kindly. The warriors went into other cabins and feasted very greedily. We had not eat anything that morning nor the night before. About one hour and a half before the sun set the same evening, the warriors went out to the war-post again to dance. They took me with them; several other Indians were present. They had danced about half an hour when I saw two Indian men and a squaw riding a horseback across the Wabash river, from the east side; they came to where we were dancing. One of the Indians had a handkerchief tied around his head and was carrying a gun; the other had a cocked hat on his head, and had a large sword. The warriors never let on that they saw them, but continued dancing about fifteen minutes. After the two Indians and squaw came up the warriors quit dancing, and went to them and shook hands; they appeared very glad to see each other. The captain of the warriors then talked with them about half an hour, and appeared to be very serious in their conversation. The captain then told me I must go with them two Indians and squaw. The sun was just then setting; the two Indians looked very much pleased. I did not want to go with them, as I knew not where they were going, and would have rather remained with the warriors that took me, as I had got acquainted with them, but the captain told me I must go with the two Indians and squaw, and that they were very good Indians. The Indian that had the sword rode up to a stump and told me to get up behind him on his horse; I did so with great reluctance, as I knew not where they were going; they looked very much like warriors. However, they started off very lively, and the Indian that I was riding behind began to plague and joke the squaw about me; she was his sister-in-law. He was an Indian that was full of life and very funny. When I got acquainted with him I was well pleased with him. We traveled about ten miles that evening before we reached the place they resided. They were then living at a sugar camp, where they had made sugar that spring, on the west bank of the Wabash, about ten miles below the old Kickapoos' trading town, opposite to the Weawes town. We arrived at their sugar camp about two hours in the night. They then gave me to an old Kickapoo chief, who was the father of the Indian that carried the gun, and the squaw, and the father-in-law of the funny Indian. The old chief soon began to inquire of me where I lived, and where the Indians caught me. I told him. He then asked me if they did not kill an Indian when they took me prisoner. I told him no, there was no body with me but one man and he had no gun. He then asked me again, if the Indians did not kill one of their own men when they took me. I told him I did not know; the captain told me they did, but I did not see them kill him. The old chief then told me that it was true, they did kill him, and said he was a bad Indian, he wanted to kill me. By this time the young squaw, the daughter of the old chief, whom I traveled in company with that evening, had prepared a good supper for me; it was hominy beat in a mortar, as white and as handsome as I ever saw, and well cooked; she fried some dried meat, pounded very fine in a mortar, in oil, then sprinkled sugar very plentifully over it. I ate very hearty; indeed, it was all very good and well cooked. When I was done eating, the old chief told me to eat more. I told him I had eat enough. He said no, if I did not eat more I could not live. Then the young squaw handed me a tincupful of water, sweetened with sugar. It relished very well. Then the old chief began to make further inquiries. He asked me if I had a wife and family. I told him I had a wife and three children. The old chief then appeared to be very sorry for my misfortune, and told me that I was among good Indians, I need not fear, they would not hurt me, and after awhile I should go home to my family; that I should go down the Wabash to Opost, from there down to the Ohio, then down the Ohio, and then up the Mississippi to Kaskaskia. We sat up until almost midnight; the old chief appeared very friendly indeed. The young squaw had prepared a very good bed for me, with bearskins and blankets. I laid down and slept very comfortably that night. It appeared as though I had got into another world, after being confined and tied down with so many ropes and the loss of sleep nine nights. I remained in bed pretty late next morning. I felt quite easy in mind, but my wrists and legs pained me very much and felt very sore. The young squaw had her breakfast prepared and I eat very hearty. When breakfast was over this funny Indian came over and took me to his cabin, about forty yards from the old chief's. There were none living at that place then but the old chief, his wife and daughter. They lived by themselves in one cabin and the old chief's son and son-in-law and their wives in another cabin, and a widow squaw, the old chief's daughter, lived by herself in a cabin adjoining her brother and brother-in-law. None of them had any children but the old chief. A few minutes after I went into this funny Indian's cabin he asked me if I wanted to shave. I told him yes, my beard was very long. He then got a razor and gave it to me. It was a very good one. I told him it wanted strapping. He went and brought his shot-pouch strap. He held one end and I the other end. I gave the razor a few passes on the strap, and found the razor to be a very good one. By this time the old chief's young squaw had come over; she immediately prepared some hot water for me to shave, and brought it in a tincup and gave it to me, and a piece of very good shaving soap. By the time I was done shaving the young squaw had prepared some clean water in a pewter basin for me to wash, and a cloth to wipe my hands and face. She then told me to sit down on a bench; I did so. She got two very good combs, a coarse and a fine one. It was then the fashion to wear long hair; my hair was very long and very thick and very much matted and tangled; I traveled without my hat or anything else on my head; that was the tenth day it had not been combed. She combed out my hair very tenderly, and then took the fine one and combed and looked over my head nearly one hour. She then went to a trunk and got a ribbon and queued my hair very nicely. The old chief's son then gave me a very good regimental blue cloth coat, faced with yellow buff-colored cloth. The son-in-law gave me a very good beaver macaroni hat. These they had taken from some officers they had killed. Then the widow squaw took me into her cabin and gave me a new ruffled shirt and a very good blanket. They told me to put them on; I did so. When I had got my fine dress on, the funny Indian told me to walk across the floor. I knew they wanted to have a little fun. I put my arms akimbo with my hands on my hips, and walked with a very proud air three or four times backwards and forwards across the floor. The funny Indian said in Indian that I was a very handsome man and a big captain. I then sat down, and they viewed me very much, and said I had a very handsome leg and thigh, and began to tell how fast I ran when the Indians caught me, and showed how I ran--like a bird flying. They appeared to be very well pleased with me, and I felt as comfortable as the nature of the case would admit of. The next morning after breakfast, they all left that camp; they put all their property into a large perouge and moved by water up the Wabash river to the old Kickapoo trading town, about ten miles from their sugar camp; they sent me by land and one Indian with me. When we had got about half way to the town, we met with a young Frenchman; his name was Ebart; I was very well acquainted with him in the Illinois country; he spoke tolerably good English. The Indian then left me, and I went on to the town with the young Frenchman; I got to the town before the Indians arrived with their perouge, and the young Frenchman showed me their cabin, and told me to stay there until they would come, that they would be there in a few minutes. I there met with an English trader, a very friendly man, whose name was John McCauslin; he was from the north of England; we made some little acquaintance. He was a Freemason and appeared very sorry for my misfortune and told me he would do everything in his power to befriend me and told me I was with good Indians, they would not hurt me. He inquired of me where I lived and asked if I had a family. He then told me of the circumstance of the Indians killing one of their own men that day they caught me. He said it was a fact, he was a bad Indian and would not obey the commands of his captain and that he was still determined to kill me. My Indian family soon arrived and cleared up their cabin and got their family ready. They were a smart, neat and cleanly family, kept their cabin very nice and clean, the same as white women, and cooked their victuals very nice. After dinner was over, there came four Indians in the old chief's cabin. Two of them were the old chief's brother's children. They appeared to be in a very fine humor. I did not know but that they belonged to the same family and town. They had not been there more than one hour, until the old chief and the four Indians sat down on the floor in the cabin and had a long discourse about an hour and a half. Then all got up. The old chief then told me I must go with those Indians. I told him I did not want to go. He then told me I must go; that they were his children and that they were very good Indians; they would not hurt me. Then the old chief gave me to the oldest brother, in place of his father who was killed about one year before by the white people; he was one of their chiefs. Then the four Indians started off and I with them; they went down to the lower end of the town and stopped at an Indian cabin and got some bread and meat to eat. They gave me some. I did not go into the Indian cabin. They had not been in the cabin more than ten or twelve minutes before the old chief's young squaw came up and stood at the door. She would not go in. I discovered the Indians laughing and plaguing her. She looked in a very ill humor; she did not want them to take me away. They immediately started from the cabin and took a tolerably large path that led into the woods in a pretty smart trot. The squaw started immediately after them. They would look back once in a while, and when they would see the squaw coming they would whoop, hollow and laugh. When they got out of sight of the squaw they stopped running and traveled in a moderate walk. When we got about three miles from the town, they stopped where a large tree had fallen by the side of the path and laid high off the ground. They got up high on the log and looked back to see if the squaw was coming. When the squaw came up she stopped and they began to plague her and laugh at her. They spoke in English. They talked very vulgar to the squaw. She soon began to cry. When they got tired plaguing her, they jumped off the log and started on their road in a trot, and I ran with them. The squaw stood still till we got most out of sight. They would look back and laugh and sometimes hollow and whoop, and appeared to be very much diverted. They did not run very far before they slackened in their runnings. They then walked moderately until they got to their town, which was three miles further from the tree they stopped at. We got into their town about one hour and a half before the sun set. That same evening the squaw came in about half an hour after we arrived. I met with a young man that evening who had been taken prisoner about eighteen months before I was taken. His name was Nicholas Coonse (a Dutchman), then about 19 years of age. He heard I was coming, and he came to meet me a little way out of town. He was very glad to see me and I to see him, and we soon made up acquaintance. Coonse and myself were to live in one cabin together. The two brothers that I was given up to, one of them claimed Coonse and the other claimed me. They both lived in the same cabin. When the squaw arrived, she came immediately to our cabin and stood outside at the door; she would not come in. I noticed the Indians plaguing and laughing at her; she looked very serious. About sunset, Coonse asked me if I wanted a wife. (He could not speak very good English, but he could speak pretty good Indian.) I told him no. He then told me if I wanted one I could have one. I asked him how he knew that. He said, "There is a squaw that wants to marry you," pointing at her. I told him I reckoned not. He says, "Yes. Indeed, she tus; she came after you a purpose to marry you." I told Coonse I had a wife, and I did not want another one. He says, "O, well, if you want her you can haf her." She stood by the door for some time after dark. I did not know when she went away; she said two days and three nights before she returned home. I never spoke a word to her while she was there. She was a very handsome girl, about 18 years of age, a beautiful, full figure and handsomely featured, and very white for a squaw. She was almost as white as dark complexioned white women generally are. Her father and mother were very white skinned Indians. The next day was the 9th day of April, and thirteenth day that I had been their prisoner. The chief Indians and warriors that day held a general council, to know in what manner and way to dispose of me. They collected in the cabin where I lived. While they were in council their dinner was cooking. There were about ten in number, and they all sat down on the floor in a circle, and then commenced by their interpreter, Nicholas Coonse. The first question they asked me was, "Would I have my hair cut off like they cut theirs?" I answered "No." The second question they asked me was, "If I would have holes bored in my ears and nose and have rings and lead hung in them like they had?" I answered "No." The third question they asked me was, "If I could make hats?" (I had a large bag of beaver fur with me when they took me prisoner; from that circumstance I suppose they thought I was a hatter.) I answered "No." The fourth question they asked me was, "If I was a carpenter?" and said they wanted a door made for their cabin. I answered "No." The fifth question they asked me was, "If I was a blacksmith; could I mend their guns and makes axes and hoes for them?" I answered "No." The sixth question they asked me was, "If I could hoe corn?" I answered "No". The seventh question they asked me was, "If I could hunt?" I answered. "No. I could shoot at a mark very well, but I never hunted any." Then they told Coonse to ask me how I got my living; if I could do no work. I thought I had out-generalled them, but that question stumped me a little. The first thought that struck my mind, I thought I would tell them I was a weaver by trade, but a second thought occurred to my mind, I told Coonse to tell them I made my living by writing. The Indians answered and said it was very well. The eighth question they asked me was, "If I had a family?" I answered "Yes, I had a wife and three children." The ninth question they asked me was, "If I wanted to go home to see my wife and children?" I answered "Yes," They said, "Very well, you shall go home by and by." The tenth question they asked was, "If I wanted a wife then?" I answered "No," and told them it was not the fashion for the white people to have two wives at the same time. They said, very well, I could get one if I wanted one, and they said if I staid with them until their corn got in roasting ears, then I must take a wife. I answered them yes, if I staid that long with them. They then told me that I might go anywhere about in the town, but not go out of sight of the town, for if I did, there were bad Indians round about the town and they would catch me and kill me, and they said they could run like horses; and another thing they said, don't you recollect the Indians that took you prisoner and cut a lock of hair out of the crown of your head. I told them yes. Then they told me in consequence of that, if you attempted to run away, you could not live eight days. If you will stay with us and not run away, you shall not even bring water to drink. I told them I wanted to go home to my family, but I would not go without letting them know before I went. They said, very well. They appeared well pleased with me and told me again I might go anywhere about in the town, but not go out of sight of the town. I was sitting on a bench, when the old chief got up and put both his hands on my head and said something, I did not know what. Then he gave me a name and called me "Mohcossea," after the old chief that was killed, who was the father of the Indian that I was given up to. Then I was considered one of that family, a Kickapoo in place of their father, the old chief. Then the principal chief took the peace pipe and smoked two or three draws. It had a long stem about three feet in length. He then passed it round to the other Indians before they raised from their council. He held the pipe by the end and each of them took two or three draws. Then he handed it to me and I smoked. The chief then said I was a Kickapoo and that they were good Indians and that I need not be afraid; they would not hurt me, but I must not run away. By this time their dinner was prepared and they were ready to eat. They all sat down and told me to sit by. I did, and we all eat a hearty dinner and they all appeared to be well pleased with their new adopted Kickapoo brother. These Indians lived about six miles west of the old Kickapoo trading town, on the west side of the Wabash river. They had no traders in their town. After dinner was over, they told the interpreter Coons that I must write to their trading town for some bread. I told Coons to tell them I had nothing to write with--no paper, nor pen and ink. They said I must write. I told Coons to tell them again I had no paper nor nothing to write with. Coons told them. Then the Indian that claimed me went to his trunk and brought me a letter that had one-half sheet of it clean paper. I told Coons to tell them I wanted a pen. The same Indian went and pulled a quill out of a turkey wing and gave it to me. I told Coons I wanted a knife to make the pen. The same Indian got his scalping knife; he gave it two or three little whets and gave it to me. I then told Coons I wanted some ink. Coons says, "Ink--ink; what is tat? I ton't know what ink is." He had no name for ink in Indian or English. I told him to tell the Indian to get me some gunpowder and water and a spoon and I would make the ink myself. The Indian did so. I knew very well what their drift was; they wanted a proof to know whether I told them any lies when they examined me in their council. When I had made the ink and was ready to write I asked Coons how many loaves of bread I should write for. He says, "Ho! a couple of lofes; tay only want to know if you can write or if you told them any lies or not." I wrote to the English trader, that I mentioned before that I had made some acquaintance with the day I passed the old trading town, for to get me two loaves of bread. He very well knew my situation and circumstances. There was a Frenchman, a baker, that lived in the trading town. When I had finished writing, the Indian took it up and looked at it and said, "Depaway, vely good." Coons' master, a brother to the one that claimed me, told Coons to go catch his horse and take the letter for the bread, not stay, but return as soon as possible. Coons hurried off immediately and soon returned. As soon as he came back he brought the two loaves of bread and gave them to me. I then asked Coons what I should do with this bread, as he was somewhat better acquainted with the ways of the Indians than I was. He says, "Kife one loaf to tay old squaw and her two little chiltren, and tofide the otter loaf petween you and your master, put keep a pigest half." I did so. This old squaw was the mother of the two Indians that claimed Coons and myself. The old squaw and her two children soon eat their loaf. I then divided my half between the two little children again. That pleased the old squaw very much; she tried to make me sensible of her thanks for my kindness to her two little children. While Coons was gone for the bread, the Indian that claimed me asked me to write his name. I asked him to speak his name distinctly. He did. I had heard it spoken several times before. His name was "Mahtomack." When I was done writing he took it up and looked at it and said it was "Depaway." He then went to his trunk and brought his powder horn, which had his name wrote on it by an officer at Post Vincennes in large print letters, and compared them together. They both were the same kind of letters and his name spelt exactly the same. He seemed mightily pleased and said it was "bon vely good." It was a big captain he said wrote his name on the powder-horn at Opost. The wife of the Indian that claimed me, next morning combed and queued my hair and gave me a very large ostrich feather and tied it to my hat. The Sunday following after I was taken to that town, there was a number of Indians went from that town to the old Kickapoo trading town. They took me with them to dance what is called the "Beggar's Dance." It is a practice for the Indians every spring, when they come in from their hunting ground, to go to the trading towns and dance for presents; they will go through the streets and dance before all the traders' doors. The traders then will give them presents, such as tobacco, bread, knives, spirits, blankets, tomahawks, &c. While we were in town that day I talked with my friend McCauslin to speak to the Indians and try to get them to sell me, but they would not agree to sell me then. They said they would come down the Sunday following and bring me with them, perhaps they would then agree to sell me. They complied with their promise and brought me down with them. My friend McCauslin then inquired of them if they had agreed to sell me; they told him they would. McCauslin then sent for the interpreter, and the Indians asked one hundred buckskins for me in merchandize. The interpreter asked me if I would give it? I told him I would. The Indians then went to the traders' houses to receive their pay. They took but seventy bucks' worth of merchandize at that time. One of the articles they took was bread, three loaves, one for the Indian that claimed me, one for his wife, the other one for me. I saw directly they wanted me to go back home with them. After a little while they started and motioned and told me I must go with them. I refused to go. The Indian fellow took hold of my arm and tried to pull me forward. I still refused going with them. He still continued pulling and his wife pushing me at the back. We went scuffling along a few yards till we got before my friend McCauslin's cabin door. He discovered the bustle and asked me what the Indians wanted. I told him they wanted me to go home with them. He asked me if I wanted to go. I told him no. He then told me to walk into his cabin and sit down and he would go and bring the interpreter. I went in and the two Indians followed me into the cabin and sat down. The interpreter came in immediately and asked the Indians what they wanted. They told him they wanted me to go home with them. The interpreter then asked if I wanted to go with them. I told him no. He then told the Indians they had sold me and that they had nothing more to do with me, that I was a freeman, that I might stay where I pleased. They then said they had not received all their pay. The interpreter then asked them why they did not take it all? They said they expected I would go home with them and remain with them until I got an opportunity to go home. The interpreter then told them they could get the balance of their pay. They said if I did not go home with them they must have thirty bucks more. The interpreter asked me if I was willing to give it. I told him yes. I did not want to go back again. The Indians then went and took their thirty dollars of balance and thirty more and went off home. I then owed the traders that advanced the goods for me one hundred and thirty buckskins for my ransom, which they considered equal to $260 in silver. There were five traders that were concerned in the payment of the goods to the Indians. One of them was a Mr. Bazedone a Spaniard, who sometimes traded in the Illinois country, with whom I had some acquaintance. I told him if he would satisfy the other four traders, I would give him my note, payable in the Illinois country. He did so, and I gave him my note for the $260, to be paid twelve months after date in the Illinois country, and $37 more for my boarding and necessaries I could not do without, such as a bear skin and blanket to sleep on, a shirt, hat, tobacco and handkerchief. My friend McCauslin took me to a Frenchman's house--he was a baker by trade, the only baker in town--to board with him until I got an opportunity to go home. Two days after I went to stay at the baker's, the Indian that claimed me, his squaw and the young squaw that followed us to the new town, came to see me and stayed three or four hours with me. He asked me to give him some tobacco. I told him I had no money. He thought I could get anything I wanted. I bought him a carrot of tobacco; it weighed about three pounds; he seemed very well pleased. He and his wife wanted me very much to go back home with them again. I told them I could not, that I was very anxious to go home to my wife and family. Three or four days after that they revisited me, and still insisted on me to go home with them. I told them that I expected every day to get an opportunity to go home. I had some doubts about going back with them; I thought perhaps they might play some trick on me, and take me to some other town; and their water was so bad I could not drink it--nothing but a small pond to make use of for their drinking and cooking, about forty or fifty yards long and about thirty yards wide. Their horses would not only drink from, but wallow in it; the little Indian boys every day would swim in it, and the Indians soak their deerskins in it. I could not bear to drink it. When they would bring in a kettle of water to drink, they would set it down on the floor. The dogs would generally took the first drink out of the kettle. I have often seen when the dogs would be drinking out of a kettle, an Indian would go up and kick him off, and take up the kettle and drink after the dog. They had nothing to eat the last week I was with them but Indian potatoes--some people call them hoppines--that grew in the woods, and they were very scarce. Sometimes the Indian boys would catch land terrapins. They would draw their heads out and tie a string around their neck and hang them up a few minutes, and then put them in a kettle of water with some corn--when they had it--without taking the entrails out or shell off the terrapin, and eat the soup as well as the meat. We had all liked to have starved that week; we had no meat; I was glad to get away. I staid three weeks with the French baker before I got an opportunity to start home. I had a plenty to eat while I remained with the baker--good light bread, bacon and sandy hill cranes, boiled in leyed corn, which made a very good soup. I paid him three dollars per week for my board. There was a Mr. Pyatt a Frenchman, and his wife, whose residence was at St. Vincennes, with whom I had some acquaintance. They had moved up to that Kickapoo town in the fall of the year in order to trade with the Indians that winter. They were then ready to return home to Vincennes. Mr. Pyatt had purchased a drove of horses from the Indians. He had to go by land with his horses. Mrs. Pyatt hired a large perogue and four Frenchmen to take her property home to Vincennes. I got a passage in her perogue. She was very friendly to me; she did not charge me anything for my passage. We arrived in Vincennes in forty-eight hours after we left the Kickapoo trading town, which is said to be two hundred and ten miles. The river was very high, and the four hands rowed day and night. We never put to land but twice to get a little wood to cook something to eat. I staid five days at Vincennes before I got an opportunity of company to go on my way home. It was too dangerous for one man to travel alone by land without a gun. There was a Mr. Duff, who lived in the Illinois country, came to Vincennes to move a Mrs. Moredock and family to the Illinois. I got a passage with him by water. The morning I started from Vincennes he was just ready to start before I knew I could get a passage with him, and I had not time to write. I got a Mr. John Rice Jones, a friend of mine, to write to Col. Edgar, living in Kaskaskia, in the Illinois, who was a particular friend of mine, and sent it by the express, a Frenchman, that was going to start that day from Vincennes to Kaskaskia, which he could ride in four days, and request Col. Edgar to write to my wife, who lived at Bellfontain, about forty miles from Kaskaskia, and inform her that I was at Post Vincennes, on my return home with a Mr. Duff by water, and inform her that I would be at Kaskaskia on a certain day; I think it was two weeks from the time I left Vincennes, and for her to send me a horse on that day to Kaskaskia. Col. Edgar wrote to her immediately, as soon as he received Mr. Jones' letter. That was the first time she heard from me after I was taken prisoner. I had written to her while I was at the Kickapoo town. That letter never reached her. I had two brothers living at the Bellfontain; they met me on the day I proposed being at Kaskaskia and brought me a horse. The next day I got home to the Bellfontain. 
11151	----	THE LOST TRAIL BY EDWARD S. ELLIS AUTHOR OF "SETH JONES," "THE FOREST SPY," ETC., ETC. 1911 [Illustration: "THAT INDIAN HAS CARRIED CORA AWAY!"--_Frontispiece_.] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Shadow II. The Adventures of a Night III. The Jug Acquaintances IV. An Ominous Rencounter V. Gone VI. The Lost Trail VII. A Hibernian's Search for the Trail VIII. The Trail of Death IX. The Dead Shot X. Conclusion LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. He held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe. "A purty question, ye murtherin haythen!" "Where does yees get the jug?" Dealt the savage a tremendous blow "Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled." The trail was lost! "And so, Teddy, ye're sayin' it war a white man that took away the missionary's wife." "It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out at last, and must go under!" "Harvey Richter--don't you know me?" he gasped. THE LOST TRAIL. CHAPTER I. THE SHADOW. Ye who love the haunts of nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers. Listen to these wild traditions.--HIAWATHA. One day in the spring of 1820, a singular occurrence took place on one of the upper tributaries of the Mississippi. The bank, some fifteen or twenty feet in height, descended quite abruptly to the stream's edge. Though both shores were lined with dense forest, this particular portion possessed only several sparse clumps of shrubbery, which seemed like a breathing-space in this sea of verdure--a gate in the magnificent bulwark with which nature girts her streams. This green area commanded a view of several miles, both up and down stream. Had a person been observing this open spot on the afternoon of the day in question, he would have seen a large bowlder suddenly roll from the top of the bank to bound along down the green declivity and fall into the water with a loud splash. This in itself was nothing remarkable, as such things are of frequent occurrence in the great order of things, and the tooth of time easily could have gnawed away the few crumbs of earth that held the stone in poise. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed, however, when a second bowlder rolled downward in a manner precisely similar to its predecessor, and tumbled into the water with a rush that resounded across and across from the forest on either bank. Even this might have occurred in the usual course of things. Stranger events take place every day. The loosening of the first stone could have opened the way for the second, although a suspicious observer might naturally have asked why its fall did not follow more immediately. But, when precisely the same interval had elapsed, and a third stone followed in the track of the others, there could be no question but what human agency was concerned in the matter. It certainly appeared as if there were some _intent_ in all this. In this remote wilderness, no white man or Indian would find the time or inclination for such child's play, unless there was a definite object to be accomplished. And yet, scrutinized from the opposite bank, the lynx-eye of a veteran pioneer would have detected no other sign of the presence of a human being than the occurrences that we have already narrated; but the most inexperienced person would have decided at once upon the hiding-place of him who had given the moving impulse to the bodies. Just at the summit of the bank was a mass of shrubbery of sufficient extent and density to conceal a dozen warriors. And within this, beyond doubt, was one person, at least, concealed; and it was certain, too, that from his hiding-place, he was peering out upon the river. Each bowlder had emerged from this shrubbery, and had not passed through it in its downward course; so that their starting-point may now be considered a settled question. Supposing one to have gazed from this stand-point, what would have been his field of vision? A long stretch of river--a vast, almost interminable extent of forest--a faint, far-off glimpse of a mountain peak projected like a thin cloud against the blue sky, and a solitary eagle that, miles above, was bathing his plumage in the clear atmosphere. Naught else? Close under the opposite shore, considerably lower down than the point to which we first directed our attention, may be descried a dark object. It is a small Indian canoe, in which are seated two white men and a female, all of whom are attired in the garb of civilization. The young man near the stern is of slight mold, clear blue eye, and a prepossessing countenance. He holds a broad ashen paddle in his hand with which to assist his companion, who maintains his proximity to the shore for the purpose of overcoming more deftly the opposition of the current. The second personage is a short but square-shouldered Irishman, with massive breast, arms like the piston-rods of an engine, and a broad, good-natured face. He is one of those beings who may be aptly termed "machines," a patient, plodding, ox-like creature who takes to the most irksome labor as a flail takes to the sheafs on the threshing-floor. Work was his element, and nothing, it would seem, could tire or overcome those indurated muscles and vice-like nerves. The only appellation with which he was ever known to be honored was that of "Teddy." Near the center of the canoe, which was of goodly size and straight, upon a bed of blankets, sat the wife of the young man in the stern. A glance would have dissipated the slightest suspicion of her being anything other than a willing voyager upon the river. There was the kindling eye and glowing cheek, the eager look that flitted hither and yon, and the buoyant feeling manifest in every movement, all of which expressed more of enthusiasm than of willingness merely. Her constant questions to her husband or Teddy, kept up a continual run of conversation, which was now, for the first time, momentarily interrupted by the occurrence to which we have alluded. At the moment we introduce them the young man was holding his paddle stationary and gazing off toward his right, where the splash in the water denoted the fall of the third stone. His face wore an expression of puzzled surprise, mingled with which was a look of displeasure, as if he were "put out" at this manifestation. His eyes were fixed with a keen, searching gaze upon the river-bank, expecting the appearance of something more. Teddy also was resting upon his paddle, and scrutinizing the point in question; but he seemed little affected by what had taken place. His face was as expressionless as one of the bowlders, save the ever-present look of imperturbable good-humor. The young woman seemed more absorbed than either of her companions, in attempting to divine this mystery that had so suddenly come upon them. More than once she raised her hand, as an admonition for Teddy to preserve silence. Finally, however, his impatience got the better of his obedience, and he broke the oppressive stillness. "And what does ye make of it, Miss Cora, or Master Harvey?" he asked, after a few moments, dipping his paddle at the same time in the water. "Arrah, now, has either of ye saan anything more than the same bowlders there?" "No," answered the man, "but we may; keep a bright look-out, Teddy, and let me know what you see." The Irishman inclined his head to one side, and closed one eye as if sighting an invisible gun. Suddenly he exclaimed, with a start: "I see something now, _sure_ as a Bally-ma-gorrah wake." "What is it?" "The sun going down in the west, and tilling us we've no time to shpare in fooling along here." "Teddy, don't you remember day before yesterday when we came out of the Mississippi into this stream, we observed something very similar to this?" "An' what if we did, zur? Does ye mane to say that a rock or two can't git tired of layin' in bed for a thousand years and roll around like a potaty in a garret whin the floor isn't stiddy?" "It struck us as so remarkable that we both concluded it must have been caused _purposely_ by some one." "Me own opinion was, ye remember, that it was a lot of school-boys that had run away from their master, and were indulging themselves in a little shport, or that it was the bears at a shindy, or that it was something else." "Ah! Teddy, there are times when jesting is out of place," said the young wife, reproachfully; "and it seems to me that when we are alone in this vast wilderness, with many and many a long mile between us and a white settlement, we should be grave and thoughtful." "I strives to be so, Miss Cora, but it's harder than paddling this cockle-shell of a canoe up-shtream. My tongue will wag jist as a dog's tail when he can't kape it still." The face of the Irishman wore such a long, woebegone expression, that it brought a smile to the face of his companion. Teddy saw this, and his big, honest blue eyes twinkled with humor as he glanced upward from beneath his hat. "I knows yees _prays_ for me, Misther Harvey and Miss Cora, ivery night and morning of your blessed life, but I'm afeard your prayers will do as little good for Teddy as the s'arch-warrant did for Micky, the praist's boy, who stole the praist's shirt and give it away because it was lou--" "_Look!_" From the very center of the clump of bushes of which we have made mention, came a white puff of smoke, followed immediately by the faint but sharp report of a rifle. The bullet's course could be seen as it skipped over the surface of the water, and finally dropped out of sight. "What do you say, now?" asked the young man. "Isn't that proof that we've attracted attention?" "So it saams; but, little dread need we have of disturbance if they always kaap at such a respictable distance as that. Whisht, now! but don't ye saa those same bushes moving? There's some one passing through them! Mebbe it's a shadow, mebbe it's the divil himself. If so, here goes after the imp!" Catching up his rifle, Teddy discharged it toward the bank, although it was absolutely impossible for his bullet to do more than reach the shore. "That's to show the old gintleman we are ready and ain't frightened, be he the divil himself, or only a few of his children, that ye call the poor Injuns!" "And whoever it is, he is evidently as little frightened as you; that shot was a direct challenge to us." "And it's accepted. Hooray! Now for some Limerick exercise!" Ere he could be prevented, the Irishman had headed his canoe across stream, and was paddling with all his might toward the spot from which the first shot had been fired. "Stop!" commanded his master. "It is fool-hardiness, on a par with your general conduct, thus to run into an undefined danger." Teddy reluctantly changed the course of the boat and said nothing, although his face plainly indicated his disappointment. He had not been mistaken, however, in the supposition that he detected the movements of some person in the shrubbery. Directly after the shot had been fired, the bushes were agitated, and a gaunt, grim-visaged man, in a half-hunter and half-civilized dress, moved a few feet to the right, in a manner which showed that he was indifferent as to whether or not he was observed. He looked forth as if to ascertain the result of his fire. The man was very tall, with a face by no means unhandsome, although it was disfigured by a settled scowl, which better befitted a savage enemy than a white friend. He held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe. [Illustration: He held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe.] "I knew the distance was too great," he muttered, "but you will hear of me again, Harvey Richter. I've had a dozen chances to pick you off since you and your friends started up-stream, but I don't wish to do _that_. No, no, not that. Fire away; but you can do me no more harm than I can you, at this moment." Allowing the bushes to resume their wonted position, the stranger deliberately reloaded his piece and as deliberately walked away in the wood. In the meantime, the voyagers resumed their journey and were making quite rapid progress up-stream. The sun was already low in the sky, and it was not long before darkness began to envelop wood and stream. At a sign from the young man, the Irishman headed the canoe toward shore. In a few moments they landed, where, if possible, the wood was more dense than usual. Although quite late in the spring, the night was chilly, and they lost no time in kindling a good fire. The travelers appeared to act upon the presumption that there were no such things as enemies in this solitude. Every night they had run their boat in to shore, started a fire, and slept soundly by it until morning, and thus far, strange as it may seem, they had suffered no molestation and had seen no signs of ill-will, if we except the occurrences already related. Through the day, the stalwart arms of Teddy, with occasional assistance from the more delicate yet firm muscles of Harvey, had plied the paddle. No attempt at concealment was made. On several occasions they had landed at the invitation of Indians, and, after smoking, and presenting them with a few trinkets, had departed again, in peace and good-will. Not to delay information upon an important point, we may state that Harvey Richter was a young minister who had recently been appointed missionary to the Indians. The official members of his denomination, while movements were on foot concerning the spiritual welfare of the heathen in other parts of the world, became convinced that the red-men of the American wilds were neglected, and conceding fully the force of the inference drawn thence, young men were induced to offer themselves as laborers in the savage American vineyard. Great latitude was granted in their choice of ground--being allowed an area of thousands upon thousands of square miles over which the red-man roamed in his pristine barbarism. The vineyard was truly vast and the laborers few. While his friends selected stations comparatively but a short distance from the bounds of civilization, Harvey Richter decided to go to the Far Northwest. Away up among the grand old mountains and majestic solitudes, hugging the rills and streams which roll eastward to feed the great continental artery called the Mississippi, he believed lay his true sphere of duty. Could the precious seed be deposited there, if even in a single spot, he was sure its growth would be rapid and certain, and, like the little rills, it might at length become the great, steadily-flowing source of light and life. Harvey Richter had read and studied much regarding the American aborigines. To choose one of the wildest, most untamed tribes for his pupils, was in perfect keeping with his convictions and his character for courage. Hence he selected the present hunting-grounds of the Sioux, in upper Minnesota. Shortly before he started he was married to Cora Brandon, whose devotion to her great Master and to her husband would have carried her through any earthly tribulations. Although she had not urged the resolution which the young minister had taken, yet she gladly gave up a luxurious home and kind friends to bear him company. There was yet another whose devotion to the young missionary was scarcely less than that of the faithful wife. We refer to the Irishman, Teddy, who had been a favorite servant for many years in the family of the Richters. Having fully determined on sharing the fortunes of his young master, it would have grieved his heart very deeply had he been left behind. He received the announcement that he was to be a life-long companion of the young man, with an expression at once significant of his pride and his joy. "Be jabers, but Teddy McFadden is in luck!" And thus it happened that our three friends were ascending one of the tributaries of the upper Mississippi on this balmy day in the spring of 1820. They had been a long time on the journey, but were now nearing its termination. They had learned from the Indians daily encountered, the precise location of the large village, in or near which they had decided to make their home for many and many a year to come. After landing, and before starting his fire, Teddy pulled the canoe up on the bank. It was used as a sort of shelter by their gentler companion, while he and his master slept outside, in close proximity to the camp-fire. They possessed a plentiful supply of game at all times, for this was the Paradise of hunters, and they always landed and shot what was needed. "We must be getting well up to the northward," remarked the young man, as he warmed his hands before the fire. "Don't you notice any difference in the atmosphere, Cora?" "Yes; there is a very perceptible change." "If this illigant fire only keeps up, I'm thinking there'll be a considerable difference afore long. The ways yees be twisting and doubling them hands, as if ye had hold of some delightsome soap, spaaks that yees have already discovered a difference. It is better nor whisky, fire is, in the long run, providin' you don't swaller it--the fire, that is." "Even if swallowed, Teddy, fire is better than whisky, for fire burns only the body, while whisky burns the soul," answered the minister. "Arrah, that it does; for I well remimbers the last swig I took a'most burnt a hole in me shirt, over the bosom, and they say that is where the soul is located." "Ah, Teddy, you are a sad sinner, I fear," laughingly observed Mrs. Richter, at this extravagant allusion. "A _sad_ sinner! Divil a bit of it. I haven't saan the day for twinty year whin I couldn't dance at me grandmother's wake, or couldn't use a shillalah at me father's fourteenth weddin'. Teddy _sad_? Well, that is a--is a--a mistake," and the injured fellow further expressed his feelings by piling on the fuel until he had a fire large enough to have roasted a battalion of prize beeves, had they been spitted before it. Darkness at length fairly settled upon the wood and stream; the gloom around became deep and impressive. The inevitable haunch of venison was roasting before the roaring fire, Teddy watching and attending it with all the skill of an experienced cook. While thus engaged, the missionary and his wife were occupied in tracing the course of the Mississippi and its tributaries upon a pocket map, which was the chief guide in that wilderness of streams and "tributaries." Who could deny the vastness of the field, and the loud call for laborers, when such an immense extent then bore only the name of "Unexplored Region!" And yet, this same headwater territory was teeming with human beings, as rude and uncultivated as the South Sea Islanders. What were the feelings of the faithful couple as their eyes wandered to the left of the map, where these huge letters confronted them, we can only surmise. That they felt that ten thousand self-sacrificing men could be employed in this portion of the country we may well imagine. As the evening meal was not yet ready, the missionary folded the map and fell to musing--musing of the future he had marked out for himself; enjoying the sweet approval of his conscience, higher and purer than any enjoyment of earth. All at once came back the occurrence of the afternoon, which had been absent from his thoughts for the hour past. But, now that it was recalled, it engaged his mind with redoubled force. Could he be assured that it was a red-man who had fired the shot, the most unpleasant apprehension would be dissipated; but a suspicion _would_ haunt him, in spite of himself, that it was not a red-man, but a white, who had thus signified his hostility. The rolling of the stones must have been simply to call his attention, and the rifle-shot was intended for nothing more than to signify that he was an enemy. And who could this enemy be? If a hunter or an adventurer, would he not naturally have looked upon any of his own race, whom he encountered in the wilderness, as his friends, and have hastened to welcome them? What could have been more desirable than to unite with them in a country where whites were so scarce, and almost unknown? Was it not contrary to all reason to suppose that a hermit or misanthrope would have penetrated thus far to avoid his brother man, and would have broken his own solitude by thus betraying his presence? Such and similar were the questions Harvey Richter asked himself again and again, and to all he was able to return an answer. He had decided who this strange being might possibly be. If it was the person suspected, it was one whom he had met more frequently than he wished, and he prayed that he might never encounter him again in this world. The certainty that the man had dogged him to this remote spot in the West; that he had patiently plodded after the travelers for many a day and night; that even the trackless river had not sufficed to place distance between them; that, undoubtedly, like some wild beast in his lair, he had watched Richter and his companions as they sat or slumbered near their camp-fire--these, we may well surmise, served to render the missionary for the moment excessively uncomfortable, and to dull the roseate hues in which he had drawn the future. The termination of this train of thought was the sudden suspicion that this very being was at that moment in close proximity. Unconsciously, Harvey rose to the sitting position and looked around, half expecting to descry the too well remembered figure. "Supper is waiting, and so is our appetites, be the same token in your stomachs that is in mine. How bees it with yourself, Mistress Cora?" The young wife had risen to her feet, and the husband was in the act of doing the same, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and Harvey plainly heard and felt the whiz of the bullet as it passed before his eyes. "To the devil wid yer nonsense!" shouted Teddy, furiously springing forward, and glaring around him in search of the author of the well-nigh fatal shot. Deciding upon the quarter whence it came, he seized his ever-ready rifle, which he had learned to manage with much skill, dashed off at the top of his speed, not heeding the commands of his master, nor the appeals of Mrs. Richter to return. Guided only by his blind rage, it happened, in this instance, that the Irishman proceeded directly toward the spot where the hunter had concealed himself, and came so very near that the latter was compelled to rise to his feet to escape being trampled upon. Teddy caught the outlines of a tall form tearing hurriedly through the wood, as if in terror of being caught, and he bent all his energies toward overtaking him. The gloom of the night, that had now fairly descended, and the peculiar topography of the ground, made it an exceedingly difficult matter for both to keep their feet. The fugitive, catching in some obstruction, was thrown flat upon his face, but quickly recovered himself. Teddy, with a shout of exultation, sprung forward, confident that he had secured their persecutor at last, but the Irishman was caught by the same obstacle and "floored" even more completely than his enemy. "Bad luck to it!" he exclaimed, frantically scrambling to his feet, "but it has knocked me deaf and dumb. I'll have ye, owld haythen, yit, or me name isn't Teddy McFadden, from Limerick downs." Teddy's fall had given the fugitive quite an advantage, and as he was fully as fleet of foot as the Irishman, the latter was unable to regain his lost ground. Still, it wasn't in his nature to give in, and he dashed forward as determinedly as ever. To his unutterable chagrin, however, it was not long before he realized that the footsteps of his enemy were gradually becoming more distant. His rage grew with his adversary's gradual escape, and he would have pursued had he been certain of rushing into destruction itself. All at once he made a second fall, and, instead of recovering, went headlong down into a gully, fully a dozen feet in depth. Teddy, stunned by his heavy fall, lay insensible for some fifteen or twenty minutes. He returned to consciousness with a ringing sensation in his ears, and it was some time before he could recall all the circumstances of his predicament. Gradually the facts dawned upon him, and he listened. Everything was oppressively still. He heard not the voice of his master, and not even the sound of any of the denizens of the wood. His first movement was to feel for his rifle, which he had brought with him in his descent, and which he found close at hand. In the act of rising, he caught the sound of a footstep, and saw, at the same instant, the outlines of a person that he knew at once could be no other than the man whom he had been pursuing. The hunter was about a dozen feet distant, and seemed perfectly aware of the Irishman's presence, for he stood with folded arms, facing his pursuer. The darkness prevented Teddy's discovering anything more than his enemy's outline But this was enough for a shot to do its work. Teddy cautiously brought his rifle to his shoulder, and lifted the hammer. Pointing it at the breast of his adversary, so as to be sure of his aim, he pulled the trigger, but there was no response. The gun either was unloaded, or had been injured by its rough usage. The dull click of the lock reached the ear of the target, who asked, in a low, gruff voice: "Why do _you_ seek me? You and I have no quarrel." "A purty question, ye murtherin' haythen! I'll settle with yees, if yees only come down here like a man. Jist play the wolf and belave me a sheep, and come down here for your supper." [Illustration: "A purty question, ye murtherin haythen!"] "My quarrel is not with you, I tell you, but with your psalm-singing _master_--" "And ain't that _meself_?" interrupted Teddy. "What's mine is his, and what's his is mine, and what's me is both, and what's both is me, barring neither one is my own, but all belong to Master Harvey, and Miss Cora, God bless their souls. Don't talk of quarreling wid _him_ and being friendly to _me_, ye murtherin' spalpeen! Jist come down here a bit, I say, if ye's got a spick of honor in yer rusty shirt." "My ill-will is not toward you, although, I repeat, if you step in my way you may find it a dangerous matter. You think I tried to shoot you, but you are mistaken. Do you suppose I could have come as near and _missed_ without doing so on _purpose_? To-night I could have brought you and your master, or his wife, and sent you all out of the world in a twinkling. I've roamed the woods too long to miscarry at a dozen yards." Teddy began to realize that the man told the truth, yet it cannot be said that his anger was abated, although a strong curiosity mingled with it. "And what's yer raison for acting in that shtyle, to as good a man as iver asked God's blessing on a sunny morning, and who wouldn't tread on one of yer corns, that is, if yer big feet isn't all corns, like a toad's back, as I suspict, from the manner in which ye leaps over the ground." "_He_ knows who I am, and he knows he has given me good cause to remind him of my existence. _He_ can tell you, if he chooses; I shall not. But let yourself and him take warning from what you already know." "And be the same token, let yourself be taking warning. As sure as I'm the ninth son of the seventh mother, I'll--" The hunter was gone! CHAPTER II. THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT. The echoing rock, the rushing flood, The cataract's swell, the moaning wood; The undefined and mingled hums-- Voice of the desert never dumb! All these have left within this heart A feeling tongue can ne'er impart; A wildered and unearthly flame, A something that's without a name.--ETTRICK SHEPHERD. With extreme difficulty, Teddy made his way out of the ravine into which purposely he had been led by the hunter. He was full of aches and pains when he attempted to walk, and more than once was compelled to halt to ease his bruised limbs. As he painfully made his way back to the camp he did a vast deal of cogitation. When in extreme pain of body, produced by a mishap intentionally conceived by another, it is but following the natural law of cause and effect to feel a certain degree of exasperation toward the evil-doer; and, as the Irishman at every step experienced a sharp twinge that ofttimes made him cry out, his ejaculations were neither conceived in charity nor uttered in good-will toward all men. Still, he pondered deeply upon what the hunter had said, and was perplexed to know what could possibly be its meaning. The simple nature of the Irishman was unable to fathom the mystery. He could not have believed even had Harvey Richter himself confessed to having perpetrated a crime or a wrong, that the minister had been guilty of anything sufficient to give cause of enmity. The strange hunter whom they had unexpectedly encountered several times, must be some crack-brained adventurer, the victim of a fancied wrong, who, most likely, had mistaken Harvey Richter for another person. What could be the object in firing at the missionary, yet taking pains that no harm should be inflicted? That was another impenetrable mystery; but, let it be comprehensible or not, the wrathful servitor inwardly vowed that, if the man crossed the path of himself or his master again, and the opportunity offered, he should shoot him down as he would a wild animal. In the midst of his absorbing reverie, Teddy suddenly paused and looked around him. He was lost. Shrewd enough to understand that to attempt to extricate himself would only lead into a greater entanglement, from which it might not be possible to escape at all, he wisely concluded to remain where he was until daylight. Gathering a few twigs and leaves, with his well-stored "punk-box" he soon started a small fire, by the light of which he collected a sufficient quantity of fuel to last until morning. Few scenes of nature are more impressive than a forest at night. That low deep roar, born of silence itself--the sad sighing of the wind--the tall, column-like trunks, resembling huge sentinels keeping guard over the mysteries of ages--the silent sea of foliage overhead, that seems to shut in a world of its own--all have an influence, peculiar, irresistible and sublime. The picket upon duty is a prey to many an imaginary danger. The rustling of a leaf, the crackling of a twig, the flitting shadows of the ever-changing clouds, are made to assume the guise of a foe, endeavoring to steal upon him unawares. Again and again Teddy was certain he heard the stealthy tread of the strange hunter, or some prowling Indian, and his heart throbbed violently at the expected encounter. Then, as the sound ceased, a sense of his utter loneliness came over him, and he pined for his old home in the States, which he had so lately left. A tremulous wail, which came faintly through the silence of the boundless woods, reminded him that there were other inhabitants of the solitude besides human beings. At such times, he drew nearer to the fire, as a child would draw near to a friend to shun an imaginary danger. But, finally the drowsy god asserted himself, and the watcher passed off into a deep slumber. His last recollection was a dim consciousness of hearing the tread of something near the camp-fire. But his stupor was so great that he had not the inclination to arouse himself, and with his face buried in the leaves of his bushy couch, he quickly lost cognizance of all things, and floated off into the illimitable realms of sleep--Sleep, the sister of Death. He came out of his heavy slumber from feeling something snuffing and clawing at his shoulder. He was wide awake at once, and all his faculties, even to his anger, were aroused. "Git out, ye owld sarpent!" he shouted, springing to his feet. "Git out, or I'll smash yer head the same as I smashed the assassin's, barring I didn't do it!" The affrighted animal leaped back several yards, as lightly as a shadow. Teddy caught only a glimpse of the beast, but could plainly detect the phosphorescent glitter of his angry eyes, that watched every movement. The Irishman's first proceeding was to replenish the fire. This kept the creature at a safe distance, although he began trotting around and around, as if to seek some unguarded loophole through which to compass the destruction of the man who had thus invaded his dominions. The tread of the animal resembled the rattling of raindrops upon the leaves, while its silence, its gliding motion, convinced the inexperienced Irishman of the brute's exceedingly dangerous character. His rifle was too much injured to be of use and he could therefore only keep his precocious foe at a safe distance by piling on fuel until the camp-fire burned defiantly. There was no more sleep for Teddy that night. He had received too great a shock, and the impending danger was too imminent for him to do any thing but watch, so long as darkness and the animal remained. Several times he thought there was evidence of the presence of another beast, but he failed to discover it, and finally believed he had been mistaken. It was a tiresome and lonely occupation, this incessant watching, and Teddy had recourse to several expedients to while away the weary hours. The first and most natural was that of singing. He trolled forth every song that he could recall to remembrance, and it may be truly said that he awoke echoes in those forest-aisles never before heard there. As in the pauses he heard the volume of sound that seemed quivering and swaying among the tree-trunks, like the confined air in an organ, he was awed into silence. "Whist, ye son of Patrick McFadden; don't ye hear the responses all around ye, as if the spirits were in the organ loft, thinkin' ye a praist and thimselves the choir-boys. I belaves, by me sowl, that ivery tree has got a tongue, for hear how they whispers and mutters. Niver did I hear the likes. No more singin', Teddy my darlint, to sich an audience." He thereupon relapsed into silence, but it was only momentary. He suddenly looked out into the darkness which shrouded the still watchful beast from sight, and exclaimed: "Ye owld shivering assassin, out there, did yees ever hear till how Tom O'Reilly got his wife? Yees never did, eh? Well, then, be aisy now, and I'll give yees the truths of the matter. "Tom was a great, rollicking boy, that had an eye gouged out at the widow Mulloney's wake, and an ugly cut that made his mouth six inches wide: and, before he got the cut, it was as broad as yer own out there. Besides, his hair being of a fire's own red, you may safely say that he was not the most beautiful young man in Limerick, and that there wasn't many gals that were dying of a broken heart for the same Tom. "But Tom thought a mighty sight of the gals and a great deal more of Kitty McGuire, that lived close by the brook as yees come a mile or two out of this side of Limerick. Tom was possessed after that same gal, and it only made him the more determined when he found that Kitty didn't like him at all. He towld the boys he was bound to have her, and any one who said he wasn't would get his head broke. "There was a little orphan girl, whose father had gone to Ameriky and whose mother was dead, that was found one night, years before, in front of old Mrs. McGuire's door. She was about the same age as Kitty, and the owld woman took her out of kindness and brought them up together. She got to be jist as ugly a looking a gal as Tom was a man. Her hair was redder than his, and her face was just that freckled that yees couldn't tell which was the freckle and which was the skin itself. And her nose had a twist, on the ind of it, that made one think it had been made for a corkscrew, or some machine that you bore holes with. "This gal, Molly Mulligan, used to encourage Tom to come to the house, and was always so mighty kind to him that he used to kiss and shpark her by way of compinsating her for her trouble. She used to take this all _very_ well, for she was a great admirer of Tom's, and always spoke his praise. But Tom didn't make much headway with Kitty. It wasn't often that he could saa her, and when he did; she was mighty offish, and was sure to have the owld woman present, like a dumb-waiter, to be sure. She come to tell him at length that she didn't admire his coming, and that he would greatly plaise her if he would make his visits by staying away altogether. The next time Tom went he found the door locked, and, after hammering a half-hour, and being towld there was no admittance, he belaved it was meant as a kind hint that his company was not agreeable. Be yees listening, ye riptile? "Tom might have stood it very well, if another chap hadn't begun calling on Kitty about this time. He used to go airly in the evening, and not come out of the house till after midnight, so that one might belave his visits were welcome. This made Tom feel mighty bad, and so he hid behind the wall and waylaid the chap one night. He would have killed the chap, his timper was so ruffled, if the man hadn't nearly killed him afore he had the chance. He laid all night in the gutter, and was just able to crawl home next day, while the fellow went a-courting the next night, as if nothing had happened. "Tom begun to git melancholy, and his mouth didn't appear quite as broad as usual. Molly Mulligan thought he had taken slow poison and it was gradually working through his system; but he could ate his pick of praties the same as iver. But Tom felt mighty bad; that fact can't be denied, and he went frequently to consult with a praist that lived near this ind of Limerick, and who was knowed to cut up a trick or two during his lifetime. When Tom came out one day looking bright and cheery, iverybody belaved they had been conspiring togither, and had hit on some thavish trick they was to play on little Kitty McGuire. "When the moon was bright, Kitty used to walk to Limerick and back again of an evening. Her beau most likely went with her, but sometimes she preferred to go alone, as she knowed no one would hurt a bonny little gal as herself. Tom knowed of these doings, as in days gone by he had jined her once or twice. So one night he put a white sheet around him as she was coming back from Limerick, and hid under the little bridge over the brook. It was gitting quite late, and the moon was just gone down, so, when she stepped on the bridge, and he came out afore her, she gave one shriek, and like to have fainted intirely. "'Make no noise, or I'll ate ye up alive,' said Tom, trying to talk like a ghost. "'What isht yees want?' she asked, shaking like a leaf, 'and who are yees?' "'I'm a shpirit, come to warn ye of your ill-doings.' "'I know I'm a great sinner,' she cried, covering her face with her hands; 'but I try to do as well as I can.' "'Do you know Tom O'Reilly?' he asked, loud enough to be heard in Limerick. 'You have treated him ill.' "'That I know I have,' she sobbed, 'and how can I do him justice?' "'He loves you.' "'I know he does!' "'He is a shplendid man, and will make a much bitter husband than the spalpeen that ye now looks on with favor.' "'Shall I make him my husband?' "'Yis; if ye wish to save yourself from purgatory. If the other man marries yees, he'll murder yees the same night.' "'Oh!' shrieked the gal, as if she'd go down upon the ground, 'and how shall I save meself?' "'By marrying Tom O'Reilly.' "'Is that the only way?' "'Ay. Does yees consint?' "'I do; I must do poor Tom justice.' "'Will ye marry him this same night?' "'That I will.' "'Tom is hid under this bridge; I'll go down and bring him up, and he'll go to the praist's with yees. Don't ye shtir or I'll ate yees.' "So Tom whisked under the ind of the bridge, slipped off the sheet, all the time kaaping one eye cocked above to saa that Kitty didn't give him the shlip. He then came up and spoke very smilingly to the gal, as though he hadn't seen her afore that night. He didn't think that his voice was jist the same. "Kitty didn't say much, but she walked very quiet by his side, till they came to the praist's house at this ind of Limerick. The owld fellow must have been expecting him, for before he could knock, he opened the door and let him in. The praist didn't wait long, and in five minutes he towld them they were man and wife, and nothing but death could iver make them different. Tom gave a regular yell that made the windys rattle, for he couldn't kaap his faalings down. He then threw his arms around his wife, gave her another hug, and then dropped her like a hot potato. For instead of being Kitty McGuire, it was Molly Mulligan! The owld praist wasn't so bad after all. He had told Kitty and Molly of Tom's plans, and they had fixed the matter atween thim. "Wal, the praist laughed, and Tom looked melancholier than iver; but purty soon he laughed too, and took the praist's advice to make the bist of the bargain. Whisht!" Teddy paused abruptly, for he heard a prolonged but faint halloo. It was, evidently, the call of his master, and indicated the direction of the camp. He replied at once, and without thinking one moment of the prowling brute which might be upon him instantly, he passed beyond the protecting circle of his fire, and dashed off at top of his speed through the woods, and ere long reached the camp-fire of his friends. As he came in, he observed that Mrs. Richter still was asleep beneath the canoe, while her husband stood watching beside her. Teddy had determined to conceal the particulars of the conversation he had held with the officious hunter, but he related the facts of his pursuit and mishap, and of his futile attempt to make his way back to camp. After this, the two seated themselves by the fire, and the missionary was soon asleep. The adventures of the night, however, affected Teddy's nerves too much for him even to doze, and he therefore maintained an unremitting watch until morning. At an early hour, our friends were astir, and at once launched forth upon the river. They noted a broadening of the stream and weakening of the current, and at intervals they came upon long stretches of prairie. The canoe glided closely along, where they could look down into the clear depths of the water, and discover the pebbles glistening upon the bottom. Under a point of land, where the stream made an eddy, they halted, and with their fishing-lines, soon secured a breakfast which the daintiest gourmand might have envied. They were upon the point of landing so as to kindle a fire, when Mr. Richter spoke: "Do you notice that large island in the stream, Cora? Would you not prefer that as a landing-place?" "I think I should." "Teddy, we'll take our morning meal there." The powerful arms of the Irishman sent the frail vessel swiftly over the water, and a moment later its prow touched the velvet shore of the island. Under the skillful manipulations of the young wife, who insisted upon taking charge, their breakfast was quickly prepared, and, one might say, almost as quickly eaten. They had now advanced so far to the northward that all felt an anxiety to reach their destination. Accordingly no time was lost in the ascent of the stream. The exhilarating influence of a clear spring morning in the forest, is impossible to resist. The mirror-like sparkle of the water that sweeps beneath the light canoe, or glitters in the dew-drops upon the ashen blade; the golden blaze of sunshine streaming up in the heavens; the dewy woods, flecked here and there by the blossoms of some wild fruit or flower; the cool air beneath the gigantic arms all a-flutter with the warbling music of birds; all conjoin to inspire a feeling which carries us back to boyhood again--to make us young once more. As Richter sat in the canoe's stern, and drank in the influence of the scene, his heart rose within him, and he could scarcely refrain from shouting. His wife, also, seemed to partake of this buoyancy, for her eyes fairly sparkled as he glanced from side to side. All at once Teddy ceased paddling and pointed to the left shore. Following the direction of his finger, Richter saw, standing upon the bank in full view, the tall, spare figure of the strange hunter. He seemed occupied in watching them, and was as motionless as the tree-trunks behind him--so motionless, indeed, that it required a second scrutiny to prove that it really was not an inanimate object. The intensity of his observation prevented him from observing that Teddy had raised his rifle from the canoe. He caught the click of the lock, however, and spoke in a sharp tone: "Teddy, don't you dare to--" His remaining words were drowned in the sharp crack of the piece. "It's only to frighten him jist, Master Harvey. It'll sarve the good purpose of giving him the idee we ain't afeard, and if he continues his thaiving tricks, he is to be shot at sight, as a shaap-stalin' dog, that he is, to be sure." "You've hit him!" said his master, as he observed the hunter leap into the woods. "Thank the Lord for that, for it was an accident, and he'll l'arn we've rifles as well as himself. It's mighty little harm, howiver, is done him, if he can travel in that gay style." "I am displeased, for your shot might have taken his life, and--but, see yonder, Teddy, what does that mean?" Close under the opposite bank, and several hundred yards above them was discernible a long canoe, in which was seated at least a dozen Indians. They were coming slowly down-stream, and gradually working their way into the center of the river. Teddy surveyed them a moment and said: "That means they're after us. Is it run or fight?" "Neither; they are undoubtedly from the village, and we may as well meet them here as there. What think you, dear wife?" "Let us join them, by all means, at once." All doubts were soon removed, when the canoe was headed directly toward them, and under the propulsion of the many skillful arms, it came like a bird over the surface of the waters. A few rods away its speed was slackened, and, before approaching closer, it made a circuit around the voyageurs' canoe, as if the warriors were anxious to assure themselves there was no decoy or design in this unresisting surrender. Evidently satisfied that it was a _bona fide_ affair, the Indians swept up beside our friends, and one of the warriors, stretching out his hands, said: "Gib guns me--gib guns." "Begorrah, but it would be mighty plaisant to us, if it would be all the same to yees, if ye'd be clever enough to let us retain possission of 'em," said Teddy, hesitating about complying with the demand. "They might do ye some injury, ye know, and besides, I didn't propose to--" "Let them have them," said Richter. The Irishman reluctantly obeyed, and while he passed his rifle over with his left hand, he doubled up his right, shaking it under the savage's nose. "Ye've got me gun, ye old log of walnut, but ye hain't got me fists, begorrah, but, by the powers, ye shall have them some of these fine mornings whin yer eyes want opening." "Teddy, be silent!" sharply commanded the missionary. But the Indians, understanding the significance of the Irishman's gestures, only smiled at them, and the chief who had taken his gun, nodded his head, as much as to say he, too, would enjoy a fisticuff. When the whites were defenseless, one of the savages vaulted lightly into their canoe, and took possession of the paddle. "I'm highly oblaiged to ye," grinned Teddy, "for me arms have been waxin' tired ever sin' I l'arned the Injin way of driving a canoe through the water. When ye gets out o' breath jist ax another red-skin to try his hand, while I boss the job." The canoes were pulled rapidly up-stream. This settled that the whites were being carried to the village which was their original destination. Both Harvey and his wife were rather pleased than otherwise with this, although the missionary would have preferred an interview or conversation in order to make himself and intentions known. He was surprised at the knowledge they displayed of the English language. He overheard words exchanged between them which were as easy to understand as much of Teddy's talk. They must be, therefore, in frequent communication with white men. Their location was so far north that, as Richter plausibly inferred, they were extensive dealers in furs and peltries, which must be disposed of to traders and the agents of the American Fur and Hudson Bay Companies. The Selkirk or Red river settlement also, must be at an easily accessible distance. It may seem strange that it never occurred to the captives that the savages might do them harm. In fact, nothing but violence itself would have convinced the missionary that such was contemplated. He had yielded himself, heart and soul, to his work; he felt an inward conviction that he was to accomplish great good. Trials and sufferings of all imaginable kinds he expected to undergo, but his life was to be spared until the work was accomplished. Of that he never experienced a moment's doubt. Our readers will bear in mind that the period of which we write, although but a little more than forty years since, was when the territory west of the Mississippi was almost entirely unknown. Trappers, hunters and fur-traders in occasional instances, penetrated into the heart of the mighty solitude. Lewis and Clarke had made their expedition to the head-waters of the Columbia, but the result of all these visits, to the civilized world, was much the same as that of the adventurers who have penetrated into the interior of Africa. It was known that on the northwest dwelt the warlike Blackfeet, the implacable foes of every white man. There, also, dwelt other tribes, who seemed resolved that none but their own race should dwell upon that soil. Again, there were others with whom little difficulty was experienced in bartering and trading, to the great profit of the adventurous whites, and the satisfaction of the savages; still, the shrewd traders knew better than to trust to Indian magnanimity or honor. Their reliance under heaven, was their tact in managing the savages, and their own goodly rifles and strong arms. The Sioux were among the latter class, and with them it was destined that the lot of Harvey Richter and his wife should be cast. The Indian village was reached in the course of a couple of hours. It was found to be much larger than Richter could have anticipated. The missionary soon made known his character and wishes. This secured an audience with the leading chief, when Harvey explained his mission, and asked permission for himself and companions to settle among them. With the ludicrous dignity so characteristic of his people, the chief deferred his reply until the following day, at which time he gave consent, his manner being such as to indicate that he was rather unwilling than otherwise. That same afternoon, the missionary collected the dusky children of the forest together and preached to them, as best he could, through the assistance of a rude interpreter. He was listened to respectfully by the majority, among whom were several whom he inferred already had heard the word of life. There were others, however, to whom the ceremony was manifestly distasteful. The hopeful minister felt that his Master had directed him to this spot, and that now his real life-work had begun. CHAPTER III. THE JUG ACQUAINTANCES. With that dull, callous, rooted impudence, Which, dead to shame and every nicer sense, Ne'er blushed, unless, when spreading Vice's snares, He stumbled on some virtue unawares.--CHURCHILL. A YEAR has passed since the events recorded in the preceding pages, and it is summer again. Far up, beside one of those tributaries of the Mississippi, in the western portion of what is now the State of Minnesota, stands a small cabin, such as the early settlers in new countries build for themselves. About a quarter of a mile further up the stream is a large Sioux village, separated from the hut by a stretch of woods through which runs a well-worn footpath. This arrangement the young missionary, Harvey Richter, preferred rather than to dwell in the Indian village. While laboring with all his heart and soul to regulate these degraded people, and while willing to make their troubles and afflictions his own, he still desired a seclusion where his domestic cares and enjoyments were safe from constant interruption. This explains why his cabin had been erected at such a distance from his people. Every day, no matter what might be the weather, the missionary visited the village, and each Sabbath afternoon, when possible, service was held. This was almost invariably attended by the entire population, who now listened attentively to what was uttered, and often sought to follow the counsels uttered by the good man. A year's residence had sufficed to win the respect and confidence of the Indians, and to convince the faithful servant that the seed he had sown was already springing up and bearing fruit. About a mile from the river, in a dense portion of the wood, are seated two persons, in friendly converse. But a glance would be required to reveal that one of these was our old friend Teddy, in the most jovial and communicative of moods. The other, painted and bedaubed until his features were scarcely recognizable, and attired in the gaudy Indian apparel, sufficiently explains his identity. A small jug sitting between them, and which is frequently carried to the mouth of each, may disclose why, on this particular morning, they seemed on such confidential terms. The sad truth was that the greatest drawback to Harvey Richter's ministrations was his own servant Teddy. The Indians could not understand why he who lived constantly with the missionary, should be so careless and reckless, and should remain "without the fold," when the good man exhorted them in such earnest language to become Christians. It was incomprehensible to their minds, and served to fill more than one with a suspicion that all was not what it should be. Harvey had spent many an hour with Teddy, in earnest, prayerful expostulation, but, thus far, to no purpose. For six months after the advent of the missionary and his wife, nothing had been seen or heard of the strange hunter, when, one cold winter's morning, as the former was returning from the village through the path, a rifle was discharged, and the bullet whizzed within an inch or two of his eyes. He might have believed it to be one of the Indians, had he not secured a fair look at the man as he ran away. He said nothing of it to his wife or Teddy, although it occasioned him much trouble and anxiety of mind. A month or two later, when Teddy was hunting in the woods, and had paused a moment for rest, a gun was discharged at him, from a thick mass of undergrowth. Certain that the unknown hunter was at hand, he dashed in as before, determined to bring the transgressor to a personal account. Teddy could hear him fleeing, and saw the agitation of the undergrowth, but did not catch even a glimpse of his game. While prosecuting the search, Teddy suddenly encountered an Indian, staggering along with a jug in his hand. The savage manifested a friendly disposition, and the two were soon seated upon the ground, discussing the fiery contents of the vessel and exchanging vows of eternal friendship. When they separated it was with the understanding that they were to meet again in a couple of days. Both kept the appointment, and since that unlucky day they had encountered quite frequently. Where the Indian obtained the liquor was a mystery, but it was an attraction that never failed to draw Teddy forth into the forest. The effect of alcoholic stimulants upon persons is as various as are their temperaments. The American Indian almost always becomes sullen, vindictive and dangerous. Now and then there is an exception, as was the case with the new-made friend of Teddy. Both were affected in precisely a similar manner; both were jolly. "Begorrah, but yees are a fine owld gintleman, if yer face does look like a paint-jug, and ye isn't able to lay claim to one-half the beauty meself possesses. That ye be," said Teddy, a few moments after they had seated themselves, and before either had been affected by the poisonous liquid. "I loves you!" said the savage, betraying in his manner of speech a remarkable knowledge of the English language. "I think of you when I sleep--I think of you when I open my eyes--I think of you all the time." "Much obleeged; it's meself that thinks and meditates upon your beauty and loving qualities all the time, barring that in which I thinks of something else, which is about all the time--all the same to yer honor." "Loves you very much," repeated the savage; "love Mister Harvey, too, and Miss Harvey." "Then why doesn't ye come to hear him preach, ye rose of the wilderness?" "Don't like preaching." "Did yees ever hear him?" "Neber hear him." "Yer oughter come; and that minds me I've never saan ye around the village, for which I axes yees the raison?" "Me ain't Sioux--don't like 'em." "Whinever yees are discommoded with this jug, p'raps it wouldn't be well for yees to cultivate the acquaintance of any one except meself, for they might be dispoused to relave yees of the article, when yees are well aware it's an aisy matter for us to do that ourselves. Where does yees get the jug?" [Illustration: "Where does yees get the jug?"] "Had him good while." "I know; but the contents I mean. Where is it ye secures the vallyble contents?" "Me get 'em," was the intelligent reply.. "That's what I've been supposing, that yees was gitting more nor your share; so here's to prevint," remarked Teddy, as he inverted the jug above his head. "Now, me butternut friend, what 'bjections have yees to that?" "All right--all be good--like Miss Harvey?" Teddy stared at the savage, as if he failed to take in his question. "Like Miss Harvey--good man's squaw--t'ink she be good woman?" "The loveliest that iver trod the airth--bless her swate soul. She niver has shpoken a cross word to Teddy, for all he's the biggest scamp that iver brought tears to her eyes. If there be any thing that has nigh fotched this ould shiner to his marrowbones it was to see something glistening in her eyes," said the Irishman, as he wiped his own. "God bliss Miss Cora," he added, in the same manner of speech that he had been wont to use before she became a wife. "She might make any man glad to come and live alone in the wilderness wid her. It's meself that ought to be ashamed to come away and l'ave her alone by herself, though I thinks even a wild baste would not harm a hair of her blissid head. If it wasn't for this owld whisky-jug I wouldn't be l'aving her," said Teddy, indignantly. "How be 'lone?--Mister Harvey dere." "No, he isn't, by a jug-full--barring the jug must be well-nigh empty, and the divil save the jug, inny-how; but not until it's impty." "Where Mr. Harvey go, if not in cabin?" asked the savage, betraying a suspicious eagerness that would have been observed by Teddy upon any other occasion. "To the village, that he may preach and hould converse wid 'em. I allers used to stay at home when he's gone, for fear that owld thaif of a hunter might break into the pantry and shtail our wines--that is, if we had any, which we haven't. Blast his sowl--that hunter I mane, an' if iver I cotch him, may I be used for a flail if I don't settle _his_ accounts." "When Mister Harvey go to village?" "Whin he plaises, which is always in the afternoon, whin his dinner has had a fair chance to sittle. Does ye take him for a michanic, who goes to work as soon as he swallows his bread and mate?" said the Irishman, with official dignity. "Why you not stay with squaw?" "That's the raison," replied Teddy, imbibing from the vessel beside him. "But you will plaise not call Miss Cora a _shquaw_ any more. If ye does, it will be at the imminent risk of havin' this jug smashed over yer head, afther the whisky is all gone, which it very soon will be if a plug isn't put into your mouth." "Nice woman--_much_ good." "You may well say that, Mister Copperskin, and say nothing else. And it's a fine man is Mister Harvey, barring he runs me purty close once in a while on the moral quishtion. I'm afeard I shall have to knock under soon. If I could but slay that thaif of a hunter that has been poking around here, I think I could go the Christian aisy; but whin I thinks of _that_ man, I faals like the divil himself. They's no use tryin' to be pious whin _he's_ around; so pass the jug if ye don't mane to fight meself." "He bad man--much bad," said the savage, who had received an account of him from his companion. "I promised Master Harvey not to shoot the villain, excipt it might be to save his life or me own; but I belave if I had the chance, I'd jist conveniently _forgit_ me promise, and let me gun go off by accident. St. Pathrick! _wouldn't_ I like to have a shindy wid the sn'akin, mean, skulkin' assassin!" "Does he want kill you?" "Arrah, be aisy now; isn't it me master he's after, and what's the difference? Barring I would rather it was meself, that I might sittle it gintaaly wid him;" and Teddy, "squaring" himself, began to make threatening motions at the Indian's head. "Bad man--why not like Mr. Harvey?" said the savage, paying no attention to Teddy's demonstrations. "There yees has me. There's something atween 'em, though what it might be none but Mr. Harvey himself knows, less it mought be the misthress, that I don't belave knows a word on it. But what is it yer business, Mr. Mahogany?" "Mebbe Mr. Harvey hurt him some time--do bad with him," added the Indian, betraying an evident interest in the subject. "Begorrah, if yees can't talk better sinse nor that, ye'd bist put a stopper on yer blab. The idaa of me master harming any one is too imposterous to be intertained by a fraa and inlightened people--a fraa and inlightened people, as I used to spell out in the newspapers at home. But whisht! Ye are a savage, as don't know anything about Fourth of July, an' all the other affections of the people." "You dunno what mebbe he done." "Do ye know?" asked Teddy, indignantly. "Nebber know what he do--how me know?" "Thin what does ye mane by talking in that shtyle? I warns ye, there's some things that can't be passed atween us and that is one of 'em. If ye wants to fight, jist you say that again. I'm aching for a shindy anyhow: so now s'pose ye jist say that again." And Teddy began to show unmistakable signs of getting ready. "Sorry--didn't mean--feel bad." "Oh blarney! Why didn't ye stick to it, and jist give me a chance to express meself? But all's right; only, be careful and don't say anything like it again, that's all. Pass along the jug, to wash me timper down, ye know." By this time Teddy's ideas were beginning to be confused, and his manner maudlin. He had imbibed freely, and was paying the consequences. The savage, however, had scarcely taken a swallow, although he had made as if to do so several times. His actions would have led an inexperienced person to think that he was under the influence of liquor; but he was sober, and his conduct was feigned, evidently, for some purpose of his own. Teddy grew boisterous, and insisted on constantly shaking hands and renewing his pledges of eternal friendship to the savage, who received and responded to them in turn. Finally, he squinted toward the westering sun. "I told Mr. Harvey, when I left, I was going to hunt, and if I expects to return to-day, I thinks, Mr. Black Walnut, we should be on our way. The jug is intirely impty, so there is no occasion for us to remain longer." "Dat so--me leave him here." "Now let's shake hands agin afore we rise." The shaking of hands was all an excuse for Teddy to receive assistance in rising to his feet. He balanced himself a moment, and stared around him, with that aimless, blinking stare peculiar to a drunken man. "Me honey, isn't there an airthquake agitatin' this solitude?" he asked, steadying himself against a sapling, "or am I standing on a jug?" "Dunno--mebbe woods shake--feel him a little--earth must be sick," said the savage, feigning an unsteadiness of the head. "Begorrah, but it's ourselves that's the sickest," laughed Teddy, fully sensible of his sad condition. "It'll niver do to return to Master Harvey in _this_ shtyle. There'd be a committee of investigation appointed on the spot, an' I shouldn't pass muster excipt for a whisky-barrel, och hone!" "Little sick--soon be well--then shoot." "I wonder now whether I could howld me gun straight enough to drop a buffler at ten paces. There sits a bird in that tree that is grinning at me. I'll t'ach him bitter manners." The gun was discharged, the bullet passing within a few inches of the head of the Indian, who sprung back with a grunt. "A purty good shot," laughed Teddy; "but it _would_ be rayther tiresome killing game, being I could only hit them as run behind me, and being I can't saa in that direction, I'll give over the idaa; and turn me undivided attention to fishing. Ah, divil a bit of difference is it to the fish, whin a worm is on the right ind, whether a drunken man or a gintleman is at the other." The Indian manifested a readiness to assist every project of the Irishman, and he now advised him to fish by all means, urging that they should proceed to the river at once. But Teddy insisted upon going to a small creek near at hand. The savage strongly demurred, but finally yielded, and the two set out, making their way somewhat after the fashion of a yoke of oxen. Upon reaching the stream, Teddy, instead of pausing upon the bank, continued walking on until he was splashing up to his waist in water. Had it not been for the prompt assistance of the Indian, the poor fellow most probably would have had his earthly career terminated. This incident partially sobered Teddy, and made him ashamed of his condition. He saw the savage was by no means so far gone as himself, and he bewailed his foolishness in unmeasured terms. "Who knows but Master Harvey has gone to the village, and Miss Cora stands in the door this minute, 'xpacting this owld spalpaan?" "No go till arternoon," said the savage. "What time might it be jist now?" "'Tain't noon yit--soon be--bimeby." "It's all the same; I shan't be fit to go home afore night, whin I might bist stay away altogether. And you, Mr. Copperskin, was the maans of gittin' me in this trouble." "_Me_ make you drink him?" asked the savage. "You not ax for jug, eh? You not want him?" "Yes, begorrah, it was me own fault. Whisky is me waikness. Its illigant perfume always sits me wild fur it. Mister Harvey was belaving, whin he brought me here, that I wouldn't be drinking any of the vile stuff, for the good rais'n that I couldn't git none; but, what'll he say now? Niver was I drunker at Donnybrook, and only once, an' that was at me father's fourteenth weddin'." "Don't want more?" "NO!" thundered Teddy. "I hope I may niver see nor taste another drop so long as I live. I here asserts me ancient honor agin, an' I defy the jug, ye spalpeen of a barbarian what knows no better." Teddy's reassertion of dignity was very ludicrous, for a tree had to support him as he spoke; but he evidently was in earnest. "Neber gib it--if don't want it." "They say an Indian never will tell a lie to a friend," said Teddy, dropping his voice as if speaking to himself. "Do you ever lie, Mr. What's-your-name?" "No," replied the savage, thereby uttering an unmitigated falsehood. "You give me your promise, then, that ye'll niver furnish me anither drap?" "Yis." "Give me yer hand." The two shook hands, Teddy's face, despite its vacant expression, lighting up for the time with a look of delight. "Now I'll fish," said Teddy. "P'raps it is best that ye l'ave these parts; not that I intertains inmity or bad-will toward you, but thin ye know----hello! yees are gone already, bees you?" The Indian had departed, and Teddy turned his attention toward securing the bait. In a few moments he had cast the line out in the stream and was sound asleep, in which condition he remained until night set in. CHAPTER IV. AN OMINOUS RENCOUNTER. "I will work him To an exploit now rich in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall." The sun passed the meridian, on that summer day in 1821 and Harvey Richter, the young missionary, came to the door of his cabin, intending to set forth upon his walk to the Indian village. It was rather early; the day was pleasant and as his wife followed him, he lingered awhile upon the steps, loth to leave a scene of such holy joy. The year which the two had spent in that wilderness had been one of almost unalloyed happiness. The savages, among whom they had come to labor, had received them more kindly than they deemed it right to anticipate, and had certified their esteem for them in numberless ways. The missionary felt that a blessing was upon his labor. An infant had been given them, and the little fellow brought nothing but gladness and sunlight into the household. Ah! none but a father can tell how precious the blue-eyed image of his mother was to Harvey Richter; none but a mother can realize the yearning affection with which she bent over the sleeping cherub; and but few can enter into the rollicking pride of Teddy over the little stranger. At times, his manifestations were fairly uproarious, and it became necessary to check them, or to send him further into the woods to relieve himself of his exuberant delight. Harvey lingered upon the threshold, gazing dreamily away at the mildly-flowing river, or at the woods, through which for a considerable distance, he could trace the winding path which his own feet had worn. Cora, his wife, stood beside him, looking smilingly down in his face, while her left hand toyed with a stray ringlet that would protrude itself from beneath her husband's cap. "Cora, are you sorry that we came into this wild country?" The smile on her face grew more radiant, as she shook her head without speaking. She was in that pleasant, dreamy state, in which it seems an effort to speak--so much so that she avoided it until compelled to do so by some direct question. "You are perfectly contented--happy, are you?" Again the same smile, as she answered in the affirmative by an inclination of the head. "You would not change it for a residence at home with your own people if you could?" The same sweet denial in pantomime. "Do you not become lonely sometimes, Cora, hundreds of miles away from the scenes of your childhood?" "Have I not my husband and boy?" she asked, half reproachfully, as the tears welled up in her eyes. "Can I ask more?" "I have feared sometimes, when I've been in the village, that perhaps you were lonely and sorrowful, and often I have hurried my footsteps that I might be with you a few moments sooner. When preaching and talking to the Indians, my thoughts would wander away to you and the dear little fellow there. And what husband could prevent them?" said Harvey, impulsively, as he drew his wife to him, and kissed her again and again. "You must think of the labor before you." "There is scarcely a moment of my life in which I don't, but it is impossible to keep you and him from my mind. I am sorry that I am compelled to leave you alone so often. It seems to me that Teddy has acted in a singular manner of late. He is absent every afternoon. He says he goes hunting and yet he rarely, if ever, brings anything back with him." "Yesterday he returned shortly after you left, and acted so oddly, I did not know what to make of him. He appeared very anxious to keep me at a distance, but once he came close enough for me to catch his breath, and if it did not reveal the fumes of liquor then I was never more mistaken in my life." "Impossible! where could he obtain it?" "The question I asked myself and which I could not answer; nevertheless his manner and the evidence of his own breath proved it beyond all doubt to my mind. You have noticed how set he is every afternoon about going away in the woods. Such was not his custom, and I think makes it certain some unusual attraction calls him forth." "What can it all mean?" asked the missionary of himself. "No; it cannot be that he brought any of the stuff with him and concealed it in the boat. It must have been discovered." "Every article that came with us is in this house." "Then some one must furnish him with it, and who now can it be?" "Are there not some of your people who are addicted to the use of liquor?" "Alas! there are too many who cannot withstand the tempter; but I never yet heard of an Indian who knew how to _make_ it. It is only when they visit some of the ports, or the Red river settlement, that they obtain it. Or perhaps a trader may come this way, and bring it with him." "And could not Teddy have obtained his of such a man?" "There has been none here since last autumn, and then those who visited the village had no liquor with them. They always come to the village first so that I could not avoid learning of their presence. Let me see, he has been away since morning?" "Yes; he promised an early return." "He will probably make his appearance in the course of an hour or so. Watch him closely. I will be back sooner to-day, and we shall probe this matter to the bottom. Good-by!" Again he embraced his wife, and then strode rapidly across the Clearing in the direction of the woods. His wife watched his form winding in and out among the trees, until it finally disappeared from view; and then, waiting a few moments longer, as if loth to withdraw her gaze from the spot where she had last seen him, she finally turned within the house to engage in her domestic duties. The thrifty housewife has seldom an idle moment on her hands, and Cora passed hither and thither, performing the numerous little acts that were not much in themselves, but collectively were necessary, if not indispensable, in her household management. Occasionally she paused and bent over her child, that lay sleeping on the bed, and like a fond mother, could not restrain herself from softly touching her lips to its own, although it was at the imminent risk of awaking it. An hour passed. She went to the door and looked out to see whether Teddy was in sight; but the woods were as silent as if they contained no living thing. Far away over the river, nearly opposite the Indian village, she saw two canoes crossing the stream, resembling ordinary-sized water-birds in the distance. These, so in harmony with the lazy, sunshiny afternoon, were all that gave evidence that man had ever invaded this solitude. Cora Richter could but be cheerful, and, as she moved to and fro, she sung a hymn, one that was always her husband's favorite. She sung it unconsciously, from her very blithesomeness of spirits, not knowing she was making music which the birds themselves might have envied. All at once her ear caught the sound of a footstep, and confident that Teddy had come, she turned her face toward the door to greet him. She uttered a slight scream, as she saw, instead of the honest Hibernian, the form of a towering, painted savage, glaring in upon her. Ordinarily such a visitor would have occasioned her no surprise or alarm. In fact, it was rare that a day passed without some Indian visiting the cabin--either to consult with the missionary himself, or merely to rest a few moments. Sometimes several called together, and it often happened that they came while none but the wife was at home. They were always treated kindly, and were respectful and pleased in turn. During the nights in winter, when the storm howled through the forest, a light burned at the missionary's window, and many a savage, who belonged often to a distant tribe, had knocked at the door and secured shelter until morning. Ordinarily we say, then, the visit of an Indian gave the young wife no alarm. But there was something in the appearance of this painted sinewy savage that filled her with dread. There was a treacherous look in his black eyes, and a sinister expression visible in spite of vermilion and ocher, that made her shrink from him, as she would have shrunk from some loathsome monster. As the reader may have surmised, he was no other than Daffodil or Mahogany, who had left Teddy on purpose to visit the cabin, while both the servant and his master were absent. In spite of the precaution used, he had taken more liquor than he intended; and, as a consequence, was just in that reckless state of mind, when he would have hesitated at no deed, however heinous. From a jovial, good-natured Indian, in the company of the Hibernian, he was transformed into a sullen, vindictive savage in the presence of the gentle wife of Harvey Richter. He supported himself against the door and seemed undecided whether to enter or not. The alarm of Cora Richter was so excessive that she endeavored to conceal it. "What do you wish?" she asked. "Where Misser Richter?" "Gone to the village," she replied, bravely resolving that no lie should cross her lips if her life depended upon it. "When come back?" "In an hour or so perhaps." "Where Ted?" "He has gone hunting." "Big lie--he drunk--don't know nothing--lay sleep on ground." "How do you know? Did you see him?" "Me gib him fire-water--much like it--drink good deal--tumble over like tree hain't got root." "Did you ever give it him before?" asked the young wife, her curiosity supplanting her alarm for the moment. "Gib him offin--gib him every day--much like it--drink much." Again the wife's instinctive fear came back to her, and she endeavored to conceal it by a calm, unimpassioned exterior. "Won't you come in and rest yourself until Mr. Richter returns?" "Don't want to see him," replied the savage, sullenly. "Who do you wish to see then?" "You--t'ink much of you." The wife felt as if she would sink to the floor. There was something in the tones of his voice that had alarmed her from the first. She was almost certain this savage intended rudeness, now that he knew the missionary himself was gone. She glanced up at the rifle which was hung above the fireplace. It was charged, and she had learned how to fire it since her marriage. Several times she was on the point of springing up and seizing it and placing herself upon the defensive. Her heart throbbed wildly at the thought, but she finally concluded to resort to such an act only at the last moment. She might still conciliate the Indian by kindness, and after all, perhaps he meditated no harm or rudeness. "Come and sit down then, and talk with me awhile," said she, as pleasantly as it was possible. The savage stumbled forward a few feet, and dropped into a seat, where he glared fully a minute straight into the face of the woman. This was the most trying ordeal of all, especially when she raised her own blue eyes, and addressed him. It seemed impossible to combat the fierce light of those orbs, although she bore their scrutiny like a heroine. He had seated himself near the door, but he was close enough for her to detect the fumes of the liquor he had drank, and she knew a savage was never so dangerous as when in a half-intoxicated condition. "Have you come a long distance?" she asked. "Good ways--live up north." "You are not a Sioux, then?" "No--don't like Sioux--bad people." "Why do you come in their neighborhood--in their country?" "'Cause I want to--_come see you_." "You must come again--" At this juncture, the child in the cradle awoke and began crying. The face of the savage assumed an expression of ferocity, and he said, abruptly: "Stop noise--me tomahawk if don't." As he spoke he laid his hand in a threatening manner upon his tomahawk, and the mother sprung up and lifted the infant in her arms for the purpose of pacifying it. The dreadful threat had almost unnerved her, for she believed the savage would carry it out upon the slightest pretext. But before that tomahawk should reach her child, the mother must be stricken to the earth. She pressed it convulsively to her breast, and it quickly ceased its cries. She waited until it closed its eyes in slumber and then some impulse prompted her to lay it upon the bed, and to place herself between it and the Indian, so that she might be unimpeded in her movements if the savage should attempt harm to her or her offspring. Several moments now passed without the Indian speaking. The interval was occupied by him in looking around the room and examining every portion upon which it was possible to rest his gaze. The survey completed, he once more fixed his scrutiny upon the young wife, and suddenly spoke in his sententious, abrupt manner. "Want sunkin eat." This question was a relief, for it afforded the wife an opportunity of expressing her kindness; but, at the same time, it caused a more rapid beating of her heart, since to procure what was asked, she would be compelled to pass out of the door, and thus not only approach him much more closely than she was willing, but it would be necessary to leave him alone with her infant until her return. She was in a painful dilemma, to decide whether it was best to refuse the visitor's request altogether or to comply with it, trusting to Providence to protect them both. A casual glance at the Indian convinced her that it would be dangerous to thwart his wishes longer; and, with an inward prayer to God, she arose and approached the door. As she passed near him, he moved and she involuntarily quickened her step, until she was outside. The Indian did not follow, and she hurried on her errand. She had gone scarcely a yard, when she heard him walking across the floor, and detected at the same moment, the cry of her infant. Fairly beside herself with terror, she ran back in the house, and saw the savage taking down her husband's rifle. The revulsion of her feelings brought tears to her eyes, and she said: "I wish you would go away, I don't like you." "Kiss me--den I go!" said he, stepping toward her. "Keep away! keep away!" she screamed, retreating to the door and yet fearing to go out. "Kiss me--tomahawk pappoose!" said the savage, placing his hand upon the weapon. The young wife placed her hands over her face and sobbed aloud. She did not hear the cat-like footsteps of the savage, as he approached. His long arm was already stretched forth to clasp her, when the door was darkened, a form leaped into the room, and with the quickness of lightning, dealt the savage a tremendous blow that stretched him limp and lifeless upon the floor. [Illustration: Dealt the savage a tremendous blow.] "Move a limb and I will kill you!" shouted the young missionary, his face all ablaze with passion. "Cora, has he harmed you?" "No, no, no, Harvey; have you not already killed him?" "Pity that I haven't. He is not fit to live." "Dear Harvey, you are carried away by your passion. Do restrain yourself." Woman-like, the only emotion of Cora Richter was that of commiseration for the poor wretch that had been stricken down by the hand of her husband. She saw the blood trickling from his face and knew that he was dreadfully injured. The missionary, too, began to become more calm and collected; and yet, while regretting the occasion, he could but think he had done his simple duty to his insulted wife. Had he been prepared as he entered the door, he would have shot the savage dead in his tracks. Harvey picked up his rifle that lay in the middle of the floor, and approached the prostrate Indian. After pushing and shaking, he gave signs of returning consciousness, and at length arose to his feet. His nose had bled copiously, and one eye was "closed," as if he had been under the manipulation of some pugilist. The wife brought a basin of water, and offered a bandage, while Harvey proffered his assistance. But the Indian, without speaking, motioned them aside, and made his way out the door. On the threshold he paused a moment and looked back--and that look Harvey Richter will remember to his dying day. Both breathed freer when he had gone. They then looked in each other's faces a moment and the wife sunk into her husband's arms. "Did I not do right, Cora?" "Yes; oh, yes; but, Harvey, this will not be the last of it. You have made an enemy of that Indian, and he can never be made a friend." "Such is often the result of doing your simple duty. Let us therefore trust to God and say no more about it. Ah! here comes Teddy." The Irishman at this moment entered the door. He was still under the influence of liquor though he made ludicrous efforts to conceal it. The wife found opportunity to communicate to her husband all that had been told her, before the conversation had progressed far. The peril which she had so narrowly escaped decided the missionary to be severely just with his servant. "Teddy, where have you been?" "Won't that spake for itself?" he replied, holding up a handsome string of fish. "Begorrah, but it was mighty poor luck I had hunting." "I should judge you had discovered something unusual from your strange actions." The face of the Irishman flushed scarlet, and his confusion was distressing. "Teddy," he continued, "I am displeased at the manner in which you have acted for the last week or two. Had it not happened that I left the village sooner than usual to-day, most probably my wife and son would have been killed." The fellow was completely sobered. "What is it ye say, Mister Harvey?" "For several days you have failed to return in the time you promised, so that I have been compelled to leave them alone and unprotected. This afternoon, an Indian came in the house and threatened the life of both my wife and child--" "Where the divil is he?" demanded Teddy, springing up; "I'll brake ivery bone in his body." "He is gone, never to return I trust." "Be the powers! if I could but maat him--" "Do not add falsehood to your conduct. He said that you and he have met constantly and drank liquor together." The expression of blank amazement was so genuine and laughable that the missionary could hardly repress a smile. He felt that his last remark was hardly fair. Teddy finally burst out. "'Twas that owld Mahogany copperskin; but did I iver 'xpact he was up to _sich_ a trick and he would niver have l'aved me a-fishing. Oorah, oorah!" he muttered, gnashing his teeth together. "What a miserable fool I _have_ been. He to come here and insult me mistress after professin' the kindest regards. May I be made to eat rat-tail files for potaties if iver I trust red-skin honor again!" "It strikes me that you and this precious savage had become quite intimate. I suppose in a few weeks longer you would have left us and lived with him altogether." The tears trickled down Teddy's cheeks, and he made answer in a meek, mournful tone: "Plaise forgive me, Mister Harvey, and Miss Cora. Yees both knows I would die for yees, and it was little I dr'amed of a savage iver disecrating this house by an ungentlemanly act. Teddy never'll sarve yees the like agin." "I have no faith in the promises of a man who is intemperate." The Irishman raised his hand to heaven: "May the good Father above strike me dead if I iver swallow another drop! Do yees belave me now. Mister Harvey?" "You must not place the reliance in your own power, Teddy. Ask His assistance and you'll succeed." "I'll do so; but, ye saa, the only mill where I could get the cursed stuff was of this same Indian, and as I politely towld him I'd practice wid me gun on him if he offered me anither drop, and, as I'd pick him off now, after this shine, as quick as I would a sarpent, it ain't likely he'll bother me agin." "I hope not, but I have the same apprehension as Cora that he will return when we least expect him. We must manage so that we are never both away from the house at the same time. It is now getting well along in the afternoon, Teddy; you may prepare your fish for supper." The Irishman obediently moved away, and the young missionary and his wife were left together. CHAPTER V. GONE! Alas, alas, fair Inez, She went away with song, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell To her you've loved so long.--HOOD. Alertness or watchfulness is sure to succeed the accomplishment of an enemy's designs. The moment danger is over, then the most vigilant preparations against it are made. The burglar knows better than to visit the same house two nights in succession. He is wise enough to wait until time has lulled the inmates into fancied security. With such an interest at stake as had Harvey Richter, one may well believe that no precaution was neglected which could operate to defeat the designs of the savage whom he had driven in anger from his door. He changed his hour of visitation from the afternoon to the forenoon. Teddy needed no admonition against leaving the house during his absence. He kept watch and ward over the house as if he would atone by vigilance for past shortcomings. The missionary had dwelt long enough among the Indians to gain a pretty accurate estimate of their character. What troubled him most, therefore, was a conviction that the savage's revenge, though delayed for ten years, for want of the convenient opportunity, was sure to be accomplished. He might have gone immediately to the north or east, there to remain with his own tribe until convinced that the moment had come to strike the blow--a blow, which no human influence, no personal danger, no suffering, could persuade him from inflicting upon the offending white man. But there was no certainty even of delay. Did the savage believe the moment to strike propitious, he would be ready for the trial. Even then, he might be skulking in the woods, with his black eyes fixed upon the cabin. It will be perceived, that, did he contemplate the death of either of the parties concerned, he could have compassed it without difficulty. Opportunities offered every day for the fatal bullet to reach its mark; but the _insult_ to the Indian was so great, that he contemplated a far sweeter compensation than death itself. Whatever that might be, time would be sure to develop it, and that, too, at the moment when least expected. This fear became so ever-present and troublesome, that the missionary made it known in the village, where he could command the services of half a hundred warriors. A dozen at once made search through the woods to ascertain whether the savage was concealed anywhere in the vicinity. One of these chanced upon a trail, which, after following some distance, was lost in the river. This, however, he pronounced to be the trail of a _white man_. The suspected Indian evidently, had fled, and no trace was discovered of him. Another source of annoyance was opened to Harvey. Since the shot at Teddy, nothing had occurred to remind them of the existence of the strange hunter, whose mysterious warnings had accompanied their advent into the country. Richter could not believe that the man had left altogether, but regarded his actions with considerable equanimity, as it was apparent that his warning shots were intended rather to frighten than to kill. Harvey never would converse with his wife about this white foe, and had cautioned Teddy not to allude to him in her presence. The missionary had a strong hope that, some day, he would be brought face to face with this stranger, when an explanation would be secured and the annoyance ended. He therefore repeated his warning to the Irishman not to shoot the hunter, unless compelled to do so to save his own life; but rather to use every effort to secure him and bring him to the cabin. About a week after the occurrence narrated, Teddy went fishing, leaving the husband and wife together. He followed the shore of the river about a half-mile downward, when he settled himself by a huge rock that projected a few feet into the water. He had just thrown his line into the stream, when he heard the crackling of bushes behind him, and, turning, saw the hunter walking in a direction parallel with the river, with his head bent, as if in thought. Apparently he was unsuspicious of the presence of any one. Teddy at once sunk down to screen himself as he watched the movements of his old foe, out of all manner of patience with himself that he had left his rifle at home, and possessed only the arms that nature had furnished him. Still, he resolved that the man should be secured, if possible. "Arrah, now, be aisy!" he whispered, "and yees may cotch a fish that didn't nibble at yer bait. Whisht! but do ye _saa_ him? But _isn't_ he a strappin' fellow, to be sure--a raal shark ten foot long, with claws like an alligator!" The hunter walked but a few rods, when he seated himself upon a fallen tree, with his back toward the Irishman. This was the coveted opportunity. "Yees have got the fellow now, Teddy, barring yees haven't got him at all, but that ain't saying ye won't get him. Be aisy now, and don't get excited! Jist be as wise as a rat and as still as a mouse, and ye'll catch the catamount, if he don't catch you, that is." These self-admonitions were much needed, for the fellow was all tremulous with excitement and scarcely able to restrain himself. Waiting a few moments until he could tone down his nerves, he commenced making his way toward his victim. He exercised extreme caution until within a rod, when a twig snapped under his foot. He made ready to spring, for he was certain of being discovered; but, to his surprise, the hunter made no motion at all. He evidently was so absorbed in some matter as to be unconscious of what was passing around. Slowly and stealthily Teddy glided toward the man, until he arose almost to the standing position, not more than a foot distant. Then slowly spreading out his arms, so as to inclose the form of the stalwart woodsman, he brought them together like a vise, giving utterance at the same time to an exultant "whoop." "Yer days of thramping _this_ country, and alarming paceable inhabitants are done wid, Mister Anaconda. So jist kaal over gracefully, say tin Ave Marias, and consider yourself in the hands of Gabriel sint for judgment." All this time Teddy had been straining and hugging at the hunter as if determined to crush him, while he, in turn, had taken it very coolly, and now spoke in his gruff bass voice: "Let go!" "Let go! Well now, that's impudint, ye varlet. As if Teddy McFadden would let go hook and line, bob and sinker, whin he had got hold of a sturgeon. Be aisy now; I'll squaze the gizzard and liver iv ye togither, if ye doesn't yield gracefully." "Let go, I say! Do you hear?". "Yis, I hears, and that is the extint--" Teddy's next sensation was as if a thunderbolt had burst beneath his feet, for he was hurled headlong full half a rod over the head of the hunter. Though considerably bruised, he was not stunned by the fall, and quickly recovered. Scratching his head, he cried: "Begorrah, but yees can't repate _that_ trick!" making a rush toward his antagonist, who stood calmly awaiting his onset. "By heavens, I'll give you something different then!" said the man, as he caught him bodily in his arms, and running to the edge of the river, flung him sprawling into it. The water was deep, and it required considerable struggling to reach the shore. This last prodigious exhibition of strength inspired the Irishman with a sort of respect for the stranger. Teddy had found very few men, even among frontiersmen and Indians, who could compete with him in a hand-to-hand struggle; yet, there was now no question but what he was overmatched, and he could but admire, in a degree, the man who so easily handled his assailant. It was useless to attack the enemy after such a repulse; so he quietly seated himself upon the shore. "Would ye have the kindness, ye assassinating disciple of the crowner's jury, whin yees have jist shown how nately ye can dishpose of a man like meself, to tell me why it was you run so mighty harrd whin I took once before after yees? Why didn't ye pause, and sarve me then jist as ye have done? I'd jist like to know that before we go any further wid _this_ matter." "It wasn't because I feared you!" said the hunter, turning sullenly away, and walking into the wood. "Farewell!" called out Teddy, waving his hand toward him. "Ye're a beauty, and yees have quite taking ways wid ye; but it wouldn't be safe for me to find yees lurking about the cabin, if I had a rifle in me hand. You'd have trouble to fling a bullet off as ye flung me. Be jabers, but _wasn't_ that a nate thing, to be sure. I'll bet a thousand pounds which I niver had, that that fellow could draw the Mississippi up-stream if he was fairly hitched on to it. Ah, Teddy, you ain't much, afther all," he added, looking dolefully at his wet garments. Teddy had been so completely outwitted that he was unwilling any one should know it. So he resolved to continue fishing until his clothes were thoroughly dry, and until he had secured enough fish to repay him for his journey. It was near the middle of the afternoon, and, as he had remained at home until the return of the young missionary from the village, there was nothing to disturb his labor, or sport as it might be called, except darkness itself. During this same afternoon, Harvey Richter and his wife were sitting on a bench in front of their cabin. The day was warm, but, as the bench always was shaded, it was the ordinary resort of the young couple when the weather was sultry. The missionary had been reading, but the volume was laid aside, and he was smilingly watching his wife as she sported with the boy in her lap. The little fellow was in exuberant spirits, and the parents, as a matter of course, were delighted. Finally he betrayed signs of weariness, and in a few moments was asleep in his mother's arms. "I think it was a wise thing, for several reasons--that of changing your hour from the afternoon to the forenoon," said the wife. "Why do you think so?" "We all feel more wearied and less inclination at this time of day for work than we do during the earlier hours. We could then be little together, but now nothing interferes with our afternoon's enjoyment of one another's society." "That is true; but you see the Indians are more likely to be off fishing or hunting during the earlier part of the day. They have willingly conformed, however, to the change." "I think it is more in accordance with your own disposition," smiled the wife, "is it not?" "Yes; I am free to admit that my lazy body inclines to quiet and rest after partaking of a hearty dinner, as I have done to-day." "If we think of rest at this early stage in our lives, how will it be when we become thirty or forty years older?" "I refer only to the temporary rest of the body and mind, such as they must have after periods of labor and excitement. Such rest the youngest as well as the oldest requires. Be careful, Cora, you don't drop the little fellow!" "Never fear," laughed the mother, as the youngster woke and commenced several juvenile antics more interesting to the parents than to any one else: "How lively!" remarked the proud father. "It seems to me I never saw a child at his age as bright and animated." And what father does not hold precisely the same opinion of his young hopeful? "Look!" exclaimed the mother, "some one must be coming to see you." An Indian woman was discernible among the trees, walking along the path at a rapid walk, as if she were greatly hurried. Her head was bent, but now and then she raised it and glanced toward the cabin, showing that that was her destination. Passing from the shadow of the wood into the Clearing, the missionary recognized one of the worst women of the tribe. She had scoffed at his preaching, had openly insulted him, and during the first month or two had manifested a disposition approaching violence. To this Richter only answered by kindness; he used every means to conciliate her good-will, but thus far with indifferent success. Her husband, The-au-o-too, a warrior favorably inclined toward the white man, was thoughtful and attentive; and the good minister wondered that the savage did not restrain these unwomanly demonstrations upon his squaw's part. She approached with rapid step, until she stood directly in front of them. Harvey saw that her countenance was agitated. "Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?" [Illustration: "Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled."] "Me ain't trouble," she answered, using English as well as her very imperfect knowledge would admit. "Me ain't trouble--_me_ ain't." "Who may it be then?" "The-au-o-too--he _much_ trouble. Sick--in woods--die--_berry_ sick." "What do you mean, At-to-uck?" asked the missionary, his interest strongly awakened. "Has anything befallen your husband?" "He fall," she answered, eagerly, catching at the helping word, "he fall--much hurt--die--die--won't got well." "Where is he?" She spun around on one foot, and pointed deeper into the woods. "He dere--lay on back--soon die." "And he wishes me to see him; is that it?" She nodded her head vigorously, but made no answer for a moment. Then she suddenly broke forth: "Send At-to-uck to git good man--hurry--berry hurry--he die--won't live. The-au-o-too say hurry--die soon--won't see good man--Riher." Harvey looked at his wife. "What must I do, Cora? It will not do to leave you, as Teddy may not return for several hours, and yet this poor Indian should be attended in his dying moments." "You should go, Harvey; I will not fear." He turned to the squaw in perplexity. "How far away is The-au-o-too?" "Not much far--soon find--most dead." "It may be," he said in a low tone, "that he can be got to the house, although it would be no easy matter for us two to bring him." "I think your duty calls you to the dying man." "I ought to be there, but I tell you, Cora, I don't like this leaving you alone," said he, impressively. "You know we made up our minds that it should never occur again." "There must be occasions when it cannot be avoided, and this is one of them. By refusing to attend this man, you may not only neglect a great duty, but incur the ill-will of the whole tribe. You know the disposition of this woman." The latter, at this point, began to give evidence of agitation, and to remark in her broken accents that The-au-o-too was dying and would be dead before they could reach him. The missionary, in sore perplexity, looked at his wife. "Go," she said, or rather signified without speaking. "I will," he said, rising with an air of decision. "God grant I may never regret this." "I trust you never will." He kissed the infant, embraced his wife and then signified to the squaw to lead the way. "Keep up a good heart," he added, turning, as he moved away. The wife smilingly nodded her head but said nothing. It did not escape the notice of her husband that there were tears in her eyes, and he half resolved to remain with her after all, but the next moment he moved on. The squaw took the well-beaten track, walking very rapidly and often looking back to see that she was followed. Her strangeness of manner the missionary attributed to her excitement regarding her husband. Several times she exhibited hesitation, and once or twice muttered something that was unintelligible to him. When they were about half-way to the village, she paused. "Well, At-to-uck, what is the matter now?" "Mebbe dead." "Oh, I hope not," he answered, cheerfully. "Do you turn off here?" She answered in the affirmative and asked him to lead the way. "No; I am unacquainted, and you ought certainly to know where to find your dying husband better than I do." She took the duty of guide upon herself again, and advanced but a rod, when she abruptly paused. "Hark! hear groan? Me hear him." Harvey listened intently but heard nothing. Knowing that the hearing of the Indians is marvelously acute, he believed the squaw had heard sounds of distress; but, instead of quickening her steps, she now moved more slowly than ever. "Have you lost your way, At-to-uck?" "No," she answered, in a significant voice. The suspicions of the missionary that had been slumbering were now fully roused. "What do you mean then?" The squaw turned full around and gave a leer which, if possible, made her face more hideous than ever. Without thinking Harvey caught her by the arm and shook her sharply. "Explain this, At-to-uck. What is the meaning of this?" "He-he-e-e-e! _big_ fool. The-au-o-too hunt--_no hurt_!" A sharp reproof arose to the missionary's lips, but deeming it would be lost upon such a person, he merely turned his back upon her and walked away. She called and taunted him, but he was the last man who could have been roused to anger by such means, and he walked, with his arms folded, slowly and deliberately away toward the path. It had not occurred, as yet, to the mind of Richter that anything more than a simple annoyance to himself was contemplated by this proceeding; but, as he resumed his steps homeward, a suspicion flashed upon him which almost checked the beating of his heart. "God save it being so!" was his mental prayer, as he hurried forward. A moment later he was on a full run. The afternoon was well advanced, but he soon caught a glimpse of his cabin through the trees. Before this, however, he had detected the outcries of his infant, which struck him as a favorable omen, and he abated his speed somewhat. But, as he came into the Clearing, his heart gave a great bound, as he saw his child lying upon the ground some distance from the house. His anxiety was so distressing that he dashed by it into the cabin. "Cora, Cora, what is the matter? Where have you concealed yourself? Why this untimely pleasantry?" He came out again, caught up the infant and attempted to soothe it, all the time looking wildly about in the hope of seeing the returning mother. "CORA! CORA!" he again called in agonized tones, but the woods gave back only the hollow echo. For a few moments he was fairly beside himself; but, at the end of that time, he began to reason more calmly. He attempted to persuade himself that she might return, but it was useless; and with a sort of resigned despair, he looked about him for signs of the manner in which she was taken away. The most convincing evidence was not wanting. The ground was trampled and torn, as if there had been a violent struggle; and, inexperienced as were his eyes, he detected the unmistakable impress of a moccasin upon the soft earth, and in the grass. The settle, too, was overturned and the baby lay in the grass as if tossed there by the act of some other arm, than a mother's. CHAPTER VI. THE LOST TRAIL. "'Twas night--the skies were cloudless blue, And all around was hushed and still, Save paddle of the light canoe, And wailing of the whippowill." On that sunny afternoon, the fish in a particular locality of a tributary of the Mississippi did not take the bait very well. The spot to which we refer was that immediately surrounding Teddy, whose patience was well-nigh exhausted. There he sat for several tedious hours, but had secured only two nibbles at his line, neither of which proved to be anything more. "Begorrah, but it must be they'se frightened by meself, when that ould scalliwag give me a fling into the stream. Jabers! _wasn't_ it done nately. Hallo! there's a bite, not bigger, to be sure, than a lady's fut, but a bull-pout it is I know." He instantly arose to his feet, as if he were about to spring in the water, and stood leaning over and scanning the point where his line disappeared in the stream, with an intense interest which the professional angler alone can appreciate. But this, like all others, proved a disappointment, and he soon settled down into his waiting but necessary attitude of rest. "A half-hour more of sunshine, and then these same pants will be the same as if they've niver saan water, barring it's mighty seldom they have or they wouldn't be in this dirty condition. Arrah! what can be the m'aning of that?" Faintly but distinctly through the long stretch of woods came the sound of his name. It was repeated again and again until the Irishman was convinced beyond all possibility of mistake. "What is up now?" he asked of himself as he drew in his line. "That is Mister Harvey's voice sure, and he is calling as though he was in a mighty hurry. Faith, and I must not linger! If anything _should_ happen whin I was away I'd feel wus'n old Boney at Watherloo whin he lost the day an' his crown." The line was soon stowed away, and Teddy made his way at a half-walk and ran in a homeward direction. He had gone about a hundred rods when he paused and listened. Clearer and more distinctly came his name in tones whose earnest entreaty could not be mistaken. Teddy rose on his heels and made reply to the hail, to assure his master, if possible, that he was approaching with all speed. The Irishman's words were yet lingering in his mouth, when another and more terrible sound reached his ears. It was that of a suppressed, half-smothered woman's scream--a sort of gasp of terror. It was so short and so far away that it was impossible to tell its direction. He stopped, his heart beating like a hammer, but he heard no more. "God protect me, but there's something gone wrong at the cabin!" he exclaimed, dashing forward through the wood at a reckless rate. A few moments later it came in view, and he then saw his master walking to and fro, in front of the house, with the child in his arms. His manner and deathly pale face confirmed the forebodings of Teddy's heart. "What's the matter, Mister Harvey? What's the matter?" "_That Indian has carried Cora away_!" was the agonized reply. "Where has the owld divil carried her?" very naturally asked the Hibernian. "I do not know! I do not know! but she has gone, and I fear we shall never see her again alive." "May me owld head be scraped wid a scalping-knife, an' me hands be made into furnace-grates for being away," ejaculated the servant, as the tears streamed down his cheeks. "No, Teddy, you are not in the least to blame, nor is it my fault," impetuously interrupted the missionary. "Till me how it was, Mister Harvey." The husband again became composed and related what is already familiar to the reader. At its close, Teddy dashed into the house and brought out his rifle. "I'll murther that At-to-uck, be me sowl, and then I'll murther that haythen assassinator, an' iverybody that gits in me way. Be the powers of the saints and divils, but I'll murther somebody. May the divil roast me if I--" "Hold!" said the missionary, who by this time was himself again. "The first thing to be attended to is pursuit. We must not lose a second. We can never follow them ourselves through the wood. Hold the child, while I go to the village and get some of the Indians to help us." Teddy took the child that had cried itself asleep, and the missionary started on a full run up the river. When he reached the settlement, it required but a moment to make his errand known. A dozen warriors volunteered at once, for these dozen would have laid down their lives for their faithful instructor. Many of the squaws also gave utterance to dismal howls upon learning what had befallen their pale-faced sister. Had the missionary chosen to tell the part taken by At-to-uck in the affair, it may be reasonably doubted whether her life would have been spared. But he was not the man to do such a thing. Knowing how anxious Teddy would be to participate in the pursuit, he secured the wife of one of the Christian Indians to return with him, and take charge of the boy during their absence. At the time of the missionary's visit, the chief and his principal warriors were absent on an expedition to the north. Although holding little interest himself in the mission of the minister among his people, he would undoubtedly have led a party to the search for the audacious savage who had abducted the respected white woman; and, had he been overtaken, a swift and merciless retribution would have fallen upon the trangressor's head. Harvey Richter deemed it best to take but a few Indians with him. Accordingly he selected five that he knew to be skillful, and with them hurried at once in the direction of his cabin. He saw with a sinking heart, as he returned, that the sun was already low in the horizon, and the woods were becoming dark and gloomy. Teddy was at his post chafing like a confined lion. "This woman, Teddy, will take care of the boy, so that you may join us in the search." "Bliss you for that! It would be the hardest work of me life to stay here when I thought there's a chance of gitting a whack at that thaiving villian. Oh, _if_ I could only git howld of him, I wouldn't l'ave a piece of him big enough to spit on." "I think there's little probability of either of us obtaining a glimpse of him. We must rely upon these Indians to take the trail and follow it to the end." "They're like the hounds in the owld country, barring they go on two legs an' don't stick their noses in the ground, nor howl whin they git on trail. They're mighty handy to have around ye at such a time as this, if they be savages wid only a spark of Christianity in 'em not bigger than a tobaccy pipe." "It will be impossible, I think, for the savage to conceal traces of his flight, and, if there be any chance of coming up with him, these men will surely do so." "But suppose Miss Cora should be tomahawked and--" "Don't mention it," said the missionary, with a shudder. While these words were interchanged, the Indians had employed the time more profitably in solving the meaning of the footsteps upon the ground. A slight whoop announced the trail's discovery, and when the missionary turned, he saw the whole five gliding off in a line through the woods. They went in "Indian file," and resembled a huge serpent making its way with all swiftness toward its prey. Our two friends started at once after them. On reaching the edge of the Clearing Teddy asked, abruptly: "If the haythen comes back to the cabin while we's be gone?" "Impossible! he cannot." "Spowsen he hides his track in that manner, he may take a notion to gobble up the little boy." "He would not dare--" Nevertheless, the remark of his servant alarmed the missionary, and he hesitated. There might be foundation for what had been said. The savage finding the pursuit too close to escape with his prey, might slay her and then return stealthily to the cabin and dispatch the boy. It would not do to leave him alone with the Indian woman. "I can afford little assistance in the hunt, and will remain behind. Hurry on, Teddy, or they will be too far away for you to follow." The Hibernian shot off through the trees, at a rate that soon exhausted him, while Harvey Richter returned within his cabin, there to keep company with his great woe, until the return of the pursuers brought tidings of the lost one. An Indian on the trail is not likely to permit any trivial cause to turn him aside, and the five Sioux made rapid progress so long as the light in the wood allowed them to do so. This, however, was a comparatively short time; and, after progressing fitfully and uncertainly for several hundred yards, they finally drew up to wait until the morrow. The trail, instead of taking the direction of the river, as the pursuers believed it would, ran precisely parallel to it. So long as the savage kept away from the stream--that is, so long as he did not take to a canoe--his trail could be followed with absolute certainty, and he be overtaken beyond doubt. Impeded by an unwilling captive, he could not avoid a rapid gain upon him by his pursuers; and to escape certain capture, he must either abandon his prey or conceal his flight by resorting to the river. It might be, and the pursuers themselves half believed, that the fleeing Indian did not fear a pursuit by any of his own race, in which case he could make a leisurely escape, as the unpracticed white men could not have followed him for a half-mile through the wilderness. If this were really the case, the Sioux were confident of coming up with him before the morrow's sun should go down. The Indians had paused but a few moments, when a great tearing and scrambling was heard, and Teddy came panting upon them. "What be yees waiting for?" he demanded. "Tired out?" "Can't go furder--dark--wait till next day." "I'm sorry that yees didn't stand it bitter. I can go some ways further meself if yees'll be kind enough to show me the trail. But, yees don't pant or blow a bit, so I can't think ye're too much tired." "Too dark--can't see--wait till sun." "Oh, begorrah! I didn't understand ye. The Injin 'l' git a good start on us, won't he though?" "Ain't Injin--_white man_!" "A white man, does ye say, that run off wid Miss Cora?" Two of the Indians replied in the affirmative. Teddy manifested the most unbounded amazement, and for a while, could say nothing. Then he leaped into the air, struck the sides of his shoes with his fingers, and broke forth: "It was that owld hunter, may purgatory take him! Him and that owld Mahogany, what made me drunk--blast his sowl--have been hid around in the woods, waiting for a chance to do harm, and one is so much worse than t'other yees can't tell both from which. Och! if I but had him under the sight of me gun." The spot upon which the Indians and Teddy were standing was but a short distance from the village, and yet, instead of returning to it, they started a small fire and lay down for the night. _They were upon the trail_, and nothing was to turn them aside from it until their work was completed, or it was utterly lost to them. Teddy was more loth than they to turn his face backward, but, under the circumstances, he could not forget the sad, waiting husband at home. So he returned to the cabin, to make him acquainted with the result of their labors thus far. "If the Indian only avoids the river, he may be overtaken, but if he takes to that, I am fearful he can never be found." "Be me sowl, Mr. Harvey, but thim savages says he's not an Injin, but a _white man_, and yees know they cannot be mistook fur they've got eyes like hawks, and sinses sharper than me only needle, which, begorrah, hasn't got a point." "Can it be that Bra--that that hunter has done me this great wrong?" said the missionary, correcting himself so dextrously that his servant failed to observe it. "Has such been the revenge that he has been harboring up for so many years? And he has followed us these hundreds of miles for the purpose of striking the blow!" "The owld haythen assassinator! The bloodthirsty beast, the sneakin' dog, the dirthy jail-bird, the--" "He has not shot either of us when we were at his mercy, for the purpose of lulling us into security, the better to obtain his revenge, and oh, he has succeeded how well!" The strong man, who still sat in the front of his cabin, where he might catch the first sound of returning footsteps, now covered his face, and his whole form heaved with emotion. Teddy began to feel uncomfortable. He arose, walked to and fro, and wiped the tears from his own cheeks. Despite his tears, however, he recognized in the exclamations of his master a reference to some mystery which he had long suspected, but which had never been cleared up. The missionary must have met this strange hunter before this encounter in the wilderness, and his identity, and the cause of his deadly enmity, must, also, be known. Teddy had a great curiosity; but, as his master had repulsed his inquiries upon a previous occasion, he forbore to make any reference to it. He walked backward and forward until the good man's emotion had subsided somewhat, and then he said: "Good Master Harvey, the owld cabin is so lonely wid the form of Miss Cora gone, that it's meself that couldn't very well stay here till morning. So, wid yer leave jist, I'll return to the Injins, so as to be ready to folly the trail bright and early in the mornin'." "And how do you suppose I feel, Teddy?" "God save us! It can be no worse than meself." "I am willing that you should go." The missionary had need, indeed, for the sustaining power which can come only from above. The faithful Indian woman remained with his child through the night, while he, with bare head, and hands griped together, paced backward and forward until the morrow's sun had risen. How he prayed and agonized in spirit during those long, lonely hours, God and himself only know. When the day had fairly dawned, he entered the house, lay down wearily, and slept a "long and troubled sleep." With a heavy heart Teddy made his way back through the woods to where the Indians were congregated. They were seated around the camp-fire engaged in smoking, but did not exchange nor utter a syllable. They all understood each other, and therefore there was no need of talk. The Irishman seated himself beside them, and joined an hour or two in smoking, when they all lay down and slumbered. All with the exception of Teddy, who could not sleep. He rolled hither and thither, drew deep sighs, and took new positions, but it availed nothing. The events of the past day had driven sleep far from his eyelids, and he soon gave over the effort altogether. Rising to a sitting position, he scratched his head (which was significant only of abstraction of thought), and gazed meditatively into the smoldering embers. While seated thus, an idea suddenly came to him which brought him instantly to his feet. The fact that it had not occurred to the Indians he attributed to their inferior shrewdness and sagacity. He recalled that the abduction of the young wife took place quite late in the afternoon; and, as she must be an unwilling captive of course, she would know enough to hinder the progress of the man so as to afford her friends a chance to overtake them. Such being the case, the hunter would find himself compelled to encamp for the night, and therefore he could be but a short distance away. The more the Irishman reflected, the more he became convinced that his view was right; and, we may state, that for once, at least, his supposition had a foundation to stand upon. The matter, as has been evident from the first to the reader, rested entirely upon the impossibility of following the trail at night. Thus far it had maintained its direction parallel with the river, and he deduced that it must continue to do so. Such being the case, the man could be reached as well during the darkness as daylight. Teddy concluded not to awaken the savages, as they would hardly coincide with him. So he cautiously rose to his feet, and walking around them, made off in the darkness. He was prudent enough to obtain an idea of the general direction before starting, so as to prevent himself going astray; after which he pressed the pursuit with all possible speed. At intervals he paused and listened, but it seemed as if everything excepting himself was asleep. He heard no sound of animal or man: He kept his eyes flitting hither and thither, for he had hopes of chancing upon the camp-fire of the abductor. It is always a difficult matter to keep one's "reckoning" in the woods. If they be of any extent, it requires extraordinary precautions upon the part of an inexperienced person to prevent himself from being lost. Should he endeavor to travel by night, it would be almost a miracle indeed if he could save himself from going totally astray. Teddy had every disadvantage to contend against, and he had not journeyed a half-hour, when his idea of his own position was just the opposite of truth. As he had not yet become aware of it, however, it perhaps was just as well as if he had committed no error. He was pressing forward, with that peculiar impelling feeling that it was only necessary to do so ultimately to reach his destination, when a star-like glimmer caught his eye. Teddy stopped short, and his heart gave a great bound, for he believed the all-important opportunity had now come. He scanned the light narrowly, but it was only a flickering point, such as a lantern would give at a great distance at night. The light alone was visible, but no flame. It was impossible to form any correct idea of its location, although, from the fact that the nature of the wood must prevent the rays penetrating very far, he was pretty certain it was comparatively close at hand. With this belief he commenced making his way toward it, his movements certifying his consciousness that a mis-step would prove fatal. To his dismay, however, he had advanced but a dozen steps or so when the light disappeared, and he found it impossible to recover it. He moved from side to side, forward and backward, but it availed nothing, and he was about to conclude it had been extinguished, when he retreated to his starting-point and detected it at once. Keeping his eye fixed upon it, he now walked slowly, but at the same point as before it disappeared. This, he saw, must arise from some limb, or branch or tree interfering, and it only remained for him to continue advancing in the same line. Having proceeded a hundred rods or so, he began to wonder that he still failed to discover it. Thinking he might be mistaken in the distance, he went forward until he was sure he had passed far beyond it, when he turned and looked behind him. Nothing but the dim figures of the tree-trunks rewarded his gaze. Fully a half-hour was spent in wandering to and fro in the further efforts to locate the light that had caught his eye, and he finally sought to obtain his first stand-point. Whether he succeeded or not Teddy never could tell, but he never saw nor learned anything more regarding the camp-fire to which he was confident that he had been in such close proximity. About this time, which was in the neighborhood of midnight, Teddy made the discovery that he was lost, and, like a sensible person, gave up all efforts to right himself. He was so wearied that he did not awake until daylight, when he was aroused by the five Indians, whose trail-hunt led them to the spot where he lay sleeping. The trail was now followed rapidly for a half-mile when, as the pursuers had feared all along, it made a sudden bend to the river, upon the banks of which it was totally lost. Not to be baffled in this manner, a canoe was produced with which three crossed the river. The entire day was spent by these upon one bank, while the two other Indians and Teddy pursued the search for traces of the hunter's landing upon their own side of the stream. Not the slightest evidence was discovered that he had touched shore after embarking. The man had escaped, and even the eagle-eyed Sioux were compelled on the second night to return to their village with the sad announcement that the TRAIL WAS LOST! [Illustration: THE TRAIL WAS LOST.] CHAPTER VII. A HIBERNIAN'S SEARCH FOR THE TRAIL. "Oh I let me only breathe the air, The blessed air that's breathed by thee; And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me." At the close of a windy, blustering day in 1821, two men were seated by a camp-fire in the depths of the wilderness of the northwest. The wind howled through the branches with a moaning sound such as often heralds the approach of bitter cold weather; and a few feathery flakes of snow that sailed along on the wind, proved that the season of storms was close at hand. The fire was built down deep in a sort of gorge, where its cheery, crackling blaze could not be seen by any one until he was nearly upon it. The men sat with their pipes in their mouths, their rifles beside them and their feet toward the fire. From appearances they were on the best of terms. One of them needs no introduction, as he is our old friend Teddy, who evidently feels at home in his new situation. The other is a man of much the same build although somewhat older. His face, where it is not concealed by a heavy, grizzly beard, is covered by numerous scars, and the border of one eye is disfigured from the same cause. His dress and accouterments betray the hunter and trapper. "And so, Teddy, ye're sayin' it war a white man that took away the missionary's wife, and hain't been heard on since. Let me see, you said it war nigh onto three months ago, warn't it?" [Illustration: "And so, Teddy, ye're sayin' it war a white man that took away the missionary's wife."] "Three months, come day after to-morrow. Begorrah, but it's not I that'll forgit that same date to my dying day, if, indade, I forgit it at all, at all, even whin somebody else will be wearin' me clothes." "It was a dirty trick, freeze me if it wasn't; but you can _allers_ find a white man to do a mean trick, when you can't a copperskin; _that_ you may set down as a p'inted fact, Teddy." "I belaves ye, Mister Tim. An Indian is a poor mean thing at the bist, an' their squaws--kah! they are the dirtiest beasts that iver jabbered human lingo; an' their babies, I raaly belaves, is caught with a hook an' line in the muddy creeks where the catfish breed; but, fur all that, I don't think they could have been equal to this piece of wickedness. May the divil git howld of his soul. Blazes, but won't there be a big squeal in purgatory when the divil gits howld of him!" And Teddy seemed to contemplate the imaginary scene in Hades with a sense of intense satisfaction. "But it's powerful strange you could never git on the trail. I don't boast of my own powers, but I'll lay if I'd been in the neighborhood, I'd 've found it and stuck to it like a bloodhound, till I'd 've throttled that thievin' wretch." "The Sioux spent the bitter part of the day in the s'arch, an' meself an' siveral other savages has been looking iver since, and none of us have got so much as a scint of his shoe, bad luck to him." "But, Teddy, what made him do it?" asked the trapper, turning his keen, searching eyes full upon him. "There's where I can't answer yees." "There be some men, I allow, so infarnal mean they'll do a mean thing just 'cause they _like_ to do it, and it might be he's one of them." "It's meself that belaves he howlds some spite agin Mister Harvey for something done in years agone, and has taken this means of revinging himself upon the good man, as I am sure niver did one of his fellow-creatures any harm." "It may be there's been ill-blood a long time atween 'em, but the missionary couldn't a done nothin' to give the rapscallion cause to run off with his wife, 'less he'd run off with this hunter's old woman before, and the hunter was paying him for it." "Git out wid yer nonsense!" said Teddy, impatiently. "It couldn't been a great deal, or if it was, it couldn't been done purposely, for I've growed up wid Mister Harvey, and knowed him ever since he was knee high to a duck, and he was _always_ a boy that did more praying than fighting. The idea of _his_ harming anyone, is _pre-pos-te-trous._ After the haythen had fired at us, the good man actilly made me promise not to do the wretch hurt if the chance was given me; and a mighty foolish thing, for all it was Master Harvey who towld me, fur I've had a chance or two at the spalpaan since. Oh blissed Virgin, why _didn't_ I cut his wizzen for him whin I could have done it--that is, if I could!" "And you've been huntin' 'im these three or four months be you?" "The same, yer honor, huntin' constantly, niver losing a day rain or shine, wid Indians an' widout 'em, cold, hungry and tired, but not a day of rist." "Freeze me then, if you haven't got _grit_. Thar ain't many that would track through the woods that ar long. And ye haven't caught a glimpse of the gal nor heard nothin' of her?" "Not a thing yet; but it's meself that 'xpacts to ivery day." "In course, or ye wouldn' keep at the business. But s'pose, my friend, you go on this way for a year more--what then?" "As long as I can thravel over the airth and Miss Cora isn't found, me faat shall niver find rest." The trapper indulged in an incredulous smile. "You'd be doing the same, Tim, if yees had iver laid eyes on Miss Cora or had iver heard her speak," said Teddy, as his eyes filled with tears. "God bliss her! she was worth a thousand such lives as mine--" "Don't say nothin'" interrupted the trapper, endeavoring to conceal his agitation; "I've l'arned years ago what that business is. The copperskins robbed me of a prize I'll never git agin, long afore you'd ever seen one of the infarnal beings." "Was she a swateheart?" "Never mind--never mind; it'll do no good to speak of it now. She's _gone_--that's enough." "How do you know she can't be got agin, whin--" "She was tomahawked afore my eyes--ain't that enough?" demanded the trapper, indignantly. "I axes pardon, but I was under the impression they had run away with her as they did with Miss Cora." "Hang 'em, no! If they'd have done that I'd have chased 'em to the Pacific ocean and back agin afore I'd give 'em up." "And that's what meself intends to do regarding Miss Cora." "Yer see, yer don't know much about red-skins and their devilments, and therefore, it's my private opine, instead of getting the gal, they'll git you, and there'll be the end on't." "Tim, couldn't yees make the s'arch wid me?" asked Teddy, in a deeply earnest voice. The trapper shook his head. "Like to do't, but can't. It's time I was up to the beaver runs this night and had my traps set. Yer see I'm _compelled_ to be in St. Louey at the end of six months and hain't got a day to spare." "Mister Harvey has money, or, if he hasn't, he has friends in St. Louis, be the same token, that has abundance of it, and you'd find it paid you bitter in the ind than catching poor, innocent beavers, that niver did yees harm." "I don't foller sich business for money, but I've agreed to be in St. Louey at the time I was tellin' you, and it's allers a p'int of honor with me to keep my agreements." "Couldn't yees be doing that, and this same thing, too?" "Can't do't. S'pose I should git on the trail that is lost, can yer tell me how fur I'd have to foller it? Yer see I've been in that business afore, and know what it is. Me and three others once chased a band of Blackfeet, that had carried off an old man, till we could see the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and git a taste of the breath of wind that comes down from their ice and snow in middle summer." "Didn't yees pursue the subjact any further?" "We went fur enough to find that the nimble-footed dogs had got into the mountains, and that if we wanted to keep our ha'r, we'd only got to undertake to foller 'em thar. So we just tramped back agin, havin' our trouble for nothin'." "Wasn't that about as poor a business, for yees, as this be for me, barring yees was hunting for an old man and I'm hunting for a young woman?" "It warn't as foolish by a long shot, 'cause we _war on the trail_ all the time, and kept it, while you've lost yours, and never'll be able to find it agin. We war so close more nor once that we reached their camp-fires afore the embers had died out and from the tops of two, three hills we got a glimpse on 'em on thar horses. We traveled all night a good many times, but it done no good as they done the same thing, and we found we war further away, if anything, next morning than we war at sundown. If we'd ever lost the trail so as not to find it we'd guv up and come home, but we never done that nor never lost more nor an hour in lookin' for it. You see," added the trapper, impressively, "you never have found the trail, and, therefore, there ain't the shadder of a chance." "Begorrah, yees can't blame us whin we tried to the bist of our indeavor to find it and wasn't able." "Yer done the best yer knowed, I s'pose; but why didn't four on 'em divide so as to let one go up one side the river and one t'other, and the same way down-stream. Yer don't s'pose that feller was able to keep paddlin' forever in the river, do yer? and jist so soon as he landed, jist so sure would one of them Sioux find the spot where he touched land, and foller him to his hole." "Begorrah, if wees had only thought of that!" "A Sioux is as cunning a red-skin as I ever found, and it's jist my opine every one of 'em _did_ think of that same thing, but they didn't try it for fear they might catch the varmint! They knew their man, rest assured o' that." Teddy looked up as if he did not comprehend the meaning of the last remark. "'Cordin' to yer own showin', one of them infarnal copper-gals was at the bottom of the hull business, and it's like as not the men knowed about it, too, and didn't _want_ to catch the gal!" "There's where yees are mightily mistook, as Pat McGuire said whin his landlord called him honest, for ivery one of them same chocolate-colored gintlemen would have done their bist for Master Harvey. They would have cut that thaif's wizzen wid a mighty good will, I knows." "Mebbe so, but I don't believe it!" said the hunter, with an incredulous shake of his head. "Would ye have me give up the s'arch altogether?" "Can't say that I would; howsumever, the chance is small, and ye'd better go west with me, and spend the winter in l'arning how to trap fur beaver and otter." "What good might result from that?" "None, as I knows on." "Then it's meself that thanks yees for the offer and respectfully declines to accept the nomination. I'll jist elict meself to the office of sheriff an' go about these regions wid a s'arch-warrint in my shoes that'll niver let me rist until Miss Cora is found." "Wal, I 'spose we'll part in the mornin' then. As yer say this are the first time you've got as fur north, I'll say I think you're nearer the trail than yer ever war yit." "What might be the reason for that?" eagerly asked Teddy. "I can't say what it is, only I kind o' feel it in my bones. Thar's a tribe of copperskins about a hundred miles to the north'ard, that I'll lay can tell yer _somethin'_ about the gal." "Indians? An' be what token would they be acquaint with her?" "They're up near the Hudson Bay Territory line, and be a harmless kind of people. I stayed among 'em two winters and found 'em a harmless lot o' simpletons that wouldn't hurt a hair o' yer head. Thar's allers a lot of white people staying among 'em." "I fails yit to see what they could be doing with Miss Cora." "Mind I tells yer only what I _thinks_--not what I _knows_. It's my private opine, then, that that hunter has took the gal up among them Injins, and they're both living thar. If that be so, you needn't be afeard to go right among 'em, for the only thing yer'll have to look out fur will be the same old hunter himself." This remark made a deep impression upon Teddy. He sat smoking his pipe, and gazing into the glowing embers, as if he could there trace out the devious, and thus far invisible, trail that had baffled him so long. It must be confessed that the search of the Hibernian thus far had been carried on in a manner that could hardly be expected to insure success. He had spent weeks in wandering through the woods, sleeping upon the ground or in the branches of some tree, fishing for awhile in some stream, or hunting for game--impelled onward all the time by his unconquerable resolve to find Cora Richter and return her to her husband. On the night that the five Sioux returned to the village, and announced their abandonment of the pursuit, Teddy told the missionary that he should never see him again, until he had gained some tidings of his beloved mistress, or had become assured that there could be no hope of her recovery. How long this peculiar means of hunting would have gone on, it is impossible to tell, but most probably until Teddy himself had perished, for there was not the shadow of a chance of his gaining any information of the lost one. His meeting with the trapper was purely accidental, and the hint thrown out by the latter was the reason of setting the fellow to work in the proper way. The conversation was carried on for an hour or so longer, during which the trapper gave Teddy more advice, and told him the best manner of reaching the tribe to which he referred. He cautioned him especially against delaying his visit any longer, as the northern winter was almost upon them, and should he be locked in the wilderness by it, it would be almost impossible for him to survive its rigor; but if he should be among the tribe, he could rest in security and comfort until the opening of spring. Teddy concluded to do as his companion advised, and, after more unimportant conversation, both stretched themselves out by the camp-fire and slept. Just as the earliest light was breaking through the trees, the trapper was on his feet, rekindling the fire. Finding, after this was completed, that Teddy still slumbered, he brought him to his senses by several forcible applications of his foot. "Begorrah, it's meself that's thinking yees 'av a mighty gintle way of coming upon one unawares, barring it's the same as a kick from a wild horse. I was dr'aming jist thin of a blast of powder in a stone quarry, which exploded under me feet, an' sint me up in the ship's rigging, an' there I hung by the eaves until a lovely girl pulled me in at the front door and shut it so hard that the chinking all fell out of the logs, and woke me out of me pleasint delusions." The trapper stared at the Irishman incredulously, thinking him demented. Teddy's gaping and rubbing of his eyes with his fists, and, finally, his stretching of arms and legs, reassured Tim of the fellow's sanity, and he added: "If yer hadn't woke just now, I'd tried ef lammin' yer over the head would've done any good." "Yees might have done that, as long as ye plaised, fur me sconce got used to being cracked at the fairs in the owld country." "I thought yer allers lived in this country." "Not always, or how could I be an Irishman? God plaise I may niver live here long enough to forgit owld Ireland, the Gim of the Sea. What's the matter with yees now?" The trapper having wandered a few yards from the camp-fire, had paused suddenly and stood gazing at the ground. Teddy was obliged to repeat his question. "What is it yees have diskivered?" "Sign, or ye may shoot me." "Sign o' what?" "Injins, ye wood-head! What else could I mean?" Teddy now approached and narrowly examined the ground. His knowledge of wood-craft had been considerably increased during the past month or two, and he had no difficulty in distinguishing the imprint of a moccasin. "Look at the infarnal thing!" exclaimed the trapper, in disgust. "Who'd a thort there'd 've been any of the warmints about, whin we took sich pains with our fire. Why the chap didn't send a piece of cold lead into each of our bread-baskets is more nor I can tell. It would've sarved us both right." "P'raps thim tracks there was made fornenst the night, and that it's ourselves that was not here first." "Don't yer s'pose I know all about _that_?" demanded the trapper, savagely. "Them tracks was made not more'n three or four hours ago." As he spoke. Tim turned and followed it a rod or two, and then, as he came back, said: "If I had the time I'd foller it; but it goes just t'other way from what I want to go. I think like 'nough it leads to the village that you want to find; so if yer'd like one of 'em to introduce yer to the rest on 'em, drive ahead and make his acquaintance. Maybe he kin tell yer something about the gal." Teddy determined to follow the trail by all means. He partook of the morning meal with the trapper, exchanged a pleasant farewell, and then the two parted never to meet again. The footprints were distinct and easily followed. Teddy advanced with long, loping strides, at a gait considerably more rapid than his usual one. He indulged in curious reveries as he followed it, fancying it to be an unfriendly Indian with whom a desperate collision must inevitably take place, or some friendly member of the tribe, of whom the trapper had told him, that would prove a boon companion to him. All at once he reached a small, marshy tract, where the trail was much more palpable; and it was here that he either saw or fancied the toes of the footprints turned _outward_, thus demonstrating that, instead of an Indian, he was following a white man. The Hibernian's heart throbbed at the thought that he was upon the track of the strange hunter, with all probability of overtaking him. It caused his heart to throb violently to reflect how close he was upon the critical moment. Drawing a deep breath and closing his lips tightly, he pressed on ready for the conflict. The trail continued as distinct as ever, and the pursuit suffered no interruption until it entered a deep swamp into which Teddy hesitated to enter, its appearance was so dark and forbidding. As he gazed into its gloomy depths, he was almost certain that he had discovered the _home_ of the hunter. That at that moment the criminal was within its confines, where perhaps the beloved Cora was imprisoned, a miserable and pining captive. The thought maddened him, and he pressed forward so rashly that he soon found himself completely entrapped in a network of briers and brambles. Carefully withdrawing into the open wood, it suddenly occurred to him, that if the hunter had passed through the thicket, there was no earthly necessity of his doing it. He could pass around, and, if the footprints were seen upon the opposite side, it only remained to follow them, while, if they were not visible, it certified that he was still within the thicket and he could therefore shape his actions accordingly. Teddy therefore made his way with patience and care around one end of the thicket. He found the distance more considerable than he at first supposed. It was full an hour before he was fairly upon the opposite side. Here he made a careful search and was soon rewarded by finding unmistakable footprints, so that he considered it settled that the hunter had passed straight through the thicket. "It's a quaar being he is entirely, when it's meself that could barely git into the thicket, and he might have saved his hide by making a short thramp around, rather than plunging through in this shtyle." Teddy pressed on for two hours more, when he began to believe that he was close upon the hunter, who must have traveled without intermission to have eluded him thus far. He therefore maintained a strict watch, and advanced with more caution. The woods began to thicken, and the Hibernian was brought to a stand-still by the sound of a rustling in the bushes. Proceeding some distance further, he came upon the edge of a bank or declivity, where he believed the strange hunter had laid down to rest. The footprints were visible upon the edge of the bank, and at the bottom of the latter was a mass of heavy undergrowth, so dense as effectually to preclude all observation of what might be concealed within it. It was in the shrubbery, directly beneath him, that Teddy believed the hunter lay. He must be wearied and exhausted, and no doubt was in a deep sleep. Teddy was sure, in his enthusiasm, that he had obtained a glimpse of the hunter's clothes through the interstices of the leaves, so that he could determine precisely the spot where he lay, and even the position of his body--so eagerly did the faithful fellow's wishes keep in advance of his senses. And now arose the all-important question as to what he should do. He might shoot him dead as he slept, and there is little question but what Teddy would have done it had he not been restrained by the simple question of expediency. The hunter was alone, and, if slain, all clue to the whereabouts of Mrs. Richter would be irrecoverably lost. What tidings that might ever be received regarding her, must come from the lips of him who had abducted her. If he could desperately wound the man, he might frighten him into a confession, but then Teddy feared instead of wounding him merely with his rifle, he would kill him altogether if he attempted to shoot. After a full half-hour's deliberation, Teddy decided upon his course of action. It was to spring knife in hand directly upon the face of the hunter, pin him to the ground and then force the confession from his lips, under a threat of his life, the Irishman mercifully resolving to slay him at any rate, after he had obtained all that was possible from him. Teddy did not forget his experience of a few months before when the hunter gave him an involuntary bath in the river. He therefore held his knife firmly in his right hand. Now that he had concluded what to do, he lost no time in carrying his plan into execution. He took a crouching position, such as is assumed by the panther when about to spring upon its prey, and then drawing his breath, he leaped downward. A yelping howl, an impetuous scratching and struggling of the furious mass that he attempted to inclose in his arms, told Teddy that instead of the hunter, he had pounced down upon an innocent, sleeping bear! It was well for the Irishman that the bear was peaceably inclined, else his search for the lost trail might have terminated then and there. The brute, after freeing itself from its incubus, sprung off and made all haste into the woods, leaving Teddy gazing after it in stupefied amazement. He rose to his feet, stared at the spot where it had last appeared and then drew a deep sigh, and sadly shook his head. "I say nothing! Be jabers! it's meself that can't do justice to the thame!" Harvey Richter stood in his cabin-door, about five months after his great loss, gazing off toward the path which led to the Indian village, and which he had traveled so many, many times. Sad and weary was his countenance, as he stood, at the close of the day, looking into the forest, as if he expected that it would speak and reveal what it knew of his beloved partner, who was somewhere concealed within its gloomy depths. Ah, how many an hour had he looked, but in vain. The forest refused to give back the lost, nor did it breathe one word of her, to ease the gloom which hung so heavily upon his soul. A footfall caught his ear, and turning, he saw Teddy standing before him. The face of the Irishman was as dejected as his own, and the widowed man knew there was scarce need of the question: "Have you heard anything, Teddy?" "Nothing, sir, saving that nothing is to be learnt." "Not my will, but thine, oh God, be done!" exclaimed the missionary, reverently, and yet with a wailing sadness, that proved how unutterable was his woe. CHAPTER VIII. THE TRAIL OF DEATH. These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence; Therefore, I pray you, stay not to discourse, But mount you presently.--SHAKESPEARE. The trapper, after separating from the Irishman, pursued his way through the woods with a slow tread, as if he were deliberating some matter with himself. Occasionally he muttered and shook his head, in a manner that showed his conscience was getting the better of the debate, whatever it might be. Finally he paused. "Yas, sir; it's a mean piece of business in me. 'Cause I want to cotch a few beavers I must let this gal be, when she has been lost to her husband already for three months. It's ongenerous, and _can't be done_!" he exclaimed, emphatically. "What if I does lose a few peltries when they're bringing such a good price down in St. Louey? Can't I afford to do it, when there's a gal in the matter?" He resumed his walk as slowly and thoughtfully as before, muttering to himself. "If I go, I goes alone; least I don't go with that Teddy, for he'd be sartin to lose my ha'r as sure as we got onto a trail. There's no calc'latin' the blunders of _such_ a man. How he has saved his own scalp to this time is more nor I can tell, or himself neither, for that matter, I guess. I've been on many a trail-hunt alone, and if I goes--if I goes, why, _in course_ I does!" he added, impetuously. The resolution once taken seemed to afford him unusual pleasure, as it does with us all when the voice of conscience is a monitor that is heeded. He was tramping toward the west, and now that the matter was decided in his own mind, he paused again, as if he could better debate other matters that must in the circumstances necessarily present themselves. "In the first place, there's no use of going any further on _this_ track, for I ain't gettin' any nigher the gal, that's pretty sartin. From what that Teddy told me of his travels, it can't be that she's anywhere in these parts, for if she war, he couldn't have helped l'arning something of her in all this time. There's a tribe up north that I've heard was great on gettin' hold of white gals, and I think I'll make a s'arch in that direction afore I does anything else." Nothing more remained for Tim but to carry out the resolution he had made, and it was characteristic of the man that he did it at once. Five minutes after the above words had been muttered, he was walking rapidly along in a northern direction, his rifle thrown over his arm, and a beaming expression of countenance that showed there were no regrets at the part he was acting. He had a habit of talking with himself, especially when some weighty or unusual matter obtruded itself. It is scarcely to be wondered, therefore, that he became quite talkative at the present time. "I allers admire such adventur's as this, if they don't bring in anything more nor thanks. The style in which I've received them is allers worth more money nor I ever made trapping beavers. The time I cotched that little gal down on the Osage, that had been lost all summer, I thought her mother would eat me up afore she'd let me go. I believe I grinned all day and all night for a week after that, it made me think I was such a nice feller. Maybe it'll be the same way with this. Hello!" The trapper paused abruptly, for on the ground before him he saw the unmistakable imprint of a moccasin. A single glance of his experienced eye assured him upon that point. "That there are Injins in these parts is a settled p'int with me, and that red and white blood don't agree is another p'int that is settled. That track wasn't made there more nor two hours ago, and it's pretty sartin the one that made it ain't fur away at this time. It happens it leads to the north'ard, and it'll be a little divarsion to foller it, minding at the same time that there's an Injin in it." For the present the trapper was on a trail, and he kept it with the skill and certainty of a hound. Over the dry leaves, the pebbly earth, the fresh grass, the swampy hollow--everywhere, he followed it with unerring skill. "That Injin has been on a hunt," he muttered, "and is going back home agin. If it keeps in this direction much longer, I'll believe he's from the very village I'm hunting after. Heigh! there's something else up!" He suddenly checked himself and began snuffing the air, as though it was tainted with something suspicious. "I hope I may be shot if there ain't a camp-fire within two hundred yards of where I am standing." He looked sharply around in every direction, but saw nothing of the camp, although positive that his olfactories could not have deceived him. "Whether it belongs to white or red can't be said, _sartin_; but it's a great deal most likely that it's red, and it's just about as sartin that that Injin ahead of me has gone pretty close to the camp, so I'll keep on follering him." A short distance further he became assured that he was in close proximity to the fire, and he began to use extreme caution in his movements. He knew very well how slight an inadvertence would betray his approach, and a betrayal was almost fatal. Advancing some distance further, he suddenly came in full view of the camp-fire. He saw three Indians seated around it, smoking, and appearing as if they had just finished their morning meal. It seemed, also, as if they were discussing some matter that deeply interested all. The mumbling of their voices could be heard, and one of them gesticulated quite freely, as though he were excited over the conference. There was not even the most remote possibility that what they were saying was of the least concern to the trapper; and so, after watching them a few moments, he moved cautiously by. It was rarely that Tim ever had a mishap at such perilous times as these, but to his dismay something caught his foot so dextrously, that in spite of himself he was thrown flat upon his face. There was a dull thump, not very loud, it is true, but he feared it had reached the ears of the savages. He lay motionless, listening for a while, but hearing nothing of their voices or footsteps, he judged that either they had no suspicion of the true cause, or else had not heard him at all. He therefore rose to his feet and moved on, occasionally glancing back, to be sure he was not pursued. The trapper proceeded in this manner until noon. Had the case been urgent, he would not have paused until nightfall, as his indurated muscles demanded no rest; he could go a couple of days without nourishment, and experience little inconvenience. But there was no call for haste. He therefore paused at noon, on the banks of a small stream, in quest of some water-fowl. Tim gazed up and down-stream, but saw nothing that would serve as a dinner. He could have enticed a fish or two from their element, but he had set his heart upon partaking of a bird, and was not willing to accept anything else. Accordingly, he began walking down the bank of the creek in search of one. In such a country as was Minnesota forty years ago, the difficult matter would have been to _avoid_ game rather than to find it. The trapper had searched but a short distance, when he caught sight of a single ptarmigan under the opposite bank. In a twinkling Tim's rifle was raised, and, as it flashed forth its deadly messenger, the bird made a single struggle, and then floated, a dead object, down the current. Although rather anxious for his prize, the trapper, like many a hunter since that day, was not willing to receive a wet skin so long as it was possible to avoid it. The creek could be only of inconsiderable depth, yet, on such a blustering day, he felt a distaste toward exposing himself to its chilling clasp. Some distance below he noticed the creek narrowed and made a curve. At this point he hoped to draw it in shore with a stick, and he lost no time in hurrying to the point. Arrived there, the trapper stood on the very margin of the water, with a long stick in hand, waiting for the opportune moment. He naturally kept his eye upon the floating bird, as any animal watches the prey that he is confident is coming directly into his clutches. From the opposite bank projected a large, overhanging bush, and such was the bird's position in the water, that it was compelled to float within a foot, at least, of this. Tim's eyes happened to be fixed intently upon it at this moment, and, at the very instant it was at the point named, he saw a person's hand flash out, seize the ptarmigan by the neck, and bring it in to shore in a twinkling. Indignation upon the part of the trapper was perhaps as great as his surprise. He raised his rifle, and had it already sighted at the point where he was confident the body of the thief must be concealed, when a second thought caused him to lower his piece, and hurry up-stream, to a spot directly opposite where the bird had disappeared. Here he searched the shore narrowly, but could detect no sign of the presence of any person. That there was, or had at least been, one there, needed no further confirmation. The trapper was in no mood to put up with the loss of his dinner, and he considered it rather a point of honor that he should bring the offending savage to justice. That it was an Indian he did not doubt, but he never once suspected, what was true, that it was the identical one he had been following, and who had passed his camp-fire. In a few moments he found a shallow portion of the creek across which he immediately waded and made his way down the bank, to where the Indian had first manifested his presence. Here the keen eye of Tim at once detected moccasin prints, and he saw that the savage had departed with his prize. There was no difficulty in following the trail, and the trapper did so, with his long, loping, rapid walk. It happened to lead straight to the northward, so that he felt it was no loss of time for him to do so. It was morally certain the savage could be at no great distance; hence the pursuer was cautious in his advance. The American Indian would rather seek than avoid an encounter, and he was no foe to be despised in a hand-to-hand contest. The trapper was in that mood that he would not have hesitated to encounter two of them in deadly combat for the possession of the bird which was properly his own, and which he was not willing to yield until compelled to do so by physical force. About a hundred rods brought the trapper to a second creek of larger size than the first. The trail led directly into this, so he followed without hesitation. Before doing so, he took the precaution to sling his rifle to his back, so that his arms should be disencumbered in any sudden emergency. The creek proved to be of considerable depth, but not sufficient to cause him to swim. Near the center, when it was up to his armpits, and he was feeling every foot of the way as he advanced, he chanced by accident to raise his head. As he did so, he caught a movement among the undergrowth, and more from habit than anything else, dodged his head. The involuntary movement allowed the bullet that was discharged at that moment to pass harmlessly over his crown and bury itself in the bank beyond. The next instant the trapper dashed through the water, reaching the shore before the savage could reload. To his disappointment and chagrin, the Indian was gone. Tim, however, was not to be baffled in this manner, and dashed on as impetuously as before. He was so close that he could hear the fugitive as he fled, but the nature of the ground prevented rapid progress upon the part of either, and it was impossible to tell for a time who it was that was gaining. "There's got to be an end to this race _some time_," muttered Tim, "or I'll chase you up the north pole. You've stole my dinner, and tried to steal my topknot, and now you shall have it or I shall have yours." For some time this race (which in many respects resembled that of Teddy and the strange hunter) continued, until the trapper found it was himself that was really losing ground, and he sullenly came down to a walk again. Still, he held to the trail with the unremitting perseverance of the bloodhound, confident that, sooner or later, he must come up with the fugitive. All at once, something upon the ground caught his eye. It was the ptarmigan, and he sprung exultingly forward and picked it up. It was unharmed by the Indian, and he looked upon it as a tacit surrender, on the part of his adversary, of the matter of dispute between them. At first Tim was disposed to keep up the pursuit; but, on second thought, he concluded to partake of his dinner, and then continue his search for his human game. In order to enjoy his dinner it was necessary to have it cooked, and he busied himself for a few moments in collecting a few dried sticks, and plucking the feathers from the fowl and dressing it. While thus occupied, he did not forget to keep his eyes about him, and to be prepared for the Indian in case he chose to come back. He discovered nothing suspicious, however, and came to believe there was no danger at all. At length, when the afternoon was well advanced, the trapper's dinner was prepared. He took the fowl from the blaze, and cutting a piece with his hunting-knife, was in the very act of placing it in his mouth, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and he fell backward, pierced through the body by the bullet of the Indian whom he had been pursuing. "It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out at last, and must go under!" [Illustration: "It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out at last, and must go under!"] The Lost Trail had been the means of Tim, the trapper, discovering what proved to him _the trail of death!_ CHAPTER IX. THE DEAD SHOT. And now 'tis still I no sound to wake The primal forest's awful shade; And breathless lies the covert brake, Where many an ambushed form is laid. I see the red-man's gleaming eye, Yet all so hushed, the gloom profound, That summer birds flit heedlessly, And mocking nature smiles around.--LUNT. Five years have passed. It is the summer of 1825. In that comparatively brief period, what vast changes have taken place! How many have come upon and departed from the stage of life! How many plans, intentions and resolutions have been formed and either failed or succeeded! How many governments have toppled to the earth, and followed by "those that in their turn shall follow them." What a harvest it has been for Death! The missionary's cabin stands on the Clearing where it was first erected, and there is little change in its outward appearance, save that perhaps it has been more completely isolated from the wood. The humble but rather massive structure is almost impervious to the touch of time. It is silent and deserted within. Around the door plays a little boy, the image of his mother, while some distance away, under the shadow of the huge tree, sits the missionary himself. One leg is thrown over the other, an open book turned with its face downward upon his lap, while his hands are folded upon it, and he is looking off toward the wood in deep abstraction of thought. Time has not been so gentle with Harvey Richter. There are lines upon his face, and a sad, wearied expression that does not properly belong there. It would have required full fifteen years, in the ordinary course of events, to have bowed him in this manner. The young man--for he is still such--and his little boy are the only ones who now dwell within the cabin. No tidings or rumors have reached him of the fate of his wife, who was so cruelly taken from him four years before. The faithful Teddy is still searching for her. The last two winters he has spent at home, but each summer he has occupied in wandering hither and thither through the great wilderness, in his vain searching for the lost trail. Cast down and dejected, he has never yet entirely abandoned hope of finding traces of her. He had followed out the suggestion of the trapper, and visited the Indians that dwelt further north, where he was informed that nothing whatever was known of the missing woman. Since that time his search had been mostly of an aimless character, which, as we have already stated, could be productive of no definite results. The missionary had become, in a degree, resigned to his fate; and yet, properly speaking, he could not be said to be resigned, for he was not yet convinced that she was entirely lost to him. All traces of the strange hunter seemed irrecoverably gone, but Richter still devoutly believed the providence of God would adjust everything in due time. It is true, at seasons, he was filled with doubt and misgiving; but his profession, his devotedness to his work, brought him in such close communion with his divine Master that he trusted fully in his providences. On this summer afternoon, thoughts of his wife and of the strange hunter occupied his mind more exclusively than they had for a year past. So constant and preoccupying, indeed, were they, that he once or twice believed he was on the eve of learning something regarding her. While engaged in reading, the figures of his wife and the hunter would obtrude themselves; he found it impossible to dismiss them, so he had laid down the book and gone off into this absorbing reverie. An additional fear or presentiment at times haunted the mind of the missionary. He believed this hunter who could resort to such diabolical means to revenge himself, would seek to inflict further injury upon him, and he instinctively looked upon his boy as the vulnerable point where the blow would be likely to fall. For over a year, while Teddy was absent, Richter had taken the boy with him, when making his daily visits to the village, and made it a point never to lose sight of him. During these years of loneliness, also, Harvey Richter had hunted a great deal in the woods and had attained remarkable skill in the use of the rifle--an accomplishment for which he had reason to be thankful for the remainder of his life, as we shall presently see. On a pleasant afternoon, he frequently employed himself in shooting at a target, or at small game in the lofty trees around him, until his aim became so unerring that not a warrior among the Sioux could excel him. It may seem singular, but our readers will understand us when we say that this added to his popularity--and, in a manner, paved a way for reaching many a heart that hitherto had remained unmoved by his appeals. The year preceding, an Indian had presented the missionary with a goat, to the neck of which was attached a large cow-bell, that probably had been obtained of some trader. Where the animal came from, however, he had never been able to tell. It was a very acceptable present, as it became a companion for his Charley, who spent many and many an hour in sporting with it. It also afforded for a while a much-valued luxury in the shape of milk, so that the missionary came to regard the animal as an indispensable requirement in his household. The goat acquired a troublesome habit of wandering off in the woods, with an inclination not to return for several days. From this cause the bell became useful as a signal to indicate the animal's whereabouts. It rarely wandered beyond hearing, and caused no more trouble than would have resulted from a cow under the same circumstances. For the last few weeks it had been the duty, or rather privilege, of Charley to bring his playmate home, and the child had become so expert that the father had little hesitation in permitting him to go out for it. The parent had misgivings, however, in allowing him to leave the house, so near dark, to go beyond his sight if not beyond his hearing; and for some time he had strenuously refused to permit the boy to go upon his errand; but the little fellow plead so earnestly, and the father's ever-present apprehensions having gradually dulled by their want of realization, he had given his reluctant consent, until it came to be considered the special province of the boy to bring in the goat every evening just before nightfall. The afternoon wore away, and still the missionary sat with folded hands, gazing absently off in the direction of the wood. The boy at length aroused him by running up and asking: "Father, it is getting late. Isn't it time to bring Dolly home?" "Yes, my son; do you hear the bell?" "Listen!" The pleasant _tink-a-link_ came with faint distinctness over the still summer air. "It isn't far away, my son; so run as fast as you can and don't play or loiter on the way." The child ran rapidly across the Clearing in the direction of the sound, shot into the wood, and, a moment later, had disappeared from his father's sight. The father still sat in his seat, and was looking absently toward the forest, when a startled expression flashed over his face and he sprung to his feet. What thus alarmed him? _It was the sound of the goat-bell._ All of my readers who have heard the sound of an ordinary cow-bell suspended to the neck of an animal, have observed that the natural sound is an _irregular one_--that is, there is no system or regularity about the sound made by an animal in cropping the grass or herbage. There is the clapper's tink-a-link, tink-a-link--an interval of silence--then the occasional tink, tink, tink, to be followed, perhaps, by a repetition of the first-named sounds, varied occasionally by a compound of all, caused by the animal flinging its head to free itself from troublesome flies or mosquitoes. The bell in question, however, gave no such sounds _as these_, and it was this fact which filled the missionary with a sudden, terrible dread. Suppose a person take one of these bells in his hand, and give a steady, _uninterrupted_ motion. The consequence must be a regular, unvarying, monotonous sound, which any ear can distinguish from the natural one caused by the animal itself. It was a steady tink, tink, tink, that the bell in question sent forth. The missionary stood but a moment; then dashing into the house, he took down his ever-loaded rifle and ran in the direction of the sound. In his hurry, he forgot powder-horn and bullet, and had, as a consequence, but a single charge in his rifle. He had gone scarcely a hundred yards, when he encountered the goat returning home. One glance showed there was _no bell_ to its neck, while that ominous tink, tink, tink, came through the woods as uninterruptedly as before. The father now broke into a swifter run, almost losing his presence of mind from his great, agonizing fear. The picture of the Indian, whom he had felled to the floor, when he insulted his wife years before, rose before him, and he saw his child already struggling in the savage's merciless grasp. Nearer and nearer he approached the sound, until he suddenly paused, conscious that it was but a short distance away. Hurrying stealthily but rapidly several rods to the right, the whole thing was almost immediately made plain to him. Two trees, from some cause or other, had fallen to the ground in a parallel direction and within a yard of each other. Between the trunks of these an Indian was crouched, who held the goat-bell in his left hand, and caused the sound which so startled the father. The savage had his back turned toward the missionary, and appeared to be looking in the opposite direction, as if he were waiting the appearance of some one. While the father stood gazing at this, he saw his boy come to view about fifty feet the other side of the Indian, and, as if wearied with his unusual hunt, seat himself upon a log. As soon as the boy was visible, the savage--whom Richter recognized at once as the same man that he had felled to the floor of his cabin, four years before--called into use a little common sense, which, if it had been practised somewhat sooner, must have completely deluded the father and accomplished the design meditated. If, instead of giving the bell the monotonous tink, the Indian had shaken the clapper irregularly, it would have resulted in the certain capture of the child, beyond the father's power of aid or rescue. The missionary, we say, penetrated the design of the Indian almost instantly. Although he saw nothing but the head and top of one shoulder, he recognized, with a quick instinct, the villain who had felt the weight of his hand years before, and who had now come in the fullness of time, to claim his revenge. Directly in front of the savage rose a small bush, which, while it gave him a view of the boy, concealed himself from the child's observation. The object of the Indian seemed to be to lure the boy within his reach, so as to secure him without his making an outcry or noise. If he could draw him close to the logs, he would spring upon him in an instant, and prevent any scream, which assuredly must reach the father, who, with his unerring rifle would have been upon the ground in a few moments. It was an easy matter for the savage to slay the boy. It would not have done to shoot his rifle, but he could have tomahawked him in an instant; hence it was plain that he desired only to take him prisoner. He might have sprung upon his prey in the woods, but there he ran the risk of being seen by the child soon enough for him to make an outcry, which would not fail of bringing immediate assistance. His plan, therefore, was, to beguile the little fellow on until he had walked directly into the snare, as a fly is lured into the web of a spider. This, we say, was the plan of the Indian. It had never entered into his calculations that the goat, after being robbed of her bell, might go home and tell a tale, or that there were other ways in which the boy could be secured, without incurring half the peril he already had incurred. The moment the father comprehended what we have endeavored to make plain, he raised his rifle, with the resolve to shoot the savage through the head. As he did so, he recalled the fact that he had but a single charge, and that, as a consequence, a miss would be the death-warrant of himself as well as of his child. But he knew his eye and hand would never fail him. His finger already pressed the trigger, when he was restrained by an unforeseen impediment. While the deadly rifle was poised, the boy stretched himself up at full length, a movement which made known to the father that his child was exactly in range with the Indian himself, and that a bullet passing through the head of the savage could not fail to bury itself in the little fellow's body. This startling circumstance arrested the pressure of the trigger at the very moment the ball was to be sped upon its errand of death. The missionary sunk down upon one knee, with the intention of bringing the head of the savage so high as to carry the bullet over the body of his boy, but this he found could not be done without too seriously endangering his aim. He drew a bead from one side of the tree, and then from the other, but from both stand-points the same dreadful danger threatened. The ground behind the tree was somewhat elevated, and was the only spot from which he could secure a fair view of the bronze head of the relentless enemy. Two resorts were at the command of Richter. He could leave the tree altogether, and pass around so as to come upon the savage from a different direction; but this involved delay during which his boy might fall into the Indian's power and be dispatched, as he would be sure to do when he found that the father was close at hand; and from the proximity of the two men, it could hardly fail to precipitate a collision between them. The Indian, finding himself at bay, could not fail to prove a most troublesome and dangerous customer, unarmed, as Richter was, with weapons for a close encounter. The father might also wait until the boy should pass out of range. Still, there was the possibility of his proceeding directly up to the spot where the savage lurked, thus keeping in range all the while. Then the attempted rescue would have to be deferred until the child was in the hands of the savage. These considerations, passing through Richter's brain much more rapidly than we have narrated them, decided him to abandon both plans, and to resort to what, beyond question, was a most desperate expedient. The Indian held the bell in his left hand. It was suspended by the string which had clasped the neck of the goat, and, as it swayed gently back and forth, this string slowly twisted and untwisted itself, the bell, of course, turning back and forth. The father determined to slay the Indian and save his son by _shooting this bell_! It is not necessary to describe the shape and make of the common cow-bell in general use throughout our country; but it is necessary that the reader should bear them in mind in order to understand the manner in which the missionary proposed to accomplish this result. His plan was to strike the bell when in the proper position, and _glance the bullet into the head of the savage_! The desperate nature of this expedient will be seen at once. Should the gun be discharged when the flat side of the bell was turned toward him, the ball would pass through, and most probably kill his child without endangering the life of the Indian. If it struck the narrow side, it accomplished neither harm nor good; while, if fired at the precise moment, and still aimed but an inch too low, the bell would most likely be perforated. Consequently, it was requisite that the rifle be discharged at the precise instant of time when the signal brass was in the correct position, and that the aim should be infallibly true. All this Richter realized only too painfully; but, uttering an inward prayer, he raised his rifle with a nerve that knew no faltering or fear, holding it pointed until the critical moment should arrive. That moment would be when the string was wound up, and was turning, to unwind. Then, as it was almost stationary, he fired. No sound or outcry betrayed the result; but, clubbing his rifle, the father bounded forward, over the trees, to the spot where the Indian was crouching. There he saw him in his death-struggle upon the ground the bell still held fast in his hand. In that critical moment, Harvey Richter could not forbear glancing at it. Its top was indented, and sprinkled with white by the glancing passage of the lead. The blood, oozing down the face of the savage, plainly showed how unerringly true had been the aim. Something in the upward look of the dying man startled the missionary. "Harvey Richter--don't you know me?" he gasped. [Illustration: "Harvey Richter--don't you know me?" he gasped.] "I know you as a man who has sought to do me a wrong that only a fiend could have perpetrated. Great Heaven! Can it be? Is this you, Brazey Davis?" "Yes; but you've finished me, so there isn't much left." "Are you the man, Brazey, who has haunted me ever since we came in this country? Are you the person who carried away poor, dear Cora?" "Yes--yes!" answered the man, with fainting weariness. Such, indeed, was the case. The strange hunter and the Indian known as Mahogany were one and the same person. "Brazey, why have you haunted me thus, and done me this great wrong?" "I cannot tell. When I thought how you took her from me, it made me crazy when I thought about it. I wanted to take her from you, but I wouldn't have dared to do that if you hadn't struck me. I wanted revenge then." "What have you done with her?" "She is gone, I haven't seen her since the day after I seized her, when a band of Indians took her from me, and went up north with her. They have got her yet, I know, for I have kept watch over her, and she is safe, but is a close prisoner." This he said with great difficulty. "Brazey, you are dying. I forgive you. But does your heart tell you you are at peace with Him whom you have offended so grievously?" "It's too late to talk of that now. It might have done years ago, when I was an honest man like yourself, and before I became a vagabond, bent on injuring one who had never really injured me." "It is never too late for God to forgive--" "Too late--too late, I tell you! _There!_" He rose upon his elbow, his eyes burning with insane light and his hand extended. "I see her--she is coming, her white robes floating on the air. Oh, God, forgive me that I did her the great wrong! But, she smiles upon me--she forgives me! I thank thee, angel of good----" He sunk slowly backward, and Harvey Richter eased the head softly down upon the turf. Brazey Davis was no more. CHAPTER X. CONCLUSION. Heart leaps to heart--the sacred flood That warms us is the same; That good old man--his honest blood Alike we frankly claim.--SPRAGUE. The missionary gazed sadly upon the inanimate form before him. He saw the playmate of his childhood stricken down in death by his own hand, which never should have taken human life, and although the act was justifiable under the circumstances, the good man could but mourn the painful necessity that occasioned it. The story, although possessing tragic interest, was a brief one. Brazey Davis, as he had always been termed, was a few years older than himself, and a native of the same neighborhood. He was known in childhood as one possessing a vindictive spirit that could never forgive an injury--as a person who would not hesitate at any means to obtain revenge. It so happened that he became desperately enamored of the beautiful Cora Brandon, but becoming aware, at length, that she was the betrothed of Harvey Braisted, the young missionary in embryo, the disappointed lover left the country, and was never heard of by the missionary until he made himself known in the singular manner that we have related at the opening of our narrative. He had, in fact, come to be a sort of monomaniac, who delighted in annoying his former rival, and in haunting his footsteps as if he were his evil shadow. The abduction of his wife had not been definitely determined upon until that visit to the cabin, in the garb and paint of an Indian, when he received the tremendous blow that almost drove the life from his body. Davis then resolved to take the revenge which would "cut" the deepest. How well he succeeded, the reader has learned. The missionary's child stood pleading for an explanation of the strange scene before him. Loosening the bell from the grasp of the dead man, the minister took the little hand, and, with a heart overflowing with emotion, set out for his cabin. It was his wish to give the hunter a Christian burial; but, for the present, it was impossible. These dying words rung in his ears: "The Indians took her from me, and went up north with her, where she now is, _and safe_!" Blessed thought! She was then living, and was yet to be restored to his arms. The shadow of death passed away, and a great light illuminated his very being. The lost was found! When the missionary came to be more collected, he concluded that this must be the tribe of which Teddy had once spoken, but which had been visited by him without success. The prize was too great to be intrusted in the hands of another, and Harvey determined to make the search in person, to settle, if possible, once and forever, the fate of his beloved wife. He soon proceeded to the Indian village, where he left his boy and gave notice that he should not be back for several days. He then called one of the most trusty and skillful warriors aside, and asked for his company upon the eventful journey. The savage cheerfully complied, and the two set out at once. It was a good distance to the northward, and when night came down upon them, many miles yet remained to be passed. There was little fear of disturbance from enemies, and both lay down and slept until daylight, when they were immediately on their way again. This journey through the northern wilderness was unvaried by any event worthy of record, and the details would be uninteresting to the reader. Suffice it to say that, just as the fourth day was closing in, they struck a small stream, which pursued a short distance, brought them directly upon the village for which they had been searching. The advent of the Indian and missionary among them created considerable stir, but they were treated with respect and consideration. Harvey Richter asked immediately for the chief or leading man, and shortly stood in his presence. He found him a short, thick-set half-breed, whose age must have been well-nigh three-score years, and who, to his astonishment, was unable to speak English, although many of his subjects spoke it quite intelligibly. He understood Sioux, however, and the missionary's companion acted as interpreter. Our friend made a full statement of his wife's abduction, years before, and of the assertion of the dying man that she had been taken from him by members of this tribe, who had retained her ever since. The chief waited sometime before replying; he seemed debating with himself as to the proper course to pursue. Finally he said he must consult with one of his warriors, and departed abruptly from the lodge. Ten minutes later, while the missionary, with a painfully-throbbing heart, was gazing around the lodge, with that minute scrutiny of the most trifling objects peculiar to us at such times, he caught the sound of returning footsteps, and turned to the lodge door. There stood the Indian, and, directly beside him, his own lost Cora! The next day at noon, a camp-fire might have been seen some miles south of the northern village of which we have made mention. An Indian was engaged in cooking a piece of meat, while the missionary and his reclaimed jewel, sitting side by side, her head reclining upon his shoulder and his hand dallying with her hair, were holding delightful communion. She looked pale and somewhat emaciated, for these years of absence had indeed been fraught with suffering; but the old sweet look had never departed. It was now changed into an expression of perfect joy. The wife's great anxiety was to reach home and see the child she had left an infant, but who was now a frolicksome boy, and she could hardly consent to pause even when night overtook them, and her lagging limbs told her husband how exhausted she had become. Cora never had suspected the identity of the Indian and the hunter, until on that sad day when he sprung from behind the cabin and hurried her off into the wood. There was something, however, in his look, when he first felt the weight of her husband's blow, that never left her remembrance. While hurrying her swiftly through the wood he said nothing at all, and at night, while she pretended to sleep, he watched by the camp-fire. It was the light of this fire which had puzzled Teddy so much. On the succeeding day the abductor reached the river and embarked in his canoe. A half-hour later he leaned over the canoe and washed the paint from his face and made himself known in his true character, as Brazey Davis, her former lover. He had scarcely done so, when an Indian canoe rounded a bend in the river, and, despite his earnest protestations, the savages took the captive from him, and carried her with them to their village, where she had been ever since. Retained very closely, as all prisoners among Indians are, she had heard nothing of Teddy's visit. She was treated with kindness, as the destined wife of a young chief; but the suit for her consent never was pressed by the chief, as it is in an Indian's code of honor never to force a woman to a distasteful marriage. The young brave, with true Indian pertinacity, could wait his time, confident that his kindness and her long absence from home would secure her consent to the savage alliance. She was denied nothing but her liberty, and her prayers to be returned to her husband and child. At this point in her narration, an exclamation from the Indian arrested attention. All listened and heard but a short distance away: "Begorrah, Teddy, it's yerself that's entitled to a wee bit of rist, as yees have been on a mighty long tramp, and hasn't diskivered anything but a country that is big enough to hide the Atlantic ocean in, wid Ireland on its bosom as a jewel. The chances are small of yees iver gitting another glimpse of heaven--that is, of Miss Cora's face. The darlint; if she's gone to heaven, then Teddy McFadden don't care how soon somebody else wears out his breeches--that is, on the presumption that St. Peter will say, 'Teddy, me lad, ye can inter an' make yerself at home, to be sure!'" The husband and wife glanced at each other significantly as the fellow rattled on. "Wait a moment," said Harvey, rising to his feet, and carefully making his way in the direction of the sound. It was curious that the Irishman should have paused for his noonday rest in such close proximity to our friends; but, he had learned from a trader who had recently visited the Red River country, that there _was_ a white woman, beyond all question, among the tribe in the north, and he was on his way to make them a second visit. The missionary found his servant seated by a tree. Teddy looked up as he heard a footstep. It seemed as if his eyes would drop from their sockets. His mouth opened wide, and he seemed, for the moment, confounded. Then he recovered his presence of mind in a measure, and proceeded to scratch his head vigorously. That, with him, ever was a sign of the clearing up of his ideas. "How do you do, Teddy?" at length the missionary said, after having enjoyed the poor fellow's confusion. "Faith, but ye sent the cold shivers over me. _Is_ it yerself, Mister Harvey, out in these woods, or is it yer ghost on the s'arch for Misthress Cora? I sometimes thinks me own ghost is out on the s'arch without me body, an' I shouldn't be surprised to maat it some day. But I'm mighty glad it's yerself an' not yer ghost, for, to till the thruth, I don't jist like ghosts--they makes a body feel so quare in the stomach." "Come with me; I have an Indian as company, and you may as well join us." The Hibernian followed, a few paces behind, continually expressing his astonishment at seeing his master so far away from home. He did not look up until they were within a few paces of the camp-fire, when Richter stepped from before him. "Save us! save us! but if there isn't the ghowst of Miss Cora come to haunt me for not finding her afore!" exclaimed Teddy, retreating a step or two in genuine terror. "Saint Patherick, Saint Pether, Saint Virgin Mary, protict me! I didn't mane to get dhrunk that day, ye know, nor to make a frind of--" "I am no ghost but my own self, Teddy, restored to my husband in safety. Can you not welcome me?" "Oorah! Oorah!" and he danced a moment in uncontrollable joy. Then he exclaimed: "God bliss yer own swate self!" taking her in his brawny arms. "God bliss you! No ghost, but yer own swate self. Oh, I feel like a blast of powder ready to go off!" And again he danced a singular commixture of the jig and cotillion, much to the Indian's amazement, for he thought him crazy. "I knew that I should look upon your face again; but, till me where it is yees have come from?" he finally subsided enough to ask. Teddy was soon made to understand all that related to the return of the young wife. When he learned that Mahogany, with whom he had so often drank and "hobnobbed," was only the hunter disguised, who was thus plotting his crime, the Irishman's astonishment can hardly be described. He was irritated, also, at his own stupidity. "That Teddy McFadden iver should have been so desaved by that rascal of purgatory!" he exclaimed; but, as the evil man had gone to the great tribunal above, there was no disposition, even in Teddy's heart, to heap curses on his memory. A few days more, and the three whites passed through the Indian village on their way to the Clearing. The joy of the savages at the return of their sweet, pale-faced sister was manifested in many ways, and she once feared they would never allow her to leave them and go to her own humble home. Finally, however, they reached the Clearing, and, as they walked side by side across it, opened the door and sat down within the cabin, and the fond mother took the darling boy in her lap, the wife and husband looked in each other's faces with streaming eyes, and murmured "Thank God! thank God!" THE END. * * * * * Reasons why you should obtain a Catalogue of our Publications 1. You will possess a comprehensive and classified list of all the best standard books published, at prices less than offered by others. 2. You will find listed in our catalogue books on every topic: Poetry, Fiction, Romance, Travel, Adventure, Humor, Science, History, Religion, Biography, Drama, etc., besides Dictionaries and Manuals, Bibles, Recitation and Hand Books, Sets, Octavos, Presentation Books and Juvenile and Nursery Literature in immense variety. 3. 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18352	----	[Illustration: "EVERY ONE HELD HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO SHOOT THE ESCAPING APACHES"] CAPTURED BY THE NAVAJOS BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS U.S.A. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1904, by HARPER & BROTHERS. CONTENTS CHAP. I. INTRODUCES THE BOYS II. ATTACKED BY NAVAJOS III. WARLIKE PUEBLOS IV. IN A NAVAJO TRAP V. A SIEGE AND AN AMBUSCADE VI. CROSSING THE RIVER VII. A SWOLLEN STREAM AND STOLEN PONY VIII. OVER THE DIVIDE--A CORPORAL MISSING IX. THE RESCUING PARTY X. THE CORPORALS ARE PROMOTED XI. BOTH PONIES ARE STOLEN XII. INDIANS ON THE WAR-PATH XIII. THE BOY SERGEANTS DO GOOD SERVICE XIV. ON THE DESERT WITHOUT WATER XV. THE PONIES ARE FOUND XVI. APACHES IN SKULL VALLEY XVII. PURSUIT OF THE APACHES XVIII. ON THE TRAIL OF THE APACHES XIX. THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP ILLUSTRATIONS "EVERY ONE HELD HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO SHOOT THE ESCAPING APACHES" Frontispiece "MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE" "CORPORAL HENRY ASKED CAPTAIN BAYARD TO INQUIRE FOR MANUEL PEREA" "'GOD HAS GIVEN ME AMONG MANY FRIENDS, TWO THAT ARE SOMETHING MORE'" CAPTURED BY THE NAVAJOS I INTRODUCES THE BOYS It was late in the fall of the second year of the civil war that I rejoined my company at Santa Fé, New Mexico, from detached service in the Army of the Potomac. The boom of the sunrise gun awoke me on the morning after my arrival, and I hastened to attend reveille roll-call. As I descended the steps of the officers' quarters the men of the four companies composing the garrison were forming into line before their barracks. Details from the guard, which had just fired the gun and hoisted the national colors, were returning to the guard-house, and the officers were hastening to their places. At the conclusion of the ceremony I turned again towards my quarters, and noticed two handsome boys, evidently aged about fifteen and thirteen, dressed in a modification of the infantry uniform of the army, and wearing corporals' chevrons. They stood near the regimental adjutant, and seemed to be reporting their presence to him. At breakfast, the adjutant chancing to sit near me, I asked him who the youthful soldiers were. "They are the sons of Lieutenant-Colonel Burton, Corporals Frank and Henry," he replied. "They hold honorary rank, and are attached to head-quarters, acting as messengers and performing some light clerical work." "How do they happen to be in Santa Fé?" "Mother recently died in the East, and the colonel had them sent here in charge of a tutor who is to fit them for college, I believe." Later, on the same day, being desirous of looking over this ancient Indian and Mexican town, I was making a pedestrian tour of its streets, and chanced to be opposite San Miguel School in the eastern section during the pupils' recess. Half a dozen boys were engaged in throwing the lasso over the posts of the enclosing fence, when suddenly from a side street appeared the young corporals whom I had seen at reveille. The Mexican boys instantly greeted them with derisive shouts and jeers. They called them little Gringos and other opprobrious names, and one young Mexican threw the loop of his lasso over the smaller corporal's head and jerked him off his feet. His companions laughed loudly. The older corporal instantly pulled out his knife and cut the rope. Then the two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the crowd, quite ready to defend themselves. The young Mexicans, gesticulating and shouting, crowded round the two brothers, and blows appeared imminent. "Muchachos," suddenly cried a ringing voice from the rear, in Spanish, "are you not ashamed? A hundred against two!" A handsome lad forced his way through the crowd, placed himself beside the two corporals, and faced his young countrymen. Before the Mexicans recovered from their surprise the bell of San Miguel summoned them to school. They hurried away, leaving the two corporals with the young Mexican who had come to their assistance. "My name is Frank Burton," said the older corporal, extending his hand to the Mexican, "and this is my brother, Henry." The Mexican boy grasped the proffered hand, and said, "My name is Manuel Perea, of Algodones." "We are the sons of the commanding officer at the fort. Can't you come and see us next holiday?" "I should much like to; I will ask the fathers if I may." "Come over, and we will try to make your visit pleasant." "How well you speak Spanish! It will be a great pleasure to visit American boys who can speak my language, for I know but few English words." "Next Saturday, then?" "At ten o'clock, if the padres consent. Good-bye," and Manuel disappeared into the school-room. The following Saturday I saw the two corporals and their newly acquired companion at the post and at dinner in the mess-room, and a friendship was then formed which was to continue for many years. One evening, nearly a month afterwards, I received an order to march my company into the Jemez Mountains to co-operate with other detached commands in a war being carried on against the Navajo Indians. Just as I had laid aside the order after reading it, Colonel Burton entered, and, taking a seat by my fireside, announced that he had been ordered on detached service to northern Colorado, on a tour of inspection, which would require him to be absent for a considerable period, and that he had been thinking of allowing his sons to accompany me to my camp at Los Valles Grandes. "The hunting and fishing are fine in those valleys, and Frank and Henry would enjoy life there very much," he said. "They have done so well in their studies that they deserve a well-earned recreation." "I should much like to have their company, sir," I replied, "but would it not be exposing them to great danger from the Indians?" "The officer whom you are to relieve has been in the valleys nearly a year, and he reports that he has not seen a Navajo in all that time. Of course, it may be your fortune to meet them, but I do not think so. If you do, then the boys must give a good account of themselves. In any engagement that involves the whole command they must not forget they are the sons of a soldier. Still, I do not want them needlessly exposed. You are quite sure it will give you no trouble to take them?" "Few things could afford me greater pleasure on such isolated duty, sir. They will be good company for me." "Thank you for your kindness. The lads will report to you to-morrow morning. I will see that they are properly fitted out, and will write you now and then during my absence, and as soon as I return to Santa Fé they can be sent back." Colonel Burton then took his departure, and I turned to a local history to learn from its pages something of the tribe with which I might be brought in contact. The home of the Navajos lay between the Rio Grande del Norte on the east, the Rio Colorado on the west, the Rio San Juan on the north, and the Rio Colorado Chiquito on the south, but from time immemorial they had roamed a considerable distance beyond these borders. They had always been known as a pastoral race, raising flocks and herds, and tilling the soil. They owned, at the time we began war upon them, sheep and ponies by the thousand, and raised large quantities of corn, wheat, beans, and other products. They numbered between twelve and fifteen thousand, and could put three thousand mounted warriors in the field. They were industrious, the men doing all the hard work instead of putting it upon the women, as do the Indians of the plains and all of the marauding tribes. They manufactured their wearing apparel, and made their own weapons, such as bows, arrows, and lances. They wove beautiful blankets, often very costly, and knit woollen stockings, and dressed in greater comfort than did most other tribes. In addition to a somewhat brilliant costume, they wore numerous strings of fine coral, shells, and many ornaments of silver, and usually appeared in cool weather with a handsome blanket thrown over the shoulders. The Navajos and the New Mexicans were almost continually at war. Expeditions were frequently fitted out in the border towns by the class of New Mexicans who possessed no land or stock, for the sole purpose of capturing the flocks and herds of the Navajos. The Indians retaliated in kind, making raids upon the settlements and pasture lands, and driving off sheep, horses, and cattle to the mountains. Complaints were made by the property-holders, and war was declared against the Indians. The military department of New Mexico was in fine condition to carry on a successful war. Besides our regiment of regular infantry, it had two regiments of California volunteer infantry and one regiment each of California and New Mexican cavalry. The Navajo upon the war-path was terribly in earnest, and his methods of waging war were like those of the redman everywhere. With the knowledge that the American soldier was an ally of his old-time enemy, and that the Mexican was wearing the uniform of the "Great Father," he no longer hesitated to look upon us as his enemies also, and resolved to combat us up to the very walls of our posts. No road in the Territory was safe to the traveller; no train dared move without an escort. Towns were raided, and women and children carried into captivity. Frightful cases of mutilation and torture were constantly occurring in the mountain fastnesses. Troops took the field, and prosecuted with vigilance a war in which there was little glory and plenty of suffering and hard service. Every band of Indians captured was taken to the Bosque Rodondo, on the Rio Pecos, where a large fort had been established. It was occupied by a strong garrison of infantry and cavalry. I had found social life in Santa Fé very pleasant during my brief stay there, so I was not overjoyed when I received the order to march my company to Los Valles Grandes, there to relieve the California company already referred to. But the order being peremptory, we packed our baggage during the first hours of the night, and were on the road soon after daybreak. It was the 3d of October when the boy corporals and myself, mounted on sturdy Mexican ponies, rode out of Fort Marcy for our new station, one hundred miles due west. The regimental band escorted the company through the plaza and for a mile on our way, playing, after immemorial custom, "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and adding, I thought with a vein of irony, "Ain't Ye Glad You've Got Out th' Wilderness?" On the morning of the 8th, after four days of gradual and constant ascent from the valley of the Rio Grande, which we had forded at San Ildefonso, we began the slower ascent of the most difficult portion of our march. The woods were full of wild turkeys and mountain grouse, made fat on the pine-nuts, and Frank and Henry and the soldier huntsmen secured a generous supply for our first meal in our new military home. It took us from early morning until noon of the last day's march to reach the highest point of the road. What with the frequent halts for the men to fasten a rope to the wagon-poles and aid the severely taxed mules up the steepest places, to fill gullies and sloughs with stones and brush, to pry mired wheels up to firm ground, and repair broken harnesses and wagons, we were over half a day in going a distance which could have been accomplished in two hours by soldiers unencumbered with a baggage and supply train. The downward march on the western slope of the mountain-range was rapidly made over a smooth road through a continuous avenue of overarching forest trees, and without a halt. From the lower limit of the forest we caught the first glimpse of the Great Valleys. The valley before us was fourteen miles long, and of a nearly uniform width of eight miles. It was almost surrounded by mountains; in fact, while there were many trails leading out of it, there was but one practicable wagon-road--that by which we had entered. But at the southern extremity there was a precipitous cañon, through which flowed a considerable stream. To the west was another cañon, a dry one, called La Puerta--the doorway--which led into the second valley, called the Valley of San Antonio. The Great Valley, on the eastern edge of which I had halted the company for a few moments' rest and observation, was lower through the centre than at the sides. It was not unlike an oblong platter, and was absolutely treeless, except that opposite us a bold, pine-clad point jutted out from the western mountain-range about three miles, like a headland into the sea. The whole valley was verdant with thick grass. The two boys, sitting on their ponies a few yards in advance of the company line, were in raptures over the prospect. "This is the first bit of country I've seen in New Mexico that looks like Vermont," said Frank. "Yes, and what a change in the space of a few miles!" observed Henry. "On the opposite side of this range were only bunch-grass, cactus, and sand, and here we have fine turf and waving grass. What are those objects in that farther corner, sir?" he continued, turning to me and pointing to the southwest. "Look like deer or grazing cattle." "There is a small herd of deer there, sure enough," I replied, after making out the objects through my glass. "We shall not want for venison if we have good luck with our rifles." "Deer, antelope, turkeys, ducks, geese, sand-hill crane, and trout!" exclaimed Frank. "We've hit a hunter's paradise." "And bears and catamounts, too, I suspect," said Henry, looking a little lugubrious. "My, but wouldn't I like to kill a bear!" said Frank. "Well, I don't believe I shall hunt for one, and I hope a bear won't hunt for me," said the younger lad. "I'll be satisfied with turkeys, grouse, ducks, and trout." Six miles due west, a little south of the wooded point, detached from it about half a mile, we perceived a line of small cabins, which we inferred was the volunteer encampment. They stretched across a little level space, enclosed by a gently sloping ridge of horseshoe shape. The ridge, in fact, proved to be of that shape when we examined it later. The row of sixteen cabins stretched across the curve, and looked out of the opening towards the eastern side of the valley. Fifty yards in front of the cabins, running across the horseshoe from heel to heel, flowed a crystal stream of water twenty feet wide and two feet deep, which rose from forty-two springs near the northern end of the valley. The ridge enclosing the encampment was nowhere more than twenty-five feet above the level parade. The cabins were built of pine logs laid up horizontally, flanked on the north by the kitchen and stable, and on the south by a storehouse. Behind the cabins, at the centre of the horseshoe curve, two-thirds the way up the slope of the ridge, and overlooking the encampment from its rear, stood the guard-house, in front of which paced a sentinel. Resuming our march, a brisk step soon brought us to the encampment. At the brook before the parade I was met by the volunteer officers, who did not disguise their joy at the prospect of leaving what they considered a life of unbearable exile. Even before the customary civilities were passed, the captain asked me if my animals were in a condition to warrant his loading the wagons with his company property as soon as I unloaded mine, as he wished to make an evening's march towards Santa Fé. I told him I thought they were, provided he took the two wagons belonging to the camp in addition, so that the loads would be light. He approved of my suggestion, and promised to send back the wagons as soon as he reached Fort Marcy. The wood-yard being well supplied with fuel, I saw no reason why the wagons and mules could not be spared the ten days necessary to make the round trip. One reason for doing all I could to facilitate the immediate departure of the Californians was that my men were anxious to move into the cabins at once. With my first glance at the encampment, it had seemed to me too open to surprise. The adjacent forest-clad point crept up near the left flank, offering an effectual screen to an attacking party, and the overlooking sentinel at the guard-house did not have a range of vision to the rear of more than fifty yards. He was not on the summit of the ridge by at least half that distance, and walked along the side of the guard-house next the cabins. He could see nothing of the surface of the valley to the west of the ridge, and when passing along the front of the building, as he paced backward and forward, he saw nothing to the rear of his beat. I expressed my opinion of the situation to the volunteer captain, but he replied, "Pshaw! you might as well take the sentinel off, for all the good he does as a lookout for Indians." "Have you seen none?" "Not a solitary moccasin, except an occasional Pueblo, since I've been here--eleven months." "I suppose you have scouted the country thoroughly?" "There isn't a trail within thirty miles that I do not know. These bundles of wolf-skins and other pelts you see going into the wagons are pretty good evidence that my men know the country." We walked to the kitchen, and found, hanging on the walls of the store-room, a dozen quarters of venison, the fat carcass of a bear, and several bunches of fowl. "We are not obliged to kill our cattle to supply the men with meat," added the captain. "We butcher only when we need a change from wild meat." "I saw from the edge of the valley where I entered it that you have deer." "Pretty much everything but buffalo is here." "I hear your brook is full of fish." "There's where you make a mistake," he replied. "There is not a fish in this valley. The water is spring water, and must possess some mineral property distasteful to trout, for they never run up here. In San Antonio Valley, six miles to the west, in a brook less clear than this, you can catch them by the cart-load." "I suppose you intend to take this venison with you?" "Not if you will accept the gift of all but a few quarters, which we will take for friends in the city." "Thank you and your men. It will be a treat to us, and keep us going until we can put in a hunt on our own account." We went back to the parade, and stood looking at the surrounding mountains in the deepening twilight. "What other ways are there in and out of the valley, besides the one which we entered?" I asked. "Well, on the east and south sides there is a trail between the peaks, four in all, and one good bridle-path to the Pueblo of Jemez. That descends from the valley level to the Jemez River bottom, a drop of nearly three thousand feet, in a distance of three miles, zigzagging twice that distance." "And to the west and north?" "To the north there is a trail to Abiquiu, rarely used, and to the west there is only La Puerta, into which all the other trails from the east and south concentrate. It is to watch La Puerta that this camp was established." "And you say you have seen no Navajos or signs of them since you came?" "Yes, plenty of signs, but no Indians. Parties have passed here in the night, but none were driving stock." I learned all I could of the captain while his men hurried their baggage into the wagons, but he was too much excited over the prospect of leaving the Great Valleys, as well as curious to know of events in Santa Fé, to give me much information. When the guard of regulars relieved the volunteer guard, I placed my sentinel on a beat a dozen yards in rear of the guard-house, which enabled him to see several hundred yards back of the ridge, and yet not show himself prominently to an approaching foe. The volunteers at last marched away, and I made a casual examination of the cabins. I noticed that the inner surface of the log walls had been hewn smooth, and the names, company, and regiment of the former occupants had been carved with knives or burned in with hot pokers along the upper courses. Each had a wide, open, stone fireplace and chimney set in one corner, after the Mexican fashion. No uniform design had been observed in the construction of the cabins, the occupants having followed their own ideas of what would prove comfortable. Height, width, and depth were variable, but their fronts were in perfect alignment. The hut which had been occupied by the officers and which fell to the boys and myself was at the right of the line, next the storehouse, a little removed from the others. It was twenty by twenty feet, partitioned on one side into two alcoves in which were rude bedsteads, one of which was assigned to the boys and one to myself. A door opened on the south side, and a window, the only glass one in camp, looked out upon the parade. Floors in all the cabins were of earth, raised a foot higher than the outside surface of the ground, smoothed with a trowel and carpeted with blankets, until later, when skins of wild animals took their place. Doors were made of puncheons, swung on wooden hinges and fastened with wooden latches operated by latch-strings. Our first day in camp was principally spent in making ourselves comfortable. The men were busy in filling bed-sacks from the hay-stacks, and in repairing the cabins and articles of furniture. Ten head of beef cattle had been turned over to me with the other property of the camp. I had placed them in charge of a soldier, with orders to herd them in the valley immediately in front of the opening, where they could be plainly seen from the parade as well as the guard-house. At noon two Mexican hunters, father and son, rode up to my door, the former mounted on a mule and the latter on a burro, or donkey. The elder said their names were José and Manuel Cordova, of Cañoncito, that they were looking for deer, and would like permission to make the camp their place of rendezvous. I gave them permission to do so, and their animals were turned loose with our stock. About four o'clock in the afternoon the boy corporals and myself, tired with our work of repairing and arranging quarters, sat down to a lunch of broiled grouse. We were busily picking the last bones when we were startled by loud shouts. Quickly running to the centre of the parade, where the men were rapidly assembling with their arms, I saw the soldier-herdsman coming towards camp as fast as he could run, waving his hat and shouting. Behind him the steers were running in the opposite direction, driven by six Indians on foot. They were waking the echoes with their war-whoops. II ATTACKED BY NAVAJOS The six Navajos made no attempt to shoot the herder, although for some time he was within easy rifle range. They contented themselves with driving the cattle towards the southern section of the valley. At the first alarm Sergeant Cunningham got the men into line without a moment's delay. He had hardly counted off when the report of the sentinel's rifle was heard, followed by his shouting, excitedly, "Indians! Indians! This way! This way!" In the direction of the guard-house I saw the sentinel and guard getting into line with great rapidity. They were gesticulating wildly to us. Frank Burton, who was standing near me, shouted, "Henry, get your carbine and fall in with me on the left!" "Don't expose yourselves, boys," I said. "The colonel told me to keep you out of danger." "We are needed, sir," answered Frank, promptly, and the two youngsters instantly placed themselves on the left of the line. I broke the company to the rear through the intervals between the cabins. The men had only the marching allowance of ten rounds of ammunition, so I had a couple of boxes broken open with an axe, and cartridges were distributed to them. The two Mexicans joined us, and steadily and rapidly we advanced up the slope to unite with the guard. Scarcely two hundred yards distant we saw a compact body of over three hundred Indians. They were charging down upon us, and with a general and frightful war-whoop they began firing. We deployed as skirmishers. The men fired by volleys, sheltering themselves behind bowlders, logs, and ridges. Instantly, at the head of the mounted column, there was an emptying of saddles. The onset was suddenly checked, and the Indians broke into two divisions. Part of the force swept along the outer side of the horseshoe ridge to the south, and the other part wheeled round to the north. I met the attack by dividing my men into two divisions. The men moved along the interior slopes, firing as they ran, and kept pace with the ponies running to the extremities. The Navajos had lost twenty men. A chief, who had been in the front of the fight throughout, had the utmost difficulty in holding them in close column. "That is the great chief, El Ebano," cried the elder Cordova, as he put his gun to his shoulder. Taking careful aim at the gray-haired leader, he fired, and one of the most famous chieftains of the Navajos rolled from his saddle. The beautiful black horse he had been riding ran on towards us. With El Ebano dead, the Indians were dismayed. A moment later they were in full retreat, and joined their comrades who had stolen our cattle. * * * * * Our casualties were few. Sergeant Cunningham's scalp had been grazed along the left side, Private Tom Clary had the lobe of an ear cut, Privates Hoey and Evans were wounded along the ribs, and Corporal Frank Burton had a bullet wound in the right shoulder. The Indians had gathered in a compact body about three miles to the southward, evidently holding a council of war. Reflecting that they would not be likely to repeat their attack immediately, I walked out with the first sergeant and a few of the men to note what casualties had befallen the enemy, and learn if there were any wounded men in need of assistance. As I neared the place where the charge had been checked, I met Corporal Frank Burton leading a black pony, gently stroking his nose and talking soothingly to him, while the animal seemed half divided between fear and newly awakened confidence. "Oh, isn't he a beauty, sir!" exclaimed the boy--"isn't he just a perfect beauty!" "He certainly is a very handsome horse," I answered, after walking around him and taking in all his graces and points. "Take him to the stable and we will see to what use we can put him." "Do you think it would be possible for me to own him, sir?" inquired the boy, in an anxious voice. "As spoil of war, corporal?" "I suppose so, sir. I was first to capture him, you know." Before I could reply to this we were startled by a loud whinny, a little to the north, which was promptly answered by the black, and, looking in that direction, we saw a cream-colored pony, with high-erected head, looking anxiously in the direction of our captive. "That seems to be a friend of your pony's," I said. "Another beauty, too, sir! Can't we catch it for Henry?" "Perhaps we can. It seems inclined to stay by this one. I see all the other loose ponies have joined the Indians. But wait now until we look over the field." We now turned our attention to the prostrate bodies of the fallen enemy. All were dead. The body of El Ebano, clad in black buck-skin, ornamented with a profusion of silver buttons, chains, and bracelets, lay face upward, his resolute, handsome countenance still in the embrace of death. I told the men we would give him and his comrades a warrior's burial on the morrow, and returned to camp to make it defensible against a possible night attack. The advantage of numbers was decidedly on the side of the Indians, and I felt if they could show the firmness and dash of white men our chances of repelling a resolute attack were small. Counting the Mexicans and the boys, we numbered but forty-eight, to their three hundred or more. We were in the centre of a large valley, with no knowledge of our surroundings nor with any way out except the road by which we had entered. Should we leave the protection of our ridge and cabins and take to the open valley we should be at the mercy of our foes. Even supposing we could pass out of the valley unmolested, there were the forests and defiles, filled with natural ambuscades. We could not hope to pass them and reach the Rio Grande alive. Only a few hours of daylight remained. Whatever was to be done in preparation for defence must be done at once. In the wood-yard there were tiers of dry pine-logs, many of them four feet in diameter, and all about twenty feet long. With drag ropes and by rolling we conveyed them to the points of the ridge and to each end of the guard-house, and erected effective barricades. While this work was going on the two boys were busy in an attempt to capture the cream-colored pony. Frank led the black towards it, while Henry rattled the contents of a measure of corn and coaxed the cream-color in a tongue foreign to that with which the animals were familiar to approach and partake of it. Tired at last of what seemed a vain attempt, the young corporal set the box before the black, which at once began to munch the crackling corn, and the other pony, attracted by the sound, trotted up and placed her nose beside her friend's. Instantly its bridle-rein was seized, and the lads uttered a shout of triumph and led the prizes to the stable. From the top of the ridge I looked occasionally through my field-glass at the enemy. They still continued well to the south on the western side of the brook. They had dismounted and appeared to be carrying on an animated consultation. After a considerable interval of time, four of their number mounted, and, collecting the ten beeves, mule, and burro, which had been grazing near by, drove them up and down in front of the camp, beyond rifle range. They made gestures for us to come and take them--an invitation which, for obvious reasons, I declined to accept. I quite agreed with Private Tom Clary, who, as he placed his brawny shoulder to a big log to roll it up the slope, remarked to his "bunky," Private George Hoey, "That's an invitation, begorra, I don't fale loike acciptin'." "Ye'd niver make yer t'ilet for anither assimbly if ye did, Tom. I don't think the lutinint will risk the comp'ny's hair in that way," replied Hoey. To have attempted to recover our stock would have necessitated a division of our force, and the main body of the Navajos stood ready to dash in and cut off a party making such a reckless move. This was what they had originally attempted to accomplish, as I heard years afterwards from a chief who took part in the raid. Failing to draw us out in pursuit of our lost stock, the Navajos moved slowly away in the deepening dusk to a point close against the forest on the eastern side of the valley and nearly opposite our camp. There they built a row of five fires, which soon became, in the darkness, the only evidence of their presence. I caused the sentinels to be increased, and, after dressing the wounds of the men and removing a bullet from Frank's shoulder, went to bed without undressing. After some half-hour of silence, Henry said: "Mr. Duncan." "Yes; what is it?" "I'm going to name my pony Chiquita." "And I'm going to name mine Sancho," added Frank. "What are you going to do with the animals you brought here?" I asked. "Turn them in in place of the two we captured," answered Henry. "All right; for general utility. Good-night." "Good-night. Thank you, sir." Half an hour before midnight the sergeant of the guard aroused me to report that strange noises could be heard from the rear of the camp. I went to the top of the ridge and listened. A sound like the dragging of branches over the ground, with occasional pauses, fell upon my ears. I sent for the elder Cordova, and he listened long, with an ear close to the ground. His opinion was that the Indians were creeping up for another attack. Orders were sent to Sergeant Cunningham to wake the men without noise and assemble them at the barricades. A little after midnight the moon rose over the mountains and bathed the valley in a beautiful light. As the moon cleared herself from the summits of the range and her rays fell upon the line of paling camp-fires of the Indians, my field-glass revealed the fact that the raiders had departed. Ponies and riders were gone. In the whole length and breadth of the Great Valley not a living being was in sight outside the limit of our encampment. An inspection to the rear, to the scene of the late conflict, revealed the fact that the body of El Ebano and the group of dead warriors which lay about him at nightfall had been taken away. Their removal had caused the rushing and creeping sounds we had heard. Mounting my horse, and accompanied by four men upon the four ponies, I crossed the valley to the Indian fires, but found nothing there except the horns, hoofs, and entrails of our captured cattle. The flesh had probably been packed upon the Cordovas' mule and burro to ration a raiding party into the valley of the Rio Grande. A well-defined trail went back through the forest, which Cordova afterwards assured me led to the town of Pina Blanca. Returning to camp, I wrote a letter to the commanding general, giving an account of the attack and its repulse, and despatched it by the Mexicans, who, taking cut-offs with which they were acquainted, and borrowing horses in relays at ranches on the way, delivered it next evening at Santa Fé. The general sent a hundred troopers to Los Valles Grandes, where they came galloping into camp two evenings afterwards. As Captain Wardwell sprang from his saddle and wrung my hand, he exclaimed: "God bless you, Duncan! I came out expecting to bury the bones of you and your men." I was glad to see the California cavalry officers, and, during the three days of their stay in the valley for rest after a forced march, did the honors to the best of my ability. On the day of their departure the wagons returned loaded with supplies. Instructions were received to send back all but one wagon and six mules. With the departure of cavalry and wagons, life in the valley settled down to quiet routine. I spent some time in instructing my companions, according to an agreement I had made with their father. Not being a West-Pointer, but a college graduate with a fair knowledge of Greek and Latin, and some other acquirements not considered of military utility, I was able to carry out a desire of the colonel and assist the boys in preparing themselves for college. We rarely received visits from the outside world. The nearest hamlet was an Indian pueblo, twenty-six miles away, in the Rio Jemez Valley, and representatives of the army seldom had occasion to visit our outposts. The mail arrived from Santa Fé every Saturday afternoon, and left every Monday morning in the saddle-bags of two cavalry express-men. To the soldiers life in the valleys was very pleasant. Duty was light, and there were no temptations to dissipation or to be out of quarters at night, and there were no confinements to the guard-house for disorder. Evenings were spent over books and papers and quiet games, and the days in drill, repairing buildings, providing the fuel for winter, hunting, and scouting. As previously referred to, we were in a region of abundant game. The boy corporals accompanied the hunting-parties, and became skilled in bringing down whatever they sighted. Henry, as well as Frank, shot his bear, and soon our floor was covered with the skins of wolves, coyotes, bears, and catamounts, skilfully dressed and tanned by the Cordovas. And now I must introduce a principal character of my story, a valued friend who took a conspicuous part in our scouting and hunting, and who, later on, did valuable service to myself and my youthful comrades. Just as I was about to leave Santa Fé for Los Valles Grandes, the regimental adjutant--since a distinguished brigadier-general in the war in the Philippines--gave me a beautiful young setter named Victoriana, and called Vic for convenience. She was of canine aristocracy, possessing a fine pedigree, white and liver-colored, with mottled nose and paws, and a tail like the plume of Henry of Navarre. The boys, soon after our arrival in the valleys, carrying out a conceit suggested by the letters "U.S." which are always branded upon the left shoulder of all government horses and mules, marked with a weak solution of nitrate of silver upon Vic's white shoulder the same characters, and as long as she continued to live they were never allowed to grow dim. Vic came to me with no education, but plenty of capacity, and the corporals and I spent much time during the long evenings and on the days when we did not accompany the scouting and hunting parties, in training her. She learned to close the door if we simulated a shiver, to bring me my slippers when she saw me begin to remove my boots, to carry messages to the first sergeant or the cook, to return to the camp from long distances and bring articles I sent for. Vic was an unerring setter and a fine retriever. She was taught not to bark when a sound might bring an enemy upon us, and she would follow patiently at my heels or those of either of the boys when told to do so and never make a break to the right or left. Our repeated scoutings soon made us acquainted with every trail in and out of the valley. I obtained permission from department head-quarters to employ the elder Cordova as spy and guide, and he was of invaluable use to us. He was able to show me a mountain-trail into the valley of San Antonio besides the one through La Puerta, which I kept in reserve for any desperate emergency which might make it necessary to use another. We frequently went trout-fishing with an armed party, and could pack a mule with fish in a few hours. One morning, near the close of October, Cordova left the camp before reveille on a solitary hunting-trip in order to reach Los Vallecitos, four miles to the south of our valley, before sunrise. He had gone but half an hour, and I was dressing after first bugle-call for reveille, when I was startled by the rapid approach of some one running towards my door. Presently the guide tumbled into the cabin, gasping: "Muchos Navajos, teniente, muchos Navajos!" (Many Navajos, lieutenant, many Navajos!) "Where are they, and how many?" I asked. "About half a league over the ridge," pointing to the south. "They chased me from the Los Vallecitos trail. They number about a hundred." Without waiting for more definite information, I told the boys, who were hastily getting into their clothes, to stay in the cabin, and, going for Sergeant Cunningham, ordered him to parade the company under arms without delay; then, taking my glass, I went to the top of the ridge. Lying down before reaching the crest, I looked through the screening grass and saw a party of eighty-three Indians, halted and apparently in consultation. They were in full war costume, and were painted and feathered to the height of Indian skill. III WARLIKE PUEBLOS The party of Indians halted for nearly ten minutes, evidently in excited dispute, accompanying their talk with much gesticulation. I had time to notice that the details of dress were not like those of the Navajos with whom we had recently had a fight; but as the old hunter Cordova had pronounced them Navajos, I gave the matter little consideration. They did not seem to be aware of the existence of an encampment of soldiers in the valleys, and after a brief delay moved on towards La Puerta. Returning to the parade, I ordered the six mules and four ponies brought to my door, saddled and bridled, and all the men not on guard to assemble under arms with cartridge-boxes filled. Fortunately, the mail-riders had arrived the previous evening from Santa Fé, so I ordered them to form a part of the expedition, and placed the party of thirteen under command of Sergeant Cunningham, mounted upon my horse. The sergeant was directed to take the "reserved trail" through the hills into the valley of San Antonio and bring his men into the western end of La Puerta before the Indians could pass through it. I impressed it upon him on no account to fire unless the redmen showed fight, to leave his mules and horses concealed in the timber at the entrance of the cañon, and so dispose his men as to convey the impression that thirteen was but a part of his force. Just before the horsemen were to start I overheard Private Tom Clary, who was mounted on Frank's recent equine acquisition, Sancho, say to the boy: "Corpril Frank, laddie, can ye give me the Naviho words for _whoa_ and _get up_? I'm afeared the little baste 'll not understand me English, and may attimpt to lave for his troibe." "You needn't speak to him, Tom. Use your reins, curb, and spurs," replied the boy. "True for you, corpril; a pull to stop, and a spur to go ahead. That's a language that nades no interpreter." For myself, I proposed to follow up the Navajos with the rest of the company as soon as they were fairly within the cañon, and I expected to capture them without blood-shed. We started, the mounted men turning to the north of the wooded point and entering the forest, and the footmen marching direct for La Puerta. I kept my men out of sight under the rolls of the valley surface, and moved at quick time. When the redmen were well within the walls of the cañon we deployed right and left, and closed up rapidly behind them. The Indians showed perceptible astonishment when they perceived this unexpected and warlike demonstration, but they soon recovered, and then, feeling the superiority of the mounted man over the footman, they broke into derisive shouts and made gestures conveying their contempt for us. This continued for some time, when they suddenly showed confusion. They dashed at a gallop to the north side of the passage, and skirted it for a considerable distance, as if looking for a place of escape. Failing to find one they dashed wildly to the other side, where they met with no better success, and then they halted and consulted. Presently one of their number rode out and waved a white cloth. Upon this I approached alone and made signs for them to dismount and lay down their arms. They did so, and at another sign withdrew in a body, when my men picked up everything and collected their ponies. I was certainly surprised at such a bloodless result of my strategy, and, after shaking hands with the chief, began my return march to camp. We had gone but a short distance when I overheard Private Clary, one of the mounted men, who was riding near me, say to Private Hoey beside him. "D'ye moind the cut uv thim chaps' hair, Jarge?" "Indade I do that, Tom," replied George. "Thim's no Navihos!" "Not a bit uv it. I'd as soon expict to see one in currls!" I had a wholesome respect for the opinions of these old soldiers, for they had campaigned against Indians in Texas, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico long before I had seen a more savage redman than the indolent, basket-making descendants of the Passamaquoddies and Penobscots. Accordingly, without appearing to notice their remarks, I approached the chief, and said, interrogatively: "Apache?" A shake of the head. "Ute?" Another shake. "Navajo?" "Si, señor!" he said, with a bow of his head, and I moved triumphantly on, satisfied that my eighty-three prisoners were Navajos. But presently I heard Clary ask, "Jarge, did ye iver see Navihos with blankets like thim?" "Niver!" answered Hoey, emphatically. Evidently the two soldiers did not believe they were Navajos, and were "talking at me." But if not Navajos, Apaches, or Utes, who were these warriors? When we were near camp we were met by Cordova, who had remained behind to recover from the fatigue of his early morning run. As soon as he came up to the Indians there seemed to be an immediate recognition. He and the chief met and embraced, and conversed for a few moments in a language that was neither English nor Spanish. Then the hunter turned to me, looking shamefaced, and said, in Spanish, "Lieutenant, these Indians are Pueblos, of Santo Domingo." Whoever knows the character of the Pueblos will appreciate the joke I had perpetrated upon myself. Many towns in New Mexico are inhabited by these Indians--towns which stood on their present sites when Coronado entered the country in 1541. They form an excellent part of the population, being temperate, frugal, and industrious. They dress in Indian style, and when at war paint and disfigure themselves like any other of the red peoples, so that a green soldier would see no difference between them and the wilder tribes. The Pueblos explained that they were in pursuit of a band of Navajos who had stolen some of their cattle the previous night. When they first saw Cordova they attempted to approach him to inquire if he had seen any Navajo "signs." My appearance and warlike demonstrations they could not account for, not knowing there was a camp of soldiers in the valley. When I put the questions, Apache? Ute? Navajo? the chief thought I was asking him if he was in pursuit of a party of one of those tribes. Being in pursuit of Navajos, he answered yes to that name. A week after my captives had returned to their homes in Santo Domingo, at the close of a long and fruitless search for their lost stock, a gentleman and his servant, mounted on broncos and leading a pack-mule, rode up to my cabin late in the afternoon. He introduced himself as a government Indian agent for the Navajos, and handed me a letter from the department commander. It stated that the bearer was on his way to the Indian pueblo of Jemez, to prevent the massacre of a number of Navajo women, children, and old men who had sought asylum there, and authorized me to furnish him with all the aid in my power. After dismounting and entering my quarters, the agent stated that, the Navajo country being over-run by national troops, many of the principal men had sent their wives and children, with a few old men, to Jemez for safety; that the party of Dominicans which had been recently captured by us, being bitterly disappointed at their lack of success in retaking their missing cattle, had determined to go to Jemez and wreak vengeance upon the enemy. The Santo Dominicans had informed the people of Jemez that if they interfered to prevent the slaughter of the Navajos they would be considered by the military authorities as allies of that tribe, and treated accordingly. Convinced, from what the agent told me, that I should act without unnecessary delay, I proposed that we should start for Jemez at once, but he declared himself too much fatigued by a long journey to undertake a night ride of twenty-six miles. My instructions from the general were to conform my movements to the wishes of the agent, so I very reluctantly and much against my convictions concluded to wait until morning. He strongly insisted there was no reason for haste, as the Dominicans had not planned to leave their pueblo before noon. We set out, therefore, at four o'clock next morning. Sergeant Cunningham asked permission to accompany the expedition, and I allowed him to do so, leaving Sergeant Mulligan in charge until our return. We were a party of thirteen, mounted on every available animal in camp. Henry was left behind, but Frank accompanied us, mounted on the recently captured Sancho, proud of his horse and proud to be included in the detachment. We passed through an interesting country, filled with wind-carven pillars and minarets, eroded shelves and caverns, and lunched at noonday beside a dozen boiling sulphur springs. We also passed Cañoncito, the little village which was the home of José Cordova. As we came in sight of the tinned spires of the church at Jemez, we heard a distinct murmur, and halted at once. In a moment the murmur swelled into an unmistakable Indian war-whoop. It was plainly evident the Dominicans had arrived before us. As soon as I heard the war-whoop I told Sergeant Cunningham to bring up the men as rapidly as possible, sticking to the travelled road, and, accompanied by the agent and Corporal Frank, I put spurs to my horse and dashed towards the town. Our route was through the cultivated land, while that of the soldiers was on the hard ground along the foot-hills. Ours was in a direct line, over deep, soft earth, frequently crossed by irrigating ditches, while theirs, although nearly treble the distance, was over firm soil without a break. We struck directly for the church spires, which I knew rose from the central plaza. Often we plunged down the banks of _acequias_, carrying avalanches of soil with us into two or three feet of water, to make a difficult scramble up the crumbling wall of the opposite side; and as we neared the pueblo, the louder grew the discordant yells of the Dominicans. As I reached the border of the plantation I found between me and the road, which here entered the town, a cactus hedge about five feet high, with no passage through it except at a considerable distance to the right. The agent veered away to the opening, but Corporal Frank kept Sancho close behind me, and I gave my good thoroughbred his head and rode sharply at the hedge, cleared it at a bound, receiving but a few scratches from the cactus spines. Turning my head as I came into the road, I saw Frank come through like a trooper and join me. Clear of the hedge, I found myself at the foot of a narrow street which passed between two tall adobe buildings and entered the plaza near the centre of its western side. I took it at a run, and when half-way through saw directly before its inner end, facing the north, a group of old, gray-haired Navajos standing alone with their arms folded, and holding their blankets firmly about their breasts, while in their immediate front were some one hundred mounted Indians, painted and ornamented in true aboriginal warrior style. On the terraced fronts of the houses and their flat roofs, and along the three sides of the square, seemed to be gathered the entire population of the town, looking passively on. Before I had more than taken in the situation, a rattling discharge of rifles came from the direction of the Dominicans, and the old men fell in a heap to the ground. Covered with dust and mud, our horses reeking with foam, Corporal Frank and I burst through the crowd of spectators on the west side of the plaza, and gained the open space just as the firing-party was advancing with gleaming knives and wild yells to complete the tragedy by scalping the slain. Raising my right hand I shouted, in Spanish, "Stop where you are!" Frank had unslung his carbine and was holding it by the small of the stock in his right hand, the barrel resting in his left, looking calmly and resolutely at the hesitating Indians. The blood of three generations of soldierly ancestors was thrilling his veins with a resolution to act well in any emergency which might arise. The Pueblos halted, and at the same moment a group of eighteen women and nearly three times as many children, some of them in arms, who had been reserved--as I afterwards learned--for later shooting, ran into the space and clung to my feet, stirrups, and the mane and tail of my horse, entreating with eyes and voices for protection. The war-cries had ceased and the Dominicans had gathered in an angry and gesticulating group, when Sergeant Cunningham and the rest of the men appeared on foot, running into the plaza from a side street, and formed in line before us. The massacre ended with the death of the old men. Aided by the agent and the Catholic priest of the pueblo I succeeded in impressing upon the Jemez warriors that they must discountenance any further hostile demonstrations of the Santo Dominicans, and told the latter that unless they promptly withdrew and departed for their own reservation I should punish them for their recent conduct. They at once sullenly departed. That evening, by the light of a brilliant moon, the dead Navajos were buried upon a hill-top overlooking the town, amid the wailing of their women and much ceremonious demonstration by the Jemez people, and Frank and I retired for the night to the house of the hospitable priest. Early the following morning I held an inspection of the mules and horses, and finding the wheel and swing spans were much exhausted by the unaccustomed gait they had maintained in the forced march from the valleys, I determined to give them a day's rest before making the return trip. Finding Sergeant Cunningham's, Frank's, and my own horses none the worse for their exertions, I concluded that we three would return at once to camp. I placed Corporal Duffy in charge of the party, and told him after one day had passed to return by way of the hot springs. Instead of returning by the route we came, the sergeant, Frank, and I were to take a shorter and rougher one pointed out to us by Padre Gutierrez. This trail was almost as straight as an arrow, but led through a section of the country over which we had not scouted. At half-past nine o'clock the three of us started, Vic bounding and barking at my horse's head. IV IN A NAVAJO TRAP Six miles from Jemez our road, which, after leaving the cultivated valley of the Pueblos had narrowed to a path, entered the forest and ran along the side of a small brook, which it continued to follow for several miles, and then rose gradually to the side of a range of hills. We were walking our animals along the side of this acclivity, at a considerable distance above the brook on our left, their hoofs making no noise in the soft, black earth, when I was startled by the braying of an ass somewhere in the ravine. Sergeant Cunningham and Corporal Frank threw themselves quickly from their saddles and held the horses by the bits to prevent them from responding to the greeting, and I quickly sought a place from which I could make an observation. We were in a clump of evergreen trees which commanded a view of the ravine and obscured us from sight in all directions. Looking across the ravine, I caught a glimpse of a party of Indians a little beyond the brook. Through my glass I made them out to be a party of twenty-seven Navajos, sitting about a camp-fire eating their dinner. As many ponies were grazing near, and a mule and burro. From certain peculiar markings I had observed the day Cordova joined me in the valleys, I had no difficulty in recognizing the last two animals to be his property. Packs were lying near the fire, showing that the captured animals were being used as beasts of burden. All this time I had entirely overlooked the presence of my dog Vic. Had I thought of her in season, it would have been easy to have kept her close at my heels; but I had left her free to wander, not thinking of any threatening danger. Suddenly I heard a chorus of grunts from the Indians, and looking in their direction I saw Vic stand for an instant with her forefeet on a prostrate log, look questioningly at the savages, and then drop down into the furze and disappear. The sight of a white man's dog, wearing a brilliant metallic collar, produced an electrical effect. Instantly the redmen sprang to their feet, seized their arms, and began saddling and bridling their ponies. "Vic has betrayed us, sergeant," I said. "We must get out of here as quickly as possible." As we sprang into our saddles and regained the trail Vic came with a bound before us, and I immediately gave her positive orders to keep close at our heels. We rode as fast as it was possible to do without making a noise, hoping that we might get a considerable distance away before we were discovered. We had not proceeded far, however, when a yell announced that we were seen. As we galloped on we saw that it was impossible for the Indians to cross to our side of the ravine. Every mile we passed the path rose higher and the sides of the stream grew more precipitous. The Indians were pursuing a path parallel to ours and about half a mile in our rear. What was the nature of the country ahead we did not know. The fact that they were pursuing, and with such eagerness, seemed to indicate they knew of some advantage to be gained farther on. On and on we rode, I in advance, the sergeant next, and Frank behind. The trail wound through the trees and clumps of underbrush, with occasional openings through which we could catch glimpses of our eager pursuers. The prospect appeared exceedingly gloomy. As we galloped on I noticed at last, through a rift in the wood a considerable distance in advance, an eminence or butte which lifted its summit nearly three hundred feet skyward, and which presented on the side towards us an almost perpendicular wall. When we approached it we saw a neat log-cabin nestling under its overarching brow. We dismounted, led our panting and utterly exhausted animals into the cabin, closed the doors, and went to the windows with our rifles. The cabin was about thirty by twenty feet in area, and stood with its northern end close against the perpendicular wall of the butte, with an overhanging cliff a hundred feet above it. If a stone had been dropped from the sheltering cliff it would have fallen several feet away from the cabin's southern wall. At the end of the cabin farthest from the butte the ground upon which it stood broke off perpendicularly twenty feet downward, to a spring--the source of the brook we had been following since we left Jemez. The only way to cross from one trail to the other, except by going several miles down the brook or to the north end of the butte, was, therefore, through the cabin, and for this purpose a door had been placed in each side. The cabin could be approached only on the east and west sides, and was unassailable at its north and south ends. Each wall contained a small window, except the one which rested against the butte, and there a wide, stone fireplace had been built. Three men with plenty of rations and ammunition could make a good defence. Water could be had by lowering a bucket or canteen from the southern window to the spring, twenty-four feet below its sill. The Indians had discovered that we had found shelter from their pursuit and for the present were safe, and all but five, who soon afterwards appeared in the edge of the forest to the east, had joined the main party to the west of us. They showed great respect for our place of refuge and rifles, and kept well out of range. The sergeant's and my Springfield rifle could throw a bullet farther and could be loaded more rapidly than any rifles in their possession, and Frank with his Spencer could fire about twenty balls to our one. We removed the saddles and bridles from our animals, and, hitching them in the corners each side of the fireplace, began a discussion of our prospects. "If we could keep a couple of fires going before the doors during the night, sir," said the sergeant, "we might keep them away." "I am afraid a fire would be of greater advantage to them than to us," I replied; "we should have to expose ourselves every time we replenished it. I wonder if the roof is covered with earth? It is flat." "I'll tell you in half a minute, sir," said Frank, and entering the fireplace he proceeded to ascend the wide-mouthed chimney by stepping on projecting stones of which it was built. In a moment he called down to me, "Yes, sir; it is covered with about two feet of earth." "All right then. If we can get pine enough to keep a blaze going then we will have one. A fire on the roof will illuminate everything about us and leave our windows and doorways in darkness. It will aid our aim and confuse the Indians." We set to work at once and pulled down all the bunks, and with large stones from the fireplace succeeded in breaking into fragments the pine puncheons and posts of which they were made. Then Sergeant Cunningham ascended the chimney and tore away one side of the part which projected above the roof--the side looking in the direction opposite the precipice. This would enable one of us to stand in the top and replenish the fire, and at the same time remain concealed from the enemy. As we could be fired upon from only two directions, the fire tender would be safe. Fortunately, Padre Gutierrez's housekeeper had put up a lunch sufficient to last us, including Vic, for three days, and water could be drawn easily through the southern window with a canteen and lariat. "I'm afraid those chaps 'll get us in the end, sir," observed the sergeant. "Of course we can eat horse-meat for a while after our victuals are gone, but we are three and they are twenty-seven--we are prisoners and they are free." "Very true, sergeant," I replied, "but something may turn up in our favor. The Jemez party will reach camp day after to-morrow, and when it learns we are not there we shall be looked up." "If another party of Navajos don't jump them, sir." "Of course, the chances are against us, sergeant, but let us keep up our spirits and make a good fight." "I'll do my best, sir, as I always have done, but this is a beastly hole to be caught in." "But why don't you send Vic for help, Mr. Duncan?" asked Frank. "Laddie, I believe you have saved us! Thank you for the suggestion. We'll put the little girl's education to a practical test." "What! Going to send her to Jemez for the men?" asked Sergeant Cunningham. "No; I hardly think I could make her understand our wishes in that direction, but there is no doubt she can be sent to camp. She has done that many times." "Yes, sir, she'll go to the valley," said Frank. "You know I sent her with a message to you from San Antonio Valley, six miles. I wonder how far camp is from here?" "'Bout nine miles," replied the sergeant; "but she'll do it, I think. Look at her!" Vic had come forward, and sat looking intelligently from one to the other of us while this discussion ran on. "All right, little girl," I said, patting and smoothing her silky coat, "you shall have a chance to help us after dusk. Go and lie down now." The dog went to a corner and, lying down on Frank's saddle-blanket, appeared to sleep; and while Corporal Frank took my place at a window I wrote a message to Sergeant Mulligan at the camp, describing our desperate situation and requesting him to send a detachment to our rescue. I also prepared a flat, pine stick, and wrote upon it, in plain letters, "Examine her collar." I intended she should carry the stick in her mouth, as she had hitherto carried articles and messages, fearing she would not understand she was to go on an errand unless all the conditions of her education were observed. During that day the Navajos simply showed their presence occasionally among the trees, far away on either flank. We once heard the rapid strokes of an axe, as of chopping, and wondered what it could mean. Nothing further happened till dusk. Then I called Vic and attached the note to her collar, wrapped in a piece of my handkerchief. "I think, sergeant," I said, "we had better send our message before it gets darker and the Navajos close up nearer or the corporal lights his fire." "Yes, she can't leave any too soon, sir, I think. It's going to be pokerish work for us before morning, and I shall be mighty glad to see a few of old Company F appear round that rock." After fastening the note securely in the dog's collar, I placed the stick in her mouth and, opening the eastern door, said, "Now, little Vic, take that stick to the sergeant--go!" She turned from the doorway, crossed the room, and dropped the stick at Sergeant Cunningham's feet. The sergeant stooped, and placing his hand under her chin raised her head upward and laid his bronze cheek affectionately upon it. "Well, Vicky," he said, "there is but one sergeant in the world to you, and he is here, isn't he?" "That's so, sir," exclaimed Corporal Frank, addressing me. "We never sent her to anybody but you, the sergeant, and the cook." "True enough. I'll have to send her to the cook--the only one now in camp to whom she has borne messages. As he is the dispenser of fine bones and dainties, and she has had nothing to eat since morning, perhaps it is as well he is to receive this message. Here, Vic," placing the chip once more in her mouth, "take this stick to the cook--go!" The setter looked at me an instant, then at the sergeant and corporal, walked to the door, looked out, and then glanced questioningly at me. "Yes, little one; the cook--go!" She bounded through the doorway and turned the corner of the butte at a run, bearing our summons to our comrades at Los Valles Grandes. For some time after the departure of Vic the sergeant and I stood at our windows and gloomily watched the darkness deepen in the woods. Frank looked out of the window above the spring and was also silent. I was disposed to put off the lighting of our fire upon the roof as long as it appeared safe to do so, in order to husband our fuel. The animals, disappointed of the forage usually furnished them at this hour, stamped impatiently and nosed disdainfully the stale straw and pine plumes which we had emptied from the bunks and which were now scattered over the floor. It was during a momentary lull of this continuous noise that I heard a crushing sound as of a heavy wheel rolling over twigs and gravel, but was unable to guess its meaning. Fearing that further delay to light our fire might bring disaster upon us, I told Corporal Frank to kindle it. He ascended the chimney, lighted a few splinters of pitch-pine and placed them upon the roof, and as soon as they were well lighted added to them half a dozen billets of wood which Sergeant Cunningham passed up to him. Soon a brilliant blaze was leaping upward, and, being reflected strongly by the white sandstone of the overhanging cliff, lighted the whole space about the cabin. As soon as Frank descended to the floor we gazed long and anxiously out of the windows. Everything about us was now plainly visible to our eyes, and we felt sure our movements could not be seen by the Navajos. To the east all was silent, and for a long while we saw nothing in that direction to suggest a lurking foe. To the west we could see no enemy, but the same mysterious sound of crushing and grinding came to our ears. What could it be, and what did it threaten? Adjusting my field-glass I looked from my window in the direction of the puzzling sound, and on the farther edge of the opening, near the wood, saw a log about three feet in diameter and twenty-five or more in length slowly rolling towards us, propelled by some unseen force. Passing the glass to the sergeant, I said: "The Indians seem to be rolling a log in our direction. What do you think of it?" "I think it's easy to understand, sir," replied the sergeant, after a long look. "That log is a movable breastwork, which can be rolled to our door." "True, sergeant. Probably a dozen or more warriors are lying behind it and rolling it forward. Rather a black prospect for us if we cannot stop it!" We all three gathered at the western window, and for some moments watched the slow approach of the moving breastwork. V A SIEGE AND AN AMBUSCADE We continued to watch long and anxiously the slowly rolling log. Not a glimpse of the motive power could be obtained, but it ground and crushed its way along with ominous certainty, straight in our direction. Just as I had come to the conclusion that assistance could not arrive in time, the log stopped. I looked through my glass and saw the cause. "Sergeant," I exclaimed, "the log has struck a rock! Open the door and draw a bead on it! Don't let a man leap over it to remove the stone! Corporal, guard the east window!" The sergeant stood ready at the open door. All the efforts of the prostrate men behind the log had no effect, except to swing the end farthest from the obstacle slightly ahead. "There seems to be nothing for them to do but to remove the stone. Keep a sharp eye on the log, sergeant!" I had hardly spoken when a sudden discharge of rifles ran irregularly along the length of the log, and under cover of the fire and smoke a stalwart warrior leaped over, raised the stone, and had borne it nearly to the top, when Sergeant Cunningham's rifle spoke sharply. The stone dropped on our side; the Indian fell forward, with his arms extended towards his friends, who pulled him over the log, and he was screened from our sight. The volley of the Navajos did us no harm. Corporal Frank replenished the fire on our roof from time to time, and our vigilant watch went on. At last the sergeant, who still stood at the open door, exclaimed, "Lieutenant, the stone is moving! It's dropping into the ground!" "It's gone, and here comes our fate," I said. "They must have dug under the log with their knives and sunk the stone." "Yes, sir, and they're safe to reach the cabin door and roast us out." "If there were two or three more stones in the way, sergeant, the delay they would cause might serve us until help comes." "I'll run out there with one, Mr. Duncan," said Frank. "No, laddie," replied the sergeant, "that's a duty for me. I'll drop a couple there in a minute." "And when you return, sergeant, I will drop two more," said I. We went quickly to work to carry out our plan. The corporal once more mended the fire, and then we selected from the loose rubbish which had been torn from the top of the chimney several large-sized stones. Removing his shoes, the sergeant, with my assistance, raised two big stones to his breast, and stood in the doorway with them clasped firmly in his arms. I took the revolvers in my hands, whispered the word, and he started out at a rapid walk, setting his feet down carefully and without noise. He dropped the stones, one before the other, without attracting attention, and regained the cabin without a shot being fired on either side. Now it was my turn, and I went beyond the place where he had dropped his last stone. At that instant an alarm was shouted from the distant wood, and an Indian raised his head above the log and fired. The bullet struck the falling rock, and sent a shower of stinging splinters into my face. I turned and fled. With the discharge of the Indian's rifle Sergeant Cunningham and Corporal Frank opened a rapid fusillade with the revolvers, which successfully covered my retreat to the cabin; but we knew that our last chance at stone-dropping was past. Several terribly long hours had crept past since we saw Vic turn the butte on her errand to the valleys. Judging by the time it had taken the Navajos to bore a tunnel under their log and undermine the first trigging-stone, we estimated that two more hours must pass before the four obstructions we had placed in their way could be removed, unless they took some more speedy method. It was quite nine miles to camp, and the dog could easily reach it in about an hour. If she had arrived, help should by this time be fairly on the way; but if she had been killed by the besiegers before she reached the north end of the butte, or had been torn in pieces by the wolves! Should the log once reach our door, we could not hope to do more than make the price of our lives dear to the enemy. While the sergeant and I stood at the door and window, speculating in no very hopeful vein over these probabilities, there came a scratch at the eastern door. Frank was at the window on that side, and, startled by the sound, he called to us, "I'm afraid an Indian has sneaked up on us, sir." Again the scratching was heard, this time accompanied by a familiar whine, which presently swelled into a low bark. "Oh, Mr. Duncan, it's Vic! It's Vic!" shouted the boy, and, springing to the door, he flung it wide open. In trotted Vic, and, coming up to me, she dropped a stick at my feet bearing the words: "In the collar, as before." It took some little time for Corporal Frank to secure the messenger. She capered about the room, licked our hands and faces, jumped up to the noses of the ponies, and behaved as if she was conscious of having performed a great feat and was overjoyed to have returned safely. But Vic surrendered to the boy at last, and, submitting her neck for inspection, he found attached to her collar a letter which read as follows: "CAMP AT LOS VALLES GRANDES. "_November 20, 1863_. "Lieutenant,--Message received, and the messenger fed. Corporal Coffey and eight men leave here at 10.15 P.M. "JAMES MULLIGAN, _Sergeant_." "Come here, little doggie," said Sergeant Cunningham. "If we get out of this, the company shall pay for a silver collar and a medal of honor for the finest dog in the army." "If that detail marches at the regulation gait of three miles an hour," I said, "it should be here by a quarter-past one, and it is now a quarter to twelve." My anxiety over our prospects was so great I neglected to show proper gratitude to our devoted messenger. "The men will do better than that, sir, if they keep on the road. The trouble will be in finding this trail. They have never been this way." "I think the junction of this and the hot-springs trail cannot be far from here. Let's take a shot at that log every three minutes from now on, and the noise may attract our friends." We began firing at once, aiming at the under side of the log where it touched the earth. I am confident this must have sent some sand and gravel into the eyes of the rollers, if it did no other damage. Two of the trigging-stones we had dropped were soon undermined and sunk, and the log had stopped at the third, less than a hundred yards away. As it came on, the sergeant climbed to the top of the chimney, and shortly afterwards returned with the report that he had seen the prostrate body of a warrior revealed beyond--good evidence that his first shot had been fatal. If the next two stones should be as rapidly removed as the others, we feared the Indians would reach us, unless the rescuing party prevented, at about half-past twelve. Marked by our periodical shots at the log, the time hurried all too rapidly on, the Indians slowly and surely approaching the cabin. The third stone disappeared, and the log moved with a louder grating over the gravelly soil to the fourth and last obstacle, about thirty yards away, and paused. "I believe, lieutenant," said Cunningham, "I could hit those fellows' legs now from the chimney." "All right, sergeant. Close your door and go up and try it," I replied. "A redskin with a broken leg can do us as little injury as one with a broken head." The words were hardly spoken and the sergeant had barely reached the fireplace, when, as if in anticipation of this movement, two figures leaped over the end of the log nearest the perpendicular rock, ran to the corner formed by the cabin and the wall, and by the aid of the dovetailed ends of the logs clambered quickly to the roof. I sent a shot at them, but it had no effect. No sooner had they reached the roof than they threw the flaming brands and coal of our bonfire down the chimney, where they broke into fragments and rolled over the floor, setting fire to the scattered straw and plumes. Busy putting stops into the windows, and fastening them and the doors, we could do nothing to extinguish the fire before it got well under way. A blanket was thrown over the top of the chimney to prevent a draught, and soon the whole interior was thick with stifling smoke. The horses plunged frantically, sending the fire in every direction. Our eyes began to smart painfully, and we felt ourselves suffocating and choking in the thick and poisonous atmosphere. To remain in the house was to be burned alive; to leave it was to perish, perhaps, in a still more horrible way. Just as I was on the brink of despair, the sergeant gasped rather than spoke: "They are here, lieutenant. Hark! Hark!" Ping! Ping! We heard the sound of rifle-shots, accompanied by a good, honest, Anglo-Saxon cheer. Was there ever sweeter music? The war-whoops ceased, the blanket was quickly withdrawn from the chimney-top, and two thuds on the east side of the cabin showed the Indians had left the roof. A general scurrying of feet and other thuds down the perpendicular wall back of the spring were evidence that the besiegers were in full and demoralized flight. We threw the doors open, and our friends rushed in, and before a greeting was uttered feet and butts of rifles were sweeping brands and straw into the fireplace, and the roaring draught was fast clearing the air. Before I had fairly recovered my sight, and while still engaged in wiping away the tears the smoke had excited to copious flow, I heard a sobbing voice near me say: "Oh, Franky, brother, if it had not been for dear little Vicky what would have happened to you?" Blinking my eyes open, I saw the boy corporals with their right arms about each other's neck, holding their Spencers by the muzzles in their left hands. "Why, Henry," I said, "you did not make that march with the men?" "Couldn't keep him back, sir," answered Corporal Coffey. "Said his place was with his brother. Made the march like a man, and fired the first shot when we turned the bluff." We shook hands all round, and then went out to see whether the volleys of the rescuing party had inflicted any punishment upon the Navajos. Two dead Indians lay near the cabin, and farther away the one that had fallen when attempting to remove the obstacle before the log. There were traces of others having been wounded. A fire was promptly kindled outside the cabin, and we sat about it for a time to rest and enjoy a lunch. The horses had been somewhat singed about the legs, but were not disabled. An hour afterwards Sergeant Cunningham placed Corporal Henry on his pony, Chiquita, and we started for the valleys. At daybreak the day after we left Jemez we reached camp, and on the evening of the same day the detachment we had left behind for a rest also arrived, without adventure on the march. Cordova and his son at once set out on the trail of the Navajos, whom we reported to be in possession of their animals, to ascertain why they were in our vicinity. After four days' scouting the Mexicans returned with the information that they found the Indians had left their camp on the Jemez road after their defeat. They had struck straight through the hills for the Rio Grande, where they joined the main body, the same which had attacked us the day after our arrival in the valleys, and which had recently made several successful raids on the flocks and herds near Peña Blanca and Galisteo. It was the guide's opinion that the party which had besieged me in the cabin had been to the valleys to see what chance there was of running captured stock through there. Their report must have been favorable, for Cordova said a detachment of forty-seven Navajos was now encamped in Los Vallecitos, apparently intending to pass us the following night with a large number of cattle, horses, mules, and sheep. I began at once to make preparations to retake the stolen stock and to capture the Navajos. That the Navajos, if they were watching our movements, might not surmise we knew of their presence near us, I ordered the scouting party and huntsmen not to go out next morning, and all the men to keep within the limits of the parade. The next evening I marched all the company, except the guard, including the boy corporals, by way of the reserved trail into the valley of St. Anthony, and entered La Puerta from the western end. This was done for fear some advance-guard of the redmen might witness our movement if we went by the usual way, and because so large a party might leave a trail visible to the keenly observant enemy even by starlight, and there would be moonlight before we could cross the valley. It was my intention to make an ambush in La Puerta. In the narrowest part of that cañon, where it was barely fifty yards wide, the walls rose perpendicularly on each side. A hundred yards east and west of this narrowest portion of the pass were good places of concealment. I placed Sergeant Cunningham and thirteen men at the western end, and took as many and the boys with me to the eastern. The sergeant was instructed to keep his men perfectly quiet until the head of the herd had passed their place of concealment, and then, under cover of the noise made by the moving animals, to slip down into the cañon, and when the rear of the herd came up make a dash across the front of the Indians and begin firing, taking care not to hit us. For myself, I intended to drop into the pass with my detachment when the Navajo rear had passed, deploy, and bag the whole party and the booty. It was a long and tiresome wait before the raiders appeared. The men had been told that they might sleep, and many of them had availed themselves of the permission. The moon rose soon after ten o'clock, and made our surroundings plainly visible in the rarefied atmosphere peculiar to the arid region of the plains and Rockies. I sat on a bowlder and watched through the tedious hours until three o'clock, when Corporal Frank approached from the direction of the place where his brother was sleeping. "What sound is that, Mr. Duncan?" he whispered. I listened intently, and presently heard the distant bleating of sheep, and soon after the deeper low of an ox. "The Indians must be approaching," I replied. "You may stir up the men. Be careful that no noise is made." I continued to listen, and after a long time noticed a sound like the rushing of wind in a pine forest. It was the myriad feet of the coming flocks and herds, hurrying along the grassy valley. The men began to assemble about me, all preserving perfect silence, listening for the approaching Indians. Another half-hour passed, and over a roll in the surface of the valley, revealed against the sky, looking many times their actual size in the uncertain perspective, appeared two tall figures, whose nearer approach showed to be mounted Indians piloting the captured stock, which followed close behind. "Corporal Henry," I said, "drop carefully down into the trail and skirt closely along the wall until you come to Sergeant Cunningham's position, and tell him the Indians are close by. Tell him also to allow the two Indians in advance to pass unmolested." I sent this order by the younger boy because I suspected he was feeling that Corporal Frank's expedition to Jemez, with the adventures of the return trip, had given him a certain prominence to be envied. I meant Henry should divide honors with his brother hereafter. The little corporal silently disappeared beneath the wall, and a few minutes afterwards the two Indians entered the defile, and the goats and sheep, which had been spread widely over the open valley, scampered, crowded, and overleaped one another as they closed into the narrow way. There seemed to be fully two thousand of them, intermingled with a motley herd of horses, mules, asses, and kine of all sizes and descriptions, numbering three hundred or more, all driven by a party of seventy-three Indians. The cattle-thieves were evidently congratulating themselves upon having run the gantlet of the military camp and being out of danger, for they had abandoned the traditional reserve of the Indian race, and were talking loudly and hilariously as they passed my wing of the ambuscade. The Indians fell completely into the trap, and they and the cattle with them were captured without any difficulty. During the winter our supply of grain ran short, and I sent a party, with the Cordovas as guides, to Jemez. They were unable to get through the snow, and the elder Cordova was so badly frost-bitten that in spite of all we could do he died in the camp. Then I went with a larger party, and was successful. On June 1st orders came to break up the camp, and on the 9th the accumulated stores of nineteen months' occupation were packed, and with a train of ten wagons we set out for Santa Fé. VI CROSSING THE RIVER Two days after my arrival at the Territorial capital I was ordered to proceed alone to Los Pinos, a town two hundred miles south, in the valley of the Rio Grande, and report to Captain Bayard, commanding officer of a column preparing for a march to Arizona. On reaching Algodones, on the eastern bank of the great river, I was visited by a Catholic priest. He told me that Manuel Perea, the Mexican lad with whom the boy corporals were so friendly at Santa Fé, was a prisoner in the hands of Elarnagan, a chief of the Navajos. He begged me to assist in his release, and I promised to do all I could, consistently with my military duty. Two days after arriving at Los Pinos, where I found a troop of California volunteer cavalry and also another troop of New Mexican volunteers, the boy corporals unexpectedly arrived. Colonel Burton had changed his plans and had allowed them to accompany me. They at once asked to be assigned to duty, and I promised to consult with Captain Bayard. My interview with him concluded, I returned to my tent and found the boys busy in fitting up two cot bedsteads, spreading mats before them, hanging a small mirror to the rear tent-pole, and arranging their marching outfit as they proposed to set it up at every encampment between the Rio Grande and Prescott. "Did you have this tent pitched for our use, sir?" asked Henry. "I did not know you were coming, corporal, so that is impossible. Your tent was placed here some days ago by the post commander, for the accommodation of visiting officers who have since gone. Captain Bayard has assigned it to you." "Then we are to have the tent to ourselves?" "Yes." "Isn't that just jolly, Frank?" "Fine. To-morrow we'll place a short rail across the back for our saddles and saddle-blankets, two pegs in the tent-pole for bridles, and raise a box somewhere for curry-combs and brushes." "Can't we have Vic here, too, sir?" asked Henry. "And leave me all alone?" I replied. "You wouldn't mind it, would you, sir?" "Well, I'll leave it to Vic. You may make a bed for her, and we'll see which she will occupy--yours, or her old bed near mine." "All right, sir; we'll try it to-night." "Now something about yourselves, boys. Your tent is to be always pitched on the left of mine; you are to take your meals with the officers, and your ponies will be taken care of by one of the men who--" "That will not do, sir," interrupted Frank. "Father has always required us to take care of our arms, clothing, and horses like other soldiers, just as we always did in the valleys, you know. He says an officer who rides on a march, particularly an infantry officer, should not require a soldier who has marched on foot to wait upon him." "Very well; do as you choose." I returned to my own tent and went to bed. Placing two candles on a support near my pillow, I tucked the lower edge of the mosquito-bar under the edge of my mattress, and, settling back comfortably, proceeded to read the last instalment of news from "the States"--news which had been fifteen days on the way from the Missouri. As I read of battle, siege, and march I was conscious that the boys were having some difficulty in inducing Vic to remain with them. When at last all was quiet, except their regular and restful breathing, a soft nose was thrust up to my pillow, and I opened an aperture in the netting large enough to exchange affectionate greetings, and Vic cuddled down on her bed beside mine and went to sleep. This was always her custom thereafter. While she was very fond of the boys, and spent most of her waking hours with them, no persuasion or blandishments could prevent her, when she knew the boys had dropped into unconsciousness, from returning to my tent, offering me a good-night assurance of her unchanged affection, and going to sleep upon her old bed. The time had now come for us to begin our march to Arizona. Company F had arrived, and the boy corporals were again in possession of their beautiful horses. Grain, hay, and careful attendance had put new graces into the ponies' shapes, and kind treatment had developed in each a warm attachment for its young master. The first day of our march was spent in crossing the Rio Grande del Norte and making camp four miles beyond the opposite landing. There was a ferry-boat at Los Pinos, operated by the soldiers of the post, capable of taking over four wagons at a time. We rose at an earlier hour than usual, and by daybreak our train of eighty-nine wagons, drawn by five hundred and thirty-four mules, was on its way to the river. The two boy corporals joined me as I followed the last wagon. Mounted on their handsome animals, with carbines on their right hips, revolvers in their belts, portmanteaus behind their saddles, and saddle-pouches on each side, they were, indeed, very warlike in appearance. The two detachments of cavalry and their officers, accompanied by a paymaster and a surgeon, proceeded at once to the river, crossed and went into camp, leaving the infantry and its officers to perform the labor of transferring, from one shore to the other, wagons and mules, a herd of three hundred beef cattle, and a flock of eight hundred sheep. The boy corporals also remained behind to act as messengers, should any be required. Mules and oxen swam the stream, but the sheep were boated across. On the last trip over our attention was attracted by a sudden shouting up-stream, followed by a rapid discharge of fire-arms. In the river, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were several objects making their way towards the western shore. When near the bank, and in shoaling water, we saw the objects rise, until three Indians and three ponies stood revealed. As soon as they reached the shore the men sprang into their saddles and rode rapidly away. A shout from our rear caused us to look towards the shore we had just left, and we saw the post-adjutant sitting on his horse on the embankment. He said: "Three Navajos have escaped from the guard. Send word to Captain Bayard to try to recapture them. If they get away they will rouse their people against you, and your march through their country will be difficult." [Illustration: "MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE"] I wrote a brief message, handed it to Corporal Frank, and when the boat touched the western landing he dashed off at full speed in the direction of camp. The afternoon was well advanced when Henry and I, with the infantry, entered the first camp of our march. We found Frank awaiting our arrival, and learned from him that Captain Bayard had sent two detachments of cavalry in pursuit of the Indians, and that they had returned after a fruitless attempt to follow the trail. On our first evening in camp many of the officers and civilians gathered in groups about the fires for protection against the mosquitoes, to smoke, to discuss the route, and to relate incidents of other marches. Captain Bayard took from his baggage a violin, and, retiring a little apart, sawed desperately at a difficult and apparently unconquerable exercise. There I found him at the end of a tour of inspection of train and animals, and obtained his sanction to a plan for the employment of the boy corporals. I proceeded to tell the boys what their duties would be. Corporal Frank was to see to the providing of wood, water, and grass while we were on the march. He was further instructed that he was to conform his movements to mine, and act as my messenger between the train, the main body, and the rear guard. These were to be his regular duties, but he was to hold himself in readiness for other service, and be on the alert for any emergency. The odometer with which to measure the distance to Prescott was placed in charge of Corporal Henry, and he was told to strap this to the spokes near the hub of the right hind wheel of the last wagon in the train, taking care that the wagon should start from the same point where it had turned from the main road into camp the previous day. He was to report the distance we had marched to the commanding officer at guard-mounting, which, on the march, always takes place in the evening instead of morning, as at posts and permanent camps. After reaching Fort Wingate, and taking up the march beyond, he would ride with the advance, and act as messenger of communication with the rear; but until then he would ride with his brother and me. The next morning found all ready for a start at three o'clock. The boy corporals found it a hardship to be wakened out of a sound sleep to wash and dress by starlight and sit down to a breakfast-table lighted by dim lanterns. There was little conversation. All stood about the camp-fires in light overcoats or capes, for Western nights are always cool. When the boys and I started to ride out of camp we were, for a few moments, on the flank of the infantry company. It was noticeable that although the men were marching at "route step," when they are not required to preserve silence, few of them spoke, and very rarely, and they moved quite slowly. Corporal Henry, at the end of a prolonged yawn, asked, "Are we going to start at this hour every morning, sir?" "Yes, usually," I replied. "How far do we go to-day, Frank?" "Eighteen miles is the scheduled distance," answered Frank. "How fast do men march?" "Three miles an hour," said I. "Then we shall be in camp by ten o'clock. I don't see the sense of yanking a fellow out of bed in the night." "Of course, Henry, there's a good reason for everything done in the army," observed Frank, with soldierly loyalty. "Where's the sense of marching in the dark when the whole distance can be done in six hours, and the sun rises at five and sets at seven? I prefer daylight." Evidently our youngest corporal had not had his sleep out, and was out of humor. "Will you please explain, sir?" asked Frank. "With pleasure," I answered. "It is more comfortable to march in the early morning, when it is cool. Marches rarely exceed fifteen or twenty miles a day, except where the distance between watering-places is more than that. Sometimes we are obliged to march forty miles a day." "Seems to me the officers are very tender of the men," observed the sleepy Henry. "Fifteen and twenty miles a day, and five or six hours on the road, can't tire them much." "Why not try a march on foot, Henry?" suggested his brother. "It might prove a useful experience." "Let me suggest something better," said I. "Tie your pony to the back of that wagon, and crawl in on top of the bedding and have your nap out." Henry disdained to reply, but with a long and shivering yawn relapsed into silence. In a little more than six hours we reached the Rio Puerco, and forded its roily, brackish current to a camping-place on the other side. Harry, who with daylight and warmth had recovered his good-humor, examined the odometer and reported the distance travelled to be 18.65 miles. He entered in his note-book that the Spanish name Puerco meant, as a noun, hog, and as an adjective, dirty. He thought the river well named. He also mentioned that on the eastern side of the stream there was an excellent camping-place, but that much pains had been taken to ford it to a very poor one. After pondering this apparently unreasonable movement he asked: "Why did we not camp on that grassy park on the opposite side?" "I suppose it appears to you there can be no good reason for crossing to this side?" I asked, in reply. "It does seem even more absurd than starting on a march just after midnight--something like going into a wood-shed to rest on a wood-pile when one could as well go into a parlor and rest on a divan." "And certainly," added Frank, "we have gained nothing in distance in crossing. The march is to be short to-morrow." "Still, boys, there is quite as good a reason for doing this as for starting early to avoid the heat of the day. These Far Western streams have a trick of rising suddenly; very rarely, to be sure, but frequently enough to cause commanding officers to be on their guard. A rainfall fifty or seventy-five miles up-stream might send down a volume of water that would make it impassable for several hours or several days, according as the fall is large or small; so the rule in the army is, 'cross a stream before camping.'" "Have you ever been caught by a rise, sir?" "Twice. Once on this very stream, near its mouth. I was in command of a small escort to a train. The wagon-master advised me to cross, but I was tempted by a fine meadow on the lower side, in contrast to a rough place on the opposite side, to take my chances. I was compelled to remain there five days. The other delay was on the Gallina; but that was rising when we approached and we had no choice about crossing. We were delayed that time but two days." "I heard the paymaster and surgeon grumbling about the folly of crossing just now," said Frank. "Very likely; this is their first march in the Far West." "The captain and lieutenants heard them, but did not explain, as you have. Why was that?" "There are two reasons. One is that in the army, as well as out of it, 'tenderfeet' are left to learn by experience; the other is that our surgeon resents being cautioned or advised. Now, boys, after dinner you had better take a _siesta_. By doing so you will find it less difficult to make an early start to-morrow morning." "Thank you," replied Frank. "Tom Clary and George Hoey have told us that a nap is the correct thing after dinner on the march. Henry and I are going to try it." "I am sorry, sir," added Henry, "that I was so ill-humored this morning. I will try to do as the soldiers do when they first start out--say nothing till day breaks." "The early start was a surprise to you; you will be prepared for it hereafter." A reverberating peal of thunder interrupted our conversation and caused us to glance towards the west. There we saw a mass of dark clouds rolling down upon us. Bolt after bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky and from sky to earth, and peal after peal of thunder crashed upon our ears. VII A SWOLLEN STREAM AND STOLEN PONY It was our custom at all camps to park the supply-train in the form of an oval, with the tongues of the wagons outward and the wheels locked. An entrance, the width of a wagon, was left at one end. When, therefore, it became certain that a tempest was about to break upon us, using the boy corporals as messengers, the chief wagon-master received orders from me to drive up the mules and corral them within the circle of wagons, and the commissary stock was hurried under the shelter of a rocky mesa west of the camp. All this was to prevent a stampede should the coming tempest be accompanied by wind and hail. Tent-pins were driven in deeper, guys tightened, cavalry horses driven up, hobbled, and secured to picket ropes, loose articles thrown into wagons, and every precaution taken to be in readiness for the storm. We had not long to wait before the rain came down in torrents. In an incredibly short time the water was flowing swiftly down the slope to the river. It gathered against our tent, and finding the frail structure must go, we seized everything portable, dashed into the furious downpour, and climbed to the tops of surrounding bowlders. Through the sheets of rain we could dimly see the cavalry horses standing knee-deep in water, men looking out of the covered wagons, into which they had crawled for shelter, or standing, like ourselves, on the bowlders, their bodies covered with ponchos and gum blankets. Wall-tents, the sides of which had been looped up when pitched, stood with the flood flowing through them; cranes, upon which hung lines of kettles in preparation for dinner, standing alone, their fires and firewood swept away. The whole country as far as we could see was one broad sheet of rushing water, and the river, which was little more than a rill when we crossed it a few hours before, now rolled and boomed, a torrent several fathoms deep and dirtier than ever. The storm continued little over half an hour, and with the return of sunlight the surface water rapidly disappeared. Demoralized tents were then set up, baggage and bedding examined, and the wet articles exposed to the sun; and before night, except for the booming of the river, little remained to remind us that we had been through a storm. Just before retreat, Frank, Henry, and I stood on the bank of the river watching the trunks and branches of trees rush past, and the occasional plunge of a mass of earth undermined by the current. "Well," said Frank, after silently contemplating the scene a few moments, "what you told us about crossing a stream before camping upon it has proved true, sir, and very quickly, too." "Yes; I think even the paymaster and surgeon must be congratulating themselves they are on this side of that flood," I replied. Next morning we resumed our march at the usual hour, and passed over 23.28 miles to a deserted Mexican town and Indian pueblo. On the following day we crossed a chain of hills into the valley of the Rio Gallo. As we debouched from a deep ravine we caught sight of the pueblo of Laguna, illuminated by the sun, just rising, behind us. The town stands upon a rocky eminence overlooking the river, which waters, by irrigation, its large and well-cultivated valley. When within four miles of it I proposed to the boys that we should hasten forward in advance of the wagons and visit the town. We galloped on, and were hospitably received by the Indian governor, who did the honors of the community in person. He showed us the interior of the terraced buildings, and conducted us through the subterranean _estufa_ where, for centuries before the invention of the friction-match, the Indians kept their sacred fire--fire made sacred through the difficulty of obtaining it or rekindling it when once extinguished--and so watched day and night by sleepless sentinels. When we entered the town we left our horses hitched to the willows on the bank of the irrigating ditch, near the wall of the first house, and I ordered the dog Vic to remain with them. Three-quarters of an hour afterwards Vic looked into the _estufa_ from above, gave three sharp barks, and dashed away. We were so deeply interested in the examination of a lot of scalps, quaint pottery, weapons of warfare, etc., that we paid no attention to her. Presently she appeared a second time, repeated her barking, and ran off again. A few moments later the dog again showed herself at the sky-light, and thrusting her head downward continued to bark until I approached the foot of the ladder. As I did so she uttered a sound of anxiety, or distress, and disappeared. "Something must be the matter with our animals, boys," I remarked. "Frank, go and see what has happened, while Henry and I take leave of our host." Corporal Frank climbed the ladder two rungs at a step, while Henry and I remained to thank the governor for his kindness and bestow some trifling gifts upon the rabble of children that had followed us closely throughout our visit. We then ascended the ladder and started for the place where we had left our animals. Hurrying down the narrow alley we met Frank, who was nearly breathless with exertion and excitement. While yet at a considerable distance from us he shouted: "Chiquita's gone! Can't see her anywhere!" Hastening to the willows I found that Henry's pony was indeed missing. I thought she had simply broken loose, and would be found somewhere in the neighborhood, so mounted and made a hasty search. I saw our train several miles away, toiling up a long ascent, but there was no sign of a riderless pony on the road. On my return to the willows Henry said: "Chiquita did not break away, sir; her halter-strap was too strong, and I tied it with a cavalry hitch. She must have been unfastened by some one. Perhaps these Pueblos have stolen her." "She may have been stolen, as you suggest," I replied, "but not by the Pueblos. We were their guests, and our property was sacred." The Indians, seeing our trouble, gathered about us, and among them I saw the governor. Making my way to him, I explained what had happened. He turned to his people and addressed them in his own tongue. A young girl approached and said something, at the same time pointing to the southwest. Looking in the direction indicated, over a long stretch of broken country, bordered on the west by an irregular range of sandstone mesas, I thought I saw a moving object near the foot of a rugged bluff, several miles distant; but before I could adjust my field-glass the object had turned the bluff and disappeared. One thing, however, I did see--it was Vic, sitting on a knoll less than a mile from the pueblo. "I wonder we have not thought of Vic's absence all this time," I said; "there she is, on the trail of the thief, wondering why we do not pursue." "The good doggie," said Henry. "She did her best to tell us Chiquita was stolen, and she means to do her best to retake her." Turning to the governor, I asked, "Are there any Navajos about here?" "There is a large band in the _cienaga_, three leagues from here. The lost pony will be found there." I directed Henry to run after the train and report what had happened. "Wave your handkerchief," said I, "and some one will come to meet you. If it should be a mounted man, take his animal, overtake Captain Bayard, tell him all you know, and say that Frank and I have gone in pursuit, and that I request him to send a detachment of cavalry to look us up." Henry started off with a celerity begotten of his anxiety at the loss of his pony and the fear that his brother might fall into danger unless a body of troopers followed him closely. Frank and I then galloped towards Vic. As soon as the dog saw us approaching she sprang into the air, shook herself in an ecstasy of delight, then put her nose to the earth, and went steadily on in advance, threading her way through clumps of sage-brush and greasewood and along the ravines. The tracks of a shod pony satisfied us that we were on the trail of Chiquita and her Navajo rider. The boy had kept well down in the ravines and depressions, in order to screen himself from observation and possible pursuers. We, however, were not obliged to follow his tracks; Vic did that, and we took the general direction from her, cutting across turnings and windings, and making much better progress than the thief could have done. An hour's ride brought us to the bluff behind which I had seen an object disappear. Vic turned it and began to ascend the almost dry bed of the stream, in the bottom of which I could see occasional depressions at regular distances, as if made by a horse at a trot. Soon the brook enlarged, becoming a flowing stream, and the tracks were no longer visible. That the brook flowed from the _cienaga_, or marsh, where the Navajos were rendezvoused, was an easy inference. The Indian boy was endeavoring to reach that place with the stolen pony. Directing Frank to keep up the left side of the stream, and to look for tracks indicating that Chiquita had left its bed, I took the right side and hastened on. Willows now began to appear along the banks, showing that we had reached a permanent flow of water. Twice we came to masses of bowlders which made it impossible for a horse to travel in the stream, and we found that the pony had skirted them. We had now reached a point where a small brook entered the larger one from the right. We dismounted at the confluence to make an observation. Vic suddenly began to bark furiously; then a yelp and a continued cry of pain showed that the dog was hurt, and presently she appeared with an arrow through the thick of her neck. Advancing cautiously I caught sight of Chiquita in a cleft of the rock at my left, and an Indian boy standing behind her and aiming an arrow over the saddle. A sharp twang, and the missile flew through my hair between my right ear and my hat-rim. The boy then sprang forward, and raised a knife as if to hamstring the pony. But it was not to be, for a carbine spoke, and the raised arm of the Indian fell at his side. "Well done, Frank!" I called. We ran forward to capture the young Navajo, but he quickly disappeared behind a large rock and was seen no more. Returning to the main brook with Chiquita, we tied the horses to the willows and began a search for Vic. I called her by all the pet names to which she was accustomed, but received no response. I searched over as great a distance as I dared, with a consciousness that a band of Navajos was not far distant. Reluctantly abandoning our search, we were preparing to return to the train and escort when we descried a large war-party of Indians riding towards us from the direction of the _cienaga_. It was at once evident they saw us, for, raising a terrific war-whoop, their irregular mass broke for us in a furious charge. Death certainly awaited us if captured, and this thought prompted us to leave our exposed position instantly. Leading Chiquita, and telling Frank to follow, I dashed down the stream in the direction of the Fort Wingate road. As we flew along, feeling positive that the Indians would overtake us, I eagerly surveyed the rocky wall on our left, hoping to find a break in which we could shelter ourselves and hold the enemy in check until our friends arrived. But no opening appeared, and it seemed impossible for us to reach Laguna alive. On we went into the dense bushes, a hail of bullets and a rush of arrows about our ears. But at this moment the clear notes of a cavalry trumpet sounded "deploy," and the California cavalry crashed through the willows and we were saved. They broke into a skirmish-line behind us, but only a few shots were fired and the Navajos were gone. Being an escort, we could not delay for further operations against the enemy. Our duty was to return at once to the train. Frank and I were both uninjured, but a bullet had raised the chevron on the boy's sleeve, and another had shattered the ivory hilt of his revolver. The volunteers dismounted for a rest, and I took the opportunity to make a further search for Vic, my faithful companion and friend. Leaving my horse with Frank, I started towards the place where I had last seen her. As I descended a shallow ravine to the willow-clad brook I came upon an unexpected sight, and paused to witness it. On his knees, close to the water, his back towards me, was Corporal Henry. Extended at his left side was Vic, held closely under his left arm, her plumy tail hanging dejectedly in my direction. An occasional dispirited wag showed that she appreciated the kindness being shown her. The boy was evidently busy at something that elicited from the animal, every now and then, faint cries of pain. I heard something snap, and saw him lay two parts of an arrow on the ground to his right; then he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in the brook, and apparently washed a wound. All the time the boy could be heard addressing his patient in soothing tones, occasionally leaning his face against her head caressingly. "Poor little Vicky! Nice, brave doggie! There, there; I will not hurt you more than I can help. They can't shoot you again, girlie, for lots of your friends are here now. You shall ride back to the train on Chiquita with me. We'll own Chiquita together after this." I felt a little delicacy about breaking in upon this scene and letting the boy know I had overheard all his fond talk to Vic, so withdrew into a clump of bushes and began calling the dog. Henry promptly answered: "Here she is, sir. This way. She wants to come, but I think she had better not." "Is she much hurt?" I asked, approaching them. "Not dangerously, sir. This arrow passed through the top of her neck. I notched it and broke it, so as not to be obliged to draw the barb or plume through the wound. She is weak from her long run and loss of blood. The wound might be bound up if her collar was off." "I will remove it and not put it on again until the sore heals," I answered, and, taking a key from my pocket, I took off the collar and assisted in dressing the wound. After petting Vic for a while, and using quite as much "baby talk" in doing so as Henry had in dressing the wound, I asked the boy how he came to return with the cavalry. "I ran ahead, as you told me to, sir, and the wagon-master came to meet me. He lent me his mule, and I rode on to Captain Bayard and made my report. The captain sent Lieutenant Baldwin and his men, and lent me a spare horse to come along as guide." "Have you seen Chiquita?" "At a distance. Is she all right?" "Yes, but very tired. Let us join the troop, for it is time we were on our way to the train." Our return ride was at a walk. Henry turned his cavalry horse over to a trooper to be led, and mounted Chiquita with Vic in his arms. Arrived in camp he took the dog to the surgeon for treatment, and in a few days she was as lively as ever. VIII OVER THE DIVIDE--A CORPORAL MISSING Fort Wingate was reached in two more marches--six in all from the Rio Grande--and we went into camp for two days for rest and some needed repairs to wagons before undertaking the second and longer section of our military journey--a section upon which at that time no white man had set up a home. Recalling my promise to the priest who had interviewed me in behalf of Señora Perea, I made inquiries of the Port Wingate officers concerning her son. None of them had heard more than she already knew, but a scout claimed he had recently seen a Mexican boy herding ponies for the Navajo chief Elarnagan, thirty miles north of Zuñi. The evening before resuming our march Captain Bayard informed me that there was an emigrant family camped half a mile to the west of Fort Wingate, which had been awaiting our arrival in order to travel to Arizona under our protection. He told me to assign the family a place in the train. I went to their camp, and found it located in a grove of cottonwoods a short distance out, on the Arizona trail. Mr. Arnold, the head of the family, never ceased his occupation while I was talking to him. He was constructing a camp-table and benches of some packing-boxes he had procured from the post trader. He was a tall, well-proportioned man, of dark complexion and regular features, with black, unkempt hair and restless brown eyes. He was clothed in a faded and stained butternut suit of flannel, consisting of a loose frock and baggy trousers, the legs of the trousers being tucked into the tops of road-worn boots. His hat was a battered and frayed broad-brimmed felt. Mrs. Arnold sat on a stool superintending the work, bowed forward, her elbows on her knees, holding a long-stemmed cob-pipe to her lips with her left hand, removing it at the end of each inspiration to emit the smoke, which curled slowly above her thin upper lip and thin, aquiline nose. She was a tall, angular, high-shouldered, and flat-chested woman, dark from exposure to wind, sun, and rain, her hair brown in the neck, but many shades lighter on the crown of her head. Her eyes were of an expressionless gray. A brown calico of scant pattern clung in lank folds to her thin and bony figure. The three daughters were younger and less faded types of their mother. Each was clad in a narrow-skirted calico dress, and each was stockingless and shoeless. Mother and daughters were dull, slow of speech, and ignorant. After staying long enough to give the necessary instructions and exchange civilities with each member of the family in sight, I was riding slowly back to the roadway, intending to take a brisk canter to the fort, when Corporal Henry's voice called from a clump of cedars at the back of the Arnold family's wagons. "Oh, Mr. Duncan, may I speak to you a moment?" Turning my horse in the direction of the voice, I saw my young friend approaching, switching a handsome riding-whip in his hand. "You haven't seen all the family, sir," he said. "I have seen Mr. and Mrs. Arnold and those the mother said were all their children--the three barefooted girls." "But there is one more girl, sir, a very pretty one, too--a niece. She's back of the wagons making friends with Vic and Chiquita. You must not go without seeing her." I went back with Henry and saw a girl of about fourteen standing by Chiquita, holding her by the bridle-rein and smoothing her neck, while Vic nestled at her feet. She seemed very attractive at my first casual glance, impressing me favorably. A blonde, possessed of abundant flaxen tresses held in a band of blue ribbon, having a complexion which her recent journey had tanned and sprinkled with abundant freckles, but giving promise of rare beauty with added years and less exposure to sun and wind. Her clothing was fashionably made and well fitted, and her delicate feet were encased in neat boots and stockings. "Miss Arnold," said Henry, "permit me to introduce our quartermaster, Lieutenant Duncan--and Mr. Duncan," continued the boy, "it gives me pleasure to present to you Miss Brenda Arnold." The quality, modulation, and refinement of the voice in which the girl assured me of her pleasure in meeting me, confirmed my first impression. "But how did you make the acquaintance of Corporal Henry Burton, Miss Arnold?" I asked. "I was riding back from the fort, sir, where I had been to mail some letters, and my pony, Gypsy, lost a shoe and came near falling. The stumble caused me to drop a package, and Mr. Burton chanced to come up and restore it to me, and he also picked up Gypsy's shoe. He accompanied me to camp, and since we arrived has been giving me the history of Vic, Sancho, and Chiquita." "And that, of course, included something of the history of their devoted attendants?" "Yes, I have learned something of the gallant deeds of Corporals Frank and Henry Burton and Lieutenant Duncan at Los Valles Grandes and on the march here. When I meet Corporal Frank I shall know you all." "He will present himself to-morrow, no doubt," I observed. "But about that pony's shoe; do you want it reset?" "Yes, but who can do it?" "At our next camp, to-morrow, our soldier-blacksmith shall set it." "But I do not belong to government, sir." "But part of this government belongs to you," replied Henry. "I'll lead Gypsy to the forge for you, and Private Sattler shall shoe her as he does Chiquita, and polish the shoes, too." The Arnold family history, gathered incidentally on the march, and at a period later in my story, was briefly this: Brenda was the only daughter of Mr. Arnold's only brother, and had been reared in a large inland city of New York. Her father and mother had recently perished in a yachting accident, and the young girl had been sent to her paternal uncle in Colorado. There were relatives on the mother's side, but they were scattered, two brothers being in Europe at the time of the accident. Brenda had reached her Western uncle just as he was starting on one of his periodical moves--this time to Arizona. The different social status of the families of the two brothers was unusual, but not impossible in our country. One of the brothers was ambitious, of steady habits, and possessed of a receptive mind; the other was idle, impatient of restraint, with a disinclination to protracted effort of any kind. The distance to the first camp beyond Fort Wingate where we were sure to find water was twenty-two miles; and it being impossible for us to leave the post before three o'clock in the afternoon, we determined to make a dry camp five and a half miles out. When Frank and Henry learned that the start was not to be an early one they rode out to the Arnold camp with the information, and the former was duly presented to Miss Brenda. Gypsy was brought into the fort and shod, and returned to her mistress in season for the march. The evening was well advanced when we pitched our tents at the dry camp. Horses and mules were turned out to graze for the first time without water, and although in this mountain region the grass was abundant, they did not cease to whinny and bray their discontent throughout the night. The sun dropped behind the mountain spurs, and we drew nearer and nearer the fires, adding a thicker garment as the twilight deepened into night. Frank expressed the trend of thought by asking, "We now march into the heart of the Navajo country, do we not, sir?" "Not precisely through the heart, but along its southern border." "They'll try to make it lively for us, I suppose?" "They will certainly watch us closely, and will take advantage of any carelessness on our part." "Do you think there is any chance of our finding Manuel Perea?" "Hardly; he is too far off our route. We cannot leave the train to look him up." There was a suspicious choke in the voice of the little corporal when he said: "It is awful to think we are going so near the dear old boy and can do nothing for him. Only think of his poor mother!" "I was told at the fort that she has offered five thousand dollars to the man who will bring Manuel to her," said Frank. "I wish I could bring him in for nothing." "Brenda says she believes we shall find him somehow," Henry said. "I hope she is right, for I saw his mother at Algodones and promised her to rescue him or become a prisoner with him." "So she wrote me at Los Pinos," I replied. "Well, something may turn up to enable us to serve his mother. Let us go to bed." Next morning we were again on the road by starlight. A march of sixteen miles brought us to Agua Fria--cold water. Less than a hundred yards west of the spring was a ridge which did not rise fifty feet above it, and that was the "backbone" of the continent. The water of Agua Fria flowed into the Atlantic; the springs on the other side of the ridge flowed into the Pacific. The wagons of the Arnold family travelled between the rear-guard and the government wagons. They consisted of two large "prairie schooners," drawn by three pairs of oxen each, a lighter wagon, drawn by four horses, beside which four cows, two ponies, and four dogs were usually grouped. The father and eldest daughter drove the ox-teams, the mother the horse-team, and two daughters rode the ponies. Brenda's pony, Gypsy, was her own property, purchased soon after she joined her uncle in Colorado. As my station and Frank's were with the rear-guard, or along the flanks of the train, Miss Brenda commonly rode with us after daylight. Henry, after leaving Fort Wingate, rode with the advance. After supper at Agua Fria, Corporal Frank ordered all water-kegs to be filled, for the water at El Morro, or Inscription Rock, our next camping-place, was poor. The distance was seventeen and a half miles. The next march was to the junction of the Rio Pescado and Otter Creek, twenty-two miles, and the following to Arch Spring, nineteen miles. This way took us through the ancient town of Zuñi, an Indian community described by the Spanish priest, Father Marco de Niga, in 1559. After leaving Zuñi, a march of thirty-two miles brought us late in the evening to a spring variously called by Mexicans, Indians, and Americans, Ojo Rodondo, Wah-nuk-ai-tin-ai-z, and Jacob's Well. It is a funnel-shaped hole in a level plain, six hundred feet in diameter at the top, and one hundred and sixty feet deep. At the bottom of the hole is a pool of brackish, green water, reached by a spiral track around the wall. Our cooks first procured a supply of water, and then the animals were driven down in detachments. They waded, swam, and rolled in the water until it was defiled for human use. An hour after our arrival four Navajos appeared and were admitted to an interview with Captain Bayard, of whom they asked information concerning the terms offered their bands as an inducement to surrender and go upon the reservation. In reply to our questions they told us we would find plenty of water at Navajo Springs, seven miles from Jacob's Well, and that there had been a heavy rainfall at the west. As the Indians were preparing to leave, Corporal Henry came forward and asked Captain Bayard to inquire for Manuel Perea. The captain thanked the boy for the suggestion, and did so; and we learned that a Mexican boy, answering the description given, was assisting in herding the ponies of Elarnagan, north of the Twin Buttes, at the head of Carizo Creek. "Carizo Creek," said Frank, reflectively, turning over his schedule of distances, "that is 19.05 miles from here." [Illustration: "CORPORAL HENRY ASKED CAPTAIN BAYARD TO INQUIRE FOR MANUEL PEREA"] "Yes, and there are the Twin Buttes," said Henry, pointing to two prominent peaks to the northwest. "Can't we go there, sir? It cannot be more than thirty miles." "I would not be justified in leaving the road except upon an extraordinary emergency," replied Captain Bayard. "Don't you suppose, sir, that Elarnagan would give Manuel up for the large reward his mother offers?" asked Brenda Arnold, who stood by the side of the boy corporals, an interested listener to all that had been said. The captain asked her question of the Indians, and one of them replied that the chief had refused large offers heretofore, and would doubtless continue to do so. "Cannot you scare him by a threat?" asked Henry. "I will try it, corporal," answered the captain. Then, turning to the Navajos, he continued: "Tell the chief, Elarnagan, that it is not the part of a brave warrior to cause grief and sorrow to women and children; tell him that the great chief at Santa Fé is fast bringing this war to a close, and that two-thirds of his people are already on the reservation at Bosque Rodondo; tell him that when he surrenders--which will not be long from now--if the boy Manuel is not brought in safe he will be severely punished." "Thank you," said Henry. The Indians left in a northerly direction. At guard-mounting Captain Bayard announced that, owing to the recent fatiguing marches and the lack of good water, we would go no farther than Navajo Springs the following day, and that we would not break camp before eight o'clock. This announcement was received with pleasure; for since leaving Agua Fria little water had been drunk, it being either muddy, stagnant, or alkaline. The water at Navajo Springs was said to be pure. Ten o'clock next morning found us at the springs. They were fifteen in number, clustered in an area of less than an acre. Each was of the dimensions of a barrel set upon end in the ground, with a mere thread of water flowing from it--a thread which the fierce sun evaporated before it had flowed a rod from its source. It soon became plain to every one that we could not long remain there. The Indians had said there had been a heavy rainfall at the west. Five and one-twentieth miles over a rough, red, and verdureless country brought us to the Rio Puerco of the West. There was not a drop of water in it. The commanding officer ordered me to take ten cavalrymen, with shovels, and go on to Carizo Creek, and, if I found no running water, to sink holes in a line across its bed. The boy corporals were allowed to go with me. The distance to Carizo was seven miles, over a high, intervening ridge, and the creek, when we reached it, was in no respect different from the one we had just left. We opened a line of holes six feet deep, but found very little water. Sending Corporal Henry back with a message to Captain Bayard, we pushed on to Lithodendron Creek, a distance of thirteen miles, and found about an acre of water, four inches deep, in the bed of the stream, under the shadow of a sandstone cliff. It was miserable stuff--thick, murky, and warm--but it was better than nothing; I sent a soldier back to the command, and sat down with Frank under the cliff to wait. The march had lengthened into thirty-two miles, over an exceedingly rough country, and it had been continuous, with no noonday rest, and under a broiling sun. Frank and I sat a little apart from the soldiers, watching for the arrival of the approaching wagons. Time dragged slowly on until after nine o'clock, when a faint "hee-haw" in the far distance gave us the first hint that the train was over the divide and that the unfailing scent of the mules had recognized the vicinity of water. An hour more passed before Sergeant Cunningham and half a dozen privates of the infantry company marched down to the roily pool and stooped for a drink. The rest of the men were straggling the length of the train, which arrived in sections, heralded by the vigorous and continued braying of the mules. No one felt inclined to pitch a tent, partly on account of extreme fatigue, but chiefly because the ground was rough and stony and cacti in endless variety strewed the surface, branching and clustering about the petrified trunks of giant trees which gave the creek its name. There was no grass in the vicinity, and no grain on the train. The animals when turned loose went to the pool and drank, and then wandered about the wagons calling for forage. Lowing of cattle, bleating of sheep, braying of mules, and whinnying of horses never ceased as the suffering animals wandered in search of food. There was no fuel for fires in the midst of this petrified forest of prostrate trees, so hard bread and raw bacon made our supper. After a time I began to wonder why Vic had not come to greet me. She had accompanied Henry when he went back with my message, and I knew that if he had returned she would have looked me up immediately. I was about to search for her, when Frank appeared, and asked, "Have you seen my brother?" "No," I replied, "nor have I seen Vic. They must be with the rear guard." "No, sir; they are not there. I have just seen the sergeant of the guard." "Have you visited the Arnolds?" "Yes, sir; and Miss Brenda says they have not seen him since he came back from you." "Is not Corporal Henry here?" asked Captain Bayard, who had approached and overheard a part of our conversation. "No, sir," I answered. "I sent him to you at Carizo to say we had found no water." "He reported to me," the captain replied, "and I sent him back at once with orders for you to proceed to Lithodendron, as you have done." "He did not reach me. I came here because it seemed the only thing to do." "Henry not here!" and the captain and all of us began moving towards the train. "Cause an immediate search to be made for him. Examine every wagon. He may have got into a wagon and fallen asleep." It is needless to say, perhaps, that this search was participated in by nearly every individual in the command not too tired to stir. Henry was known to all, and had in many gentlemanly and kindly ways acquired the respect and affection of soldiers and civilian employés. Every wagon was examined, although from the first there was a general presentiment that it would be useless. In the wagon assigned to the use of the boy corporals and myself, Henry's carbine and revolver were found, but Frank said his brother had not worn them during the day. The mule and cavalry herds were examined for the cream-colored pony, but that also was missing. Then the thought suggested itself that the lad might be wandering on the road we had just traversed; but an examination of the sergeant of the guard showed that to be impossible. But one conclusion could be arrived at, and that was that Henry had been picked up by the Navajos when returning from the command to my detachment on the Carizo. At the conclusion of the search the officers gathered near their wagons for a consultation. Frank remained apart, silent and miserable. Captain Bayard said: "It is impossible for us to make an immediate pursuit with horses in such a condition as ours. To attempt a pursuit over the barren region about us would be to invite failure and disaster. If we had Mexican ponies, or Indian ponies like those of the boys, we might start at once. The boy is probably a prisoner, and a delay of one or two days can make little difference to him." "But can we go with any better prospect of success to-morrow or next day?" I asked. "Yes, a march of sixteen miles and a half will bring us to the Colorado Chiquito--a stream flowing at all times with pure water; there, also, we shall find abundance of grass and a recently established cavalry camp. I received a letter from the department commander before I left Wingate, stating that Lieutenant Hubbell and forty New Mexican cavalry had been ordered there three weeks ago. We shall find an abundance of grain at the camp, and can put our animals in good condition for an expedition into Elarnagan's country in a few days. Now, gentlemen, let us get such rest as we can, and start at an early hour in the morning." IX THE RESCUING PARTY At the close of the consultation I rejoined Corporal Frank, and we went back to our former seat under the cliff. The boy was exceedingly depressed, and I did my best to persuade him that all would end well and his brother would be rescued. "But he may be dead, or dying," he answered to my arguments. "No; that is improbable. Had he been killed, the Indians would have taken particular pains to mutilate and place his body where the passing column would have seen it. That in itself is good evidence that he is living. The worst that is likely to happen is that he may be held for ransom or exchange." "But how _can_ I wait?" exclaimed Frank. "I feel as though I ought to start now." "That would do no good," I replied. "You cannot find your brother's trail, nor could you follow it in the night." "I cannot help thinking, sir, that Henry will send Vicky with a message, and I fear that she cannot follow us so far. She must be fearfully hungry and thirsty. I feel as if I ought to go and meet her." "You may be right about the message. As Vic was without her collar, she may not have been killed." The hours crept slowly on. The uneasy animals never ceased their walk backward and forward between the water and the wagons, uttering their discontent. Towards midnight, overcome by the fatigues of the day, I fell into a doze, and did not wake until called at three. A breakfast similar to our supper was served, and we were ready for the road. The mules were harnessed while vigorously braying their protests against such ill usage, and, once under way, slowly drew the wagons to the summit of the divide between the Lithodendron and the Little Colorado, a distance of twelve miles. I did not see Frank while overlooking the drawing out of the train, but gave myself no anxiety on his account, thinking he had accompanied the advance. We had proceeded about a mile when a corporal of the guard ran after me, and reported that the Arnolds were not hitching up. Halting the train, I rode back and found Brenda sitting by the road-side in tears. "What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" I asked. "Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, "that even you cannot remedy." "Then you think I can generally remedy things? Thank you." "You have always helped us, but I do not see how you can now." "What is the trouble, please?" "Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind." "Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back and see." Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired by hope, Brenda led the way to the Arnold wagons, where I found the father and mother on their knees beside an ox, engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the animal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a fresh hide procured from the last ox slaughtered by the soldier-butcher. The foot of the ox being set in the centre, the square was gathered about the ankle and fastened with a thong of buck-skin. "Are all of your cattle in this condition, Mr. Arnold?" I asked. "Only one other's 's bad's this, but all uv 'em's bad." "That certainly is a very bad-looking foot. I don't see how you kept up, with cattle in that condition." "Had to, or git left." "That's where you make a mistake. We could not leave you behind." "I didn't think 'twould be uv any use t' say anythin'," said Mr. Arnold. "You seem t' have all you can haul now." "We have over three hundred head of oxen in our commissary herd that we purchased of a freighter. We can exchange with you. A beef is a beef. Turn your cattle into our herd, and catch up a new lot. When we get to Prescott you can have your old teams if you want them." "Thank you agin, sir. I shall want 'em. They know my ways an' I know theirs." From the top of the divide the road, smooth and hard, descended to the river, ten miles away. At nine o'clock the head of the column had reached the banks, and a few moments later men and horses had partaken of the clear, cool water. As the infantry and cavalry moved away from the shore the wagons came down the decline, the mules braying with excitement at the sight of the water gleaming through the green foliage of the cottonwoods and the verdant acres of rich grass that stretched along the river-side. Brakes were put on and wheels double-locked, until the harness could be stripped off and the half-frantic animals set free to take a turn in the river. Sheep and oxen plunged down the banks and stood leg-deep in the current while they drank the grateful water. A few moments later all the refreshed animals were cropping the generous grass. As I was going to Captain Bayard I observed Brenda Arnold taking the odometer from its wheel and making an entry in a note-book. Approaching her, I asked: "Why are you doing that, Miss Brenda?" "I promised Mr. Frank I would do it until he and Mr. Henry return," was her answer. "Promised Frank? Where has he gone?" "Gone to find his brother." "And you knew what you are telling me when we were exchanging oxen this morning?" "Yes, sir." "Why did you not tell me?" "Mr. Frank said I must not before we arrived here." "Have you no idea of the fearful danger in which he has placed himself?" "I know he has gone to find Henry, and that he said he should find him," and the pretty girl betrayed her lack of confidence in the boy's project by sitting down in the grass and bursting into tears. "When did Corporal Frank start?" I asked. "Last night. He gave Sancho about a dozen pounds of hard bread, filled his canteen with water which Aunt Martha had filtered through sand, and asked me to attend to the odometer, and rode off in the darkness. Don't you really believe the boys will return, sir?" "God grant they may," I answered; "but it is very doubtful." Here was fresh trouble--trouble the whole command shared, but which rested heaviest upon Captain Bayard and myself. We were answerable to Colonel Burton for the manner in which we executed his trust. "Ride down the valley," said the captain to me after I had concluded my account of what Brenda had said, "and look for Lieutenant Hubbell's camp. It cannot be far from here. Tell him to send me three days' grain for forty animals. While you are gone I will select a camp farther down stream, and within easy communication with him, park the train, and establish order. We will remain here until we know what has become of the boys." I found the New Mexican cavalry camp three miles down the river, and obtained the desired forage. When I returned our new camp was established, fires burning, and cooking well under way. Captain Bayard informed me that the detachment of Mexican cavalry which had accompanied us thus far would leave at this point and not rejoin us. "I have ordered Baldwin to grain his horses and be ready to start in search of our boys at daybreak," continued the captain. "You will accompany him. We shall be in no danger, with Hubbell so near. You can take thirty pounds of grain on your saddles, and you will find plenty of water on the Carizo where it breaks from the hills." "How many days are we to stay out?" "You are to take five days' rations. If the boys are not found in that time I fear they will never be found." I went to bed early, and soon fell into a fitful slumber, which lasted until an hour before midnight. I arose, dressed, and sat down by the smouldering camp-fire, a prey to unpleasant reflections. Suddenly the sound of a cantering horse approaching from the north fell upon my ears. What could it mean? I listened intently. The horse slowed down to a walk. He entered the camp. The voice of Private Tom Clary, who was posted as sentinel No. 1, challenged: "Halt!--who comes there?" "A friend--Corporal Frank Burton," was the answer. "Blest be the saints! Corpril Frank, laddie, is it you--and aloive?" said the sentinel, forgetting in his joy to continue the usual formality of the challenge or to call the corporal of the guard. Springing from my seat I walked towards the sentinel, and there, by the light of the moon, I saw Frank, mounted upon Sancho, with Vic in his arms. I reached up to take my dog, but the boy quickly exclaimed: "Be careful, sir, be careful! She's badly hurt. Here's the letter she brought. Henry is alive." To attempt to relate all that now occurred would be impossible. In some mysterious manner the news of Frank's arrival crept through the camp, and half-dressed figures of officers and soldiers gathered about the camp-fire, curious to listen to an account of the boy's adventure. One little, blanketed figure ran out of the darkness, caught Vic's face between her two palms, nestled her cheek against it, and with a cheerful "good-night," disappeared as suddenly as she had come. I took Vic in my lap as I sat on the ground, and by the light of a blazing pine-knot proceeded to examine her condition. I found the mouth and feet of the poor animal full of the spines of the _cholla_ cactus, a growth which is simply a mass of fine thorns. This cactus grows in patches, and when the dead clusters fall to the ground the spines stick to everything touching them. The dog had stepped into a bed of these bunched needles, and filled her feet, and in trying to remove them with her teeth had thrust them through cheeks, lips, and tongue, literally closing her jaws. Her paws bristled with them like pin-cushions. As to Frank's adventures: After leaving the Arnolds, as already described by Brenda, he retraced the route to Carizo Creek and to the Rio Puerco without seeing any sign of his brother. Returning to the west he dismounted at the crossing of the Carizo. He felt sure that if Henry had been captured by the Navajos he must have been taken in the dry bed of that creek. A long and patient search resulted in the discovery of tracks made by several ponies running along the eastern side of the Carizo to the north and the hills. One of the set showed the print of iron shoes. Frank mounted again and followed this trail up the valley for some hours. He was thinking about returning, when he saw a white object moving on a hill-side, far in advance. It seemed to tumble, rise, and go in a circle, then tumble, rise, and circle again. Frank's curiosity was aroused, and he rode on to examine the object. A few hundred yards more revealed the fact that he had come upon the missing Vic, and that something was seriously the matter with her. At first Frank thought she was mad or in a fit, but as he came nearer she sat up and made demonstrations of joy at his approach. He dismounted, and found her in the condition already described. On the ground was a chip, neatly cut and shaven, which she was in vain attempting to take between her sealed jaws. Frank understood the matter at once. Whenever Victoriana was sent on a message she was given a stick to deliver. It was plain that some one had sent her to either Frank or me. Of course, it could have been no one but Henry. She had come thus far, and had stepped into a bed of _cholla_. In trying to remove the needles from her feet she had absolutely sealed her mouth; in the attempt to recover the chip she had made the movements that had attracted the boy's attention. Nothing was written on the stick. Around the dog's neck was tied a cravat of dirty buck-skin. Untying and opening it, Frank found the inner surface covered with writing, evidently traced in berry-juice with a quill or a stick. It read as follows: "Captured by the Navajos. Am herding ponies north of Twin Buttes, at the head of Carizo. Come to butte with cavalry, and wave handkerchief from left peak about noon. If I do not come, look for me in plain north of butte. Don't worry; I'm all right. "HENRY." I remained at the fire long after every one had returned to their beds or duty, busy in extracting the _cholla_ spines from Vic's mouth and feet. The dog seemed to understand the necessity of the treatment she was receiving, and bore the pain submissively, with only occasional moans and cries, until the operation ended. She then received a drink of water, and went to bed with Frank. At daybreak the rescue detachment left camp, retraced our route to the Carizo, where Corporal Frank put us upon the trail of the Indians. We climbed to the highest point reached by the path, and saw it descend on the opposite side to a brook, deep in the valley. Here we halted, took the horses a short distance down the slope we had just ascended, picketed them in a grassy nook, and Frank and I started to ascend the left peak. "Mr. Baldwin," I said, as I moved away, "when you see us start to return, saddle and bridle as rapidly as possible, so as to be ready for emergencies." "I'll do so. You can depend upon us to be ready when wanted," was the reply. We scrambled through a scattering growth of piñon and junipers for several yards, and at last came to a perpendicular shaft of sandstone twenty feet high, with a flat top. The diameter of the shaft was about fifty feet. "Henry could not have come up here, or he never would have set us to attempt an impossibility," said Frank, as his eyes ran up and down the rock. "Perhaps it may not be so impossible as it appears," I replied. "Let us walk round the butte." We passed to the right, and, having found a practicable place for attempting the ascent, accomplished the feat in a few moments. On the flat summit we found the remains of former fires that had undoubtedly been lighted as signals. The view was grand and extensive. Directly to the north lay many verdant valleys--grazing-grounds of the nomadic Navajos. One of these valleys lay at the foot of the mountain upon which we stood, with a bright stream of water crossing its hither border. Well out in the valley were several flocks of sheep and goats, and close to the opposite side of the brook was a herd of ponies. After Frank had looked long and anxiously towards the flocks and herds, he said: "Those specks near the ponies must be men, I suppose. I wonder if Henry is among them? Shall I make the signal?" "Not yet. It is not yet noon. Let us lie down among these rocks, where we shall be less conspicuous, and use the field-glass." "Tell me what you see, sir, if you please." "There are five large flocks of sheep in the charge of a lot of women, some mounted and some on foot. The pony herd, which must number several hundred, is in charge of three naked Indians--boys, I think. There are no other persons in sight. Take a look for yourself." Frank accepted the glass and surveyed the valley. "I can see nothing that looks like Henry," he said. "He certainly cannot be there. Why are those boys so ghostly white?" "They are covered with yeso to protect them from sunburn." "Oh yes--whitewash." "Gypsum. The Mexicans use it for whitewash, and to preserve the complexion." "Well, those boys must have plastered it on thick; they look like living statues. Not a rag on them except 'breech-clouts.' Hello, there comes a troop around that mound to the right. Must be two hundred men." Taking the glass, I looked again. Coming into sight from the opposite side of an elevation on the farther side of the valley was a party of two hundred and fifteen Navajo warriors. They rode to each flock of sheep in succession, stopped near the women a few moments, and then came down to the pony herd. They approached the boys, and one large Indian, who appeared to be the chief, lifted the smaller boy out of his saddle, and, swinging him to his shoulder, dashed around the herd at full speed, and then set him back in his own saddle, and patted him approvingly on the back. The party next proceeded to exchange the ponies they were riding for fresh ones from the herd, and then disappeared behind the trees which bordered the brook to the west. "The pony that small boy rides looks like Chiquita," remarked Frank; "but the saddle and bridle are different. Señora Perea said that Manuel was herding ponies for the Navajos, and that he was naked." "Yes, I know; but the letter Vic brought from Henry made no mention of another boy, and there are three with that herd. But let us make the signal and see what will happen." Standing up and advancing to the edge of the butte's top, I waved my handkerchief from side to side, keeping my eyes fixed upon the three boys. They formed in line, facing us, looked long in our direction, and then, as if started by a spring, they flew down the plain, leaped the brook, and galloped up the long ascent towards the concealed cavalrymen. X THE CORPORALS ARE PROMOTED The three Indian boys were doing their utmost to excite their ponies to their greatest speed up the height. As they sped on they glanced repeatedly backward, as if fearing pursuit. Higher and higher they came up the steep until we could not doubt it was their intention to reach the command. "What does it mean? What does it mean?" exclaimed Frank. "Why are those Navajo boys running their horses in this direction? It can't be--" "Never mind, Frank," I interrupted. "Let us get down to the men as soon as we can. The Indian women are already riding after the war-party." At considerable risk to life and limb we slid down the ragged angle which we had ascended, and hurried to where Baldwin and the soldiers stood beside their saddled steeds. We had barely reached the crest from which we could see the valley when the three whitewashed boys appeared on their panting and foaming animals, the little one on the buck-skin pony in the lead. "What in the world is this?" exclaimed Baldwin. "Three whitewashed young redskins! What do they want of us?" "Here we are!" shouted a familiar voice, in excellent English. "Here we are--Manuel, Sapoya, and I!" Before we could sufficiently recover from our surprise, or, rather, calm our joyful realization of a hope born of the boys' start from the valley below, they were among us, and Henry had sprung from his horse and embraced his brother, leaving a generous coating of _yeso_ upon the army blue. Tears of joy had ploughed two streaks through the whiting on his face, and lent a comical effect to the boyish countenance. A general handshake ensued, and Corporal Frank asked, "Where are your clothes, Henry?" "Confiscated by the chief Elarnagan." "Not to wear?" "Well, no; I think they might prove baggy on his diminutive person." "Then why did he take them?" "He has a numerous progeny, and the young Elarnaganitos have an article apiece. My saddle and bridle went to Mrs. Elarnagan. She rides astride, you know." "When did the chief take your clothes?" "Just as soon as I arrived in the valley my horse and I were stripped of--But hold on, Frank; what am I thinking of?" and Henry ran to one of the other boys, a graceful youngster whose perfect limbs and handsome face the _yeso_ could not mask, and who sat his horse as if he were a part of the animal. Saying something to him in an undertone, the boy dismounted and approached me with Henry, who said, in Spanish: "This is Manuel Augustine Perea y Luna, of Algodones. It is he who planned the escape when I told him there were soldiers near." I took the Mexican boy's hand and assured him of the great happiness his escape afforded me, and the greater happiness it would afford his mother and relatives. Frank approached, took Manuel's hand, and then dropped it to give him a hearty and brotherly embrace. "Ah, Manuelito mio, I dreamed many dreams of rescuing you as we marched through this country, but I never believed they would be realized," he said. "But the little Enrique acted, and I am here," laughed Manuel. "And Frank acted, too," said I, "as you shall soon hear; and you will learn that it took both boys to effect your rescue." "Pardon me," replied Manuel, "but it is not safe to remain here longer. Elarnagan, whom you saw leaving the valley with his warriors, is intending to move down the Lithodendron to attack your train somewhere on the Colorado Chiquito." At the close of his remarks Manuel turned away, as if to mount his horse, and then, as if correcting an oversight, he said, "Wait one moment, sir." Going up to the third boy, he spoke a few words to him in an unknown tongue. The boy sprang to the ground and came forward. "This is Sapoya," continued Manuel, "a Cherokee boy, whom I found a captive when I joined Elarnagan's band. He is my brother, and will go with me and share my home." Sapoya extended his hand and clasped mine. He was a handsome Indian boy, about the same age and height as his friend. He addressed me in Navajo, which was interpreted by Manuel: "I am glad to meet one who has helped to open the broad land again to my brother and me. But our horses stand still, while those of our enemy fly to retake us." Evidently the Mexican and Cherokee boys had no desire to again fall into the hands of the Navajo chief. We made no further delay, but mounted and forced our animals down the mountain defiles as rapidly as possible. As soon as the route would permit, Henry and Manuel rode on each side of Frank, and I heard the former ask about Vic. Frank answered in Spanish, so that the Mexican boy might understand. Such expressions as "La perra brava!" "La fina perrita Vic!" from time to time showed they were hearing of Vic's adventures. [Illustration: "'GOD HAS GIVEN ME, AMONG MANY FRIENDS, TWO THAT ARE SOMETHING MORE'"] Finding that Corporal Frank was not doing himself justice in his narration, I drew alongside the boys and related what I knew of Frank's midnight ride and rescue of Vic, an event which, had it not occurred, would have left Henry and his friends still in captivity. At the conclusion of my tale Manuel changed his position from the flank to one between the brothers, and, taking a hand of Frank in his left, and one of Henry's in his right, rode on a few moments in silence. Then he said: "God has given me, among many friends, two that are something more. But for your brave acts I should still be a captive. Thank you for myself, my dear mother, and Sapoya." Having reached the wagon-road crossing of the Carizo, we turned at a canter over the divide between it and the Lithodendron. As we rose above a terrace our attention was attracted to two mounted Indians scurrying off into the broken and higher country on our right. "Ah, look!" shouted Manuel; "they expected to stop three naked, unarmed boys, and they are surprised to meet a troop of cavalry! Viva los Estados Unidos! Run, you sheep-stealers, we are safely out of your hands!" Upon reaching the summit of the divide the whole war-party stood revealed, far to our right, out of rifle-shot. Plainly, our presence was a great surprise to them. Although they greatly outnumbered us, the country was too open for their system of warfare, and they were poorly armed. They stood sullenly aloof, and allowed us to canter past unmolested. Just as our rear was passing them we noticed a solitary warrior advance and show a white cloth. "That is Elarnagan," said Manuel. "He wants to speak with you." Accompanied by the Mexican boy to act as interpreter, I advanced to the chief. He took my hand with dignity, and said he accepted the loss of his pale-faced captives as the fortune of war, but he demanded the return of Sapoya. He said that in a fight with the Utes, ten years before, his people had captured a Cherokee chief, who was visiting that tribe with his wife and child. The chief and his wife had died, and he, Elarnagan, had brought up the child as his own. He asked that Sapoya be restored to him. I called the Indian lad to me and, repeating the words of the chief, said, "You may answer for yourself." "Sapoya says to the bravest warrior of the Navajos, that he is grateful for all the favors that he has received, and that he thinks he has returned by hard service ample payment for all. He brought parents, three horses, and ample clothing to the Navajos; he takes nothing away but the pony he rode. He has shared his blanket and food with his brother, Manuel, for these many moons, undergoing fatigue and exposure with him, until his heart beats as one with his comrade's, and he desires to go with him to his home and become one of his people." The chief said nothing in reply, but advancing gave his hand in amity to both boys, and rode back to his people. "He is a good chief and a brave one," said Manuel, as we rejoined the command, "but I should cherish kindlier memories of him if he had given us some clothing and an extra blanket." Later, as we were riding slowly out of the bed of Lithodendron, Frank said, "I do not see how the Indians came to spare Vic." "One of them did attempt to kill her, but I threw my arms about her and the chief patted her head and gave orders that she should not be hurt. I think if her collar had not been taken off at Laguna she would have been killed in a scramble to possess it. Even Elarnagan would have considered her life worthless compared with the possession of such a beautiful trinket." "The chief seems to have taken quite a liking to Corporal Henry," I remarked. "Not enough to allow him to retain his clothing," said Manuel; "but he would not permit him to be deprived of his pony. Perhaps you saw him, when you were on the butte, dash round the herd with Henry on his shoulder?" "Frank and I saw it," I answered. "He said, when he placed Henry back upon Chiquita, 'He will make a brave chief.'" Camp was reached a little after dark, and the boys plunged into the river to remove the _yeso_, and then dressed themselves in civilized garments, Henry drawing on his reserve, and the others from the quartermaster's stores. Had not Victoriana been a modest doggie, the amount of praise and attention she received from the four boys would have turned her head; and the boys themselves had no reason to complain of the kindly congratulations they received from the infantry company. Word was sent to Lieutenant Hubbell that Manuel Perea had been rescued, and the following morning all the New Mexicans not on duty rode into camp to congratulate the boy upon his escape. Spanish cheers and Spanish felicitations filled the air for an hour. When the volunteers had gone and quiet was resumed, Brenda came, and her delight at seeing the boys again showed itself in ceaseless caressings of Vic and many requests for a repetition of the account of their flying ride when the signal was waved from the butte. When she at last withdrew, to repeat the story to her relatives, the corporals and I wrote a letter to Señora Perea, to be delivered by her son. In my portion I related the circumstances attending his recovery, detailing the part taken by the boy corporals, the dog, and the troop. I said no one desired to claim the generous reward she had offered, since no one in particular had rescued Manuel; many things had combined to enable him to escape. If the lady insisted upon paying the reward, we all desired that it should be devoted to the education of Sapoya. Frank added a few lines, and Henry closed the letter. The younger corporal wrote: "I've laughed with the rest over my two days' captivity among the Navajos, and made light of it. I don't mind telling you that after shivering through two nights without clothes and without enough blankets, being bitten by mosquitoes and flies, and scorched daytimes by the sun, I begin to think Manuel a great hero. "You know when I saw you I told you I was going to bring back Manuel or be a prisoner with him. That, of course, was all foolish talk, for I planned nothing. To be sure, I was a prisoner with him for two days and had something to do about bringing him back, but it all happened without planning. It seems as if God directed us all through. Frank, Vic, the soldiers, officers, and myself--even the dry time from Jacob's Well to the Lithodendron--all had something to do with finding Manuel. "About the reward the lieutenant speaks of, we think none of us deserve it. We've talked it over, and we think if you would give Sapoya a chance at school, and if you cannot make a white boy of him make him an educated man, that would be the best reward. He's very intelligent, and if he can have a good chance will learn fast. "Frank and I have a scheme we hope you will approve of. Mr. Duncan has secured a detail from the War Department to a boys' military school in the States as instructor in tactics, and will probably go in November. We are intending to ask papa to let us join that school after the Christmas holidays. We want you to send Manuel and Sapoya there. Won't you, please? Be sure and say yes. Think what a fine chance it will be for Sapoya. "You know we boys feel something more than a friendship for one another. I suppose it is like the comradeship of soldiers who have stood shoulder to shoulder in battle. There is a tie uniting us that is closer and firmer than friendship; we feel more like brothers. "We will write often. Hoping Manuel will arrive home safe, and that he may never again be a captive, "I remain your friend, "HENRY BURTON." Our letters were despatched by Manuel and Sapoya to Lieutenant Hubbell's camp, where Captain Bayard directed the boys to await the detachment of New Mexican cavalry which had accompanied us from the Rio Grande and which was shortly to return there. We resumed our march the following day at a very early hour, and as we passed the cavalry camp two half-dressed boys came bounding out to the road-side to once more repeat their affectionate good-byes and renew their promises to meet in the future. The march continued for a week longer, through a region over which the Pullman car now rushes with the modern tourist, but through which we moved at the gait of infantry. The boy corporals and Brenda Arnold climbed eminences, looked through clefts in precipices into the sublime depths of the great cañon, stood on the edge of craters of extinct volcanoes, penetrated the mysterious caverns of the cliff-dwellers, fished for trout in a mountain lake, caught axolotl in a tank at the foot of San Francisco Mountain, shot turkeys, grouse, and antelope, and enjoyed the march as only healthy youngsters can. Brenda became a pupil of the boys in loading and firing their revolvers, carbines, and fowling-pieces, and made many a bull's-eye when firing at a mark, but invariably failed to hit anything living. Henry said she was too tender-hearted to aim well at animals. That she was no coward an incident to be told in a future chapter will prove. When our train and its escort reached Fort Whipple, or, rather, the site of that work--for we built it after our arrival--the Arnolds caught up their cattle from our herd, and after a two weeks' stay in Prescott removed to a section of land which they took up in Skull Valley, ten miles to the west by the mountain-trail, and twenty-five miles by the only practicable wagon-road. This place was selected for a residence because its distance from Prescott and its situation at the junction of the bridle-path and wagon-road made it an excellent location for a way-side inn. At a dress-parade held the evening before the family's departure for their new home, Brenda sat on her pony, Gypsy, near Captain Bayard, and heard an order read advancing her young friends from the grade of corporal to that of sergeant, "for soldierly attention to duty on the march, gallant conduct in the affair at Laguna, and meritorious behavior in effecting the rescue of captive boys from the Navajos at Carizo Creek; subject to the approval of Colonel Burton." XI BOTH PONIES ARE STOLEN "Here, Frank, come and help push this gate, I can't start it alone." "Don't be in such a hurry, Henry. Wait just a moment. I think I hear a horse coming down the Prescott road. I want to see if it is the express from La Paz." The younger boy ceased his efforts to close the gates, and advancing a few steps before the entrance of the fort, looked up the valley to where the road from Prescott appeared from behind a spur of the foot-hills. The two boys had mounted their sergeant's chevrons and adopted white stripes down the legs of their trousers. As they stood side by side Vic approached and placed herself between them, nestling her delicate muzzle against the younger boy's hip and responding to his caresses with waves of her plumy tail. "Do you think we shall hear from father, Frank?" "We ought to; you know he said in his last letter he was getting settled at the Presidio, and would soon send for us." "Takes twelve days to bring a letter from San Francisco. I suppose it'll take us longer to go there; seems to me he might get ready for us while we are on the road," said Henry, lugubriously. "I'm getting mighty tired of opening and shutting these gates." "You forget father has to visit all the posts where companies of his regiment are stationed. That will probably take him all of a month longer." "And we must go on opening and closing gates and running errands in Arizona? But come; let's get a swing on 'em and watch for the expressman afterwards. We haven't much time before retreat." The gates closed a fort which we had built since our arrival in Arizona. Peeled pine logs, ten feet long, had been set up vertically in the ground, two feet of them below the surface and eight above, enclosing an area of a thousand square feet, in which were store-rooms, offices, and quarters for two companies of soldiers and their officers. At corners diagonally opposite each other were two large block-house bastions, commanding the flanks of the fort. The logs of the walls were faced on two sides and set close together, and were slotted every four feet for rifles. At one of the corners which had no bastions were double gates, also made of logs, bound by cross and diagonal bars, dovetailed and pinned firmly to them. Each hung on huge, triple hinges of iron. The two boys returned to the gates, and, setting their backs against one of them and digging their heels in the earth, pushed and swung it ponderously and slowly, until its outer edge caught on a shelving log set in the middle of the entrance to support it and its fellow. Then, as the field-music began to play and the men to assemble in line for retreat roll-call, they swung the second gate in the same way, and braced the two with heavy timbers. The boys then reported the gates closed to the adjutant. As the companies broke ranks and dispersed the boy sergeants went to the fifth log, to the left of the gates, and swung it back on its hinges. This was one of two secret posterns. On the inside of the wall, when closed, its location was easily noticeable on account of its hinges, latches, and braces; on the outside it looked like any other log in the wall. Their work being completed, the boys asked permission of the adjutant to stand outside the wall and watch for the mail. "All right, sergeants," said the adjutant; "there is no further duty for you to perform to-day." Frank and Henry ran through the postern, and arrived on the crest of the bluff overlooking the Prescott road just as a horseman turned up the height. The news that the La Paz courier had arrived spread rapidly through the quarters, and every man not on duty appeared outside the walls. Joining the boy sergeants, I said, "Boys, if you want to drop the job of opening and closing the gates, it can hereafter be done by the guard." "Thank you, sir. We took the job, and we'll stick to it," replied Sergeant Frank. "I wonder if Samson could lift those gates as easily as he did the gates of Gaza?" questioned Henry, seating himself on a log which had been rejected in the building and taking Vic's head in his lap and fondling her silken ears. "We can't remain here much longer," said Frank; "I think this express will bring an order for us to go to San Francisco." "Very likely. No doubt life here is not very enjoyable for boys." "I should say not," said Henry, "for we can't look outside the fort unless a dozen soldiers are along for fear the Apaches 'll get us." "But you can go to Prescott." "Prescott!" in a tone of great contempt; "twenty-seven log cabins and five stores, and not a boy in the place--only a dozen Pike County, Missouri, girls." "And we can't go there with any comfort since Texas Dick and Jumping Jack stole Sancho and Chiquita," added Frank. Further conversation on this subject was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the expressman. A roan bronco galloped up the slope, bearing a youthful rider wearing a light buck-skin suit and a soft felt hat with a narrow brim. He was armed with a breech-loading carbine and two revolvers, and carried, attached to his saddle, a roll of blankets, a haversack, and a mail-pouch. Dismounting, he detached the pouch, at the same time answering questions and giving us items of news later than any contained in his despatches. After handing his pouch to the quartermaster-sergeant, his eyes fell upon the boy sergeants. "I saw Texas Dick and Juan Brincos at Cisternas Negras," he said, addressing them. "My! Did you, Mr. Hudson?" exclaimed Henry, springing to his feet and approaching the courier. "Did they have our ponies?" "You know I never saw your ponies; but Dick was mounted on a black, with a white star in his forehead, and Juan on a cream-color, with a brown mane and tail." "Sancho!" said Frank. "Chiquita!" said Henry. "Do you know where they were bound?" asked Captain Bayard. "I did not speak to them, nor did they see me; I thought it would be better to keep out of the way of such desperate characters in a lonely place. I learned from a friend of theirs at Date Creek that they intend to open a monte bank at La Paz." "Then they are likely to remain there for some time." "Can't something be done to get the ponies back, sir?" asked Frank. "Perhaps so. I will consider the matter." The mail was taken to my office and soon distributed through the command. Among my letters was one from Colonel Burton, the father of the boy sergeants. He said he had been expecting to send for his sons by this mail, but additional detached service had been required of him which might delay their departure from Whipple for another month, if not longer. He informed me that a detail I had received to duty as professor of military science and tactics in a boys' military school had been withheld by the department commander until my services could be spared at Fort Whipple, and that he thought the next mail, or the one following it, would bring an order relieving me and ordering me East. This would enable me to leave for the coast about the first week in November. Frank and Henry shared my quarters with me, and that evening, seated before an open fire, I read their father's letter, and remarked that perhaps I should be able to accompany them to San Francisco, and, if the colonel consented to their request to go to the military school with me, we might take the same steamer for Panama and New York. "Oh, won't that be too fine for anything!" exclaimed the younger sergeant. "Then I'll not have to leave Vicky here, after all." Vic, upon hearing her name called, left her rug at my feet and placed her nose on Henry's knee, and the boy stroked and patted her in his usual affectionate manner. "Then you have been dreading to leave the doggie?" I asked. "Yes; I dream all sorts of uncomfortable things about her. She's in trouble, or I am, and I cannot rescue her and she cannot help me. Usually we are parting, and I see her far off, looking sadly back at me." "Henry is not the only one who dreads to part with Vic," said Frank. "We boys can never forget the scenes at Los Valles Grandes, Laguna, and the Rio Carizo. She saved our lives, helped recover Chiquita, and she helped rescue Manuel, Sapoya, and Henry from the Navajos." "Yes; but for her I might have lost my brother at La Roca Grande," remarked Henry. "That was probably her greatest feat. Nice little doggie--good little Vicky--are you really to go to San Francisco and the East with us?" "I believe if I only had Sancho back, and Henry had Chiquita, I should be perfectly happy," observed the elder brother. After a slight pause, during which the boy seemed to have relapsed into his former depression, Henry asked: "Do they have cavalry drill at that school?" "Yes, the superintendent keeps twenty light horses, and allows some of the cadets to keep private animals. All are used in drill." "And if we get our ponies back, I suppose we shall have to leave them here. Do you think, sir, there is any chance of our seeing them again?" asked Frank. "Not unless some one can go to La Paz for them. Captain Bayard is going to see me after supper about a plan of his to retake them." "I wonder what officer he will send?" "Perhaps I shall go." "Father could never stand the expense of sending them to the States, I suppose," said Henry, despondently. "They could easily be sent to the Missouri River without cost," I observed. "How, please?" "There is a quartermaster's train due here in a few weeks. It would cost nothing to send the ponies by the wagon-master to Fort Union, and then they could be transferred to another train to Fort Leavenworth." "Frank, I've a scheme!" exclaimed the younger boy. "What is it?" "If Mr. Duncan finds Sancho and Chiquita, let's send them to Manuel Perea and Sapoya on the Rio Grande. When they go to the military school they can take our horses and theirs, and we'll join the cavalry." "That's so," said Frank. "Manuel wrote that if he went to school he should cross the plains with his uncle, Miguel Otero, who is a freighter. He could take the whole outfit East for nothing. There would remain only the cost of shipping them from Kansas City to the school." "Yes, but before you cook a hare you must catch him," said I. "And our two hares are on the other side of the Xuacaxélla[1] Desert," said Frank, despondently. "I suppose there is small chance of our ever seeing them again." [Footnote 1: Pronounced Hwar-car-hál-yar.] Our two boy sergeants had found life in Arizona scarcely monotonous, for the hostile Apaches made it lively enough, compelling us to build a defensible post and look well to the protection of our stock. A few years later a large force, occupying many posts, found it difficult to maintain themselves against those Indians, so it cannot seem strange to the reader that our small garrison of a hundred soldiers should find it difficult to do much more than act on the defensive. Close confinement to the reservation chafed the boys. A ride to Prescott, two miles distant, was the longest the boys had taken alone. Two weeks before this chapter opens they had been invited to dine with Governor Goodwin, the Governor of the Territory, and he had made their call exceedingly pleasant. When, at an advanced hour in the evening, the boys took leave of their host and went to the stable for their horses, they found them gone, with their saddles and bridles. Inquiries made next day in town elicited the information that two notorious frontier scamps, Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, an American and Mexican, were missing, and it was the opinion of civil and military authorities that they had stolen the ponies. The boys took Vic to the Governor's, and, showing her the tracks of her equine friends, she followed them several miles on the Skull Valley trail. It was plainly evident that the thieves had gone towards the Rio Colorado. After supper I accompanied the commanding officer to his quarters. He told me that the express had brought him a communication from the department commander, stating that, since Arizona had been transferred to the Department of the Pacific, our stores would hereafter be shipped from San Francisco to the mouth of the Rio Colorado, and up that stream by the boats of the Colorado Steam Navigation Company to La Paz. He said he had decided to send me to La Paz to make arrangements with a freighter for the transportation of the supplies from the company's landing to Fort Whipple. "And while you are in La Paz," said the captain, "look after those horse-thieves, and turn them over to the civil authorities; but, whether you capture them or not, be sure to bring back the boys' ponies." "What do you think about allowing the boys to go with me?" "No doubt they would like it, for life has been rather monotonous to them for some time, especially since they lost their horses. Think it would be safe?" "No Indians have been seen on the route for some time." "The 'calm before the storm,' I fear." "The mail-rider, Hudson, has seen no signs for a long time." "So he told me. The excursion would be a big treat to the lads, and, with a good escort and you in command, Duncan, I think they will be in no danger. Tell the adjutant to detail a corporal and any twelve men you may select, and take an ambulance and driver." "Shall I go by Bill Williams Fork or across the Xuacaxélla?" "The desert route is the shortest, and the courier says there is water in the Hole-in-the-Plain. There was a rainfall there last week. That will give you water at the end of each day's drive." I returned to my rooms and looked over an itinerary of the route, with a schedule of the distances, and other useful information. After making myself familiar with all its peculiarities, I told Frank and Henry that if they desired to do so they might accompany me. They were overjoyed at the prospect. Henry caught Vic by the forepaws and began to waltz about the room. Then, sitting down, he held her head up between his palms and informed her that she was going to bring back Sancho and Chiquita. "I do not intend to take Vic, Henry," I said. "Not take Vic? Why not, sir?" "The road is long and weary--six days going and six returning, over a rough and dry region--and she will be in the way and a constant care to us." "But how are we going to find our horses without her? She always helps whenever we are in trouble, and she will be sure to assist us in this if we take her," said Sergeant Henry, emphatically. "She need be no care to you, sir," said the elder boy; "Henry and I will look after her." "I am sorry to disappoint you, boys, but I cannot take the dog. She will be left with Captain Bayard." This decision made the boys somewhat miserable for a time. They commiserated the dog over her misfortune, and then turned their attention to preparations for the journey. "Have you ever been to La Paz?" asked Frank. "I have never been beyond Date Creek in that direction," I replied. "Is the Xuacaxélla really a desert?" "Only in the rainless season. Grasses, cacti, and shrubbery not needing much moisture grow there. One of the geological surveys calls it Cactus Plain. It is one hundred miles long. There is water in a fissure of a mountain-spur on one side called the Cisternas Negras, or Black Tanks, but for the rest of the distance there was formerly no water except in depressions after a rainfall, a supply that quickly evaporated under a hot sun and in a dry atmosphere. A man named Tyson has lately sunk a well thirty miles this side of La Paz." "It was at Black Tanks the expressman saw Texas Dick and Juan Brincos with our ponies," said Henry. "What a queer name that is!--Juan Brincos, John Jumper, or Jumping Jack, as nearly every one calls him." "He is well named; he has been jumping stock for some years." "I thought Western people always hanged horse-thieves?" "Not when they steal from government. Western people are too apt to consider army mules and horses common property, and they suppose your ponies belong to Uncle Sam." "Frank," said Henry, just before the boys fell asleep that night, "I felt almost sure we should recapture the ponies when I thought Vic was going, but now I'm afraid we never shall see them again." XII INDIANS ON THE WAR-PATH The following day we were so delayed by several minor affairs that we did not begin our journey until the middle of the afternoon. At the time of which I write there were but two wagon-roads out of Prescott--one through Fort Whipple, which, several miles to the north, divided into a road to the west, the one over which we had marched from New Mexico, and a second which left in a northwesterly direction. We took the latter, pursuing it along the east side of Granite Range for eight miles, when we passed through a notch in the range to Mint Creek, where the road made an acute angle and followed a generally southwesterly course to La Paz. We halted for the night at the creek, eight miles from the fort. Our ambulance was provided with four seats--one in front for the driver, fixed front and rear seats in the interior, with a movable middle seat, the back of which could be let down so that it fitted the interval between the others and afforded a fairly comfortable bed. On the rack behind were carried the mess chest, provisions, and bedding, and inside, under the seats, were the ammunition and some articles of personal baggage. Beneath the axle swung a ten-gallon keg and a nest of camp kettles. While supper was being prepared the boys wandered about the reed-grass in a fruitless search for some ducks they had seen settle in the creek. Private Tom Clary, who was acting as our cook, having spread our meal of fried bacon, bread, and coffee upon a blanket to the windward of the fire, called them to supper. While sugaring and stirring our coffee, the cook stood by the fire holding two long rods in his hands, upon the ends of which were slices of bacon broiling before the glowing coals. Suddenly he exclaimed: "Look there, sergeant laddies! look there!" raising and pointing with both sticks and the rashers of bacon towards the reed-grass behind us. There in its very edge sat Mistress Vic, winking her eyes and twitching her ears deprecatingly, plainly in doubt as to her reception. "Stop, boys! keep quiet!" I said, to prevent a movement in her direction. "Vic, you bad girl, how dared you follow me?" No reply, only a slow closing and opening of the eyes and an accompanying forward and backward movement of the ears. "Go home! Go!" The setter rose, dropped her head, and, turning dejectedly, disappeared with drooping tail into the tall grass. Both boys exclaimed at once: "Don't drive her off, sir! Poor little Vic!" "Well, go and see if you can coax her back. If she returns with you she may go to La Paz." The boys ran eagerly into the grass, and soon I heard them soothing and pitying the dog, telling her that it was all right, and that she could go. But it was evident she doubted their authority to speak for me, for Henry presently came running towards me. "She won't come, sir. Keeps moving slowly back in the direction of the fort. She looks so sorry and so tired. Only think how badly she feels, and it is a long distance to Whipple! Can't she stay with us until morning?" "Then she will not come with you?" "No. She is your dog, and knows it. She never disobeys you." "But she followed me here; that looks very much like disobedience." "But you did not tell her not to come." "I believe you are right. I forgot to tell her to stay." "And she did not hear you tell the corporal to tie her, sir. You told him in your room, and she was outside." "Then you think she is not to blame for following us?" "Of course not. She's a military dog, and always obeys orders." "But how guilty she looked." "It was not guilt made her look so, sir; it was disappointment." "Yes, I think you are right, Henry. I'll let her go with us. Let us try an experiment, and see if she understands ordinary conversation. You know some people think dogs do." "Yes, sir; I know Vic does." "I'll speak to her without altering my tone of voice. Now watch. 'Here, Vicky, little girl, it's all right; you may go with us.'" Out of the reeds, bounding in an ecstasy of delight, came Vic. She sprang about me, then about the boys, the soldiers, and animals, and then approaching the fire, sat down and looked wistfully at the rashers of bacon Clary was still broiling. It was settled in her dog mind that she was now a recognized member of our party. We resumed our journey with the first break of dawn and rode to Skull Valley. The first section of the road passed through a rough, mountainous, and wooded country; but at the end of thirteen miles it entered a level valley, which gradually broadened into a wide plain that had been taken up by settlers for farms and cattle ranges. Being well acquainted, I made several calls at the log-cabins which skirted the road. At the Arnold house we were made very welcome, and after a generous dinner were escorted through the house and stables by the entire family. I had visited the valley many times when on scouting or escort duty, and had seen the Arnold cabins gradually substituted for their tents, and their acres slowly redeemed from grazing ground to cultivated fields; but since my last visit Mr. Arnold had adopted an ingenious means of defence in case of an Indian attack. The house and stables from the first had been provided with heavy shutters for windows and doorways, and loop-holes for fire-arms had been made at regular four-foot intervals. These the proprietor had not considered ample, and had constructed, twenty yards from the house, an ingenious earthwork which could be entered by means of a subterranean passage from the cellar. This miniature fort was in the form of a circular pit, sunk four feet and a half in the ground, and covered by a nearly flat roof, the edges or eaves of which were but a foot and a half above the surface of the earth. In the space between the surface and the eaves were loop-holes. The roof was of heavy pine timber, closely joined, sloping upward slightly from circumference to centre, and covered with two feet of tamped earth. To obtain water, a second covered way led from the earthwork to a spring fifty yards distant, the outer entrance being concealed in a rocky nook screened in a thick clump of willows. As we were climbing into our ambulance, preparatory to resuming our journey, Brenda said: "If you had reached here three hours earlier you might have had the company of two gentlemen who are riding to La Paz." "Sorry I did not meet them. Who were they?" "Mr. Sage and Mr. Bell from Prescott. They are going to purchase goods for their stores; and that reminds me that not one of you has mentioned the object of this journey of yours." "That is really so," I replied. "You have made every minute of our call so interesting in showing us your improvements and the fort, and in doing the hospitable, that we have not thought of ourselves. Frank, tell her about the ponies." Sergeant Frank, aided by Sergeant Henry, told in full of the loss of their animals, and said we intended to try to capture Texas Dick and Juan Brincos and recover Sancho and Chiquita. At the end of the boys' story, Brenda asked: "The thieves were a Mexican and an American?" "Yes." "The American had a scar on the bridge of his nose, and the Mexican had lost his front teeth?" "Exactly. What do you know about them, Brenda?" "They were here, but I did not see their ponies nearer than the stable; they were black and cream color. The Mexican traded saddles with uncle. You'll find the one he left in the lean-to, on a peg beside the door." Both boys leaped to the ground and ran round the house to the lean-to, and presently returned with Henry's neat McClellan saddle. It had been stripped of its pouches and small straps, but was otherwise unharmed. "Well, when I come back with Chiquita, Mr. Arnold, I'd like to trade saddles." "All right, youngkett, I'll trade, or you can take it now, and welcome," replied the ranchman. "No; I'll leave it until I return." The saddle was taken back to the lean-to, and after a few more words of leave-taking we started up the valley. A few miles of rapid travelling brought us to a steep ascent into a mountainous range to the right. We had proceeded but a short distance through a narrow and rugged roadway when we were overtaken by the military expressman whom we had left at Fort Whipple. He had come from Prescott to Skull Valley by a short cut. "I have a letter for you, lieutenant," said he, approaching the ambulance. Unfastening the mail-pouch, he turned its contents upon the back seat. A heap of loose letters and three well-worn books strewed themselves over the cushion. Frank picked up the books and examined their titles. "Xenophon's _Memorabilia_, Euripides' _Alcestis_ and _Medea_, and a Greek grammar!" exclaimed the astonished youngster. "What are you doing with these college text-books on the La Paz trail?" "Making up conditions," replied the courier, a blush deepening the brown of his face. "What are conditions?" asked Henry. "Oh, blissful ignorance! Why was I not spared the task of enlightening it?" answered the courier. "Conditions are stumbling-blocks placed in the way of successful trackmen, football players, and rowing men by non-appreciative and envious professors." "'Joseph Gould Hudson, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the fly-leaf of the _Memorabilia_. "Is that your name, Mr. Hudson?" "I'm so borne on the Yalvard catalogue." "Please explain, Mr. Hudson," I said, "how a college boy happens to be in Arizona running the gantlet of this mail-route and making up conditions in Greek?" "I was stroke in the crew that won the championship for Yalvard at New London one year ago, and got behind in these. I was conditioned, and being ashamed to face an angry father, struck out for myself on the Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle-range until I was dead broke; this place offered, and I took it because I could find nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on the Xuacaxélla. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father." "Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Hudson," observed Henry. "We've heard all about you; you are too brave." "Thank you, Sergeant Henry. No, I've not wasted my substance in riotous living, nor have I eaten husks, but I've been prodigal in wasting opportunities." "Lost a whole college year, haven't you?" I asked. "I hope not. There is a German university man at La Paz who has been coaching me. He thinks if I keep at work until after Christmas I can go on with my old class. This is my last trip, and if I escape the Apaches once more I'm going to lay off and work hard for a few months, and then return to New Havbridge for examination. There's something in that letter that concerns me." Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Hudson's story. He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson's Wells and report whether the horse-thieves were in town. He also suggested that in establishing a transshipment storehouse at the steamboat-landing I place Hudson in charge. The pay would be of use to him while "making up." The courier wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a scrambling canter up the pass. He had been gone but a few moments when I heard a shout, and, looking up, saw him standing on a pinnacle by the way-side, on the summit of the ascent. He was looking in the opposite direction, and I saw him fire three shots from his carbine in rapid succession. Dismounting the men, I made rapid preparations to meet an attack, and proceeded to work our way slowly up the height, and when we reached the narrow level at the top we found Hudson and the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter among the rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope. "What is it, Hudson?" I asked. "A party of Indians attempted to jump me here. There they go now--across that opening in the sage-brush!" A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over, supporting a third between them. "You must have hit one of them." "I tried to. I think another was hurt more seriously, by the way he acknowledged my shot." "Are you hurt?" "A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt." An examination of Hudson's arm proved that the scratch was not serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a soldier. We then went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance mules. "There's something down there in the road by Ferrier's grave, sir," said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man." "Is that where Ferrier was killed?" I asked. "Yes, sir; I was in command of the detail that came here to look him up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder, and kept the redskins off three days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of them, and might as many more, but he couldn't live without sleep or food, and the rascals got him. They scattered the mail in shreds for miles about here." "Who was Ferrier?" Frank asked. "He was a discharged California volunteer, who rode the express before Mr. Hudson." "Do you think Mr. Hudson knew his predecessor had been killed?" "Yes; the incident was much talked of at the time." We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught sight of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle against a bowlder--a serious mishap, as our after experience will show. Walking on, we came to the mutilated bodies of two men, several yards apart, whom we had no difficulty in recognizing to be the tradesmen Bell and Sage. With axe, bayonets, and tin cups we dug a shallow grave beside Ferrier's. We placed the bodies side by side, and heaped a pyramid of stones above them. The courier again bade us good-bye, and we went on. The rest of the ride through the mountain-pass was accomplished without adventure, and evening found us encamped at Willow Springs. The boys shot a few quail here, of the variety known as the California quail, distinguished by an elegant plume of six feathers on the top of its head. Clary broiled them for breakfast. The road on the following day was so rough that for much of the way we were unable to move faster than a walk--the slow walk of draught animals. When near a place called Soldiers' Holes, on account of some rifle-pits sunk there, the corporal called my attention to a pool of blood in the road. A close examination led us to believe that two men had fallen, that one had been wounded, and that a second party had come and taken the wounded man away. The locality was well adapted for a surprise. On the left was a growth of dense shrubbery extending from the road to the foot of the mountain-range. On the opposite side was an open plain. We were moving on again, when Frank remarked: "There seems to have been a big gathering of Apaches along this road." "Yes; a war-party bent on mischief. They have struck at two points, and I fear a third--Date Creek--may have been attacked by this time. That is where we are to pass the night." Then turning to Corporal Duffey, I continued: "The road from here to the creek is soft and loamy, and we are not likely to make much noise; caution the men to be quiet and not show themselves outside the track. If the Indians are at the ranch it will be best for us to appear there unexpectedly." "Do Indians never stand up like white men, and fight?" asked the younger boy. "Frequently, but their system is different from ours; however, our latest military tactics appear to be modelled on theirs." Although this section of our journey was but twenty-five miles long, our rate of progress had been so slow that the day was nearly closed when we came in sight of the lines of cottonwoods that bordered Date Creek. We turned at last sharply to the left, and began a descent through a narrow ravine towards the creek. We were nearing its widening mouth when a half-dozen sharp reports of fire-arms broke upon our ears. A halt was ordered and the men directed to prevent the animals from betraying our presence by whinnying or braying. Telling Sergeant Henry to remain behind and keep Vic with him, I went in advance with Sergeant Frank. "What do you think is going on?" asked my companion, as several more reports rang out. "What I feared; the Apaches are attacking the men who went out to bring in the dead and wounded men at Soldiers' Holes." "And if Mr. Hudson was not the wounded man there, I suppose he is sure to be in this scrape. Why not rush in with the escort and frighten them away?" "They may be too many for us," I answered, "and it will be prudent to learn the situation at the ranch before we go nearer. I want to join the white men without the Indians' knowledge, if possible." "If Mr. Hudson is not dead, he must know we are here." "He may be there, and the men may know we are on the road, but it certainly does not look like it." "Can't Vic be sent with a message?" "No; she will not take a message to a stranger." We had now reached a point from which we could see a log cabin, a stable, and an open shed or tool-house. On the side of the buildings towards us, as if screening themselves from an enemy in the opposite direction, were a few men. "If you would like me to, sir, I can crawl to the house without being seen," said Frank. "That cart, wagon, oven, and stack will screen me." "Yes, you can do it easily. Tell Mr. Hopkins that we are here--seventeen, counting you two boys--and to make no demonstration when we close up. I will explain a plan to him which, I think, will enable us to teach the Apaches a lesson. If you find Mr. Hudson there, tell him to show himself at a window or door." XIII THE BOY SERGEANTS DO GOOD SERVICE Frank dropped flat upon the earth and worked his way to the cabin without being seen. Instantly I received a signal from Mr. Hopkins through a back window, and a moment later Mr. Hudson looked out of a back door and raised his hat. I was glad to see that his college career was still a possibility. Hurrying back to the ambulance, I caused the animals to be grouped in charge of the driver and two soldiers, and with the rest of the detail moved in the direction of the ranch buildings. It had become so dark that we might possibly have passed over the open space without being seen, but, for fear of accidents, we covered it, as Frank had done, on all fours. The first persons I met when I rose to a vertical position were Hudson and Frank, who took me to Mr. Hopkins. The ranchman greeted me with the assurance that the arrival of my party was a godsend, and had probably saved their scalps. I learned that the men at Date Creek, including the mail-carrier, numbered seven; that three were in the stable and four in the house. These buildings were the same distance from the stream, and fifty feet apart. The bank of the creek was perpendicular for a mile either way, standing fully twelve feet above the surface of the water; but there was a notch with a sloping descent, midway between the buildings, down which the live-stock was driven to water. This slope offered the only practicable point of attack, unless the Indians chose to move by one of our flanks over a long level. Mr. Hopkins said he had crept out to the shrubbery on the edge of the precipitous river-bank, to the left of the slope, just before my arrival, and had seen on the opposite shore a small party of men moving through the willow branches towards our left. He believed it was a flanking-party, intending to make a feint from that direction and enable the main body to charge through the notch in the bank. Believing the repelling force to be but seven, the Indians were quite sure of success. I was convinced that Mr. Hopkins's inferences were correct; but in order that no mistake should be made, I sent two veterans in frontier service, Privates Clary and Hoey, to reconnoitre both flanks. They were gone half an hour, and returned with the information that no demonstration was being made towards our right, but that a dozen or more men had gathered on the opposite shore, at a point where they could cross and turn our left flank. Preparations to meet this movement were begun at once. Sergeant Frank was sent to the ambulance with orders for the men in charge to bring in the animals, two at a time, and fasten them in the rear of the stable and stack. This was easily accomplished in the darkness. The ambulance was left in charge of Vic. While this was going on, and I was overlooking the construction of rifle-shelters on the flanks, Sergeant Henry approached and asked if he could not be of some use. Something in the tone of the boy's voice showed me he felt he had been neglected, while his brother had been kept busy. "What would you like to do?" I asked. "Does a soldier choose his duty, sir?" was the reply, uttered with some dignity. "Not usually, sergeant, it is true. I have a very important thing for you to do--something for which I was intending to look you up. Go and find Private Clary, and tell him to help you carry several armfuls of hay from the stack to the right of the slope. Make a heap, so that when it is lighted it will illuminate the approach from the creek. Ask Mr. Hopkins if he has any kerosene or other inflammable stuff to sprinkle on the hay and make it flash up quickly and burn brilliantly. Then throw up a shelter in which you can lie and be ready to light the hay when signalled." "Yes, sir. Thank you. I'll attend to everything." Not more than fifteen minutes had elapsed when the boy sergeant returned and informed me that the bundle of hay was prepared and a shelter constructed. "Mr. Hopkins has two gallons of axle-grease and two quarts of spirits of turpentine." "Excellent. Mix them together and sprinkle the hay thoroughly. Then place yourself in the shelter, and when you see a light flash from the west window of the house light your bonfire." "I'll do so, sir," and the boy ran away in the darkness. An hour had passed when loud whoops gave us warning of the enemy's approach. It was the war-cry of the terrible Apaches. Not a sound came from the creek. I strained my eyes in that direction, but nothing was visible in the black darkness beneath the pendulous branches of the willows. At last I saw the fixed reflections of the stars in the surface of the pool diffuse themselves into myriads of sparkling atoms. A considerable body of Indians must be in the water, but none appeared in sight. Yes, they were crossing in two columns, to the right and left of the notch, concealed by the high shore, and would shortly unite and charge up the slope. Baldwin ran to the stable to tell the men there that the Apaches were coming, and to be on the alert. The whoops of the flanking party redoubled, and were accompanied by a desultory firing, which the four men opposing them answered in the same way. Then I saw the sparkling water of the pool cut off from my sight, and knew that a body of men stood on the slope between us and the creek. "Frank, show the light! Men, ready!" The lantern flashed from the window, quickly answered by a flash on the bank, and a mass of red flame threw its luminous tresses skyward, bathing the whole scene in light. In the notch, half-way up the slope, stood a momentarily paralyzed group of nearly a hundred painted warriors. Every rifle in the hands of the white men in the two buildings spoke, and instantly the notch emptied itself pell-mell of its living throng. Only a few prostrate bodies showed the Apaches had been there. With the discharge of fire-arms a silence immediately fell upon the scene, in marked contrast to the shrieking and yelling of a moment before. The bonfire burned low, and went out. Once more we were in darkness. We believed the Indians would make no further demonstration, and an hour later a scouting party ascertained that they had gathered their dead and departed. Sentinels were posted, the ambulance run in by hand, the stock fed, and a midnight meal cooked. While sitting by the camp-fire, listening to the sizzling of the bacon and sniffing the aroma of the coffee, Mr. Hopkins introduced me to his men and guests, and I heard an explanation of the tracks and blood at Soldiers' Holes. Early that morning three gentlemen, who had passed the night at the ranch, started for Prescott. They were a Mr. Gray, a Scotch merchant at La Paz; Mr. Hamilton, a lawyer of the same place; and a Mr. Rosenberg, a freighter. When near the Holes, Mr. Hamilton, who was riding in advance, was shot by Indians concealed in the sage-brush. Mr. Rosenberg's mule was wounded, and plunged so that his rider fell to the ground. Mr. Gray, seeing the plight of the freighter, rode to his side, seized him by the collar, and aided him to leap to a seat behind him. It is probable that this act of generous daring might have ended in the death of both men but for a diversion caused by the sudden and unexpected appearance of the military expressman. He came up a slope from a lower level, and, taking in the situation at a glance, let fly three shots from his breech-loading carbine that caused the Indians to lie low. The three men rode to the ranch, and Mr. Hopkins and his three workmen accompanied them to bring in the body of Mr. Hamilton. The Indians did not begin to concentrate at the creek until after the burial. Supper being over, the boys and I were getting into our blankets for the rest of the night, when Mr. Hudson, who had been preparing to depart, came to bid us good-bye. "I seem to take frequent leave of you, these times, lieutenant," he said. "Yes; and your farewell ride with the Whipple mail so far seems to have been anything but monotonous. I think the _Anabasis_ would be a more suitable subject of study on this route than the _Memorabilia_." "'Hence they proceeded one day's journey, a distance of five parasangs, and fell in with the barbarians,' might well be said of this trip, for a fact." "Hadn't you better travel with me the rest of the way?" "I think we have seen the last of the Apaches. They do not range south and west of here. Good-bye, sir." "Good-bye, until we meet at Tyson's Wells." The next morning, when the boys, Vic, and I were taking our places in the ambulance, Mr. Hopkins and his men, Mr. Gray and Mr. Rosenberg, approached us mounted. They informed me that they were going to La Paz. "The Ingins are gettin' a little too thick here," observed the ranchman. "I find it diffikilt to git proper rest after a hard day's work. Think I'll stay away until Uncle Sam's boys thin 'em out a little more." "Can I obtain a five or ten gallon keg of you, Mr. Hopkins?" I asked. "Ours was accidentally smashed on the road." "Haven't a keg to my name, lieutenant. One way 'n' ernuther all's been smashed, give away, or lent." The ride from the ranch to the edge of the desert plain was twelve miles, a portion of it over a rugged ridge. To the point where we were to ford the creek was two miles, and there the hired men, pack-mules, and ranch cattle turned off on the Bill Williams Fork route to the Rio Colorado. Once on the level of the Xuacaxélla our team broke into a brisk trot, and we rolled along with a fair prospect of soon crossing the one hundred miles between Date Creek and La Paz. Messrs. Gray, Rosenberg, and Hopkins shortly turned into a bridle-path which led into a mine. Before taking leave of us Mr. Gray told me that my camping-place for the night would be at the point of the third mountain-spur which jutted into the plain from the western range. We had not travelled long before we realized our misfortune in having smashed our water-keg. Each individual in our party possessed a three-pint army canteen, which had been filled when we forded the creek in the early dawn. These were to last us until evening, through an exceedingly sultry day. Frank, Henry, and I did our best to overcome our desire for water, but the younger boy could not refuse the appeals of Vic, when she looked up with lolling tongue and beseeching eyes to the canteens. The men were the greatest sufferers, unless I except their horses. Long before mid-day their canteens were empty and their mouths so dry that articulation was difficult and they rarely spoke. At five we arrived opposite the third spur, where we found a wand sticking in the ground and holding in its cleft end a slip of paper. It proved to be a note from Mr. Hudson, saying that this was the place to camp, and the Black Tanks were on the southern side of the spur, three miles distant. In a few minutes, with the horses and mules divested of saddles, bridles, and harnesses, leaving two men behind to guard the property and collect fuel for a fire, we were on the way to water. Hurrying along, we saw before us a long, irregular range, apparently three thousand feet in height, which had been cleft from summit to base as if by a wedge. In this rent we found water--water deposited in a natural reservoir by the periodical rainfalls in millions of gallons, a reservoir never known to be dry. Climbing over the dike which enclosed the main deposit, we descended to the cistern, filled our cups, and swallowed the contents without taking a breath. When we dipped up a second, Tom Clary looked into the depths of his cup with knitted brows. "Whist, now, sergeant laddies!" he exclaimed. "Look into the wather! It's aloive with wigglers of ivery variety. They're 's plinty as pays in a soup." "Ugh! And we are full of them, too, Tom," said Henry, looking into his cup with narrow-eyed anxiety. Pausing in the act of taking a second drink, I looked into my cup, and saw that it contained myriads of animalcula and larvæ, which zigzagged from side to side in the liveliest manner. "Will they hurt us, Tom?" questioned Henry. "I rickon they've got the worst of it, sergeant laddie; but I think I'd fale a bit aisier if I was blindfolded or takin' a drink in the dark. I prefer me liquid refrishment with a little less mate, not to minshin its bein' less frisky." We had come to the Cisternas Negras with towels, intending to wash off the dust of travel. We now used one of them to strain the water, and were astonished to see that each gallon left behind it a plump spoonful of animalcula. The water was sweet, but, after discovering the abundant life in it, we deferred drinking more of it until it had been boiled. As we pursued the narrow path to camp in single file, we noticed Vic a considerable distance to the right, scouting and nosing about in an earnest manner. Evidently she thought she had made an important discovery, for she several times paused and looked in our direction and barked. But we were too hungry to investigate, and soon she disappeared from our view. When we reached the ambulance the boys put a few cakes of hard bread in their pockets, and, taking their shot-guns, went out to look for some "cottontails" while supper was being prepared. Believing we were well out of the range of hostile Indians, I did not object to their going alone. They passed a considerable distance beyond the growth of _Cereus giganteus_, over a level stretch covered with knee-high bunch-grass and desert weeds, without seeing a hare. Pausing on the brink of a shoal, dry ravine, they stood side by side, and rested the butts of their guns upon the ground. Just then a shout of "Supper! supper!" came from the group at the camp-fire. "Hate to go back without anything," said Frank, so I afterwards heard. "Strange we can't see a rabbit now, when we saw dozens on the way to the Tanks." "That's because we didn't have a gun," said Henry. "You don't believe the rabbits knew we weren't armed then and know we are now?" "Hunters tell bigger stories than that about 'Brer Rabbit.' Not one has bobbed up since we got our guns." Suddenly from the flat surface of the plain, not twenty yards from where the boys stood, where nothing but bunch-grass and low shrubbery grew, sixteen Indians sprang up to full height, like so many Jacks-in-a-box. XIV ON THE DESERT WITHOUT WATER The boys were frightened. Their hearts leaped into their throats, and it was difficult for them to restrain an impulse to turn and run; but a soldierly instinct brought them to a "ready," with eyes fixed upon the probable enemy. "Quick, Henry! shoot!" exclaimed Frank, intending to reserve his own fire. The younger sergeant raised his double-barrelled shot-gun to his shoulder and pulled both triggers. Down went the sixteen Indians as if the bird-shot had been fatal to all. The plain became in an instant as objectless as it was a moment before. "Load, Henry, and, backward, march!" said Frank, ready to fire whenever a head showed above the grass, and at the same time moving as rapidly as possible towards the camp-fire. "How! how! how!" was chorused from the direction of the Indians, and several naked brown arms were stretched upward, holding rifles horizontally in the air. "That means peace," said Henry. "They aren't going to fire. Let's answer. How! how! how!" "How! how! how!" Frank joined in, and at once the sixteen redmen sprang to their feet, apparently none the worse for Henry's double charge of bird-shot at short range. They held their weapons above their heads, and continuing to utter their friendly "How!" rapidly advanced towards the boys. "They aren't playing us a trick, are they, Frank?" asked Henry, in an anxious tone. "No," replied the elder boy, after snatching a glance to the rear. "The lieutenant and soldiers are saddling. The Indians dare not harm us on an open plain in sight of a mounted force." The boys stopped, and the redmen came up and began shaking hands in a most friendly manner, over and over again, repeating "How!" many times. They were clad in loose and sleeveless cotton shirts, all ragged and dirty, with no other clothing. The one who appeared to be chief was distinguished by the possession of three shirts, worn one above the other. Each man possessed several hares and field-rats, held against his waist by tucking the heads under his belt. The boy sergeants and their strange guests reached the camp-fire, and the hand-shaking and exchange of amicable civilities went on for some time. The chief approached me and, placing a finger on one of my shoulder-straps, asked, in mongrel Spanish: "Usted capitan?" (Are you the captain?) I replied in the affirmative. "Yo capitan, tambien; mucho grande heap capitan." (I'm a captain, too; a very great heap captain.) He then asked where we were from and where we were going, and informed us that they were Yavapais on a hunting expedition. We exchanged hard bread with them for a few cottontails, and set Clary to making a rabbit-stew, the boys and I deferring our supper until it should be ready. "Oh, Mr. Duncan," shouted Henry from the direction of the Indians, a few moments later, "come and see what these creatures are doing!" I left the ambulance and joined the group of soldiers who stood in a circle about an inner circle of seated Indians. Each Yavapai had selected a rat from the collection in his belt, and had laid it on the coals without dressing it or in any way disturbing its anatomy. He rolled the rat over once or twice, and took it up and brushed and blew off the singed hair. He placed it again on the coals for a moment, and, taking it up, pinched off the charred fore legs close to the body and the hind legs at the ham-joint. Replacing it on the fire, he turned it over a few more times. Picking it up for the third time, he held it daintily in the palm of his left hand, and with the fingers of his right plucked off the flesh and put it in his mouth. When we were making our beds ready for the night, Vic, whom we had forgotten in the exciting events of the evening, trotted into camp and laid a horseshoe in Henry's lap. The lad took it up, and exclaimed: "One of Chiquita's shoes!--a left hind shoe!" "How do you know?" I asked. "Private Sattler always shaped the heel of the left shoe like this, to correct a fault in her gait." "May I look at the shoe, sergeant?" asked Corporal Duffey, approaching from the group of men near the guard's fire. "Shoes are like hand-writing--no two blacksmiths make them alike. I am a blacksmith by trade, and know all the shoes made by the smiths of our regiment. This," examining it, "is one of Sattler's. He put a side-weight on it, and here is the bevel-mark of his hammer." "Then our ponies have certainly passed here, and Vic was on their trail when we saw her coming from the Tanks," remarked Frank; "but there could have been no scent after so long a time." "Oh, she knows Sancho's and Chiquita's tracks," asseverated Henry; "she knows their halters, bridles, and will bring them when told to, without mistake." The sentinel awakened us next morning at four o'clock, and informed us that the Indians had left two hours before. The animals were again driven to the Tanks, the vessels and canteens filled, and at six o'clock we were on the road. Nearly all our water was used in the preparation of breakfast, except that in the canteens. It would have been better if we had made a third trip to the cisterns and refilled our coffee-pot and camp-kettles; but the delay necessary to do it, and the assurance that there was water at Hole-in-the-Plain, determined me to go on at once. The weather was a repetition of that of the previous day--hot and windless. The road proved generally smooth, but there were occasional long stretches over which it was impossible to drive faster than a walk. About four in the afternoon we reached Hole-in-the-Plain, and found nothing but a few hundred square yards of thin mud. The fierce rays of the sun had nearly evaporated every vestige of the recent rainfall, and in twenty-four hours more the mud would be baked earth. Vic, consumed with thirst and suffering in the extreme heat, waded into the mud and rolled in it until she was the color of a fresh adobe, and was, in consequence, made to ride thereafter in disgrace on the driver's foot-board. We had intended to pass the night at the Hole, but want of water compelled us to move on. Very gloomy and doubtful of the outcome, we left the Hole-in-the-Plain. We were toiling slowly up a slope, nearly a dozen miles on this third stage of the desert route, when a horseman overtook us, who proved to be Mr. Gray. He slowed up, listened to my account of our perplexities, and after saying many hopeful and cheering things, telling us that Tyson's Wells were now not far ahead, he galloped swiftly away in the darkness. At midnight the road ascended to a considerably higher level and became suddenly hard and smooth. The driver urged the team into a series of brief and spasmodic trots, which lasted a couple of hours, when we again descended to a lower level, where the wearily slow gait was resumed. With the slower pace our spirits fell and our thirst increased. As Private Tom Clary expressed it to the driver: "In a place like this a gallon of Black Tanks water would be acciptible without a strainer, and no reflictions passed upon the wigglers." "That's so, Tom," called Henry, from the depths of his blankets; "I could drink two quarts of it--half and half." "Half and half--what do you mean?" I asked. "Half water and half wigglers," was the answer. "I thought you were asleep." "Can't sleep, sir; I'm too thirsty. Did drop off once for two or three minutes, and dreamed of rivers, waterfalls, springs, and wells that I could not reach." "I've not slept at all," said Frank; "just been thinking whether I ever rode over a mile in Vermont without crossing a brook or passing a watering-trough." "It's beginning to grow light in the east," observed the driver. "By the time we reach the top of the next roll we can see whether we are near the Wells." "You may stop the team, Marr," said I; "we will wait for the escort to close up." We got out to stretch our legs, while the straggling soldiers slowly overtook us. The man on the wounded bronco did not arrive until the edge of the sun peeped above the horizon, and I ordered him to remove the saddle and bridle, hitch the animal behind the ambulance, and take a seat beside the driver. Just when we were about to start again, Frank asked permission to run ahead with the field-glass to the rising ground and look for Tyson's Wells. I consented, and told him to signal us if he saw them, and that if he did not we would halt, turn out, and send the least worn of the escort ahead for relief. Frank started, and presently disappeared behind some brush at a turn in the road. An instant later he shouted and screamed at the top of his voice. Whether he was shouting with joy or terror, or had gone out of his senses, we were unable to guess. It sounded like "Who-o-o-op! water! water! water!" Had the boy seen a mirage and gone mad? We could see nothing but the broad hollow about us, barren and dry as ever. But still the boy continued to shout, "Water! water!" and presently he appeared round the bend, running and holding up what appeared to be a letter. It was a letter. When Frank reached the ambulance tears were in his eyes as he handed me a yellow envelope. "Found it on the head of a barrel over there, with a stone on it to prevent it from blowing away." Breaking open the envelope with trembling fingers, I read: "TYSON'S WELLS. "DEAR LIEUTENANT.--Please accept four barrels of water and four bushels of corn, with my compliments. "GRAY." Need I confess the emotions with which we realized the service this brave Arizona merchant had done us? or need I mention that Mr. Gray--God bless him, wherever he may be!--is always remembered with gratitude by me? for this is no idle incident invented to amuse a reader, but an actual occurrence. Water!--four barrels!--one hundred and sixty gallons! That meant two gallons for every man and boy, and eight gallons for each animal. It meant rest, speed, safety. We moved across the ravine and found the four barrels by the road-side. The animals were secured to the ambulance and the acacia bushes, the heads of the barrels removed, and after each person had satisfied his thirst the camp kettles were used, until horses and mules had drunk the contents of one each. The stock was then turned out to graze. When coffee was poured, Private Tom Clary arose, and, holding up his tin cup, said to his comrades: "Here's a toast to be drunk standin', b'ys, and for many raysons, which I think nade not be explained to this assimbly, I'm glad to drink it in a decoction whose principal ingraydiant is wather. Here's to Mr. Gray, whose conduct at Soldiers' Holes, at Date Creek, and on the Walkerhelyer has won our admiration. May he niver lack for the liquid he has so ginerously dispinsed, nor a soft hand to smooth his last pillow, and plinty of masses for the repose of his sowl!" Frank and Henry sprang towards the circle of soldiers, raised their cups as Clary finished his sentiment, and joined in the hearty response when he closed. At one o'clock the animals were caught up, given the remainder of the water and their portion of the corn, and got ready for the road. Once up the slope Marr cracked his whip, the mules started into a trot, the horses of the escort broke into a canter, and amid the cheerful clatter of hoofs and the rattle of wheels we sped on our way as fresh as if we were just leaving Fort Whipple. A ride of twenty miles brought us to Tyson's Wells. These were two in number, sunk at an intersection of several roads leading to settlements and mines, an accommodation to trains, flocks, and herds, and a profit to the owner. I learned from Colonel Tyson that immediately upon his arrival Mr. Gray had hired a wagon to take water and corn to us. He had bargained for the driver to go until he met us, but the man being prepaid may account for his not fulfilling his agreement to the letter. The rest of the day and night was spent at the Wells, the boys and I taking our supper at the Desert Hotel, kept by the colonel. At the table, Henry, in a tone of evident anxiety, asked if we should return the way we came. "Yes, if we can find a few kegs in La Paz that will hold water," I answered. "But we cannot haul kegs enough in the ambulance to supply the animals." "It will not be difficult. We will follow the army custom in such cases, and I will promise you that there will be no suffering from thirst when we cross the desert again." Just as we were preparing for bed Mr. Hudson arrived from La Paz. He informed me that Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were there and in possession of the ponies; that there was to be a horse-race the day after to-morrow, and the ponies had been entered. At this news the boy sergeants became much excited, and proposed a dozen impracticable ways of going on at once and seizing their property. Hudson said he had talked the matter over with Mr. Gray, and the merchant had advised that we give out a report in La Paz that we were there on the transportation and storehouse business only, and make no immediate attempt to capture the ponies. He said the town was full of the friends of the horse-thieves, and that our movements would be closely watched and reported to them. If they became alarmed they would probably run across the Mexican boundary at once. "But why cannot we attend the race with the escort, as spectators, and seize them?" asked Frank. "That is a move they will be sure to be looking for. If any of you go to the race, I believe neither of those men nor the ponies will be there." I told Hudson to return to La Paz before daylight and circulate the report that I was coming for the purpose he had mentioned. I also requested him to watch Jack and Dick, and if he saw them making preparations for flight to come and meet me. We were met on the outskirts of the town by Mr. Gray, who told us we were to be his guests during our stay, and that his corral and store-rooms were at the service of my men and stock. Going directly to the house of the hospitable trader, we found it to consist of well-furnished bachelor quarters, with several spare rooms for guests. The boys were assigned a room by themselves, and I one adjoining them, in which we found ample evidence that our host had looked forward with pleasure to our visit and had fully understood boyish needs and desires. Henry, after exchanging his travelling-dress for a neat uniform, appeared upon the veranda with glowing face and shining hair. "Mr. Gray, how pleasant you have made our room for us! Have you any boys of your own?" he asked. "Only two nephews, Sandy and Malcolm, in the 'Land of Cakes,'" was the reply. "What a good uncle you must be to them!" "Thank you, laddie. I hope the bairns are as fine boys as you and your brother." "You are very kind to say so, sir. May I ask you a question?" "A dozen, laddie. What is it?" "When you overtook us on the desert you said it was not far to Tyson's Wells, and that we should soon be there." "Ah! then you thought it a long way, sergeant?" "Perhaps my terrible thirst had something to do with it, but it seemed more than twenty-five miles. I thought you had a queer notion of distances." "Only a little deception to keep up your heart, laddie. I saw you were in sad need of water, and I made a hard ride to send it to you, but I wanted you to do your best to meet it. What do you think of the shrinking properties of water when applied to a desert road?" "Wasn't it great, though! Those last twenty miles your four barrels shrank into nothing but a pleasant three hours' ride." After dinner Mr. Hudson reported that he had dropped information at the hotels and business places that we were here to meet a director of the Colorado Navigation Company. We also learned from him that the steamer _Cocopah_ had arrived that morning from up-river, and was now lying at her landing, one mile below town, awaiting the return of the director from Wickenburg. Both Mr. Gray and Hudson were of the opinion that the horse-thieves were suspicious of our presence, for their agents had been unable to locate the ponies at any stable in town. The horse-race was advertised to come off on the afternoon of the following day, half a mile below the steamboat-landing, and Texas Dick and Juan Brincos had entered horses for the stakes. Mr. Gray thought the appearance of the ponies in the race would depend entirely upon what course we pursued. If we attended the race the ponies would not be there; if we stayed away he had no doubt they would run. Believing the trader's convictions to be correct, I instructed the escort not to go south of the town during the day of the races, and told Frank and Henry to amuse themselves about the streets or in the vicinity of Mr. Gray's residence. I then started with our host to procure a building for a military storehouse. For the rest of the day the boys showed little disposition to wander about; they spent most of their time lounging on their beds with a book, or asleep. XV THE PONIES ARE FOUND The following day the boy sergeants rose from their beds fully refreshed, and after breakfast began to explore the town. They made some purchases in the stores, and found much amusement in watching a bevy of Mojave Indian girls buying pigments to be used in adorning their necks, arms, and faces. Following the bronze maidens to the shore of a lagoon that backed up to the town from the river, they seated themselves beneath a cottonwood and witnessed the designing of tracings in many colors, made with endless and musical chatterings, accompanied by an evident consciousness that they were objects of interest to two pale-face boys. After completing the tinting the girls would walk about for a while and display their work to admiring friends, and then plunge into and swim about the lagoon with the ease and grace of a lot of mermaids; emerging with no trace left of their recent ornamentation, they would proceed to renew it in different designs, and take another swim. "Quite like watering-place belles with extensive wardrobes," remarked Frank. "And takes about as long to put on the paint as to put on a fashionable dress," said Henry, "but not so long to remove it." Another thing that amused the boys was a _balsa_, or raft, made by the Mojaves, of the cane-grass which grew in the river-bottoms to the height of fifteen feet. A large bundle bound at the ends with grass ropes would sustain two men. The boys borrowed one of an Indian girl, who was sitting in the shade of some willows prinking herself artistically with an original and intricate pigmentary pattern. Stepping on board, they paddled about the lagoon for a considerable period. Tiring at last of the sport, they separated, Frank saying that he was going for his shot-gun, and perhaps shoot for some quail, and Henry that he meant to find Tom Clary and set some lines for catfish. The younger sergeant failing to find the soldier, selected a line, and, procuring some bait, returned alone to the lagoon. On his way he met the Indian girl walking along the sidewalk, an object of admiration and envy to the men and women of her people. Her bronze flesh was adorned with a lacelike tracery of beautiful design, in many tints. "How exceedingly pretty!" said Henry, in Spanish, a language fairly well understood by the aborigines of the Southwest. "I, or my paint?" asked the girl, coquettishly. "The paint is well put on; but I think you prettiest just after a swim." "Thank you, señor." "May I use the balsa again, Indita?" "Si, señor, and you may keep it, but return the paddle." "Thank you. I will leave the paddle on the shore where you were sitting." With this exchange of civilities Henry walked down to the pool. An idea had occurred to him. He wondered if he could not float down the river to the racing-ground and get a peep at Sancho and Chiquita, as they came in victors. He felt sure no ponies in Arizona could outrun them. But Mr. Duncan had told the escort not to go to the race. True; but what harm could there be if he kept out of sight? Placing an empty box on the raft for a seat, he took Vic on board, and began paddling out of the lagoon. Speed could not be made with such a craft; it was simply a convenience for crossing or journeying down the river. The Mojaves, whose village was five miles above La Paz, came down on freshly made _balsas_ every day, but walked home, carrying their paddles. Once well out of the lagoon, and in the river-current, the boy and dog were swept along at a swift rate. A mile down the shore he saw a crowd of men, mounted and on foot, intently watching something inland. He was approaching the race-course. He made a landing on a sand-spit that struck off from an outward curve of the bank, and dragged the _balsa_ out of the water. The shore rose abruptly from the bar to a height two feet above his head. He lifted and boosted Vic up, and seizing the long tufts of overhanging grass and thrusting his feet into the loops of willow roots, drew himself to the higher level and crept into a screen of low bushes. Peering through the branches, Henry saw a straight-away course, parallel to the river, bordered for three hundred yards with the motley crowd of a mining and Indian country. At the northern end of the course was a group of ten ponies, out of which he found no difficulty in discovering two, a black and a cream-color, and recognizing in them the property of his brother and himself. In his opinion they were the handsomest animals in the group. At the fourth signal--a pistol-shot--the ponies got away. Down the three-hundred-yard track they sped, and over the last fourth the black and cream-color led by a length, crossing the goal with Sancho half a neck in advance. Of course the little sergeant knew they would beat, and in spite of his sorrow at the loss of his ponies--intensified by this stolen sight of them--he could not refrain from clapping his hands and saying, aloud, "Bravo, Sancho! Bravita, Chiquita!" The subdued cheer was promptly answered by a succession of barks at the foot of the tree, and Vic, interpreting the boy's clapping and speech to mean that she was free to go, dashed off at the top of her speed for the race-course, and to its southern end, where the victors were now held by their dismounted riders. Vic bounded wildly about them for a few moments, and then, standing still, Henry saw each horse in turn place its nose to the dog's nose. One of the men struck the dog sharply with the loop of his bridle-rein, and as she fled back in the direction of the tree in which the boy was, he saw the riders hold a brief consultation and then follow the dog. Henry, perceiving he was discovered, let himself down from the tree. Texas Dick and Jumping Jack approached. "Ven acá, muchacho" (Come here, boy), said the Mexican. Henry did not stir, and Dick said to his companion, in Spanish: "He does not understand your lingo. I will try him in English: Come here, boy." Henry had not disregarded Juan's summons for any particular reason, but the remark of Dick gave him an idea. By pretending ignorance of Spanish he might learn something that would be of advantage to him. Accordingly, he came forward when Dick spoke. "From Fort Whipple, ain't yer, sonny?" "I am." "D' ye know these critters?" "The black is my brother's, the light is mine." "Lookin' on 'em up, I s'pect?" "We shall take them, if we can." "You see, I was right," continued Dick to his companion, in Spanish. "They came here to take these horses." "Then we better call for the prize, collect our stakes, and leave," said Juan. "Where shall we go?" asked Dick. "Arizona's getting uncomfortable for me, and your kin across the Mexican line don't love you." "Valgame Dios, no! Let's cross the river and go to San Diego or Los Angeles." "Estar bueno. Come with us, youngster," he added, in English; "and mind ye keep a quiet tongue in yer head or ye'll have no head to wag it in after ye've spoke." Henry followed the men to the head of the race-course, where they received their prizes and winnings, and withdrew to the river-bank. There they divided the money and held a conference. "We'd better cross the river to-night and camp at El Rincon until morning, and then strike for Dos Palmas and the coast." "Shall we leave our monte and other stuff in town?" asked Juan. "No; you stay here and take care of the boy, and I'll go back and sell out. Anastacio Barela will buy. Look sharp that the young soldier does not send a message by his dog. I heard lots of strange stories of her performances in that line at Prescott. I will bring down something for our supper and the road." Dick galloped away, leaving the Mexican and Henry to await his return. As the twilight deepened into darkness the boy's thoughts grew more and more despondent. He now fully and sadly realized that his disobedience of orders had brought disgrace upon himself, and ruined every chance of recovering the ponies, for once the thieves got well away they were secure from capture. It was night when Dick returned and told the Mexican that he had made an advantageous sale of their gambling outfit. "Now, kid, ye kin slope," he said, addressing the disheartened lad. "Tell the lieutenant that he kin look for us at Hermosilla, on the other side of the Mexican bound'ry. Good-bye." Henry hurried away towards La Paz, with Vic close at his heels. There was no occasion for haste, for he felt that nothing in the town could overtake the lost Sancho and Chiquita; still he hurried and stumbled on in the darkness. "Oh, Vicky," said the boy, in his misery, stooping to caress his companion, "I ought to be court-martialled and dishonorably discharged from the service for this. I have done very wrong. I have lost our ponies for good." The dog licked his hand sympathetically, and then suddenly bounded away, barking, and Henry heard Frank's voice say: "Why, Tom, here's Vic!" "Thin Sargint Hinery must be near," said the soldier. "Yes, I'm here, Frank--and oh, Frank, I'm in such trouble!" And in a curiously jumbled and half-incoherent manner Henry related his afternoon's experience. At the conclusion of the recital the three held a consultation as to what was best to be done. Time was precious, and the town was nearly two miles distant. "Sargints," said Private Tom Clary, "I belave we can do bist by oursilves. Me afthernoon's lave ixpires at tattoo, but if, as me shuparior officers, ye'll allow me to be out of camp a bit longer, I think we can sarcumvint the thaves." "We'll do our best to get you excused by the lieutenant," said Frank. "Thank you, sargint laddie. You say the grass-boat is near by, Sargint Hinery?" "Not far from here, Tom. Just west of the middle of the race-course." "And the thaves are going to camp and cook their supper on the other side?" "So they said." "Thin we'll attimpt to interfare with their arrangemints. I think the liftinint will commind an 'absence without lave' if we bring in the raskils and the ponies." The soldier and boys turned, and, bidding Vic keep close to them, hurried to the bar where Henry had left the gift of the Mojave belle. As they were lifting the elastic raft into the water they heard the voices of men on the river, accompanied by the splashing of water, and knew that the horse-thieves were fording the stream. The Colorado was shoal, having an average autumnal depth of four feet at La Paz. Clary secured two poles from the river débris lodged on the bar, one for Frank and one for himself. Henry sat on the box in the middle, holding his companions' guns across his lap with one hand, and grasping Vic's collar with the other. The well-filled game-bags lay between his feet. The _balsa_ moved slowly towards the opposite shore and swiftly down-stream, the stalwart Irish soldier's feet settling into the loosely bound stems as he poled. Becoming alarmed when he found the water standing above his ankles, he called, in a subdued undertone: "Sargint Frank, I belave I shall go through the bottom of this l'aky craft before we git across." "Take Henry's paddle, Tom; it lies on the right side of the box. Lay it across the reeds and stand on it." "Ah, sure and that's betther. Kape yer ind a little more up-strame, sargint. We'll steer by the avening star." In a few minutes the _balsa_ lodged against the shore in the still water of a little cove. The boys and soldier were aware that they were landing some miles below their starting-point, for the current was strong and swift, while the horse-thieves had forded the river almost in a direct line. They climbed the bank, and ordering Vic to keep close by them, began to move as fast as possible up the shore. They had made their way for nearly an hour over a rough and miry river-bottom when the setter showed sudden excitement and began sniffing to the right and left. "She must have struck their path from the river to their camping-place, Tom," said Frank. "Look sharp, Vicky, look sharp!" "But she seems to be working up-stream," said Henry. "I should think they would have gone straight inland." "There's an excillint rayson for that, sargint laddie," returned Clary. "One of the routes t' th' coast begins exactly opposite th' town, and they must go up-strame to foind it; El Rincon the landing-place is called." "The Corner?" "Yis, Th' Corner. Th' shore binds out there a wee bit." Man and boys continued to struggle along, until across a level, grassless plot they saw, near a clump of cottonwoods, a fire, where Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were plainly visible, cooking their supper. On the side of the fire opposite the river were two saddles, upon which rested their rifles and revolvers. Still farther west the two ponies were picketed and grazing. Clary told Henry to go to the ponies and stay there with Vic, while he and Frank crept upon the thieves. Screening themselves behind tufts and swells, and lastly behind the saddles, they worked across the level, the sound of their moving being covered by the booming and rushing of the mighty river. When within twenty yards of the fire and five from the saddles, Private Tom Clary sprang to his feet, aimed his double-barrelled shot-gun at the thieves, and shouted: "Throw up your arrums!" At the same instant Frank made a flying leap for the saddles, and seized the rifles and revolvers. Henry ran forward and assisted his brother in keeping Dick and Juan under the muzzles of their own rifles, while Clary securely bound them. This accomplished, the boys went back for a moment to renew their acquaintance with their horses. Yes, the chase was over, and their favorites were again in their possession; and it cannot appear strange that the young soldiers went into boyish ecstasies of delight at their good-fortune, embracing, patting, and talking to Sancho and Chiquita as if they understood all that was said to them. But at last they joined Clary at the fire, and the three, while they continued to carry on the interrupted cooking of their captives, discussed ways and means of returning to La Paz, and it was decided to send the setter with a message. A note was pencilled on a page of Frank's diary, attached to Vic's collar, and she was taken to the river-bank and given a stick, with orders to deliver it to her master. With but little hesitation she plunged into the murky current, and soon disappeared in the darkness in the direction of the other shore. While the boy sergeants were going through these adventures I remained in La Paz. At retreat and tattoo roll-calls Corporal Duffey had reported Private Clary absent, adding the words "and unaccounted for," and at Mr. Gray's table the boys were absent from supper. At first I gave myself no anxiety over the absentees, but at midnight, becoming alarmed, I began a search for them. I soon learned that Henry had been seen to paddle out of the lagoon on a Mojave _balsa_, accompanied by Vic, and that Frank and Clary had gone quail-shooting. I did not feel especially anxious about the older boy, for he was in the company of one of the most trustworthy of our veteran soldiers, and would probably soon turn up safe. But Henry--gone down the turbulent river on a frail bundle of grass--what might I not fear? I led all the men of the detail--every one of them as anxious as myself--on a long and fruitless search beside the river, without coming upon a clew. Returning to Mr. Gray's, and dismissing the men, I sat upon the veranda alone, sadly reflecting upon the absence of my young companions and Vic. In the midst of my sad reflections there scrambled up the steps a wet and bedraggled dog, who dropped at my feet a chip. Carrying her in my arms to my room, I lighted a lamp and examined her collar, and found a few leaves of a memorandum-book covered with Frank's hand-writing. The news of Vic's arrival with a message spread quickly, and soon the household was gathered in my room and in possession of the news of the exploit of the boys and Tom Clary. "Good! good!" exclaimed the director of the Navigation Company. "Come with me to the _Cocopah_. We'll steam across and get the whole party." On the western shore of the Colorado, Private Tom Clary and the boy sergeants sat by the fire broiling quail, which they seasoned from the supplies of Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, and accompanied by slices of toasted bread from the same source. In the midst of their enjoyment of "quail on toast" a loud "who-o-of! who-o-of! who-o-of!" came across the river. "Hullo!" said Henry; "the old _Cocopah_ is starting for the Gulf mighty early. I should think the pilot would find it difficult to keep off the shores when it is so dark." The boys could see by the boat's changing lights that her bow, which had been headed up-stream, when she lay at the bank, was swinging slowly out into the stream, and they expected shortly to see her starboard lights as she headed downward. But she seemed to pause, with her furnace fires and pilot lanterns pointing towards them. "Who-o-of! who-o-of! who-o-of!--patter, patter, patter." The noise of the steamer grew louder and louder, until the boys rose from their seats and stared in surprise at the rapidly growing lights. "I really believe she is coming here," said Frank. "She is, or she nades a dale of space to turn in," observed Private Tom. Presently two tall smoke-stacks separated themselves from the darkness and appeared high above their heads. "Ahoy there, boys!" shouted the captain's voice from the bridge. "Ay, ay, sir!" answered Frank. "Get ready to come on board! Below there--stand by to lower gang-plank! Now!--lower away!" Down came the plank, and a joyous group of friends walked down to the shore to greet the boys and the soldier. A few moments afterwards the boy sergeants led their ponies on board, and Private Tom Clary escorted the prisoners. The _Cocopah_ cleared away and paddled back to the La Paz side, where Texas Dick and Juan Brincos were turned over to the civil authorities, and Sancho and Chiquita to the escort in Mr. Gray's corral. Three days later the boys and I took leave of Mr. Hudson, who was now in charge of the government storehouse, and, accompanied by Mr. Gray, started for Fort Whipple. Hanging under the hind axle of the ambulance was a ten-gallon keg, and inside was another. We left La Paz early in the morning and arrived at Tyson's Wells at nine o'clock. Remaining there until six o'clock in the evening, we watered our animals, and with freshly filled kegs started for Hole-in-the-Plain, where we stayed until the following evening, the animals passing the day on grass without water. A second night-drive brought us to Cisternas Negras, and the third to Date Creek, from which last point we resumed travelling by daylight. At Skull Valley, at the earnest request of Miss Brenda Arnold, Henry was allowed to remain for a few days' visit. He promised to join the next incoming mail-rider, and to ride back to the fort by way of the mountain-trail. XVI APACHES IN SKULL VALLEY It was near midnight, four days after my return from La Paz, that I sat by my open fire, absorbed in a recently published popular novel. I was suddenly aroused by a distant and rapid clatter of horse's feet. The sound came distinctly through the loop-holes in the outer wall of the room--loop-holes made for rifles and left open for ventilation. Dropping my book upon the table, I listened intently to the hoof-beats. Some one was riding from the direction of Prescott, evidently in great haste; and Arizona being a country of alarms, I surmised that the rider was coming to the fort. The horseman stopped at the great gates. "Halt! Who comes there?" rang out the voice of Private Tom Clary, who was sentinel No. 1, stationed at the post entrance. "Sargint Hinery, is it you, laddie?" the voice continued, in a lower and gentler tone. "Yes, Tom; and, oh, tell Mr. Duncan, quick, that--" "Whist! Take care, laddie! Howld on a bit!" and a rifle fell clattering to the ground and two solid feet sprang forward with a rush. Hearing this, I started for the secret postern, and as I opened my door, heard the honest old soldier shout: "Corpril uv th' guard, No. 1!" and, in a lower and appealing tone: "Liftinint, if ye hear me, come quick to the little sargint. I fear th' dear b'y is dyin'." In an instant I was through the narrow gate-way, standing beside a group of the guard that surrounded Clary, who, kneeling beside a panting and reeking pony, held the inanimate form of Henry Burton in his arms. "Corpril Duffey, will ye let one uv the b'ys walk me bate a minate till I can take the laddie in?" asked Tom. "Yes, Clary, go ahead, and stay as long as you're needed," was the kindly answer. "Is it to your room I'll be takin' him, sor?" asked Clary, rising and holding his burden across his breast. "Of course, and place him on my bed. Corporal Duffey, send a man for the surgeon and hospital steward, and send another with the pony to the stable." It was too dark to take in details, but I noticed Chiquita was utterly exhausted, and that she was covered with foam. Following Clary to my room, I saw, when the light fell upon Henry's face, that his right cheek and neck were bleeding, and that his left arm hung unnaturally limp by the bearer's side. We placed him upon the bed, and Surgeon Coues, who had now arrived and pronounced the boy to be simply in a faint from loss of blood and over-exertion, applied restoratives and brought him back to consciousness. As Henry's eyelids raised, and he recognized me, he said, weakly: "Oh, Mr. Duncan, tell Captain Bayard the Indians have attacked Mr. Arnold's ranch, and that Mrs. Arnold is dead!" "Indians attacked the ranch! When?" "About four o'clock." "How many?" "Don't know. Seemed as if there were over a hundred. And don't stop to worry over me. Don't stop an instant--these scratches are nothing--but send the soldiers, quick, or Brenda and all will be killed!" "How did you get away from the ranch? But you are right, this is no time for talk." I aroused the other officers instantly, and sent Frank to his brother. All assembled in my quarters, and, while the surgeon dressed the wounds in cheek and neck and set a fractured radius, orders for an expedition to Skull Valley were issued, and Henry told his story. At the time this incident occurred the Californians had been mustered out of service and returned to their distant homes, and the garrison at Fort Whipple consisted of infantry only. But there were many "dough-boys" who were good riders, and a number of excellent horses were kept by the quartermaster for emergencies which required speed and short service. Captain Bayard gave orders for a sergeant, three corporals, and twenty-two privates to be got in readiness for mounted service, with rations for five days. The command was given to me, and Private Tom Clary immediately applied to be relieved from guard in order to accompany me. His request was granted. Sergeant Frank concluded to remain with his brother. "I know it is rough on you, Frankie," said Henry, "not to have a chance to win a few scars, too; but I should be dreadfully worried if you were to go, and I'm worried enough about Brenda now. You must stay with me." And so it was settled, and Frank remained behind, lending his pony Sancho to Private Clary. During all this preparation, dressing of wounds, and setting of fractures, Henry had managed to give us an account of what had happened at Skull Valley before he left. I will, however, repeat it a little more connectedly, with additions obtained later from other parties. After I left Sergeant Henry in the valley, as I passed through there from the Xuacaxélla, he had for three days devoted himself to the amusement of his young hostess, Brenda, and her cousins. There were many reasons why the Arnolds were not fearing an attack at the time, the principal one being that the Indians had recently been defeated at Date Creek. With that affair they seemed to have withdrawn, and no signs of them had been seen since. Near the close of the afternoon of the fourth day of Henry's visit a party of forty-one Apaches had suddenly appeared, and had spent an hour or more reconnoitring the valley and its approaches. Apparently becoming satisfied that they would not be interrupted in their attack by outside parties, they began active operations by collecting the Arnold cattle and horses, and placing them in charge of two of their number near the spring. Next they fired one of the out-buildings, and under cover of the smoke gained entrance to a second, which stood less than a hundred feet from the north side of the house. Knocking the mud and chips from between the logs here and there, they were enabled to open fire upon the settlers at short range. With the first appearance of the Indians, Mr. Arnold, assisted by two travellers who had arrived that afternoon from Date Creek on their way to Prescott, closed the windows and doorways with heavy puncheon shutters, removed the stops from the loop-holes, directed the girls to carry provisions and property into the earthwork, got the arms and ammunition ready, and awaited further demonstrations. The available defensive force consisted of every member of the family, including Sergeant Henry Burton and the two strangers. The mother and daughters had been taught the use of fire-arms by the husband and father, and Brenda had been taught by the boy sergeants. In an emergency like the one being narrated, where death and mutilation were sure to follow capture, the girls were nerved to do all that could have been expected of boys at their ages. Until the Apaches gained possession of the second out-building, few shots had been exchanged, and the besieged closely watched their movements through the loop-holes. It was while doing this that a bullet pierced the brain of Mrs. Arnold, and she fell dead in the midst of her family. The body of Mrs. Arnold was borne to the cellar by the sorrowing husband, accompanied by the weeping children. The firing became desultory and without apparent effect. Ball and arrow could not pierce the thick walls of the log-house; only through the loop-holes could a missile enter, and by rare good-fortune none of the defenders, after the first casualty, chanced to be in line when one did. The family again assembled in defence of their home and lives, the grave necessity of keeping off the impending danger banishing, in a measure, the thoughts of their bereavement. An ominous silence on the part of the Indians was broken at last by the swish of a blazing arrow to the roof. Mr. Arnold rushed to the garret, and with the butt of his rifle broke a hole in the covering and flung the little torch to the ground. But another and another burning arrow followed, and in spite of desperate and vigilant action the pine shingles burst into flames in several places. At this juncture Henry, whose station was on the south side of the house, approached Mr. Arnold and said: "Sir, I see Chiquita grazing near the spring, close to the edge of the willows, and the two Indians there with the herd keep well this way, watching the fight. If you think best, I will creep through the passage, mount, and ride to the fort for the soldiers." Mr. Arnold did not at once reply. He took a long look through a loop-hole towards the spring, and Henry, misinterpreting his silence, said: "Don't think I want to desert you, sir, and skip the ranch. I'll stay here and do my best with the others, but I thought, perhaps, if I could do it, I might save you all." "God bless ye, my boy; nobody can doubt yer fightin' 'bility; yer was born a soldier. I was only thinkin' yer chance uv gittin' by them two redskins at the spring's mighty small." "Then you think it a good plan?" "Yes; I'd like to have ye do it, if ye can." "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best." Then the lad passed around the rooms, taking the hand of each defender in farewell until he reached Brenda. As he took her hand in his right and fondly lay his left upon it, the young girl broke into uncontrollable sobbing, and, throwing her disengaged arm over his shoulder, said: "Oh, Henry! what a dear, brave boy you are! You never think of yourself, but always of your friends!" "I will bring the soldiers, Brenda, and you shall all be saved. Keep up a good heart." "But it is such a long ride, and even if you do get away, you may find us dead or captives when you return." "You must be brave, Brenda--no, not brave, for you are that already; but be patient. We are sure to be here before those fellows can take the little fort. That can be defended as long as the ammunition holds out." Then the boy kissed the pretty Brenda and her cousins, and dropped into the cellar. Passing into the earthwork, he selected his saddle and bridle from a heap of others, buckled on his spurs, dropped with bowed head upon his knees a moment, and crept into the passage leading to the spring. Groping his way between the narrow walls, he presently emerged through a natural crevice in a mass of bowlders near the spring. Standing in the screen of willows, he parted the branches cautiously in the direction of the two Indians, and saw them less than a hundred yards distant, standing with their backs towards him watching the Arnold house, the roof of which was now a roaring, leaping mass of flame. Closing the boughs again, Henry opened them in an opposite direction and crept softly up to Chiquita, holding out his hand to her. The docile pony raised her head, and, coming forward, placed her nose in his palm, submitting to be saddled and bridled without objection or noise. Leaping into the saddle, the boy drove his spurs into the animal's flanks, and was off at a furious run in the direction of Whipple. Startled by the hoof-beats, the Apaches looked back, and began running diagonally across the field to try to intercept the boy before he turned into the direct trail. Arrow after arrow flew after him, one wounding him in the neck and another in the cheek, and when the distance began to increase between him and his pursuers and they saw the boy was likely to get away, one raised his rifle and sent a bullet after him, which fractured the radius of his left arm. "Well, Chiquita," said Henry, as he turned fairly into the Prescott trail and had realized the exact nature of his injuries, "you haven't got a scratch, and are good for this run if I can hold out." It was dusk when Henry began his ride, and it rapidly grew darker as he hurried along the trail. Neither he nor the pony had been over it before. Twice he got off the trail, and long and miserable stretches of time elapsed in regaining it; but the fort was reached at last and the alarm given. XVII PURSUIT OF THE APACHES With twenty-eight men, including two scouts picked up as we passed through Prescott, and the post surgeon, I left for Skull Valley. The night was moonless, but the myriad stars shone brilliantly through the rarefied atmosphere of that Western region, lighting the trail and making it fairly easy to follow. It was a narrow pathway, with but few places where two horsemen could ride abreast, so conversation was almost impossible, and few words, except those of command, were spoken; nor were the men in a mood to talk. All were more or less excited and impatient, and, wherever the road would permit, urged their horses to a run. The trail climbed and descended rugged steeps, crossed smooth intervals, skirted the edges of precipices, wound along borders of dry creeks, and threaded forests of pine and clumps of sage-brush and greasewood. Throughout the ride the imaginations of officers and men were depicting the scenes they feared were being enacted in the valley, or which might take place should they fail to arrive in time to prevent. It is needless to say, perhaps, that the one person about whom the thoughts of the men composing the rescuing party centred was the gentle, bright, and pretty Brenda. To think of her falling into the hands of the merciless Apaches was almost maddening. On and on rode the column, the men giving their panting steeds no more rest than the nature of the road and the success of the expedition required. At last we reached the spur of the range behind which lay Skull Valley. We skirted it, and with anxious eyes sought through the darkness the place where the ranch buildings should be. All was silence. No report of fire-arms or whoop of savages disturbed the quiet of the valley. Ascending a swell in the surface of the ground we saw that all the buildings had disappeared, nothing meeting our anxious gaze but beds of lurid coals, occasionally fanned into a red glow by the intermittent night breeze. But there was the impregnable earthwork; the family must be in that. I dashed swiftly forward, eagerly followed by my men. The earthwork was destroyed, nothing but a circular pit remaining, in the bottom of which glowed the embers of the fallen roof-timbers. A search for the slain was at once begun, and continued for a long time. Every square rod of the valley for a mile was hunted over without result, and we all gathered once more about the two cellars, in which the coals still glowed. "It was in the cellar of the house that Sergeant Henry said the body of Mrs. Arnold was laid, was it not?" asked Dr. Coues. "Yes," I replied. "Then if all were killed after he left--shot from time to time--would not their remains be likely to be beside hers?" "Not beside hers, I think. The last stand must have been made in the fort." "Then the bodies, or what is left of them, must lie under that circular bed of coals, Duncan, if they died here." "Probably, doctor. It's an uncanny thing to do, but we must stir the coals and see." A thorough search revealed nothing. "Does th' liftinint moind that Sargint Hinery mintioned a covered way that led from th' cellar to th' spring?" asked Private Tom Clary, who wielded a rail beside me. "Perhaps th' pretty lassie and her frinds are in that." "That is so, Clary; thank you for the suggestion," I answered. "Can you make out the opening?" "Nothin' sure, sor. Behoind thim wagon-tires there sames to be a natural slope of earth." "Tip the tires over, Clary," I ordered; and presently a number of tires, from which the fire had burned the felloes, spokes, and hubs, fell into the coals, disclosing a recently filled aperture. "Looks as if the end of a passage had been filled, doesn't it?" asked the surgeon. "It certainly does," I answered. "Let us go to the spring and examine." Accompanied by the doctor and several men, I rode to the spring. When we arrived there we broke a way through the thick-set willows into an irregular mass of small bowlders. Climbing over these, we found ourselves at the mouth of a narrow passage about four feet high and two feet wide. "This must be the entrance to the covered way," I remarked, and placing my head in the crevice, I called: "Oh, Mr. Arnold, we are here--your friends from Fort Whipple!" "Thank Heaven!" in a man's tones, came clearly through the entrance, accompanied by a sudden outburst of sobs in girlish voices. "We'll be there directly," spoke another man's voice--that of a stranger. "We've heard your horses' hoofs jarring the ground for some time, but we thought it safest to lay low until we were sure it wasn't redskins." Then followed the sound of steps, accompanied by voices, sounding at the entrance, as a voice spoken in a long tube appears to be uttered at the listener's end. Some time elapsed before those who seemed so near appeared; but at last there emerged from the passage Mr. Arnold, two strange men, and three girls--but no Brenda. "Where is Brenda, Mr. Arnold?" I asked. "Heaven only knows, lieutenant. She gave herself up to the Apaches." "Gave herself up to the Apaches! What do you mean?" "That's precisely what she did, lieutenant," said one of the strangers, adding: "My name is Bartlett, from Hassayampa, and this is Mr. Gilbert, from Tucson. We were on our way from La Paz to Prescott and stopped here for a meal, and got corralled by the Indians. But about the girl Brenda: she took it into her head, after we got into the little fort, that unless some one could create a diversion to mislead the devils, we'd all lose our scalps." "That beautiful young girl! Gave herself up to certain torture and death! Why did you allow it?" "Allow it!" exclaimed Mr. Bartlett, indignantly. "I hope, lieutenant, you don't think so hard of me and my friend as to believe we'd have allowed it if we'd suspected what the plucky miss meant to do!" "Tell me the circumstances, Mr. Bartlett," said I. The party moved slowly along the path from the spring to the fires, and as they walked Mr. Arnold and the travellers gave an account of all that had happened after Sergeant Henry left for Fort Whipple. The burning arrows sent to the pitch-pine roof became so numerous that the besieged found it impossible to prevent the flames from catching in several places. Henry was hardly out of sight before the house became untenable, and the defenders were obliged to retire to the fort. When the house was consumed, and its timbers had fallen into the cellar a mass of burning brands, the space about the earthwork was clear, and the rifles at its loop-holes kept the Indians close within the out-building they had occupied since the attack began. No one dared to show himself to the unerring marksmen, who watched every movement. For a long time silence reigned among the Indians. The whites, however, felt sure that plans were being matured which meant disaster to them. At last these plans were revealed in a constant and rapid flight of arrows, directed at a point between two loop-holes--a point which could not be reached by the besieged, and where, if a considerable collection of burning brands could be heaped against the logs, between the earth and the eaves, the pine walls and rafters must take fire. Walls and roof were too solid to be cut away, and water could not reach the outside. The defenders, when they realized what the result of a fire would be, held a consultation, and decided that in the event of the fire getting control of the fort they should retire into the covered way, block up the entrance with earth, and remain there until help should arrive. It was thought the Indians would suppose all had perished in the flames. "But they know we came here by an underground passage from the house," said Brenda; "will they not suspect we have entered another passage if we all disappear?" "P'r'aps they may," answered Mr. Arnold; "I had not thought of that. We'll have to take our chances." "If one of us was to appear to escape from here, and join them," continued the girl, "I think they would suppose the others had perished, and make no search." "That may be true, but I'll take my chances here," said Mr. Gilbert. "So will I," said his companion. "A fellow wouldn't last a minute outside this fort. I prefer smothering to the death those devils will give me." It soon became evident to the besieged that the outer wall was on fire. The sun had gone down and darkness was deepening in the valley when the first tongue of flame licked through a crevice in the roof and showed that the fire had gained a foothold. Soon a hole appeared, close to the eaves, which gradually enlarged towards the centre of the roof and along the surface of the earth. With blankets the fire was beaten out on the sides, but it crept insidiously along between the timber and earth covering. In making the roof, branches of pine had been spread over the timber, and the branches in turn covered with a thick layer of straw to prevent the earth from filtering between the logs. This material was as dry as tinder, and held the fire. The men stood at the loop-holes and compelled the savages to remain under cover of the out-building, while the four girls exerted themselves to keep the fire from showing inside. Delay until help could arrive from Whipple was what all were struggling to gain; but the increasing heat and smoke showed the defenders at last that they could no longer put off retiring to the covered way. The word was given and all entered it, and the men with shovels began to close the entrance. When it was a little more than half closed the hole in the roof had become triangular, resembling the space between two spokes and a felloe of a wheel. On the earth, or felloe side of the triangle, there was no fire; but the other sides were burning fiercely. Making a sudden dash, and before any one could realize her intention, Brenda leaped past the shovellers, sprang over the embankment they were throwing up, and by the aid of a bench sprang up the four-foot wall, through the flame-bordered aperture, and disappeared, her clothing apparently in a blaze. The war-whoops immediately ceased. No attempt at pursuit or rescue was made. The Arnolds and the strangers felt that it would be useless, and only result in the death of the pursuers. The work of closing the passage was resumed and completed, and all sat down to await the slow flight of time and the possible arrival of the soldiers. After listening to the story of the Arnolds I concluded that Brenda had fallen a victim to the cruelty of the Apaches, and that we should find her mutilated and disfigured body. A rapid and excited search was at once began. Far and wide, over plain, through ravines, and into the foot-hills rode the soldiers, leaving no part of the country for several miles around unsearched; but not a trace of the missing girl was discovered. Once more the detachment gathered near the ruins of the Arnold home, and began preparations for returning to Whipple. The remains of the dead wife and mother were lifted from beneath the charred timbers and deposited in a grave near by. While the burial was taking place, the two scouts, Weaver and Cooler, were absent, looking for the Apache trail. Day was dawning, and as it was probable when they returned that the command could start, I ordered the horses fed from the loose forage scattered about, and the men to prepare their breakfast. The scouts returned as the men were dispersing from their meal, and Cooler placed in my hand a dainty lock of flaxen hair, wound around the middle with a strand of the same. "I found it," said the scout, "beside the ravine yonder, a little more than two miles from here. The young miss is alive, and dropped it for a 'sign.' The redskins all left in that direction." Whatever Brenda's three cousins may have lacked in education and cultivation, they wanted nothing in affection. They gathered about the little tress, took it daintily in their palms, kissed it again and again, and moistened it with tears. Low sobs and endearing names for the brave darling who had been willing to sacrifice her life to preserve theirs fell from their lips. Poor, rude, frontier maids, they had shown an equal bravery all through the defence, and proved themselves to be worthy descendants of the race that lived through the colonial struggles with the Indians of the Mohawk Valley. The three girls gathered about me, and, clinging to my arms, besought me to go to the rescue of their cousin. "Yes, yes, girls," I replied; "everything shall be done that possibly can be. We will start at once, and I hope to bring her back to you." Turning to the father, I said, "Mr. Arnold, I will leave you a luncheon for the road, and you must try to make the distance to Prescott on foot." "Yes, sir; we can do it easy, thank you." "I would leave you some of the men as escort, but in such an expedition I need more than I have." "That's all right, Mr. Dunkin; 'f I had a beast I'd go with ye. There'll be no Apaches round these parts agin for a considerable spell," and his eyes ran sadly over the ruins of his home, the wreck of his property, resting finally on the grave of his wife. Yes, Brenda was alive, and a prisoner of the Apaches, spared by them, probably, as children sometimes are after such raids, for adoption. It was plainly our duty to rescue her from the fate of a continued life with her captors. XVIII ON THE TRAIL OF THE APACHES After a further delay, to allow the scouts and their broncos to breakfast, the party mounted and turned to the west. Calling Paul Weaver to ride by my side, I questioned him about the region before us. "I suppose you are familiar with this part of the country, Paul?" "Ought t' be. Trapped and hunted here since I was twenty, and I'm nigh on to sixty-five now." "Have these Apaches a camping-place near here?" "Yes; they spend a part of every year here-abouts, gatherin' mezcal. From the direction they've took, I b'lieve they're goin' to Santy Maree Creek." "That flows into Bill Williams Fork, does it not?" "Yes, an' 't has a northern and southern branch. One of th' favorite campin'-places of th' Mezcalleros 's on th' southern branch." "How far is it from here?" "'Bout fifty mile." "Easy of approach?" "Toler'ble; good ridin' all th' way, 'cept a bit of bowlder country on a divide." "Is the camp open to attack?" "Wide open arter yer git into th' valley. There's a waterfall, or, rather, a piece of rips ther' that 'll drown th' n'ise of our comin'." "Isn't it strange Indians should camp in such a place?" "They're Mezcallero 'Paches, and the'r food, th' mezcal, grows thick round ther'. 'Sides, ther's no other place on th' stream combinin' grazin' and waterin', and they've never been hunted into that region yit." "Well, Paul, they will be now." I urged the men on as fast as possible, taking care not to exhaust the horses and unfit them for a long pursuit. The soldiers were animated by a strong desire to punish the Indians for their treatment of the family in Skull Valley, and were excited by the fear that the gentle and beautiful young girl in their hands might fall a victim to some barbaric cruelty before they could be overtaken, so that the animals were constantly urged close to their powers of endurance. Near the middle of the forenoon, as the soldiers were riding up a cañon, on each side of which rose rugged sandstone precipices, we came to a fork in the trail and the cañon. Not only the track parted, but, judging from footprints, most of the captured stock had passed to the right. Weaver said the right-hand path led to the northern branch of the Santa Maria, and the left to the southern. I halted the detachment, perplexed. To divide my party of twenty-nine in order to follow both trails seemed to me to be inviting disaster. To take the whole number over a wrong trail and not rescue Brenda was a course to be dreaded. I called up the scouts, Weaver and Cooler, for a consultation. "Don't you think it is probable," I asked, "that a girl who was thoughtful enough to drop a 'sign' to show she is alive and a captive, would be likely to give a hint here as to which trail she was taken over?" "That's prob'ble, liftinint," replied Weaver. "'F you'll hold th' boys here a bit, George an' I'll ride up th' two trails a piece an' look for signs." "Go quite a distance, too. She might not get an opportunity to drop anything for some time after leaving the fork." "That's true, sir," said Cooler; "the redskins would naturally be watching her closely. Which way will you go, Paul?" "Let the liftinint say," answered the elder scout, tightening his belt and readjusting his equipments for resuming his riding. "All ready, then," said I. "You take the right, Weaver, and George the left. While you are gone we'll turn out the stock." The scouts departed, and a few moments later the horses of the command were cropping the rich grass of the narrow valley, sentinels were placed to watch them and look for the return of the guides, and the rest of the men threw themselves upon the turf to rest. An hour passed away, when Weaver was seen returning from the northern trail. As he approached he held something above his head. Directing the horses to be made ready, I walked forward to meet him, and received from his hand a small bow of blue ribbon, which I at once recognized to be the property of Brenda. It now appeared certain the girl captive had been taken over the road to the right; so, without waiting for the return of Cooler, the men were ordered into their saddles, and we started along the northern trail. Our march had not long continued, however, when Private Tom Clary, who was riding in the rear, called to me. Looking back, I saw the young scout galloping rapidly forward and waving his hat in a beckoning manner. A halt was ordered, and Cooler rode up to me and placed in my hand _a lock of flaxen hair, bound with a thread of the same_. Placed by the other they were twin tresses, except that the last was slightly singed by fire. Well, tears glistened on the eyelids of some of the bronzed veterans at the sight of the tiny lock of hair. We had barely escaped taking the wrong trail. "God bliss the darlint," said grizzled Tom Clary. "There's not a ridskin can bate her with their tricks. We'll bring her back to her frinds, b'ys, or it'll go hard wid us." Clary's remarks were subscribed to by many hearty exclamations on the part of his fellow-soldiers. We had no difficulty in understanding that the Apaches had expected to be pursued and had dropped the ribbon to mislead us, and that Brenda had dropped her "sign" to set her friends right. I asked the guides if it was not probable the Apaches had set a watch on the overlooking heights to see which road we should take at this point. "It's sartin', liftinint," answered Weaver; "they're watchin' us sharp jest now." "Then we had better continue on the northern trail awhile and mislead them, you think?" "That's it, liftinint. That's th' best thing to do. We needn't reach their camp until after midnight, an' we might 's well spend th' time misleadin' em." "Yes, and it'll be better to reach them a few hours after midnight, too," added Cooler; "they sleep soundest then." "Then we will go on as we began for some time longer," I replied, and the soldiers again moved at a brisk canter over the northern trail. An hour passed, and a halt was made in a grassy nook, where the horses were turned out to graze until dusk. Our route was then retraced to the fork and the march resumed over the southern branch. Night overtook us on a high ridge covered with loose, rounded bowlders, over which it was necessary to lead the horses slowly, with considerable clatter and some bruises to man and beast. The rough road lasted until a considerable descent was made on the western side, and ended on the edge of a grassy valley. At this point Weaver advised that the horses should be left and the command proceed on foot; for if the Indians were in camp at the rapids it would be impossible to approach mounted without alarming them, while if on foot the noise of the rushing water would cover the sound of all movements. Six men were sent back to a narrow defile to prevent the attacking party from being surprised by the detachment of Indians which had taken the northern trail, should they intend to rejoin their friends at the rapids. Upon the recommendation of the scouts I determined to defer making an attack until after three o'clock, for they assured me that at that time the enemy would be feeling quite secure from pursuit and be in their deepest sleep. The horses were picketed, guards posted, and a lunch distributed, and all not on duty lay down to wait. Time dragged slowly. About one o'clock a noise on the opposite side of the creek attracted attention, and Cooler crept away in the darkness to ascertain its cause. In half an hour he returned with the information that the party of Mezcalleros who had taken the northern trail had rejoined their friends and turned their animals into the general herd. Upon learning this I despatched a messenger to call in the six men sent to guard the defile. When the time for starting arrived one man only was left with the picketed horses, and the rest of us slipped down the slope to the river-bottom, taking care not to rattle arms and equipments, and began a slow advance along a narrow pathway, the borders of which were lined with the spiked vegetation of the country. Moving on for some time, I judged from the sound of flowing water that we were nearing the camp, and, halting the party, sent the scouts to reconnoitre. They returned with the information that the camp was close at hand, and contained thirteen mat and skin covered tents, or huts, and that the stolen stock and Indian ponies were grazing on a flat just beyond. No guards were visible. The flat about the encampment was covered with Spanish-bayonet, soapweed, and cacti, with here and there a variety of palmetto, which attains a height of about twenty-five feet, the trunks shaggy with a fringe of dead spines left by each year's growth. Cooler suggested that at a given signal the trunks of two of these trees should be set on fire to light up the camp, and enable the soldiers to pick off the Apaches as they left their shelter when our attack should begin. He also proposed that we yell, saying: "If you out-yell 'em, lieutenant, you can out-fight 'em." Although I seriously doubted whether twenty-five white throats could make as much noise as half a dozen red ones, I consented to the proposition. I sent nine men to the flat upon which the ponies and cattle were grazing, with orders to place themselves between the creek and herd, and when the firing began drive the animals into the hills. When these instructions had been given, Surgeon Coues asked me if the firing would be directed into the tents. "Yes, doctor," I replied. "Of course, Miss Brenda is in one of them," he observed. "Yes, and if we shoot into them indiscriminately we are quite as likely to hit her as any one." "Can you think of any way of locating her?" "No; I am at a dead loss. We will try Cooler's plan of yelling, and perhaps that will bring the Indians out." I sent Clary, who had been directed to remain near me, for Sergeant Rafferty, and when the sergeant appeared directed him to forbid any one to fire a shot until ordered to do so. XIX THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP Orders were passed and dispositions so made that one-half the force was placed on each flank of the camp. All movements were made at a considerable distance from the place to be attacked, and the utmost care taken not to make a sound that would alarm the sleeping foe. Once on the flanks, the men were to creep up slowly and stealthily to effective rifle range. When the trunks of the palmettos were lighted all were to yell as diabolically as possible, and fire at every Indian that showed himself. The front of the camp looked towards the creek, which flowed over bowlders and pebbles with a great rush and roar. The Indians were expected in their flight to make a dash for the stream, and attempt to pass through the shoal rapids to the wooded bluffs beyond. My instructions were for the men to screen themselves on the flanks, behind the yuccas, Spanish-bayonet, emole, and cacti. Accompanied by Tom Clary and Paul Weaver, I selected a clump of vegetation on the northern side, from which the front of the tents could be observed. Sergeant Rafferty, with George Cooler, was on the opposite flank, and the lighting of a tree on my side was to be the signal for one to be lighted on the other, and for the yelling to begin. This plan was carried out. The flash of one match was followed promptly by the flash of another. Two flames burst forth, and rapidly climbed the shaggy trunks of the little palms, lighting up the whole locality. At the same instant an imitation war-whoop burst from vigorous lungs and throats. Every one held his rifle in readiness to shoot the escaping Apaches, but not a redskin showed his jetty head. The soldiers yelled and yelled, practising every variation ingenuity could invent in the vain attempt to make their tame white-man utterances resemble the blood-curdling, hair-raising, heart-jumping shrieks of their Indian foes, now so strangely silent. Not a savage responded vocally or otherwise. But for the presence of the captive girl in one of the thirteen tents the attack would have begun by riddling the thinly covered shelters with bullets at low range. The two burning trees had gone out and two others had been lighted, and it soon appeared evident that if something was not done to bring out the foe the supply of torches would soon be exhausted and nothing accomplished. In the darkness the advantage might even turn to the side of the redman. Surgeon Coues, who reclined near me, asked: "Do you think any of those fellows understand English?" "Perhaps a few common phrases. They know Spanish fairly well from living for some centuries near the Mexicans." "Are they quite as old as that, lieutenant?" "You know what I mean, doctor." "Why not speak to Brenda in English, and ask her to try to show us where she is? The Apaches will not understand--will think you are talking to your men." "An excellent idea, doctor. I'll try it." Private Tom Clary was sent along both flanks with orders for all yelling to cease and for perfect quiet to be maintained. Then, acting upon the surgeon's suggestion, I called, in a clear, loud voice: "Brenda, we are here--your friends from the fort. Your relatives are safe. Try to make a signal, or do something by which we can learn where you are. Take plenty of time, and do nothing to endanger your life." A long silence ensued, during which two more pillars of fire burned out. I was beginning to fear I should be obliged to offer terms to the Indians, leaving them unhurt if they would yield up their captive and the stolen stock; but before I had fully considered this alternative Clary, who was returning along the rear of the line of tents from his recent errand, approached and said: "Liftinint, as I was crapin' along behoind th' wiggies I saw somethin' loike a purty white hand stickin' out from undher th' edge of th' third from this ind." "Show it to me," said I. "I'll go with you." Making a slight détour to the rear, the soldier and I crept up to the back of the tent indicated, pausing at a distance of twenty feet from it. Nothing definite could be made out in the darkness. A narrow, white object was visible beneath the lower edge. Sending Clary back a few yards to light up a palm, I fixed my eyes on the object mentioned, and as the flames leaped up the trunk perceived by the flaring light a small, white hand, holding in its fingers the loose tresses of Brenda's hair. The question was settled. The captive girl was in the third tent from the right of the line. Waiting until the fire went out, Clary and I made our way back to our former station. "Go around the lines again, Clary, and tell Sergeant Rafferty to move his men to a point from which he can cover the rear of the camp, and open fire on all the tents except the third from the right." "All roight, sor; th' b'ys 'll soon mak' it loively for th' rids." "Tell the sergeant to light up some trees." "Yes, sor." I then crept slowly back to my own flank, and ordered a disposition of my half of the party so as to command the space in front of the line of tents. In another instant the flames were ascending two tree-trunks, and the rapid cracking of rifles broke our long reserve. With the first scream of a bullet through their flimsy shelters the Indians leaped out and ran for the river. Few fell. Rapid zigzags and the swinging of blankets and arms as they ran confused the aim of the soldiers. In less than five minutes the last Apache was out of sight, and the firing had ceased. We dashed up to the tents, and I rushed to the one from which I had seen the hand and tress thrust out, and called, "Brenda!" There was no response or sound. Looking into the entrance, I saw in the dim light of the awakening day the figure of a girl lying on her back, her feet extended towards me, and her head touching the rear wall. The right arm lay along her side, and the left was thrown above her head, the fingers still holding her hair. A terrible fear seized my heart. I again called the girl by her name, but received no answer. I went in, and with nervous fingers lighted a match and stooped beside her. Horror-stricken, I saw a stream of blood threading its way across the earthern floor from her left side. I shouted for Dr. Coues, and the surgeon hurried in. From his instrument-case he took a small, portable lamp, and, lighting it, fell upon his knees beside the prostrate girl. During the following few moments, while the skilled fingers of the firm-nerved surgeon were cutting away clothing to expose the nature of the wound, my thoughts found time to wander to the distant family, on its way to the fort, and to the boy sergeants there. I thought what a sad message it would be my province to bear to them, should this dear relative and cherished friend die by savage hands. There was little hope that the pretty girl could live. To me she seemed already claimed by death. She who had made our long and weary march from Wingate to Whipple so pleasant by her vivacity and intelligence, and had latterly brightened our occasional visits to Skull Valley, was to die in this wretched hole. But the _tactus eruditus_ of the young surgeon was continuing the search for some evidence that the savage stab was not fatal, and his mind was busy with means for preserving life, should there be a chance. I watched his motions, and assisted now and then when asked, and waited with strained patience for a word upon which to base a hope. At last the surgeon gently dropped the hand whose pulse he had long been examining, and said: "She is alive, and that is about all that can be said. You see, her hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched by the dash she made through the fire at the ranch. Then this wicked knife-thrust has paralyzed her. She has bled considerably, too, but she lives. Press your finger upon this artery--here." "Can she be made to live, doctor?" "The knife has not touched a vital part, but it may have done irreparable injury. I can tell more presently." Nothing more was said, except in the way of direction, for some time, the surgeon working slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last, rearranging the girl's clothing and replacing his instruments in their case, he said: "If I had the girl in the post-hospital, or in a civilized dwelling, with a good nurse, I think she might recover." "Can't we give her the proper attendance here, doctor?" I asked. "I fear not. She ought to have a woman's gentle care, for one thing, and some remedies and appliances I haven't with me for such a delicate case. It is the long distance between here and the fort, and the rough road, that make the outlook hopeless. She cannot survive such a journey." "Then we will remain here, doctor," said I. "Write out a list of what you want, and I will send a man to Whipple for tents and supplies, a camp woman, Frank, Vic, and the elder Arnold girl." "Duncan, you are inspired!" exclaimed the doctor. "I'll have my order ready by the time the messenger reports, and then we'll make Brenda comfortable." A letter was written to Captain Bayard, the surgeon's memoranda enclosed, and a quarter of an hour afterwards fleet-footed Sancho was flying over the sixty miles to Fort Whipple as fast as Private Tom Clary could ride him. Three days later a pack-train arrived, with a laundress from the infantry company, Frank Burton, and Mary Arnold, and with stores and supplies necessary for setting up a sick-camp. The wounded girl mended rapidly from the start. In due time Brenda recovered sufficiently to bear transportation to Prescott, where she joined her uncle and cousins. Rapid changes quickly followed. I received orders directing me to report for duty at once at the Seabury Military School, and by the same mail came letters from Colonel Burton directing his sons to accompany me. At the end of the next fortnight, just as we were packed for a journey to the Pacific coast, Brenda received instructions from her maternal relatives to make the same journey, and joined us. Frank and Henry's project to transport their ponies East, and their plans for Manuel and Sapoya, were also carried out. Boys and ponies became a prominent contingent to the corps of cadets under my military instruction during the following three years. Later, Henry went to West Point and became an officer of the army. Frank and Manuel went to college, the former becoming a distinguished civil engineer and the latter a prominent business man. Sapoya closed his school career at Seabury, and rejoined his people in the Indian Territory, becoming a valued and respected leader of his people. On a beautiful lawn before a fine mansion on the eastern shore of the Hudson River, beneath the shade of a stately elm, stands a small monument, upon the top of which rests a finely chiselled model of a setter dog. Beneath, on a bronze tablet, is engraved: "BENEATH THIS STONE LIES VICTORIANA, THE LOVED AND ESTEEMED FRIEND OF CHARLES ALFRED DUNCAN, FRANK DOUGLAS BURTON, BRENDA ARNOLD BURTON, HENRY FRANCIS BURTON, MANUEL AUGUSTINE PEREA Y LUNA, SAPOYA SNOYGON PEREA." THE END 
32228	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) THE INDIAN CAPTIVE A NARRATIVE OF THE Adventures and Sufferings OF MATTHEW BRAYTON IN HIS THIRTY-FOUR YEARS OF CAPTIVITY AMONG THE INDIANS OF NORTH-WESTERN AMERICA FOSTORIA, OHIO. THE GRAY PRINTING COMPANY, 1896. COPYRIGHT APPLIED FOR PREFACE The following brief narrative of the unparalleled adventures of MATTHEW BRAYTON is compiled for the satisfaction of those who wished to preserve a memorial of his romantic history. Extraordinary as the incidents may appear, there is abundant proof of their entire truth. Living witnesses bear testimony to the circumstances of the mysterious loss of the hero, and his identity is established by incontrovertible proofs. Numerous circumstances also confirm the account given by him of his adventures during the thirty-four years spent among the Indians. THE INDIAN CAPTIVE CHAPTER I. THE LOST CHILD. That portion of North-western Ohio, situated to the South-east of the Black Swamp, was but sparsely settled at the close of the first quarter of the present century. The hardy pioneers who had left their New England homes to open up the Western wilds, here and there built their modest dwellings and tilled the few acres won from the dense forest and luxuriant prairie. The dusky aborigines, driven from all other parts of Ohio, clung tenaciously to this comparatively neglected spot, and the smoke from the log hut of the settler rose within sight of the Indian wigwam. The two races were at peace with each other, for neither cared to convert a passive neighbor into an active enemy. The Indians had realized their inability to drive back the constantly advancing wave of civilization, and the white settlers had no desire to provoke the savage retaliations of their dusky neighbors unless compelled by necessity to do so. In the neighborhood of the junction between the Sandusky and Tymochte rivers, in Wyandot county, a remnant of the once powerful Wyandot tribe still remained. One of their villages was at Upper Sandusky, and another at Springville, in Seneca county. A small band of Senecas were also located in the neighborhood, and some scattered Ottawas had their wigwams on Blanchard's Fork, a few miles to the west of the Wyandot settlements. An Indian trail led from Upper Sandusky to Springville, and thence, through the Black Swamp, to Perrysburg. At the latter place it crossed the Maumee, and reached the shore of the Detroit river opposite Malden, in Canada. Some of the Indians living in the North-west of Ohio had sided with the British in the war of 1812, and these annually crossed over to Malden to receive their presents of guns, ammunition and blankets. The Canadian Indians sometimes visited their dusky brethren in Ohio, and thus the trail was frequently traversed. Among the settlers who had located themselves in the neighborhood of the Wyandot villages was Elijah Brayton, a thrifty farmer from New England, who had established himself near the Tymochte river in what is now Crawford township, Wyandot county. In the year 1825, Mr. Brayton was thirty-nine years of age, and his family consisted of his wife and their six children, William, Harriet, Lucy, Matthew, Mary and Peter. In that year Mr. Brayton was busy erecting a mill on the Tymochte, and towards the fall of the year he went to Chillicothe for the purpose of bringing up the mill-stones. The journey at that time was long and tedious, and the home affairs were entrusted in his absence to Mrs. Brayton and the eldest son William, then a lad of sixteen. On the 20th of September, 1825, William Brayton, with his younger brother Matthew, then nearly seven and a half years old, started out to hunt up some stray cattle. They proceeded for two or three miles in the direction of the spot where William Brayton at present lives, but found no traces of the missing cattle. Here they met a neighbor named Hart, who was also looking for stray cattle. Matthew had become tired, and declared his inability to proceed any farther. After a short consultation it was agreed that William Brayton and Hart should proceed in search of the cattle, and that Matthew should take the path which led to the house of Mr. Baker, about sixty rods distant, where he could amuse himself with his young playmates until the return of William. The two set out on their cattle hunting expedition, leaving little Matthew to pursue his way along the narrow and ill-defined path. At the close of the day's search, William Brayton called at Mr. Baker's house for his little brother. To his astonishment he learned that Matthew had not been seen by any of the family. He then turned his steps homeward, thinking that Matthew had changed his mind and gone home, but on arriving there no tidings of the missing boy met him. The alarm and apprehension that filled the breast of the mother may be conceived. A thousand fearful thoughts flitted through her mind in rapid succession. But no time was lost in useless grieving. The men and women who braved the dangers of frontier life were quick to think and prompt to act. A little party turned out at once to search for the missing boy and restore him, if possible, to the anxious household. From the spot where the brothers had parted, the path to Mr. Baker's house was narrowly searched, and the marks of the child's feet were clearly discernible. At no great distance from the commencement of the path it was intersected by a track made by some logs recently drawn from the woods. At this point the traces showed that Matthew had stopped in doubt. They also showed that he had finally taken the log track in mistake for the regular path. Up that track his little footsteps were traced for some distance, but, after awhile, they became fainter, and at last disappeared altogether. The woods on the margin of the track were searched in vain for traces of his feet. The Indian trail, before spoken of, crossed the log track near where the footsteps became invisible, and it was possible that he had taken that trail; but his footmarks--if he had really followed that path--had been obliterated by the feet of passing Indians. The party sorrowfully returned from their unsuccessful search, and met the anxious mother with heavy hearts. The night that followed was one of sleepless agony to Mrs. Brayton. To what suffering, or dreadful fate her little boy might be subjected, it was impossible to conjecture, but the dark night and the lonely woods were fraught with dangers to him and with terror to her. The absence of the father at this critical juncture on so long and distant a journey, aggravated the troubles and distress of the time. Morning broke at last, and never was daylight more eagerly welcomed. With the first dawn of light, messengers set out in all directions for assistance, and soon the woods were astir with searching parties. The Indian villages were examined, but the Wyandots professed entire ignorance as to the movements of the missing boy, and joined with much zeal in the search. The relations between the Braytons and the Wyandots had been of the most friendly character, and there seemed to be no possible reason for their interfering with the peace of that family. They stated, however, that a party of Canadian Indians had passed up the trail on the day that the boy disappeared, but could not say whether he had been carried off by that party or not. Another night came, and again the sorrowful mother met the dejected hunters at her door and received no consolation. At daybreak the parties again set out to search new tracts of country, but all without avail. Mr. Bowe, still remembered in the neighborhood, acted as store keeper of the party, and filled the bags of the searchers with meal as they returned from their long expeditions. The settlers for many miles around turned out in the exciting hunt. Days lengthened into weeks, and then it became evident that all farther search was useless. Every foot of territory for miles around had been examined and no trace of the lost child could be discovered. He could scarcely have wandered off and perished by starvation or wild beasts, for in either case some trace would have been left. The only inference remaining was that he had been snatched up by the party of Canadian Indians and carried off into hopeless slavery, if not to meet a horrible death. Pursuit now was useless, had the boy been thus carried off, and the search was reluctantly abandoned. Meantime Mr. Brayton had returned from his journey, and the sad affliction that had befallen his house, fell with crushing weight on his heart. For the sake of his wife and remaining children he bore up nobly, but his distress was keen, and every straw of hope that floated by was eagerly clutched at. From time to time came vague rumors of the boy having been seen in different directions, and the faintest hope of success sufficed to send off the bereaved father or some trusty messenger to follow up the clue, but always without success. The last information that assumed the appearance of probability was received in 1829, from a man who had been traveling among the Indian tribes of Illinois, and who asserted that he had seen among the Indians of that country a white child whose age and appearance corresponded generally with that of the missing Matthew Brayton. Without an hour's delay Mr. Brayton wrote to General Cass, then Indian Commissioner, but his answer crushed out the last remnant of hope. The letter bade the anxious father to renounce all hope based on such a rumor, for there was no such white child among the Indians of Illinois. On what authority the General based his assertion, cannot be said, but it is more than probable that in this he was mistaken. The weary years passed on but brought no comfort to the stricken household. As all strong impressions fade in the course of time, so faded away the memory of the loss from the minds of men. But deep in the hearts of the parents remained the image of the lost boy, and the thrilling scenes and emotions connected with the search of him recurred again and again long after others had nearly forgotten the incidents. The father never forgot him. His "lost Matthew" was ever in his heart, and his name was often on his tongue. The oldest brother, William, could not forget him, for the mother's reproaches, silent or spoken, for his neglect in sending so young a boy alone on such a path, sank deep into his heart. And could the mother that bore him forget the missing lamb of the fold? The paling cheek, the wasting form, the decaying strength told how deep the love, how bitter the anguish of the mother for her lost son. If she were but sure of his fate,--if but one rag of his clothes, but a particle of his body, had remained to assure her that her darling had perished by wild beasts, or been slain by still wilder men, it would at least have given rest to her weary heart; but this torturing mystery was too great to be borne. So the years dragged slowly onward, and each succeeding anniversary of her boy's loss drove the sharp grief still deeper into her heart, until sixteen years after the loss, she tired of this world, and the peaceful turf closed over her sorrows. In her last thoughts the memory of the lost boy had a place. She died of a broken heart. Matthew Brayton was born April 7th, 1818, and was therefore seven years, five months and thirteen days old at the time of his loss. CHAPTER II. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE. Stolen by Indians and traded from Tribe to Tribe -- Siouxs -- Sioux Dog Dance -- Sold to the Snakes -- Digger Indians -- Fight with the Diggers -- Utah -- Quarrels with the Blackfeet -- Flat Heads -- Snakes join Utahs, Crees, and Flat Heads -- Join with Copper Heads. The first seven or eight years of my captivity among the Indians were so full of changes that I cannot distinctly remember the events that occurred, and I am compelled to trust to the accounts given me by the members of the various tribes who were cognizant of the circumstances. From their statements I learn that I was taken from Ohio by a party of Canadian Indians, and by them borne to their village in Canada. The only motive alleged to me for the theft was that the party who stole me had a difference with some white families in Ohio, and that I was taken out of revenge. Among these Indians I remained secreted for some time, the tribe fearing to let me be seen by white men lest I should be taken away. From all that I can learn, I remained some six or seven months with this tribe, and was then sold to a party of Pottawottomies, who took me across to Michigan. The compensation obtained for me by the Canadian tribe consisted of three and a half gallons of whiskey. With my new owners I remained about half a year, when the Pottawottomies either being afraid to keep me any longer, or having an unappeasable thirst for whiskey, traded me off to the Paw-Paws for five and a half gallons of firewater. I could not say how long I remained in Michigan with this tribe, but I was at length transferred to the Winnebagoes of Illinois, my value having increased with my age to the amount of seven and a half gallons of whiskey. I did not remain long with this tribe, but was sold to the Wisconsin Chippewas for nine and a half gallons of whiskey, and with them remained one year. From the Chippewas I passed into the hands of the Siouxs in Minnesota, and remained with them nearly three years. During my stay with the Siouxs I visited the site of what now forms the city of St. Paul. In that vicinity there were then seven shanties or huts, made of poles and sticks set up endways. Two or three French and Dutch, with some Indians then occupied the place. About the ninth year of my captivity among the Indians, the band of Siouxs to which I belonged made an expedition westward. In the course of their hunt they came on a tribe of Snake Indians. The Snakes and Siouxs were generally at war, but there was peace between these two parties. Some differences that had occurred between the bands were settled at the meeting, and the Siouxs celebrated the fact by a great Dog-Dance. This dance is peculiar to the Siouxs, and I never saw it at any other time. The manner of doing it was this:--A party of warriors squat around in a circle, smoking and talking. A dog is then taken and its legs tied, after which it is thrown into the circle of warriors. One of the "medicine men" kills the animal with his tomahawk, cuts open its side and takes out its liver, which is cut into strips and hung on a pole nearly the height of a man. The warriors spring to their feet and commence dancing around it; all the while smacking their lips and making grimaces as if they were anxious to have a taste of the delicious meat. In a short time one of the dancers makes a grab at the liver and bites off a piece, which he chews and swallows as he dances. Then the others follow his example until all the liver is eaten. If any of the pieces should drop, the "medicine man" picks it up and carries it in the palm of his hand for the dancers to eat, after doing which they lick his hand. As soon as the liver is all eaten, the warriors sit down as before, and wait to see if another dog is thrown in. As long as any one gives a dog, they are compelled to eat its liver raw and warm, and no one is allowed to handle it except the "medicine man." Women are forbidden to join in this dance. The Siouxs think that those who thus eat the liver of the dog will possess that animal's bravery and sagacity. Before the meeting was over, the Snakes took a great fancy to me, and in order to celebrate their new made truce the Siouxs offered to trade me to the Snakes for eleven gallons of whiskey, which was done, and I was once more transferred to new masters. My new owners made me change my dress and paint to conform to their style, and I was adopted into the tribe. An Indian who had lost a son in battle took me into his family, and from that time forth I was told to consider him as my father, and his squaw as my mother. But although thus made one of themselves, the Indians did not fail to treat me with considerable harshness, and I was compelled to do some of the severe drudgery usually imposed on women. The Snakes at that time hunted in Iowa, but in about a year after my joining them they had repeated quarrels with other tribes, and with the whites. For a few months they remained in Missouri, but eventually packed up and struck the trail for the west side of the Rocky Mountains. Our tribe hunted through Utah for a while, but quarreled with the tribes already in that country, and therefore we once more pushed west, and crossing the mountains that divided us from California, entered that country. Here we lived, for about five years, generally at peace, but having occasional skirmishes with the Digger Indians. These Indians are a wretched and degenerate race, cowardly, treacherous, filthy and indolent. Instead of living by hunting, as was the case with our tribe, and nearly all the others east of the California Mountains, these obtained a scanty subsistence by digging for roots. The women do the digging whilst the men stay in the lodges or are playing at some game. I have seen hundreds of the women at a time out in this employment. They carry on their backs heavy baskets of the shape of old fashioned straw beehives, and in their hands long sticks with which to dig the roots. Early in the morning they go out and keep at work until evening, when they return with their baskets full of roots. Sometimes they procure enough not only for their present eating, but to lay up for winter use. The men among the Digger Indians wear very long hair, but that of the women is cut short. Both are nearly naked, and filthy in the extreme. Most of them are tatooed, the women especially displaying in general a large number of designs on their person. They do this merely for ornament, and not for the purpose of showing a difference in rank as is the case in most tribes where the custom exists. Their houses or lodges are very simple. In the summer they put a number of bushes together in the shape of a cone, and into this they creep for shelter from the sun by day, and to sleep by night. These lodges or tents are more designed to keep off the rays of the sun than for shelter from inclement weather. For the cold and wet seasons the Diggers in the northern part of California have a different kind of dwelling. They dig a pit several feet deep, of the size of the proposed lodge. Then they drive poles into the earth around the edge of the pit, and bend them over so that they will meet at the top, where they are fastened together, making a covering over the pit. They then cover the whole building with earth to the thickness of several inches, or even a foot, leaving a small hole at the top to serve as a chimney. Another hole is made at the side, large enough to admit the body. When they wish to sleep they build a fire in the center of the lodge, then creep in feet foremost and lie in that position to the fire. The Diggers have a curious way of marrying. When a man takes a fancy to a girl and wants her as his squaw, he speaks to her parents and talks to her a little. Then he lies down with her, and if she lies still they are considered man and wife; but if she gets up and runs away, the courtship is at an end, and the man never tries to get her again. A Digger man can have as many wives as he chooses, but the woman can only have one husband. When a Digger dies they burn him, with all his implements, and have a great mourning during the ceremony. They believe that when a man dies his spirit goes to the East, and keeps going until it comes to a great water. A large boat is there to take him over. All the good get safely across and go to a very large house where they eat, drink, and gamble, until they are tired, when they go off among the trees. The bad people who go in the boat reach the middle of the water, when the bottom falls out, and they are lost forever. Whilst in California we frequently visited what is now San Francisco, but which was then a small village of a dozen houses, known by the Spaniards as "Yerba Buena." A few French and Spanish traders were the only white residents, and to those we carried down bear meat, buffalo robes, and furs of various kinds, together with small bits of gold found in the mountains, receiving in exchange blankets and "snakyeye," or whiskey. These trips were made several times during the year, but were finally terminated by the occurrence that resulted in our leaving that part of the country. A large party of Diggers surprised a small hunting party of Snakes and took from them their ponies. A number of warriors were sent out from our tribe to demand them back, but the Diggers had surrendered the ponies to the Spaniards, and now asked their protection from the vengeance of the Snakes. The Spaniards granted their request, and warned our party off. As soon as the news arrived at the Snake village, there was a general excitement, and all who were able to bear arms at once took the war path. The Diggers fled, but were tracked to the coast, where they were supported by several Spaniards. We attacked their camp at daybreak, and a desperate fight ensued. The Diggers are generally lazy and cowardly, but their numbers far exceeded ours, and they were assisted by white men. In the end we were victors, and our party mercilessly tomahawked and scalped all within their reach. Nearly a hundred and fifty scalps were borne off in triumph by the Snakes, and among the trophies were the scalps of some white men. The result of this fight was a general movement of the whites on the one hand and the California tribes on the other, to drive us out of the country. For a time our tribe stood its ground, but at length it became evident that we could not remain peaceably in that region, so we once more turned our faces eastward and re-crossed the mountains to Utah. During our stay in this Territory, which did not exceed six or seven moons, our principal encampment was on the banks of the Great Salt Lake, near the present site of Salt Lake City. At that time not a white man lived in that vast wilderness, though not many years afterwards a large city sprang up where our wigwams had formerly stood. Once more our tribe became restless and dissatisfied with their location, and we changed our hunting ground to Oregon, remaining there about two years. Here we came into collision with the Blackfeet Indians, one of the most ferocious and cruel tribes in existence. They are always at war with the tribes around them and make long journeys for the purpose of attacking some other nation. Several skirmishes took place between our bands and those of the Blackfeet, in which sometimes one and sometimes the other would be successful. In order to defend ourselves from the attacks of the Blackfeet, our tribe made an alliance with the Flat Heads. These are a very singular race who strap boards on the heads of their children so as to change their shape. There are two kinds of Flat Heads, those who have the head flattened from the forehead back, making the head look like a wedge with the sharp edge in front, whilst the others have the sides flattened so as to have the point of the wedge upwards. The party allied with us were of the former kind. A part of the Utahs also joined us about this time, as did the Crees. Our associated tribes kept going farther north, not finding any place to settle owing to the constant attacks of the Indians through whose territories we passed. With the Bloods and the Blackfeet we had repeated fights until we got above their country, beyond the territory of the United States and into the country of the Copper Head Indians, who roamed over a vast extent of territory extending to the Esquimaux on the North. Our associated tribes united in the North with the Copper Heads, and here the whole lived in undisputed possession from that time to the present. CHAPTER III. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. Government of Snake and Copper Head Tribes -- Women worked hard -- Marriage Laws -- Children taught the use of weapons early -- Funeral ceremonies of the Copper Heads -- Their Religion. The Snakes and Copper Heads are ruled over by one General Chief, or _Inkupudia_, who remains in power for life unless deposed by the vote of all the tribes. Since the union of the tribes there has been but one General Chief, now (in 1860) eighty years of age, named _O-wash-kah-ke-naw_. He reigns supreme to a certain extent and appoints sub-chiefs to govern the different tribes. These sub-chiefs are appointed for a period of time and not for life. The General Chief makes known his laws or decrees for the government of the tribes in various matters, and it is the duty of the sub-chiefs to communicate these decrees to the tribes under their charge. The laws in relation to stealing are very strict. Any one proved to have stolen from a person belonging to the associated tribes is condemned to death, and is generally burned at the stake. It is looked upon as very disgraceful for an Indian to tell a lie to his fellows. The men dress with leggins fastened to their moccasins. The leggins extend up to the knees. A tunic of furs is worn about the waist, and the bare place between the tunic and the leggins is daubed with oil and paint. From the waist upwards the body is daubed with oil and paint, and the hair is worn long, extending down over the breast and back. The women are dressed in a somewhat similar manner. The men do nothing but hunt and fight, leaving the women and captives to do the drudgery. The women are very hard worked, having to collect wood for fires, cut up the game, carry the heavy burdens and do the other work which the warrior considers beneath his dignity to perform. They are very hardy and can perform with ease labors which many white men would shrink from. The marriage laws vary among different tribes. Among the Copper Heads the marriage is for life. The Utahs marry for twelve moons, and if at the end of that time they separate they cannot re-marry at any subsequent time. If there is a boy born of the marriage, it goes with the father, and if a girl the mother takes it. The Snakes marry for three years, and if after that time they choose to live together they are married for life. The birth of a child is accomplished without any trouble or assistance from either doctor, midwife or nurse. The mother retires to her lodge, or if on the march, steps aside and spreads her blanket, and in the course of two or three hours she is up and about her accustomed work, or on the march, as if nothing had happened. The child, when young, is wrapped around with bandages, strapped to a board and carried on the mother's back. When in the lodge, or at any other time that she wishes to take the child down, the board with the infant on it is set to lean against the wall or is hung to a peg. As soon as a boy is able to run about his education for the chase and the war path is commenced. A bow three and a half feet long, strung with the sinews of the deer or elk, is placed in his hand, and a bundle of two feet arrows, with flint heads and feathered shafts, is given him. With these he practices at a mark until he is proficient. A board is then set up and a circle about six inches in diameter is described on it. The young Indian takes his position at a short distance from the board and commences throwing his knife at it with the endeavor to strike the center of the circle. When he succeeds in doing this frequently, he increases his distance from the board, and keeps on retreating until he can strike the circle with unerring aim from as great a distance as his strength will permit. The tomahawk practice comes next. A mark is described on the bark of a tree, and the young Indian throws his tomahawk at it with great force, endeavoring to make it whirl three times in the air, and then to strike with the sharp pick at the back of the axe head so that it shall remain sticking in the mark. As in the knife practice, success at one distance is immediately followed by a retreat of a few paces until the feat can be accomplished at a considerable distance. The same routine is gone through with the axe part so that it shall cleave the bark in the very center of the mark. At about ten years of age, a long bow with arrows of proportionate length, is put into the hands of the boy, and when he becomes of sufficient age to manage it properly he is instructed in the use of the rifle. The boys are incited to begin hunting and trapping early, and their first success in trapping a beaver, shooting a martin or spearing a muskrat is celebrated with as much triumph as is the first scalp taken in battle by a young warrior. When about twelve years old the boys join the hunting parties, and are very expert in the use of the bow. Many widows are supported entirely by their sons who have just passed their twelfth year. The small children and the very old people are allowed the use of cooked meat, but all others eat their food raw. No salt is used but pepper is frequently obtained from the Russian and Hudson Bay trading posts, and is eaten with the food as a great addition. Besides the privilege of eating cooked meat the very old people are well cared for by the tribe, and are allowed to remain in their lodges without being called out to hunt or work. Everything is done for them and they enjoy perfect rest until their death. The Copper Heads do not, in general, bury their dead in the same manner with many of the tribes in the United States territory. In some cases, when a warrior dies, the dead body is placed in a birch bark canoe in which are also laid the dead warrior's rifle, tomahawk, pipe, knife and all the other articles belonging to him when alive. Two blankets and provisions to last six months are also placed in the canoe. A poor miserable dog is next procured and hung up by the hind legs to a tree or pole stuck in the ground. The throat of the dog is cut and the animal suffered to bleed to death. The object of this ceremony is to provide a dog to hunt with in the spirit land and the bad blood is let out so as to fit the animal for its new sphere of existence. A poor dog is as serviceable as a good one for the happy hunting grounds if the bad blood is taken out. Some powdered roots are then sprinkled over the body, and the canoe with its contents is launched on the river, if there is one in the neighborhood, and the deceased warrior goes on his way to the happy hunting grounds. If there is no river near, the canoe with its contents is placed on the branches of a tree, or on a temporary scaffold, and left there. Sometimes in conformity with the wishes of the deceased the body is buried under the roots of a tree or placed in a hollow log to wait until there is some good company to join in the journey to the happy hunting grounds. The religion of these tribes is very simple. They worship the Great Spirit by standing and praying with arms uplifted to the sky. At times when they see a dark storm-cloud rising up the sky they address it, believing the Great Spirit to be hid within it. After a prayer, on some particular occasions, they drink "snakyeye" or whiskey, and dance with whooping and yelling. They do not believe in a place of punishment hereafter. Those who have committed crimes in this world will be punished here by their tribe, or else the Great Spirit will visit them with sickness or trouble. After this life is over, the spirits all go to the happy hunting grounds, where there is plenty of game and where no enemies will come to disturb them. CHAPTER IV. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. Climate -- Esquimaux -- Trading -- Mode of Sleeping -- Method of Taming Ponies and Elks -- Weapons -- Making Pipes. The territory occupied by the Copper Heads and the associated tribes lies west of the Rocky Mountains in the high latitudes, extending so far north as the Russian possessions. Their hunting grounds cover a space of several hundred miles, and the natural characteristics of the country are much diversified. Baren mountain ranges alternate with wide plains, fruitful valleys and dense forests. We met with but few rivers in our hunt, but from the Esquimaux and a few stragglers belonging to tribes on the east side of the mountains we had reports of many rivers and big waters on the other side. Our northern head-quarters was about three weeks' journey from the Artic ocean. To the northeast of us, about two weeks' journey, was Big Esquimaux village. The climate in the northern part of our hunting grounds is cold through the greater part of the year and the ground mostly covered with snow. The trees in this region are of pine, cedar, white hemlock and some other kinds. During the greater part of the year they remain bare, but as soon as the temperature begins to moderate a little the leaves come out about the size of a squirrel's ear. They continue out but for a short time, when they drop off, and the tree is once more bare. The elk, reindeer and the ponies of the Indians all feed on the bark of the trees and the moss. Snow falls repeatedly during the year, but no rain. There are numerous storms. With the Esquimaux, who live on the shores of the Arctic Ocean, our tribes often had skirmishes. The Esquimaux are a dirty people, generally short, thick set, with matted hair, and afflicted with the scurvy. They wrap themselves up in furs and live on any kind of carion. They will eat worms, bugs or snakes when they cannot get game; but their principal luxury is oil. They make oil from the carcasses of the animals they obtain and enjoy it as a great luxury. They live in huts made of snow and ice, and when moving from place to place they have tents made of furs and skins. In traveling, they use sleds drawn by reindeer and dogs. The Copper Heads never have sleds, but use ponies and elk, both for riding and packing game and other burdens. The Copper Heads principally traded with the Russian posts, and made trips to them several times a year. They also sent an expedition twice a year to the Red River settlement, and from there to St. Paul. All the dried meats, furs and other articles are packed on the backs of ponies and elks or carried by women and such captives as are in the keeping of the tribe. The mode of packing on the backs of women is for a belt, three fingers wide, to be passed across the forehead and lie down the back. The pack is placed so as to rest on the bottom of the belt and lie on the shoulders and neck. The bearer is obliged to stoop forward in walking, and the back is frequently bent from this cause. Being a captive, I was sometimes compelled to carry a load but about fifteen pounds less than my own weight, and the squaws have to carry within about twenty pounds of their own weight. From the Russians we obtained blankets, powder, rifles and other necessary articles in exchange for furs and dried meats. Among other things purchased of the Russians the tribe possessed a compass and a watch, enclosed in a copper case. They learned the use of the compass sufficiently to enable them to travel by its aid. The lodges are made of poles stuck in the ground and tied together at the top so as to leave a hole in the center. Furs and skins are then fastened around and made tight, except at the entrance. A fire is built in the center of the lodge and the members of the lodge creep in and sleep with their feet to the fire and their heads to the side of the lodge. In traveling, when the snow is on the ground and the party do not take the lodge fixtures along, the snow is stamped down and blanket spread on the hardened snow. On this the Indian lies down and rolls himself up in the blanket. With this mode of sleeping there is no danger of taking cold. When the snow is very deep and light the hunters wear wide snow shoes to prevent their sinking at every step. The ponies are also shod with wide moccasins stuffed with hair when the snow is so deep that they cannot travel with ease. The beasts of burden used by the Indians are ponies, elks and dogs. Both elks and ponies have to be broken into submission to man before they can be used. When the Indians want to break in a pony for riding, one of them mounts a well broke pony, and, after riding around for a little while, suddenly dashes up to the untamed pony, and seizing it by the mane, leaps on its back. The first effort of the surprised animal is to throw the unexpected burden over its head, or failing in this to rise on its hind legs and throw its rider backwards. To prevent either of these purposes being accomplished the rider clasps his arms around the neck of the pony and crosses his legs under its belly so that the toes are inserted between the forelegs of the animal. By these means the pony is rendered unable to jerk the rider off in any direction. Foiled in its efforts to dislodge the unusual encumbrance on its back the pony generally sets off in a wild gallop, in which it is indulged by the rider, and an unexpected difficulty of breathing soon brings the unruly beast to terms. As soon as it gets somewhat tired of its useless excitements, the rider steals his hand down to its nose and there holds some sugar and salt. If the animal prove insensible to the temptation thus held out, the rider gradually works his hand up until he gets some of the mixture into its mouth. The taste of these articles is generally sufficient to subdue the strong will of the pony, and to complete the work the rider puffs tobacco smoke up its nostrils. It is now thoroughly broken in, and will sit easily under a rider or follow its owner like a dog. The Indian never abuses his horse, but always treats it as a friend. The elk is of great service to the Indians in high latitudes, and shares with the pony the attentions of its owner. The method of catching and taming elk is for one hunter to throw a lasso, or running noose at the end of a long line, on one horn, whilst another hunter does the same to the other horn. The lines are then quickly made fast to two trees, and the hind legs tied to two other trees in a similar manner. Whilst thus fastened in a nearly immovable position the man who is to break in the animal comes up and leaps on his back. The ropes are simultaneously cut by the other Indians, and the elk dashes off with its burden. The rider embraces the horns with his arms and crosses his feet below the belly of the animal, as in breaking ponies. The elk pursues his headlong career for miles, the branching horns preventing his dashing among the trees in such a manner as to hurt the rider. After the elk is thoroughly spent by his long scamper, it is treated in the same manner as in the case of ponies. The weapons of the Snakes and Copper-Heads consist of rifles, bows and arrows, spears, tomahawks, hunting knives, scalping knives, and war clubs. The arrow heads are made of flint, and much care is used in digging up, selecting and splitting the proper kind of flint. The pipes are also made of flint, and take a large amount of patience and labor in their manufacture. The pipe I made for my self was first squared out from a flint and then drilled with a steel implement, worked by hand. I worked thirty days to complete the boring process, using bear's oil and water to moisten the stone. After the hole was bored, another steel chisel was taken, and the pipe chipped into proper shape. In doing the chiseling, the pipe was placed between two other stones to act as a vice, and the whole pressed between my knees. Then I chipped away, using my clenched hand as a mallet. After the pipe had been chipped into shape and then ornamented with cut designs, it was first oiled and then dyed a pale red with a pigment extracted from a root. A stem of cherry or other wood inserted in this pipe completes it. CHAPTER V. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. Hunting Buffalo -- The attack -- Cutting up the carcass -- Packing to the camp -- Drying the meat -- Buffalo hunting in winter -- Trapping bears and wolves -- Spearing muskrats -- Dressing skins -- Different modes of fishing. Hunting is the principal occupation of the Indians, and their only means of subsistence. The climate does not admit the raising of crops, even if the Indians were disposed to till the ground, which they are not. During the fall the camps are removed to the lower part of the British territory in order to hunt the buffalo. To show how the buffalo are killed, I will relate my experience on one of the hunts in which I was engaged. Our hunting party, with the families of the hunters, traveled for seven days before reaching the traces of any herds. A few stray bulls were killed, and some of their flesh eaten, but it was too hard and tough for good eating. At length we arrived at the place where there were strong hopes of finding buffalo, and our camp was fixed. Early next morning the hunting party rode off, leaving the squaws and children to make arrangements for preparing the meat when it should be brought to the camp. After riding a short distance, we came on traces of a large herd, and then rode forward in high spirits. We soon came in sight of some bulls feeding quietly, and beyond them could discover a large herd of cows. The difference between the sexes can be seen at a long distance by their mode of herding. The bulls feed singly, and are scattered over the prairies, whilst the cows huddle together as if for protection. The bulls are the most savage, but the cows are the fleetest of foot, and are very difficult to approach. Their flesh is, however, more highly esteemed than that of the bulls, it being more tender and juicy. On reconnoitering the respective groups it became evident that we could not reach the cows without first breaking through the herd of bulls, and this we prepared to do at once. Riding slowly up so as not to alarm them, we approached within a few hundred yards of them before they took much notice of us. Then they ceased feeding and commenced bellowing furiously. At this the signal was given, and our fleet ponies were spurred rapidly towards the herd. When close to them, each hunter singled out a buffalo, and dashing impetuously past the animal, discharged an arrow into its neck. Those whose arrows did not fatally wound the beasts were at once exposed to imminent danger, as nothing exceeds a wounded buffalo in ferocity and strength. Rising for a moment on their hind feet, they dash furiously at the hunters, butting at them, and attempting to upset horse and man. Sometimes they succeed, and then the hunter suffers terrible wounds, if not death, from the horns of the enraged animal. Five or six bulls were killed in the attack, and the rest scattered widely over the prairie. The sight of the immense herd of cows in the distance excited the hunters, and prevented them from stopping to make any use of the bulls we had killed. We rode forward at a moderate speed for some distance, reserving the strength of our horses until we should be compelled to use their speed. At length the scouts of the herd saw us advancing, and in two or three seconds the whole herd was in motion. The first movements of the buffalo are slow, increasing in speed as they go. At the first symptoms of alarm our party raised a shout to encourage the horses, and we were suddenly flying along at full speed, the horses as much excited as their riders. The excitement was intense. At last we were close to them, and the arrows flew thick and fast into the herd. In a few moments we were in the midst of the press, firing arrows and using spears among the animals right and left. The scene was full of wild excitement and not without danger. Some of our party were thrown from their horses and suffered severe bruises and wounds from the feet and horns of the enraged buffaloes. At last the signal of recall was given, and our party reined up to rest from the chase and dispose of the spoils. After dismounting and hobbling the ponies, the hunters rested awhile before proceeding to the work of cutting up the buffaloes in order to take them home. When rested, the hunters began the labor of skinning and cutting up the carcasses. The animal was first placed on its knees, and its hind legs stretched out to their full length, so that the principal weight lay on the belly of the beast. The small hump of flesh about the neck was first cut out and carefully placed on one side. The skin was next divided along the back bone, and stripped down on either side. After this the animal was cut up in various pieces, all the best parts being taken and the offal left for the wolves. The fat and tallow were put in the hide, which was then slung around the necks of the packing ponies. Along each side of the pony's back was placed a pole, fastened to the animal's neck. The foot of the buffalo's hind quarter was thrust through the gambril of the forequarter, and the quarters then slung across the back of the pony and hanging down on each side. The poles keep the burden off from the sides of the pony, and prevent its back being broken. The other portions of the game were carried in a similar manner. When the meat was brought to the camp, the women cut it into long strips, about a quarter of an inch thick. These strips were hung on sticks to dry, which operation takes several days. When thoroughly dried, the women bend it up and tie it into bundles, in which shape it is preserved for home consumption or taken to the trading posts, to be bartered for ammunition or other articles wanted by the Indians. Some parts of the buffalo, not fitted for making the dried meat, were dried by a very fierce fire until it became brittle. A buffalo hide was then spread out, with the skin uppermost, and the dried pieces of meat spread on it, and thrashed into small bits by sticks. The tallow of the buffalo was cut up, melted and poured on the powdered meat, which was then worked up until it became well mixed. Whilst still warm, it was pressed into bags made of buffalo skin, which were then sown up. When cold the mixture, known to the whites as _pemican_, becomes as hard as a rock, and makes good eating. The marrow bones were boiled in water for their oil, which, when extracted, was poured into the bladder of the animal. One bladder will hold eleven or twelve pounds of oil. Buffalo are frequently killed in winter without any of the dangers experienced in the fall hunt. The alternate thawing and freezing forms a thick crust on the surface of the soft snow. The heavy animals break through this thin crust, and plunge cumbrously into the deep snow, whilst the Indian hunter glides easily on his snow shoes close to the side of the unwieldly monster, and dispatches it at his ease. Elk, reindeer, grizzly bears, wolves, with some other animals, are killed with rifles, or arrows, frequently with the aid of dogs. The dogs are of a strong, powerful breed and are trained to catch by the ears or jaw, so that the fur is not injured. The elk and reindeer are very difficult to approach, having a keen scent, and show fight if close pressed. The attack on a grizzly bear is also dangerous, and the hunter frequently has to fight desperately for his life. Black bears and wolves are frequently caught by a peculiar trap. A young sapling tree is bent down so that its top is but a few feet from the earth. A rope, formed of pieces of raw hide firmly twisted together, is fastened to the top of the tree and a strong double hook of iron or steel is attached to the other end of the rope. One arm of the hook is lightly caught in a log or a stake driven in the ground, and on the other arm a piece of meat is firmly attached. The bear or wolf seizes the meat, and in its endeavors to carry it off or tear it to pieces, releases the hook from the log. The tree top suddenly flies up, the hook catching the animal in the mouth or lip, and lifting it partially or completely from the ground. In this position it is found and dispatched by the hunter, when he comes to examine his traps. Beavers are trapped in great numbers, as are martins and other fur-bearing animals. In the depth of winter the muskrat houses are sought out and pierced with strong and sharp spears which transfix the muskrats and bring them out on the points. The skins of the animals killed are dried and cured by the women. When the hide is taken off and brought home, the women scrape off the flesh with a bone, sharpened at one end. When the skin is thoroughly scraped, small holes are cut all around it, and strings run through it, which are then lashed to the poles of the lodge inside. The fire burning in the lodge dries the skin in one night, and in the morning it is taken down and folded so as to be packed. In dressing the skins, the grease is taken off and the skins dipped in water containing the brains of a deer, after which they are boiled and stretched on four square poles tied and pushed into the ground. The skin is then scraped with a bone and kept before a slow fire until perfectly dry. It is then dipped in the brain water and scraped dry again, after which it is dipped in the water a third time, and every time the water wrung out before the skin is stretched. If it remains hairy or stiff after all this working, it is drawn over a cord as thick as a man's finger, as hard as the women can pull, and this softens it greatly. The skin is next smoked. A hole is dug in the ground, about a foot deep, in which is put a little water and some rotten wood. The skin is then sewed in a bag and hung over the smoke for about ten minutes, when it is ready for use. The streams are well stocked with fish and these are caught in various ways. Sometimes they are speared, and some are shot with arrows and some caught by stakes arranged across the bed of the stream. When the rivers and small lakes are frozen over in winter a hole is cut in the ice and over it a little tent is made with three sticks and a blanket, so as to close out the light. The Indian lies with his face over the hole. He can then see to some depth and when a fish passes it is pierced with a short spear and brought to the surface. There are various other ways of hunting, trapping and fishing but these will serve as specimens. CHAPTER VI. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED. Is recognized as a white man -- War dance -- Fight with Blackfeet Indians -- Tomahawking and burning captives. In 1861 the winter in the north was exceedingly severe and the game was compelled to seek a more southern latitude to get something to eat. We followed them down but were in great danger of perishing of famine. In this strait our only hope was in obtaining some additional supplies from the trading posts. A large detachment was therefore sent off to the post of the Hudson Bay Company for the purpose of obtaining supplies. With this band I traveled. We arrived at the post after a long journey and were received with kindness. The few furs and skins we were able to gather up we traded for provisions but we were still in great want. That night we camped near the trading post and waited to plead our cause with the agent next day. In the morning whilst the chief of our party and some of the leading warriors were talking to the agent and explaining to him the deplorable condition of the tribe one of the traders came into our camp. Whilst looking around and talking he came close to me and something seemed to attract his attention. Looking me in the eyes he suddenly spoke in French. I did not understand him but he immediately addressed me in Indian language, saying: "You are no Indian." I replied that I was for I never remembered anything of a life different from the one I was leading. He insisted that I was no Indian but a pale face and demanded that I should come before the agent. I was about to do so, when some of the tribe interfered to prevent me. An angry discussion now took place between the trader and the Indians, ending in my being taken before the agent himself. On my entering the circle where the chiefs and principal warriors were conferring with the agent I was brought before the latter by the trader, and my white birth stated by him. The agent examined my features closely and endeavored to get from me by conversation whether I was a white or not. I was surprised by these statements but replied that I always considered myself an Indian. The members of the tribe present in the council were greatly disturbed when I was brought before the agent and on being appealed to strongly asserted my Indian parentage. I could not fail to remark their alarm lest I should be claimed as a white, and pondered over it for some time. The agent was quieted for a time but was not satisfied and all the post continued to watch our movements narrowly. Next day whilst getting some provisions from the post, our chief was again asked about me and was told that no more provisions would be given the party unless I was surrendered to the whites. At this the chief returned to the camp in dismay and a brief council was held from which I was excluded. The result was that our camp was suddenly broken up and the trail immediately struck for the main body of the tribe leaving the rest of the needed supplies behind us. On our homeward march we fell in with a party of Blackfeet who wished to rob us of our ponies and provisions. After a short skirmish the enemy was driven back, but continued to hover on our trail in order to find out our destination. A busy scene presented itself at the camp on our arrival. Our hunters in their excursions in pursuit of game had come on traces of the Blackfeet Indians, and had followed the trail until they discovered the camp of a large war party which had evidently come out with the intention of meeting and driving us back to the north again. A grand council of the tribe was gathered and the warriors were giving their opinions as to the proper course to be pursued. Two alternatives presented themselves. One was to go back to the snows and starvation of the northern winter, and the other to meet the opposing Blackfeet and endeavor to force our way through them to the hunting grounds farther south. There was a general disposition to take the latter course, and several chiefs made stirring appeals to the pride and vengeance of the warriors. The numerous battles with the Blackfeet in former years were referred to, and the blood of the slain invoked to stir up the hearts of the warriors to revenge. Finally one of the chiefs sprang to his feet and commenced chanting an account of his warlike deeds, and boasted of what he would do in the approaching fight. Whilst he sang he danced around in a circle, stamping fiercely on the ground at every step. Every now and then he stopped to raise his war-cry. In a few minutes another warrior sprang up and joined the dance and song, to the music of a small drum and rattle. Then another and another leaped up, until all the fighting men of the tribe signified their intention of attacking the enemy. During the dance the utmost excitement existed, and the piercing yells worked the warriors up to mad frenzy. Knives and tomahawks were waved in the air, and all the movements of fighting and scalping an enemy gone through with. Next day a large war party set out in the direction of the Blackfeet camp. I accompanied the party. In a short time we struck the trail of one of their bands, and followed it up till evening, when we discovered ourselves in the vicinity of the enemy's camp. A hurried council was held, and it was decided to conceal ourselves in the woods until morning, and make the attack at sunrise. After placing sentinels to keep watch of the camp, our party lay down among the brush and waited for day. At the first dawn of day we were all awake and creeping stealthily towards the edge of the wood, beyond which the camp was pitched. As we neared the opening the Blackfeet discovered our approach and raised an alarm. In an instant there was great confusion in the camp, and their warriors were rushing backwards and forwards, snatching up their weapons and attempting to seek a place of shelter from the coming attack. At this moment our war chief blew a blast on a horn carried by him, and at the signal a volley of shot and arrows was fired into the camp. Several of the Blackfeet were killed and wounded, and the others ran to the woods for protection. Some of our warriors dashed into the opening, cut down the wounded and rapidly scalped them, raising a terrible war whoop as each bloody scalp was snatched from the head of the prostrate foe. As soon as the work was done they again sought the protection of the trees. The fight was now conducted from behind the trees and every one fought after his own fashion. Sometimes one side appeared to gain the advantage, and then the fortune would change. Hours passed away, and both parties were very much scattered, but the Blackfeet were generally in retreat. At last they broke up and fled, when our warriors returned, plundered the camp of what little was left in it, and took the trail homewards. A number of scalps were borne home in triumph. Three captives were taken and their arms tied firmly to their sides, after which they were driven before us to the camp. On arriving there the party was received with shouts of triumph, and the women and children made a tremendous noise. Some of the squaws who had lost husbands in battle came up to the captives and loaded them with insults and abuse, shaking their fists in the faces of the victims and acting like mad women. The captives remained perfectly indifferent to these insults, and made no sign of being aware that the women were in existence. When the party entered the camp, the prisoners were tied to different posts. The warriors then indulged in a great rejoicing. "Snakyeye" or whisky was brought out and drank. The warriors boasted of their deeds in battle and divided the captives. Then they sprang up in a wild dance, and menaced the captives with their knives and tomahawks. One of the Blackfeet replied in contemptuous words to the taunts of the Copper-Heads, which so exasperated them that several of the latter at once rushed to the posts and tomahawked two of the captives. The third was saved by a chief of our tribe, who proposed that he should be burned instead of tomahawked. This proposal met with favor, and preparations were at once made for carrying it into execution. Wood was brought and piled up around the victim until it ascended above his knees. He was then tormented by descriptions of the horrible sufferings that he was to endure, but the threats failed to shake his constancy in the least. As soon as all the preparations were complete, a large number of warriors and squaws encircled the victim and commenced a wild dance. Fire was applied to the pile, and in a few moments the flames ascended around the body of the captive Blackfoot. He commenced chanting a deathsong, and did not stop till life was extinct. The dance was kept up around the stake until the body was consumed, when a yell was given and the assemblage dispersed to their lodges. Next day another council was held, and it was decided not to go any farther to the south, but to return and get through the winter as well as possible in a territory where we should be out of the Blackfeet range. Accordingly our tents were struck and packed, the ponies loaded, and we once more took the northward trail. CHAPTER VII. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE. Marries the Chiefs Daughter -- Tattooing -- Packing for the south -- Camping out -- Crossing the Mountains -- Skirmish with Blackfeet -- Wounded -- The Red River Settlements. The fact that the traders at the Hudson Bay Company's post had claimed me to be of white birth was communicated to the principal chief after the war excitement of the latter was over, and caused considerable anxiety on his part. Nothing was said to me about it but I could see that the old chief feared my escape and that the tribe would be made to suffer some punishment at the hands of the whites for my captivity. I had always considered myself as an Indian captured from some other tribe and could not yet think it possible that I was one of the pale faces. With the return of Summer the tribe again sought the Northern regions and I had almost forgotten the affair at the trading post. The old chief, Owash-kah-ke-naw, appeared to have taken a great liking to me and in September of that year (1851) he gave me his youngest daughter, Tefronia (Tame Deer) to be my squaw. She was then nineteen and a handsome Indian woman. My own name in Copper-Head language is Owah-owah-kish-me-wah. By this squaw I have two children, Tefronia, a girl now over five years of age, and Tululee, a boy over two years old. After marrying his daughter I was kept by the old chief around the village and was not allowed to join any expeditions in the lower country. Three years passed in this manner and my girl was born. The tribe once more moved farther south and the old chief become anxious about my being claimed by the whites. One day he told me that if I went south with the tribe I must be tattooed, so that I could be identified by them in case I should be carried off by the traders under pretence that I was of white parentage. I did not consent to this but was then told that there was no choice left me as it was the will of the chief that it should be done. Next day I was seized by two men of the tribe and made to lie on my back along a log. I was next bound down so that I could neither move my head, body, hands or feet. My breast was bared and one of the Indians came forward to do the work of tattooing. First he took a sharp knife and made some light incisions down my breast so that small strips of skin were cut. These he peeled off and threw on one side. My agony was intense but I did not wish to be considered a coward so I held my tongue, though the pain made me bite my lips till the blood came; other similar strips were next taken off at the distance of about an inch, but parallel with the first marks. I now suffered tortures and was racked with an intense thirst. The attendant Indians brought me water and poured it into my mouth and over my head to keep me from fainting. Parallel strips were now cut at right angles to the first incisions and then other strips at right angles to the second series of cuts. Some other incisions were also made but by this time I was almost insensible to pain. During these operations a smooth stone had been remaining in a strong fire and as the marks were all cut the stone was taken up and applied to my lacerated breast. The pain for the moment was maddening but the effect was to sear the wounds and stop the bleeding. I was now released from my fastenings and sought my lodge, with marks on breast that I still carry and shall to my dying day. After this time I was allowed to go with the rest of the tribe in the excursions to the southern part of the territory over which we ranged. About two years since I joined the half yearly train that left for the Selkirk settlement on the Red River and for St. Paul's. As I stated before, the train starts twice a year--in the Spring and Fall, laden with furs and brings back supplies of various kinds. The journey occupies about six "moons" each way and one "moon" is allowed for stoppage at St. Paul's, so that the trains meet about half way on the journey. A large number of Indians travel in these trains so as to fight their way down in case of resistance by hostile Indians. Previous to starting on the journey all the furs, skins and other articles intended to be taken down together with dried meats for the journey, were packed in readiness to be carried by ponies and elks, or by the squaws in the manner already described. When everything was ready a grand Council was held, at which the old men of the tribe sat around the council fire, smoking their pipes in silence. Then the principal chief arose and appointed one of the subordinate chiefs to the command of the party, giving him in a few words some general instructions relative to the policy to be adopted in dealing with the whites and exhorting the warriors attached to the party to drive from the face of the earth all who should oppose their progress. Particular charge was given that I should be kept away from the whites as much as possible, and watch kept that I might not be stolen from them by the pale faces. The old chief sat down, and the newly appointed chief of the expedition rose and made a speech, as did some others of the tribe. Then there were some dances, after which the Council broke up and all retired to their lodges. Early next morning the party set out on their journey. The ponies and elks were loaded with packs, the squaws carried some articles attached to the straps passed across their forehead, and the men rode or walked in single file. The journey was long and tedious, day after day passing with but few incidents to change the monotony of our progress. Hunting parties started off occasionally in pursuit of game for the support of the band, and met at appointed places, but the main body kept advancing steadily in the one direction. Only four hours was allowed for sleep, when fires were lit and we all lay around in our blankets, with our feet to the fire, and heads outward. There are two reasons for adopting this mode of sleeping: it keeps the feet warm, which is very important, and it allows more people to sleep around one fire than would be possible in any other position. On stopping for sleep the ponies were hobbled in such a manner that they could feed or sleep, but could not run away. Sentinels were posted to prevent the camp being surprised either by wild animals or by hostile Indians. As soon as the time was up the signal was given and the whole camp was speedily awake and ready for resuming the journey. A hasty meal was despatched, and then, after determining the course to be taken, the band set forward. There were no fixed hours for meals, and no stoppage for that purpose, but each person took a piece of dried meat whenever he became hungry, and gnawed away as he felt disposed. The country through which we passed changed from dense forests to barren plains, and then again to rolling prairies, high hills, and grassy valleys. When large streams opposed our progress there was a halt on the banks, and preparations were made for swimming across. The packs were disposed of so as not to be wetted and then each animal, led by an Indian, was brought to the stream and swam across to the other side. When the animals and their burdens had all safely been got over, the remaining men and squaws plunged in and swam over. The very young children were carried on the backs of the swimmers or floated across on boards, which the mothers pushed before them. At the North Pass of the Rocky Mountains the band crossed from the west to the east side. The crossing was the work of time and difficulty, both animals and Indians having to creep slowly up the rugged heights of the Pass. Sometimes we were many hours making half a mile progress, and great caution was requisite to prevent serious accidents among the precipices around which we crept. At times we wound our way through a deep gorge, on either side of which the enormous walls of rock towered far overhead. Then a toilsome ascent brought us on an elevation from which we looked down on rugged peaks and deep clefts below. At length the difficulties and dangers of the pass were over, and we emerged on the rolling land to the east of the mountains. Up to this time we had met with no hostile Indians, or, at least, none that attempted to molest us. We were now in the territory hunted by the Bloods and Blackfeet, and were therefore not without fears of an attack. On the second day after leaving the Pass I joined a hunting party and set out in pursuit of buffalo. The party consisted of thirty hunters, all well armed either for the chase or war. A herd of bulls was discovered at a distance, and we rode quietly towards them. As we rose on a ridge that commanded a wide view of the country, we became aware of a party of mounted Indians at no great distance from us, in pursuit of the same herd of buffalo. They appeared to have discovered us at the same time, and both parties drew up to reconnoitre. In numbers both were nearly equal, and there appeared to be little doubt that the opposing band were some of our old enemies, the Blackfeet. A short council was held without dismounting, and there was a question as to the policy of fighting them on the spot, or of falling back on the main body and keeping prepared for the larger band of Blackfeet that probably lay in our course towards the Selkirk settlement. The question was settled, without farther discussion on our part, by the appearance of the Blackfeet galloping towards us. Our party dashed forward to meet them, and as the two bands neared each other, rapid discharges of bullets and arrows were made by both sides. I received a rifle ball in my instep, and was thrown from my pony by a Blackfoot that dashed against me. The fight was desperate, and several scalps were taken on both sides. A Blackfoot warrior singled me out for combat, and for some time we fought hand to hand. Severe blows were given on both sides, and I felt faint from loss of blood, having received a frightful gash in the thigh from a tomahawk, besides an ugly knife wound in one knee and in the calf of one leg. In the end the hostile party was repulsed, though with severe loss on our side, and we retreated to the main body of our party. Here my wounds were found to be of sufficient importance to require some attention. I was lashed to a log in order to prevent my writhing during the process of dressing the wounds. The gashes were then cleaned out and washed with water. Some kinnikenick bark was chewed up and a mixed with tobacco, which was then put into the wound to stop the bleeding. The washing and dressing was repeated until the bleeding had completely stopped. One of the men took a thin buckskin thong and sewed up the wounds by piercing the skin and running the thong through it. Only two stitches were made for each gash. The pain of this operation was intense, and was more difficult to bear than the original wounds. The marks of the stitches are still visible on my person. Whether the defeat of the smaller party of Blackfeet had discouraged the larger band, or whether there was no large party in the neighborhood at that time, I cannot tell, but it was certain that we were not again troubled with them during our journey. Occasionally a straggling hunter or two would be seen, but they always made off before any of our warriors could reach them. We had now reached the hunting grounds of the Selkirkers, or colonists of English, Scotch, French and half-breeds, who lived on the territory granted to Lord Selkirk for the purpose of establishing a colony there. The land from the Rocky Mountains to the Red River is pleasant to look at, and rich with game of all kinds. Buffalo, deer, and smaller game, range in great numbers over the plains, and the hunters and trappers of the Selkirk colony are scattered in the season, in all directions over this splendid territory. Soon after getting into this country we fell in with some trappers who were returning to the settlements, and they traveled with our train as far as we went in their direction. In the course of our journey with them, they noticed my appearance and spoke to me of my resemblance to whites, even though disguised with paint as I was. They became interested in me and taught me several words of English, which I learned very rapidly. On reaching the Selkirk settlements we camped for a few days in order to rest awhile before striking the Red River trail, and to do a little trading with the settlers. Here the traders who had been teaching me English told some of the other whites about me, and I was visited by several Selkirkers. After conversing with me for some time they summoned the chief, and charged the tribe with having stolen me when a child from the whites. He denied it, but the Selkirkers became more determined in their suspicions, and demanded that I should be given up to them, threatening to take me by force if not surrendered peaceably. I was appealed to as to what my wishes were on this subject. So much had been told me by the traders about my having probably been stolen from my white parents, that I had become anxious to know something about the facts, and I frankly said so. On this the Selkirkers became more eager to have me left with them, but our chief dissuaded me from consenting, by representing that I had no clue to my parents, even if it was true that I had been stolen from the whites, but that if I returned to the tribe, I could undoubtedly get part of my history from the old chief, who would also probably give me leave to go, in case I chose to hunt up my family. With this I was content, and the Selkirkers let me go after exacting a solemn promise from the chief and principal warriors that I should be allowed to proceed in search of my parents if I felt disposed to do so. CHAPTER VIII. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE. Selkirk People -- Selkirk Trains -- Trading at St. Paul -- Return to the North. With the dawn of day we again set forward on our journey, taking the Red River trail towards St. Paul. The trip between the Selkirk settlements and St. Paul occupies from thirty to forty days, and passes through the battle ground of the Siouxs and Chippewas. Several times we came on small parties of the Siouxs, but had no more than short skirmishes with them, our numbers being too formidable for them to attack us. About two days journey from the Selkirk settlements we came to the settlement of Oshawkapee, inhabited by French and half breeds. From this point we passed over a magnificent rolling country interspersed with occasional woods and watered by several streams. Whilst crossing this country we met the Red River settlement train returning from their trading journey to St. Paul. The train was composed of four or five hundred ox carts in single file, with drivers on foot, or riding on the wagons, hunters and guards mounted on ponies, and women and children riding with camp fixtures in covered wagons. The Selkirkers' wagons are of a peculiar kind, no iron being used in any part of their construction. There is but one pair of wheels, having felloes about six inches thick. There are about fourteen spokes to a wheel, and these spokes are about three feet long. The linch pins, axles, and in fact everything about the carts, are of wood, very massive and cumbrous. No grease is used on the axles, so that an incessant groaning and creaking is kept up. The body of the cart is nothing but a frame work similar to the wood-racks used in the lower country. Sometimes a tilt covering is used for the wagons that carry the women and children. Each cart is drawn by one ox fastened to the shafts by straps of raw hide. One man has charge of five wagons, a strap passing from the tail of one wagon over the horns of the ox drawing the wagon immediately following it. When the driver whips the first ox it starts forward, and the oxen in the squad of carts attached to the moving wagon have to start at the same time. The drivers of these trains are mixed French Canadians, English, Scotch, and half breeds. In most cases the women are Indians, and these travel with the train to do the cooking and general work of the camp. When they camp for the night they bring all the wagons into a close circle with the shafts outwards. Immediately inside of this circle each ox is tied to the cart to which it belongs, and within this inner circle of cattle the ponies are picketed. The tents are then pitched within the whole, sentinels placed, and the camp composed to sleep. Salutations were exchanged with the Selkirkers' train as we passed, and our journey was again resumed. At length we arrived at our village a short distance from St. Anthony, and here preparations were made for staying one month, during which the trading was to be done. In this time our furs and skins were taken down to St. Paul, and, by means of our interpreter were traded for whiskey, powder, rifles, provisions of various kinds, weapons, and such other articles as were needed by us. During these tradings I practiced myself in speaking English, and could soon talk so as to make myself understood. I had some conversations with the settlers, and became more anxious to discover the facts in relation to my supposed parentage. I determined that as soon as I went back I would demand my history from the old chief, and if I could obtain any trace from him, I would then prosecute the search after my parents. When the trading was over and the supplies brought back to the camp, there was a grand feast given, and the camp became a scene of drunken debauchery for several days. Whiskey was drunk in great quantities, and many quarrels took place between the men. As they had taken the precaution of putting away their weapons before the drinking began, no one was killed in the quarrels. At length our time was up, the Indians got over their debauch, and every thing was made ready for the return trip. We were soon on our way, and marching with our faces to the North. The journey to our northern headquarters had no particular incident to interest me, my mind being now full of the idea that I had white relatives and friends, and that the savage life I had led for so many years was not the one for which I was born. I longed to reach our village once more, that I might question the old chief as to my history. At last we reached the main body of our tribe. I was rejoiced to meet my Tefronia and the children once more, but at the same time a new feeling had entered my breast. I waited impatiently two or three days until the rejoicings caused by our return should have passed away, and then I sought out the venerable chief, O-wash-kah-ke-naw, now over eighty years old, and begged him to tell me truly the secret of my birth. For some time the chief bade me go back to my lodge and be content with what I already knew, but, finding that I was resolute in discovering the facts, he told me to await a few days in patience, and then he would give his decision. I returned to my lodge in much agitation, for it was evident that the chief knew something that had hitherto been concealed from me. I had been so long accustomed to savage life that I remembered no other. A council of the leading chiefs only, called on the following day, which I rightly considered was to consult on the course to be pursued in respect to my demand. At last I was summoned before the great chief and a few leading warriors, and was instructed as to the course allotted for me. I was then informed that when a child I had been stolen from the whites by a band of Canadian Indians who had by this course revenged themselves on the whites for some real or fancied wrongs; that I had passed through the hands of several tribes and had at last, as I already knew, been sold by the Siouxs to the Snakes, and remained with them until their union with the Copper Heads. The decision of the head men of the tribe was that I should join the train about to set out for the settlements, and should then proceed in company with a few picked warriors, to visit the remnants of the tribes in whose possession I had once been, in order to learn more of my former history. At the same time I was sworn to return to the tribe within a year after I left the train at St. Paul, and to ensure the fulfillment of this condition, my wife and children were to be retained in the old chief's family at the headquarters of the tribe. To these conditions I freely consented, and waited eagerly for the day when I should set out on my journey. At last the day arrived and I took a farewell of my wife and children. The thought of them checked a little my eagerness to set out, but at length I left them, fully intending to return as soon as I could discover something of my former history. CHAPTER IX. MATTHEW BRAYTON'S NARRATIVE. Return to St. Paul -- Sick at Chicago -- Sets out in search of his Parents -- Reaches Cleveland -- Gets his Story Printed -- Visits Warren, O. -- Attends Camp Meeting -- Experiences Religion -- Reaches Sugar Grove. The snows of winter had begun to fall when our party set out on the route I had so recently traveled. The present company was placed under command of a son of the principal chief, he being also the brother of my wife. There is no reason for again describing the route, as we traveled in the same trail that we pursued with the former party, and this time there were no incidents of consequence to diversify the monotony of the progress. About the beginning of April, 1859, we reached our camping ground near St. Anthony, and on the 10th of that month I arrived with a detachment of the tribe at St. Paul. We remained here a few days, making inquiries of the Siouxs and Chippewas that occasionally came in to trade, and from them I obtained a clue to farther discoveries. On the 16th of April I obtained leave from the chief to set out on investigations, promising faithfully to return to St. Paul in July, when the train would be ready to return. To aid me in my researches I was accompanied part of the way by the chief himself and some members of the tribe, and our party was furnished with three ponies and five dogs. In pursuance to the information obtained from the Sioux and Chippewas, we proceeded in search of a party of Winnebagoes said to be located in Northern Wisconsin. After traveling some days we reached the Wisconsin river, and following it towards its source came on the Winnebagoes, who were making sugar in the woods. From them I obtained the particulars of my purchase by them from the Paw Paws, and was directed to a family yet living in Michigan who could probably give me some farther information. Filled with hope I started, in company with my brother-in-law and the other Indians, for Chicago. We traveled through the woods and across the country, I acting as interpreter, being now able to speak English with tolerable proficiency. Before reaching that city I was taken sick, and on arriving there I fell into the hands of some sympathizing persons who placed me under medical care. My escort, finding that I had become so sick that I could neither prosecute my researches for some time nor return with them, quitted me and returned to St. Paul, leaving me only my faithful dog, Nawah. I was very sick and do not remember much for two or three weeks, when I found myself in a hospital, with my long hair cut off close to my head and the paint scrubbed from my skin. To get it off they had used hot water, soap and sand, and in the process had transformed me from an Indian to a white man. I remained in the hospital for more than five weeks, and then I was discharged as cured, though still very weak. On letting me go they gave me a suit of white men's clothing instead of my Indian costume, leaving me nothing but my stone pipe and my scalping knife. Nawah and I at once set out on our adventures, and my steps were directed towards the place where the Paw Paw family was said to reside. I found them after walking for two days, and then was directed to a small village of Pottawottomies in Branch county, Michigan. I walked to the place described, sleeping in the woods at night as had been customary with me, but I soon found that I could no longer do so with safety. With my long hair cut off and without my blanket and furs, I was unprepared for camping out. The result was that I caught a severe inflammation in my eyes that increased to an extent threatening my sight. I could no longer bear the light and had to walk with my head down. On reaching the Pottawottomies I found they consisted of four families and their chief, Mr. Macgwagor. They had settled down to civilized life and were living as farmers. Mr. Macgwagor remembered the whole transaction in relation to my purchase from the Canadian Indians, he having been present at the transfer. He said the Canadian Indians had stated at the time that they had taken me from the south side of Lake Erie, and that, from their description, the party had probably brought me from Ohio, as they spoke of having crossed the Sandusky river during the journey on which they fell in with me. On learning this I set out for Detroit and crossed over into Canada, but without obtaining much farther information among the few semi-civilized Indians and half-breeds that I met with there. All I could gather was that I had probably been taken from somewhere in the vicinity of Cleveland. I now retraced my steps to Detroit and proceeded into Ohio, telling my story as I went and requesting information. At Fremont I fell in with a man who listened to my story with attention and remarked that he had formerly heard of a family named Todd, who had lost a little boy from the neighborhood of Cleveland a number of years ago. Acting under his suggestions, on the following day I got on the railroad train and came to Cleveland, where I arrived in the latter part of August. I was in Cleveland about one day, making inquiries relative to the Todd family and telling my story, but without getting any information that was of use. The Todd family had removed many years since, and I could not learn their whereabouts. I had begun to despair of ever finding traces of my parents when a friendly colored man who had met me and learned my story, took me to the office of the Cleveland _Daily Herald_ for the purpose of telling my story to the editors. We succeeded in finding one of them, Mr. J. H. A. Bone, in the office, together with another gentleman. I told my story to them and was cross-questioned by them very closely. In the end I was directed to an old citizen of the place for the purpose of making inquiries, and was told to call again and tell the result. The person to whom I was directed was out of town, and I learned nothing farther that night. Several persons took considerable interest in my story and wished me well in my journeyings. Next morning I was on the street when I saw some furs and other articles of Esquimaux dress at the door of a building, and was told that a panorama of the Arctic regions was on exhibition, and that one of the men belonging to it--Thomas Hickey--had been in the far North. I went up to see him, and to him and the proprietor, Mr. La Rue, told my story. I then accompanied Mr. La Rue to the office of the _Herald_, and there I again met Mr. Bone, who made me repeat my story and then printed it with a request that any person possessing information of probable use to the "Indian Captive" would at once furnish it. The interest taken in my story by the editors of the Cleveland _Herald_ has been the means of my return to my relatives. I remained in Cleveland several days and my story excited much interest. Some persons furnished me with portions of clothing of which I stood in need, and I was furnished with food and sleeping room at one of the hotels. The people at the house were surprised at my refusal to sleep in a bed and to eat cooked meat or anything that had salt in it, but I could not endure the method of eating or sleeping used by civilized white people. In a few days I learned that some persons in Warren, O., could probably give me some information, and thither I went, the Cleveland and Mahoning Railroad Company taking me without my paying fare. On arriving there I found that the people to whom I was directed had gone out of town to attend a camp meeting in Mahoning county. Some persons going to the meeting invited me to accompany them, and in their company I arrived at the camp meeting. A short time sufficed to convince me that I had got on the wrong track and that I was not the missing son of Joseph Todd. Great interest was, however, occasioned by my story, and many questions were put to me. I showed the Presiding Elder papers given me in proof of my belonging to the Indian tribe and related my adventures. Finally I showed them my dog, scalping knife and pipe. The Presiding Elder, Mr. Anson Brazee, was so much interested in my story that he got me to repeat it to the whole meeting. I remained with these people throughout the meeting, and before it broke up I became thoroughly convinced of the truth of the Christian religion and joined the church of the United Brethren. In token that I had forever abandoned the bloody practices of heathenism I broke my scalping knife in two, giving the handle and part of the blade to Elder Brazee, and the other part of the blade to a circuit preacher, the Rev. William Mclntyre. When the camp broke up I accompanied the elder and some of the ministers to a conference in Stark county, and from thence went to Williamsfield, Ashtabula county, where I stayed with some farmers belonging to the church of the United Brethren. After staying with these good people about a fortnight I went to Monroe, Ashtabula county, in search of some information that I expected to get there, but failed to obtain anything of use. I then accepted the invitation of Elder Brazee and went to his house in Pierpont, Ashtabula county, where I stayed a short time. From there I went to Conneautville, thence to Clark's Corners and to Connorsville. From that place the minister sent a letter to Cleveland stating that I had gone into Pennsylvania, and giving directions where I probably could be heard of. I continued to wander from place to place, wherever the faintest hope existed of my getting any information, and in this way I visited Erie, Waterford, Wattsburgh, and finally reached Warren, Pa., where the Rev. William McIntyre was stationed. I remained with him a short time and then retraced my steps to Ashtabula county, after which I again returned to Mr. Mclntyre's and from thence went to Columbus, Pa. My hopes of finding my relatives had now almost died out. Nearly six months had passed, but I seemed no nearer the object of my search than I was when I left St. Paul. Wearied out with fruitless efforts, I had resolved to make one more attempt, and if that failed, to abandon the search for ever and return to my tribe on the approach of spring. My eyes remained very bad, and I therefore labored under great disadvantages, having to be careful lest the inflammation should increase and destroy my sight. I had gone to school for a few days in Pennsylvania, but the state of my eyes compelled me reluctantly to abandon the idea for the present, at least. From Columbus I went to Sugar Grove, Warren county, Pa., close to the New York State line. My intention was to remain there a day or two, and then set out for the Cattaraugus Indian Reservation where I intended making my last effort at obtaining information. If I failed there I meant either to return to the Rev. Mr. Mclntyre's residence and attend school for the winter, or go into Canada and remain with the Indians until spring, when it would be time to return to St. Paul. On the 18th of November I was at Sugar Grove when Mr. W. T. Smith, a farmer living in New York State, just across the line, drove up with his wagon early in the morning to take me to his house, where I was to stay a few days previous to leaving for the Cattaraugus Reservation. I little dreamed, when I arrived at the house, that the end of my journeyings was so near, and that the object of the search which I had almost abandoned in despair was already within a few hours of attainment. CHAPTER X. FOUND AT LAST. The narration of the circumstances which led to the discovery of Matthew Brayton by his relatives requires us to go back a little from the point to which his account has brought the reader. The intervening years between the loss of Matthew Brayton by his relatives and the present time have caused many changes in the neighborhood once so excited in consequence of that loss. The red men clung for many years to their last foothold in Ohio. Four years after the loss of the boy, the Delawares left their village below Upper Sandusky, and set out for their new homes farther west. Two years afterwards the Senecas extinguished their council fires and sought a resting place nearer the Rocky Mountains. But the Wyandots held tenaciously to their homes, and eighteen years passed away before they finally consented to abandon Ohio to the exclusive occupation of the white race. Fine farms now cover the site of the waste land and woods over and through which the weary hunt for the missing boy was conducted day after day. Towns and villages have sprung up where humble log cabins here and there stood in the incipient clearing, and the huts of the red skins have passed away forever. The sturdy farmer, Elijah Brayton, who once returned to his cabin from the weary journey to Chillicothe after millstones, and was met by news that made the blood forsake his parental heart in a sudden rush, had passed by some years the allotted period of man's life, and is fast progressing towards his fourscore years. William, the boy of sixteen who had set out with his little brother on that search for stray cattle, but had returned without him, has reached the meridian of life, and sees around him a young family springing up. Long since, the paternal cabin near the Tymochte Creek has disappeared, and two or three miles away from it, somewhere in the direction where the two brothers had separated thirty-four years ago, a fine brick house has become the dwelling of the oldest son of Elijah Brayton. Up at Springville, some five or six miles farther to the northwest, and at no great distance from the trail on which the young boy was borne off by the thieving Canadian Indians, lives another brother, Peter, and one of the married sisters. Here also lives the patriarch himself. There are other sisters who mourned when their brother was lost, and they too are married. A son and daughter born to the patriarch of the family after the loss of Matthew, have long since died, and another son, Asa, younger yet, pursues the practice of medicine in the adjoining town of Carey. The publication of the "Indian Captive's" narrative in the Cleveland _Herald_ was the means of creating considerable interest in his fortunes. The story was extensively copied, and several letters were received by the editors of that paper from people in different sections of the country who had lost children many years ago; it was supposed by means of Indians. None of these letters afforded any clue by which the Indian Captive could trace out his family. A weekly paper containing the story, copied from the Cleveland _Herald_, was sent by a friend to the Braytons, and this first gave them an idea that there might be a possibility of recovering the missing member of the family. On the 26th of September, one month after the first publication of the narrative, Dr. Asa Brayton wrote to the editors of the _Herald_, stating the manner in which he had met with the article, and giving some particulars of the method in which his brother Matthew had been lost. About a week afterwards a cousin of the Doctor called at the office of that paper, and made inquiries respecting the Indian Captive. He was followed in a few days by Mr. Peter Brayton, one of the brothers of the missing Matthew, who went to Warren, O., in search of the "Captive," but lost trace of him there and returned discouraged. The interest in the subject did not abate, and from time to time the _Herald_ gave some intelligence regarding the wanderings of the "Indian Captive." The more the Braytons considered the matter the stronger was their desire to satisfy themselves, and on the tenth of November, William Brayton, the eldest brother, who had accompanied Matthew on the morning of the day when the latter was lost, set out with the determination of not returning until he could satisfy himself as to whether the "Indian Captive" was identical with his lost brother, or not. Previous to setting out, William was charged by his father to examine the man for two marks by which his identity could probably be established. One was a scar on the top of the head, caused by a razor cut which the father had made in lancing a boil, and the other was a scar on the great toe of the right foot, resulting from the cut of an axe. William Brayton came to Cleveland and learned that the person of whom he was in search had been heard of in Northern Pennsylvania, and was directed where to go. At the place pointed out he struck the trail of the "Captive," and traced him to Sugar Grove. Here he learned that the man had crossed the State line into New York. The chase was too near at an end to allow any delay, so Mr. Brayton took along a doctor as witness of the interview, and set out for the house of Mr. Smith, where it was said that the "Captive" had gone. It was seven o'clock in the evening when the two arrived at the house, and the daylight was fast fading into darkness. They knocked at the door, and, in response to an invitation from within, entered the house. A man, with his boots off, was drying his feet at the fire. Mr. Brayton stepped forward eagerly and enquired where the "folks" were, and was told that they were out doing some work in the yard. Mr. Brayton said he wanted them called in, and wished a light struck at once, following up the request with the question whether the man to whom he spoke was the "Indian Captive." On being told in the affirmative he became greatly agitated and proceeded at once to get a light. The "Captive" hastily drew on his boots, buckled his dog to his belt, and drew back with suspicion from the strangers. As soon as the light was obtained Mr. Brayton bade the "Captive" bare his head, and then both he and his companion examined the spot where his father had told them to search for the scar. The emotion of William Brayton may be imagined when the scar was plainly revealed to his eyes, unmistakable in its character, and situated precisely where he had been told to look for it. In an agitated voice he bade the man take the boot from his right foot, which was done, and there too, was a scar visible, just where it had been described to exist. The emotions of William Brayton may be imagined, but cannot be portrayed. The brother for whose loss he had always reproached himself was at length found through his means, and the sorrows of thirty-four years were at an end. For some minutes he paced up and down the room, his whole frame convulsed with agitation. Then he turned to the cause of all this emotion, who sat perfectly astonished at the proceedings, and the "Indian Captive" was declared to be the long lost Matthew Brayton. A letter was at once sent home, containing the glad news of the discovery, and, as soon as possible, the reunited brothers set out in the same direction. At every station on the road home, crowds gathered, and at Carey, where they were expected to stop, hundreds were collected--old men who had searched for the lost boy--aged mothers who had held him in their arms--young men who had heard the story narrated by their parents. But the couple stopped five miles north of Carey, at Adrian Station, and at once started for William Brayton's house. Here the family were gathered. The old man, seventy-three years of age, but still hale and vigorous--the brothers and sisters. When the eldest brother entered with his charge the intense feeling that prevailed the hearts of all in the room can scarcely be imagined--cannot be described. The aged father arose, placed his trembling hand on the head of the stranger, and searched for the scar, which he could scarcely distinguish through the mist that filled his eyes. Then he knelt to examine the foot. For a moment every breath was hushed, and the hearts of the other relatives almost ceased to beat. Then the old man tottered to his feet, and with a gush of tears--the stream of affection that had been pent up for the third of a century--fell on the neck of his son--Matthew Brayton! It is useless to attempt a description of the scene that followed. The father that had so long secretly mourned for his child, the household pet; the brother who never forgot that it was from his company that the little boy had passed away to a mysterious fate; the other brother who had been his playmate; the sisters who had fondled their little brother in infancy--all were gathered to share in that happy meeting. There was one absent whose presence was needed to make the cup of joy full to overflowing, but her motherly heart might perhaps even then be rejoicing in Heaven for the happiness on earth. The news of the return spread like wildfire. The return was on Thursday the 17th of November. For days afterwards the house was besieged by anxious people eager to see the "boy" so long lost, and so strangely found. Old men who had shared with zeal in that weary and hopeless search thirty-four years ago, came up, and all who had known him as a little boy, acknowledged the identity. At present Matthew Brayton, the hero of these strange adventures, is residing with his father and brothers, and has become somewhat reconciled to civilized life. He has abandoned his design of returning to the Indians, and is endeavoring to fit himself for the different lot now assigned him. He has attended school as frequently as the state of his eyes permitted, and can now read a little, as well as converse very readily in the English language. After his thirty-four years of wanderings and hardships it is to be hoped that he will now be content to remain among his family and partake to the full of the blessings of civilization. * * * * * The foregoing is a reproduction of a book published in 1860, giving the strange history of this Indian Captive. After returning to civilization, he resided for a few months in Carey and Fostoria, and made several lecture tours giving an account of his adventures and the manners and customs of the Indians. This mode of life was too much of a change from the wild life he had been living, and when the war of the Rebellion broke out he enlisted in an Indiana Regiment, and went to the South to fight for his country. He proved a brave soldier, but while in the service he was taken dangerously ill, and after a short sickness died at Pittsburgh Landing in 1862. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. The italicized chapter sub-headings from the original text have been indented in this etext version. Other italic words from the original are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. The following misprints have been corrected: "Balckfeet" corrected to "Blackfeet" (page 12) "speakes" corrected to "speaks" (page 16) "Somtimes" corrected to "Sometimes" (page 53) "de" corrected to "be" (page 53) "trom" corrected to "from" (page 63) "reurn" corrected to "return" (page 63) "or" corrected to "of" (page 63) "an" corrected to "and" (page 68) 3. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained. 
27164	----	file was produced from scans of public domain works at the University of Michigan's Making of America collection.) [Illustration: Mr. Eastman in Costume.] Seven and Nine Years AMONG THE CAMANCHES AND APACHES. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. JERSEY CITY, N. J. PUBLISHED BY CLARK JOHNSON, M.D. 1874. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by CLARK JOHNSON, M.D., JERSEY CITY, N. J., In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE. I. INTRODUCTORY 5 II. THE CAPTURE 18 III. A STRANGE ADVENTURE 22 IV. AGAIN A PRISONER 30 V. THE INDIAN TOWN 39 VI. THE TORTURE 47 VII. WA-KO-MET-KLA 57 VIII. A NEW VOCATION 68 IX. THE "MYSTERY BAG" 78 X. INDIAN LIFE 86 XI. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY 95 XII. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY CONTINUED 103 XIII. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY CONTINUED 111 XIV. HOPES AND FEARS--AN ADVENTURE 119 XV. TREED BY A GRIZZLY 125 XVI. SOME CURIOUS CUSTOMS 134 XVII. THE BUFFALO DANCE 142 XVIII. A STRANGE HISTORY 150 XIX. A STRANGE HISTORY CONTINUED 159 XX. THE BUFFALO HUNT 171 XXI. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY CONTINUED 184 XXII. FEASTS, FASTS, AND FACTS 192 XXIII. THE WAR PARTY 208 XXIV. MY FIRST SCALP 222 XXV. THE FEAST OF THE GREEN CORN 238 XXVI. DANGER AHEAD 242 XXVII. THE ESCAPE 249 XXVIII. A NEW DEPARTURE 263 XXIX. THE "VIGILANTS" 277 XXX. CONCLUSION 290 [Illustration: Edwin Eastman] SEVEN AND NINE YEARS AMONG THE CAMANCHES AND APACHES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. In making my bow to the public as an author, I feel it incumbent upon me to make a brief explanation of the motives that induced me to attempt this autobiographical sketch of nine years of my life. At intervals during the past decade, the country has been electrified by the recital of some horror perpetrated by Indians on white travelers, and those, who, having journeyed to the Far West, had settled, intending to make the wilderness blossom like the rose. Through the medium of the press, the details of these heart-rending cruelties were widely disseminated, and aroused the just indignation of all peaceful and order-loving citizens. To such an extent did popular feeling rise at times, that farmers and drovers on the border, organized themselves into bands, and on the report of some fresh outrage hastened to the scene, pursued the perpetrators of the deed, and not unfrequently visited upon the Indians a vengeance ofttimes of a very sanguinary character. In these forays of the savages, they frequently carried off to their mountain fastnesses women and children, who were never heard of more. Thus, when our feelings were harrowed up by the report of butcheries, the tales of life-long suffering of the forlorn captives were scarcely ever known. Snatched ruthlessly from the bosom of their families, they were mourned for a time and then they, by slow degrees, faded from the memory of their friends and relatives, and when thought of at all, it was as of those dead. In these chapters I will detail the trials and sufferings of such as these, believing that the experiences of my wife and myself, during our captivity among the Camanches and Apaches, will serve as a prototype of many similar cases. It was some time, and with not a little persuasion before I could be induced to overcome the diffidence I felt about making my private history public, and appearing in print. By those who have become authors, my feelings will be understood and appreciated; but to others who constitute the reading public it would be impossible to describe the trepidation with which the tyro puts forth his first literary venture, and had it not been for the earnest entreaties of my esteemed friend, Dr. Clark Johnson, who used naively to say that what was a source of such pleasure to him must be entertaining to the public, I doubt very much if I should have ever put pen to paper in the capacity of an author. With this introduction, I will, as briefly as may be, relate my experiences, nothing extenuating, and setting down naught in malice. My family were originally from Massachusetts, my father being a descendant of the Puritans, he inherited many of the qualities of his ancestors, and, joined to a high integrity, he possessed a dogged will that at times amounted to stubbornness. From childhood he had led the life of a farmer, and my earliest recollections are associated with country life. My father's disposition might be characterized as restless; and after sojourning for a time in one place, he would evince symptoms of uneasiness which would result in the family moving to some new spot, and breaking ground in virgin soil on the confines of civilization. By these successive removals we soon found ourselves far to the west of the home of our ancestors, and at the time my father resolved to go to California, we owned a very nice farm in Missouri, and as far as I could see were very comfortably situated. On returning from the county seat one Saturday, my father electrified us with the intelligence that he thought seriously of going West. Had a bombshell exploded in our midst it could scarcely have created greater consternation; on inquiring what had induced such a sudden determination on his part, he was fain to confess that he had met a gentleman in town who had but just arrived from the new El Dorado, and who spoke so enthusiastically of this marvelous country, that he led my father's too diligent ear captive, and his mind was saturated with the desire to see, without further delay, this wonderful land. The rest of the family stoutly objected to such a hasty resolve, and we finally effected a compromise, and it was agreed that the stranger should be invited to spend a portion of his time at our house, and during his visit we could consult, argue, and finally conclude what action should be taken in the matter. I had serious misgivings that our fair home was doomed; knowing too well my father's character, and that any objections we might make to the proposed departure would only strengthen his determination to have his own way. Such was his intense love for the unknown, that any plausible fellow could induce him to see the advantages of owning a thousand acres of wild land to his own well-tilled homestead. The following week Mr. Terhune made his advent among us. He was a fair type of the adventurer, and seemed a man who could be equal to any emergency circumstances might demand; of robust form, a complexion bronzed by exposure, and with an address so pleasing when he wished to exert himself, that he soon became a favorite, especially with the female portion of the family. He adapted himself to our mode of life with wonderful ease, and apparently was making preparations for a visit that should outlast our expectations. The beauties and advantages of a home in his adopted State was his constant theme; and so pleasantly did he talk, illustrating his arguments with anecdotes so amusing and apposite, that I felt myself being perceptibly influenced by his views, and used to dream of climbing trees of prodigious height, and gathering nuggets from their branches as if they were apples. When lending an assisting hand at our farm labors, he would descant on the fertility of the soil on the Pacific Slope, saying that crops grew almost spontaneously, and related what fortunes could be made raising sheep. By such means were we seduced into the conviction that a change of base was not only advantageous, but necessary, and it was finally decided to go. Mr. Terhune said he could negotiate an exchange, by which we could dispose of our farm for California real estate, whereby we would be the gainers; and one Monday morning in April, he left us for St. Louis, to complete the trade and purchase. Our intentions becoming known in the vicinity, our neighbors seemed to take an especial interest in our movements, and many were the staid old farmers who called to offer us their advice and wishes for our future prosperity. Being notified that all was in readiness, and that we could start as soon as it suited our convenience, we lost no time in packing what few articles we required, and bidding our friends adieu, we commenced our journey. Arriving in St. Louis, we were greeted by Mr. Terhune who escorted us to the Planters' Hotel, where we were temporarily to reside until the steamboat on which we were to embark was ready to leave. The few days spent in the metropolis of the West, was thoroughly enjoyed by our little party, as under the guidance of our friend we visited all the places of interest in the neighborhood. On Saturday, April 30th, we embarked on the steamboat _Prairie Flower_, bound for Independence, where we were to make the necessary purchases for our outfit in crossing the plains, and were also to join a train that was being formed, and of which we were to become part and parcel. After an uneventful journey we reached Independence, only to find that the train we expected to join had left two days previously; here was a dilemma, and we were at a loss what to do. I was in favor of waiting until another train could be formed, but father objected, stating as his reasons, that it would consume both time and money; neither of which did we possess in vast quantities. Meantime we had become the centre of attraction to quite a motley crowd, who stood looking on, and seemed to take a lively interest in us, criticising our appearance and indulging in various remarks which were not always of a complimentary Character. Noticing an old weather-beaten frontiersman, who stood some little distance off, and thinking he could perhaps suggest a way out of our difficulty, I made up to him, and after the usual salutations and a proffer of some tobacco, to which he helped himself in rather large quantities, I asked him his opinion, and what he thought we had best do under the circumstances. Drawing his lank form out of the entanglement it seemed to have been in, he delivered himself in somewhat the following manner: "Wal stranger, pears to me, I would jist git rite arter that ere party, quicker'n greased lightning, kase you see, they haint been gone long, and if you drive yer animiles rite smart, you will ketch up in jist no time." This advice struck me as excellent, and returning to our party I communicated it to them. We resolved to adopt it at once, only wondering we had not thought of it before. Having come to this determination, we busied ourselves with the necessary preparations, and on the third day after the departure of the train, we bade adieu to the few acquaintances made during our brief sojourn at Independence, and struck out upon the almost trackless prairie. Our equipment was that in general use among prairie travelers, and consisted of a "Concord" wagon, covered with white canvas, and drawn by six mules, in the management of which rather intractable animals my father was an adept. In the wagon were stored our few household goods and scanty supply of provisions, and in it rode my wife and mother. My brother and myself figured as a mounted guard, and presented a not unpicturesque appearance in our tunics of dressed deerskin, and leggings of the same material; our revolvers in our belts, and rifles slung over our shoulder, or resting on the pommels of our Mexican saddles. Everything seemed propitious; the wagon moved off smoothly, the morning was clear, and the great red disc of the sun just rising in the east had scarcely dispelled the haze that enveloped nature as in a fleecy mantle. We little dreamed, alas, of the dreadful fate soon to overtake us. That fate which was to dissever a loving and united family, causing three of its members to pass through the valley of the shadow of death, and subjecting the survivors to suffering that often made them cry out in the bitterness of their hearts "why was I spared to suffer such torture, when death would have been such a welcome relief!" CHAPTER II. THE CAPTURE. We were now fairly started on our journey, and but for a singular feeling of depression which weighed down my spirits and seemed a presentiment of evil to come, I should have had little doubt of our ability to overtake the train and travel safely with it to our destination. This feeling, however, caused me to become taciturn and apprehensive, so much so, that I was frequently rallied upon the subject by my companions. For many days, however, we followed the trail without special incident; the tracks of wagons giving us an easy guide. We found grass, wood and water in abundance, and traveling light and unimpeded by others, felt confident that we were gaining upon the train and would undoubtedly overtake them shortly. We crossed several rivers and streams, most of them fordable, but one or two we found wide and deep and were compelled to float our wagon across. We saw some game, antelopes and deer, and shot a few, forming a welcome addition to our larder; but they were generally shy and kept out of reach, without wandering too far from the track. For two days we had been journeying through an entirely different country from that which we had passed. It was almost a barren desert, treeless, without game, and, but little water; on its hard surface the wagon wheels made scarcely an imprint, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we could take up the trail. The evening of the second day found us still on the road, as we could find no water, without which we could not camp. Before sunset we had noticed a low fringe along the horizon which looked like timber, and knowing there must be water there, determined to push on and reach it, if possible, before camping for the night. After a weary march we reached the edge of the desert plain, and found a small stream, clear but shallow; its banks lined with tall cottonwood trees. Here we rested, and our tired animals fully appreciated the cool water and the luxuriant "gramma" grass which abounded. While standing watch, a precaution we never neglected, I fancied I heard a distant rifle shot, and roused my father and brother, fearing Indians might be near at hand, for we were now in very dangerous country and father declared that he had seen "Injun sign" the day previous, but a scout through the cottonwood grove revealed nothing, and as the sound was very faint and was not repeated, we concluded it was only fancy; father muttering as he crawled under his blanket that I was getting too almighty scarey for a backwoodsman. This incident however aroused those apprehensive feelings that had before troubled me, but which had been quieted for a time by the uneventful nature of our journey. We were not again disturbed that night, but at sunrise we made a discovery that filled us with dismay--_We had lost the trail!_ This we were convinced was the result of our night journey, and father was confident that we could recover it; but, when after several hours spent in a fruitless endeavor to find where it crossed the stream, I urged that we should take our own trail back to the point at which it diverged from that of the train, he positively refused to do so; declaring that he wasn't a greenhorn to get scared at so small a matter, and that he should push on in a southwesterly direction, and take his chance of intersecting the trail, he asserting that we must have strayed to northward of it. My brother and myself protested against so rash an undertaking, but in vain; and we finally started on what was destined to be our last day's journey together. Our route now lay across a verdant and apparently boundless prairie. Far as the eye could reach it was a level plain, without landmarks, trackless as the sea, covered with a living carpet of emerald green. At another time I could have spent hours in gazing upon its vast expanse, and fancying its changed appearance when its surface should be furrowed by the plow and its fruitful soil reward the farmer's labor; but the presentiment of evil which I found it impossible to shake off, oppressed my spirits rendering me anxious and fearful. A few moments took us out of sight of the cottonwood grove, and but for the aid of father's pocket compass we could have had little idea of our direction, but by its assistance we traveled steadily in a southwesterly coarse, father being confident that we had strayed north of the trail and that by taking this course we must sooner or later regain it. Until nearly noon we kept steadily on, seeing nothing to indicate that we were near the trail. Just before noon we halted to rest and feed the animals and prepare a meal for ourselves. The morning had been sultry and we were all sufficiently fatigued to find a brief rest very acceptable. Refreshed by half an hour's rest, we were preparing to start, when my brother who had moved off in advance, suddenly exclaimed, "father's right after all, there are mounted men ahead, it must be the train!" Animated by the hope that our solitary wanderings were nearly over and our perils past, we pushed ahead, urging our animals forward with all possible speed. The distant horsemen were moving parallel to our route, and apparently had not perceived us. We shouted and fired our rifles, a commotion was visible among them, they halted, wheeled, and a number suddenly galloped towards us with the speed of the wind. My brother, who had ridden far ahead of us swinging his cap and hallooing loudly, suddenly pulled up his horse and with a cry of terror rode back to us with his utmost speed. We were not long at a loss to understand the meaning of this proceeding; as he neared us his warning shout of Indians! Indians! was borne to us upon the breeze. But it needed not that to apprise us of our peril; ere he reached us the advancing horsemen had approached so near that we could plainly, see instead of the friends we sought, a horde of hideous savages, naked to the waist, besmeared with war paint in many strange devices, their tall lances waving, their ornaments glittering in the sun--on, on they came, giving vent to the most blood-curdling yells it had ever been my fortune to hear. In this desperate strait my father alone preserved his coolness; the warlike spirit of the old frontiersman was roused in an instant. With lightning-like rapidity he had unhitched his team and so disposed them with our horses and the wagon as to form a sort of square, the horses and mules were tied together and to the wagon, thus avoiding the danger of their being stampeded. Inside this square we placed ourselves, and levelling our rifles across the backs of our living bulwark awaited the attack. My poor mother and wife, terrified almost to the verge of insensibility, we compelled to lie down in the bottom of the wagon, and so arranged its cargo as to protect them from any stray shot which might strike it. At first it seemed that the savages intended to ride us down by sheer force of numbers, which they might easily have done; but our determined aspect and the three shining tubes aimed at them, each ready to send forth its leaden messenger of death, evidently changed their determination; for before getting within range, their headlong gallop became a moderate lope, then a walk, and they finally halted altogether. A short council followed, during which we had an excellent opportunity to observe our foes, and concert our plans for defence. Father cautioned us to hold our fire until absolutely certain of our mark, and that, if possible, but one must fire at a time, as it was of the utmost importance to be prepared for a sudden dash. We examined the loading of our rifles and pistols, put on fresh caps, and with wildly beating hearts and nerves strained to their utmost tension, awaited the onslaught. Our enemies now seemed to have arrived at some determination, for their consultation was at an end--an old Indian who, from his dignified bearing and authoritative manner appeared to be their chief, made a sign with his hand, and spoke a few words in a loud tone. The incessant jabbering which they had kept up from the moment they halted instantly ceased, and one after another a number of young warriors, perhaps twenty, rode out in single file upon the prairie. After gaining a distance of about one hundred yards from the main body they increased the intervals separating them to some fifty paces, and then inclining the course so as to form a sort of half circle, they increased their speed and came on with the evident intention of circling round us. These manoeuvres had not escaped our notice, but neither my brother nor myself understood their import. That my father did so, however, was evident. "Surround!" he muttered, the instant the movement began. "I thought they'd try it, blame their ugly picters." "Now boys," he continued, "keep cool and keep your eyes skinned, don't throw away a shot, and don't fire 'till I give the word." He then explained the method of this peculiar stratagem of Indian warfare. The twenty picked men were about to ride around us in a circle, at top speed, delivering flights of arrows as they passed, their object being to disconcert us and draw our fire; our guns once empty, the main body whom we observed held themselves in readiness, would ride in, and by a sudden dash, end the skirmish by our death or captivity. Father's warning was delivered in far less time than it has taken to write this--and it was barely concluded before the attacking party were circling round us, uttering their vengeful war cries, and gradually drawing nearer and nearer. Standing back to back, we watched their every movement, my brother and myself expecting every moment to have an opportunity to tumble one or more of the bold riders from their horses; but a few seconds showed us the futility of this. As they came within range, each Indian _disappeared behind the body of his horse_. A hand grasping the withers of the horse, and a foot just showing above his back, were all that could be seen--perhaps a painted face would be seen for an instant under the horse's neck, but instantly disappearing--while the hiss of an arrow would tell that the rider had sped the shaft to its mark; the horse all the while going at full gallop. At no moment could any one of us have fired with any chance of hitting an Indian. The horses we could have shot without difficulty, but this was just what our enemies wanted. Could they but induce us to waste our fire upon the horses, we would soon be at their mercy. So, with an effort, we restrained our inclination to risk a shot, and watched their every movement with the cat-like vigilance of men who knew that their lives were trembling in the balance. Round and round went the circle of the hunt, flight after flight of arrows whistled past us, or spent their force against the wagon, still we were unharmed; although our escapes were narrow and incessant. The mules and horses were struck repeatedly, but so tightly were they bound together with leathern thongs that not even death could separate them. As our tormentors came around for the fifth time, one of the horses stumbled and fell and rolled completely over, pitching his rider headlong upon the prairie. Before he could regain his horse, father's rifle cracked and the unlucky equestrian rolled prone upon the ground with a bullet in his brain. [Illustration: The Capture.] "That's one less," muttered father, grimly. "I thought I'd fetch ye, ye painted varmint." "Don't fire for your lives, boys," he continued, "'till I'm loaded." They were the last words he ever uttered. Simultaneously with their utterance came the hiss of an Indian arrow, and with a deep groan he sank to the ground. Terror stricken, and with anguished hearts we raised him in our arms. Alas, the deadly aim had been too true; the shaft, entering his right eye had penetrated the brain, and we saw at a glance that our dear father was no more. Racked by contending emotions, we had almost forgotten our imminent peril; as we turned to confront the foe, we saw that our hesitation had been fatal; the red warriors were upon us like a living tide, and for a few seconds a wild melee followed; we battled hand to hand with the desperation of fiends; it was but for an instant; my brave brother fell covered with wounds, and his death shriek was still ringing in my ears, when I received a blow upon the head which stretched me senseless upon the ground. I seemed to experience the sensation of falling from a vast height, then came a sudden shock and all was blank. CHAPTER III. A STRANGE ADVENTURE. When consciousness returned, I found myself lying on the ground, tied hand and foot with thongs of buffalo hide; I felt very sore and intensely thirsty. I had not quite yet collected my senses, and when my mind reverted to the scenes I had but just passed through, it was with a sickening sense of their horror that made me yearn for insensibility again. If I could only know what had been done with my wife; had she met the same fate as my father and brother, or was she spared--spared, and for what--to be subjected to a captivity even worse than death, perhaps? It would have been a great relief to have moved even so much as a finger, but being bound so tightly it was impossible to stir, and the thongs had in a great measure impeded the circulation, so that as I lay on my back, gazing pathetically at my feet, it seemed as if they were the appendages of another person, and that my tortures had begun by my being deprived of all that part of my body below my knees. By dint of much turning, I managed to get myself partly on my side, which proved a great relief, besides affording an opportunity to look around me and gain an idea of the state of affairs. Day was just breaking, and my captors were, with the exception of the sentinel, asleep. We were on the prairie, and I at once concluded that we must have left the scene of the fight and capture; a small fire had been built, and the warrior who mounted guard was sitting with his legs crossed beneath him, seemingly gazing into the smouldering embers; there was just enough light to discern his features, and I shuddered at their repulsiveness; the hideous war paint was streaked most fantastically across his cheeks and forehead and over his body, for, with the exception of a pair of abbreviated leggings he was quite nude. His scalp-lock was adorned with a profusion of eagles' feathers, and his wrists and arms were set off with bracelets. Dangling from his girdle was an object that thrilled me with anguish, as the long white hair covered here and there with dark red splashes, I knew at once to be the scalp of my dear, murdered mother. I had read of the noble red man, and like most romantic people, conceived a very touching picture of his manly beauty and majestic air. One needs but to be among them to have any such illusion dispelled. In my long residence with the tribe, I found some admirable traits, of which I will speak anon, but they had so many counterbalancing vices, that I do not think their best friends can say anything in their praise. This book is a true narrative of my capture and sufferings, and if my readers do not find running through these pages, that sentimental gush about the noble red man, that we have been taught to believe was as much their attribute as they considered scalping their prerogative, it is because I have been disabused of these ideas, by the stern reality of an existence among them. I trust this digression will be excused, but when I stroke my chin, and feel the traces of their delicate attentions, my feelings are apt to get the better of my desire to entertain. Soon, however, the camp was stirring, and my friend at the fire roused himself and advanced toward me; whipping out a knife from its sheath, he cut the thongs by which I was bound, and grasping my shoulder jerked me to an upright position and motioned me to follow him. I had not proceeded far, when, emerging from the coppice on the opposite side of the bivouac, I beheld my wife advancing towards me in the custody of an Indian. Reader, if you can imagine meeting the being you loved best, after having supposed her cruelly butchered, you may have a faint conception of my feelings. With a little cry of joy she rushed into my outstretched arms; sobbing like an infant. This demonstration of affection seemed not to the taste of our guards; and with an ugh, we were admonished to follow them, and we were soon in the midst of a group who were dispatching their breakfast. Food was offered us, of which I ate voraciously, after my long fast; not so my wife, however, who could not as yet accustom her palate to the dried buffalo meat. Meantime preparations had been making to resume our journey. The horses were brought up, and in a shorter time than it takes to relate it we were under way, the party moving off in single file. I was allowed to ride my own horse, my wife following behind me on one of the mules. We were, as near as I could judge, about the centre of the party. In this fashion we proceeded during the forenoon. The prairie at this point was a succession of gentle undulations, covered with a rich velvety verdure; and, had not my present circumstances been of such a depressing character, the scene would have been inspiriting. Away to the far west, as far as the eye could see, this vast billowy plain extended, broken here and there by a grove of the stately cottonwood tree, whose long trunks, and silvery foliage was a pleasing contrast to the vivid green of the prairie. At intervals I had discerned dark objects on the horizon, but, being unaccustomed to note signs with that care and attention that is characteristic of those whose life is spent on the plains, I had paid no particular attention to them. Soon, however, I did observe a commotion at the head of the column, and after a brief halt and consultation among the chiefs, our speed was accelerated, and we struck into a canter. This "lope" as it is called, seems to be a gait peculiarly adapted to the mustang, as they will break into, and keep it up the entire day; evincing no more distress than our ordinary horse does in trotting leisurely. That something important was about to transpire, I felt certain, from the energetic way in which our captors spoke and gesticulated; I was not long left in doubt, as on reaching a slight eminence, a sight disclosed itself that I shall never forget; and my blood thrills even now with the remembrance of my first buffalo hunt. It may seem odd to talk of my first buffalo hunt, as the question would naturally be asked, how could a prisoner participate in a hunt; the sequel will explain. The chiefs had halted, and the rear coming up, we were soon clustered in a group on this rising ground. Directly in front of us, at the distance of about three miles, I should judge, was an immense herd of buffaloes. The plain was positively black, so numerous were they. All unconscious of their foes, they were quietly grazing, while here and there a watchful old bull seemed to have stationed himself as an outpost, being in readiness, if needs were, to instantly communicate the signal of danger to the herd. It was a glorious sight; even the horses shared in the excitement, and evinced as great a desire to participate in the hunt as did their masters. Presently a warrior rode out from the main body a few paces and tossed the feather. This is done to note the direction of the wind, for such is the keenness of scent possessed by these animals, that they will take the alarm and become aware of the approach of an enemy at great distances. If the drove had discovered us at this distance, our visions of fresh hump steak for supper would have resolved themselves into the dried meat of the morning. The wind being favorable, we commenced the advance; slowly at first, but gradually increasing our speed, until the horses were straining every muscle in their headlong race. Lances were slung, and bows and arrows got in readiness with an ease and expertness that was truly wonderful, considering our rapid riding. The bridles were dropped on the necks of the mustangs, the riders using their knees both as a steering apparatus and a means of holding on. As near as I could understand, our guard was to keep as close to the hunters as was consistent with our safety, without joining in the fun. Everything went on smoothly, and we had approached to within a half mile of the herd before they noticed us. Soon, however, the old bulls scented the party, and with a snort and plunge they tore headlong towards the head of the drove, communicating the alarm as they ran. With a yell the savages dashed on, horse and rider worked up to the highest pitch of excitement; arrows began to fly, and here and there a cow would fall, or an enraged bull goaded to fury by a wound rush madly at his enemy, evidently bent on revenge of a most sanguinary character. Our little party kept on the flank of the advancing drove, and our escort seemed to find it very irksome doing duty as guards, as with oft-repeated ughs! plainly expressive of disgust, they deprecated the luck that had singled _them_ out to perform such womanly duty. Suddenly, and with kaleidoscopic rapidity, the aspect of affairs was changed; for some unknown reason and without apparent cause, the buffaloes made a flank movement, and in a twinkling were dashing right toward us; the mustangs, warned by experience, turned and ran as if their lives were at stake, as they certainly were; and the mule on which my wife was mounted, with an imitation that did her great credit, followed their example. My horse, being unused to such scenes, seemed to lose his senses, and stood looking at the advancing animals in the most abject terror. Realizing at a glance my position, and feeling that instant action was demanded, I turned his head, and by word and heel urged him to run. On came these black brutes, sweeping over the ground like an animated hurricane. My poor horse was laboring fearfully, and I knew that our destruction was a matter of a few moments time only. Suddenly my horse stumbled and flung me headlong to the ground, then all was bewilderment. I have an indistinct notion of lying on the prairie, and then like a great black wave, this surging mass of buffaloes seem to hover over me; I was conscious of a sharp and severe pain in my side, and then of being suddenly lifted into space. When sufficiently collected to note my position, I found myself on the back of a huge buffalo bull, who, unaccustomed to this strange weight, was making frantic endeavors to clear himself of the herd, which were wedged together with as much compactness as if they were one animal. If I had chosen to fall to the ground, it would have been impossible to do so; but as such a feat would have been almost instant death, my readers will easily understand I had no intention of trying the experiment. I turned my attention exclusively to seating myself firmly on my novel steed, and grasping my hands into the shaggy hair which covered his shoulders, braced myself for the most thrilling ride I had ever experienced. After a few violent plunges the bull cleared the herd, and tore at tremendous speed; on, on until objects lost their character, and all seemed to be an indistinct haze. The buffalo had by this time carried me some distance from the main body, and was beginning to show signs of fatigue. If I was going to leave him, this was my opportunity; and quietly loosening my hold, I slipped off his rump on to the ground, and betook myself in an opposite direction as fast as I could go, and it was with feelings of relief and thankfulness that I had escaped so luckily from my first and only buffalo ride. CHAPTER IV. AGAIN A PRISONER. Footsore and weary I wandered over the prairie, straining my eyes in every direction in the vain hope of beholding the white-topped wagons of the train. My late involuntary journey had borne me far to the southward; and, although my rapid progress had given me but little opportunity for observation, still I was convinced that the direction in which I had traveled was likely to bring me in the track of the prairie caravans. I was not without apprehension of again falling in with my late captors, and hardly knew whether I dreaded or desired it; fully realizing that I had nothing to look forward to in that event but torture and death. Still I felt that to see once again the sweet face of my beloved I would risk every peril, even though I was helpless to aid her, and to witness her sufferings would only add to the poignant anguish that tortured me. Racked by these thoughts, and with a despairing heart, I walked steadily on. The day was now far spent, and I was beginning to experience the pangs of hunger, for I had eaten nothing since early morning; but I suffered far more from thirst, and for hours searched eagerly for water; scanning the horizon in every direction for a sight of the fringe-like foliage, of the cottonwood trees. Stiff and sore from my confinement of the night previous, and suffering intensely from the wound on my head, which had been entirely neglected, my progress grew slower, and when night settled over the prairie my search was still unsuccessful; and without food, water, or shelter, I sank exhausted to the earth. After a time sleep gave me a welcome oblivion; but my rest was disturbed by troubled dreams, and the dawn found me but little refreshed. It was barely daylight when I again started. I felt weak and dizzy; and the conviction, forced itself upon me that I must find food and water before many hours, or perish--my life depended on my finding water--and notwithstanding my intense suffering, it was absolutely necessary to push forward in my search. My thoughts were momentarily diverted by a number of graceful animals that were advancing towards me; when within about two hundred yards, they became affrighted and wheeling around scampered away, running toward a clump of trees not far distant; entering this grove, they disappeared from sight. I had heard many tales about this graceful little animal, the antelope; and among other things remembered, that to the weary and thirsty hunter traversing these boundless plains, their presence was a sure indication that water was not far distant; if these tales were true, why then there was every probability that I might slake my burning thirst, which now had become agonizing torture, from some rivulet within the recesses of that wood; animated by this thought I limped on with renewed energy. What had seemed so near to my vision was in reality quite distant, as I found in my endeavor to reach it; for the sun had begun to decline behind the horizon when I reached the belt of timber. Entering this leafy solitude, I had not advanced many steps when my ears were gladdened by the sound of running water. With an exclamation of joy I ran to the banks of the arroyo (as by this name these little streams are called), and, falling on my knees, was drinking with that intense eagerness that is known only by those who, like myself, have felt the delirium of thirst. I was about to rise refreshed, when my gaze was riveted by a reflected image on the bosom of the creek that curdled the blood in my veins, and paralyzed me with terror; it was the image of a hideous Indian, bending over me with uplifted hand grasping a long, gleaming knife. I jumped up with a terrified scream, only to find myself in the rough grasp of a brawny savage, and completely at his mercy. With a malicious leer he motioned me to accompany him. Feeling sick at heart, and drooping under the weight of my new misfortune, I was led through the tangled undergrowth, and after a walk of about fifteen minutes, we emerged into a small clearing, where I found myself in the midst of a large party of Indians. My advent created no little excitement, and I was soon the centre of a circle of curious savages, who were more persistent than pleasing in their attentions. I saw at once that I had again fallen into the hands of the same party by whom I was first captured; for among those who clustered around me, I recognized the old chief who had directed the attack upon us. He approached me in a menacing manner, and uttered some words in the Indian tongue. From his gestures I could guess at his meaning, and understood that he was threatening me for my supposed attempt to escape. He then gave some order, and I was instantly seized and conducted to the foot of a large tree; my guards then bound me with a lariat and left me to my own reflections. My first thought was of my wife; and as I had managed to place myself in a sitting posture against the tree, I was enabled to observe all that was passing, and to scan closely the groups around the camp fires. A few moments satisfied me that if in the camp, she was not visible; and left me a prey to many horrid imaginings. The savages were mostly seated around the fires, roasting meat over the embers and eating it greedily, an occupation of which they never seemed to tire; some were renewing the paint upon their bodies, and the grotesque striping and mottling showed in fantastic hues in the red and glaring light; some were smoking curious looking pipes of carved stones; all were chattering, laughing and gesticulating like so many children. For a brief period I contemplated this wild scene with interest; but it soon grew monotonous, and my mind painfully reverted to my perilous position. In satisfying the greater desire for water, I had for a time forgotten my craving for food, but it now returned upon me with redoubled force. The Indians had evidently forgotten that even prisoners must eat, and I concluded that it was best to call their attention to my necessities; by a shout I attracted the attention of one of the warriors who was passing near me, and when he approached, I succeeded by gestures in making him understand my wants. Uttering a guttural ugh! and slapping his stomach he walked away, but returned in a few moments with a huge chunk of half cooked buffalo meat which he threw down before me, and unbinding my hands motioned me to eat. I did not need a second invitation, but fell to at once, and devoured it with such voracity, that my Indian friend seemed both astonished and amused. When I had finished he brought me water in a gourd, and again securing my hands, bound me fast to the tree and left me once more to myself. Fatigued by the hardships of the last two days, I soon fell asleep, and knew no more until I was awakened by a rough hand grasping my shoulder, and on opening my eyes saw that it was daybreak, and the band were preparing to move. Ten minutes later I found myself mounted on a wiry looking mustang, securely tied, and my horse led at the end of a lariat by the same Indian who had brought me food the evening previous. Looking about me, my eyes were soon gladdened by the sight of my wife, mounted behind an Indian warrior; she saw me at the same instant, and with a cry of joy strove to break her bonds and rush to my embrace; it was a vain effort, and only resulted in her receiving a blow from her savage custodian, which cowed her into silence. My feelings at this juncture can be better imagined than described; but I could do nothing but endure as best I might, and hope that a day of reckoning would yet come, in which I should bitterly avenge all the wrongs I had experienced at the hands of the brutal savage, called in books, the "noble red man." For the present, there was nothing but submission and hope. I now saw to my surprise that we were not alone in our misfortune, many other captives, principally women and children, were with the party. From their costume I saw that they must be Mexicans, and at once concluded that the Indians had been on one of their periodical raids upon the Mexican frontier, and were on their return when they had accidentally fallen in with our little party. Evidently but a part of the band had taken part in our capture, for the attacking party were less than one hundred in number, while I now counted over four hundred warriors. The chances of escape seemed more unlikely than ever; and my heart sank as I observed their formidable array. I must pass briefly over the incidents of our journey for several days following. We passed through a widely diversified country, and in spite of my mental and physical sufferings, I was greatly interested in its strange scenery. We passed over wide stretches of prairie, dotted here and there by mottes of timber, rising like islands from the sea-like plain; we threaded tortuous defiles of the mountains; and crawled, rather than rode, through terrific _cañons_, whose perpendicular walls of many colored rock, rising to the height of thousands of feet, shrouded the narrow pass in majestic gloom. At times we suffered greatly for food and water; making one stretch of sixty miles across the desert, and reaching its border in a state or utter exhaustion. On the seventh day after my recapture we climbed a low mountain range, and on reaching the crest saw before us a deep valley, walled in on every side by towering cliffs of milk-white-quartz; its surface was level, or nearly so; through its centre a crystal line indicated the presence of a small stream. A dense forest of pine fringed it on three sides; vast herds of horses and cattle roamed over the plain, and cropped its luxuriant herbage. The valley was elliptical in form, and measured perhaps twelve miles in length by four or five in width; at its upper extremity a group of strange looking structures were visible, of many forms and sizes; one towering far above the rest had the appearance of a huge pyramid. From the joyful exclamations of the Indians I felt confident that our journey was nearly at an end. The tired mustangs were urged forward, and half an hour later we entered a defile, passed round the face of the cliff on a narrow ledge of rock, where two could not ride abreast, and emerged upon a platform from whence an easy descent led to the plain below. On reaching its grassy surface, the Indians set forward at full speed, uttering loud yells of delight and exultation; and we could perceive many forms hastening down the valley to meet us. The intervening space was quickly passed, and we soon stood among the strange barbaric structures which form the chief town of the Camanches. The captives were halted before the pyramidal building, which, from its great size and peculiar appearance, I supposed to be the council house, or the dwelling of the chief. I afterwards learned that it was the temple, where they worship and sacrifice to the Sun-God; for, like all the southern Indians, descendants of the ancient Aztecs, the Camanches worship the sun and fire. But little time however, was given me for observation or reflection. I was rudely jerked from my horse, and with the other male captives led into one of the smaller lodges. Descending a rude ladder, we were placed in an underground apartment, and after being supplied with a scanty allowance of food, were again bound and left to silence and darkness. Again separated from my wife, and knowing but too well what treatment she would be likely to receive at the hands of the red demons, flushed with victory and spoil, I abandoned myself to the most gloomy reflections, which continued for many hours, until tardy sleep relieved me for a time from my self-imposed torture. CHAPTER V. THE INDIAN TOWN. How long I should have lain in this semi-comatose state I know not, had I not been aroused by the Indian who seemed to have been appointed my particular guard. Bringing me a portion of _tasajo_ and an _olla_ of water, he placed them on the ground beside me, and removing the thongs from my wrists left me to dispatch my unpalatable food as best I might; at noon, and in the evening, he repeated the performance. With the exception of this interruption I was left to my thoughts. My reflections were of the bitterest and most gloomy nature. From my previous knowledge of the habits and characteristics of my captors I was assured that my fate was sealed; and my death only a matter of time. These savages only captured male prisoners the better to enjoy their destruction. What astonished me most was that they had not put me to the torture on their arrival at the village. The fate of my poor wife was the profoundest mystery to me, as I had not seen or heard of her since our parting on entering the Indian town. While I was being conducted to my prison she was hurried off to the other end of the village. The darkening gloom of my chamber informed me of the approach of night; and recognizing how important it was for me to secure all the repose possible, I prepared to retire. The preparations were of the simplest character; my feet being bound it was only necessary to stretch my form along the ground and I was in bed. I courted sleep with persistent endeavor; but my mind was a prey to such agonizing reflections that the drowsy god held himself aloof. I counted backwards, rolled my eyes from side to side in their sockets, and resorted to all the devices known to me, but with indifferent success. All through the night the howling of the village dogs, the wild note of the swan, and the dismal whoops of the gruya, could be heard; and it is very difficult even under circumstances more favorable than those in which I was then placed to sleep with these noises ringing in one's ears. Later, when a long residence with the tribe had made me familiar with these sounds, and their causes, I was not unfrequently startled by them. My imagination was constantly dwelling on my approaching fate; and I am sure I suffered enough mental agony to suffice for a score of physical deaths. The next morning my keeper made his entry, this time without any food for me, and I was at once struck by his altered looks; he was oiled, and streaked with paint, from the crown of his head to his waist; his head dress was composed of eagles' plumes stained red, and his limbs were encased in buckskin leggings, the seams of which were fringed with long locks of hair, which attested to his prowess, as they were composed of scalp-locks taken from the heads of his enemies slain in battle; the feet were encased in moccasins, embroidered with beads and the quills of the porcupine dyed in various colors; from his neck was suspended a collar, made of the tusks of the javali; his tomahawk hung gracefully from his waist, and a fine robe of jaguar-skins draped his back. Such a costume I felt sure was only worn on state occasions; and his presence filled me with apprehensions. I was not long held in suspense, for stooping over me he quickly cut my fastenings, and motioning me to rise I was presently conducted up the ladder and out into the village street. Emerging from the darkness into the bright sunlight, I was at first unable to distinguish objects, but as soon as my eyes became accustomed to the glare, I was struck with astonishment at the scene of bustle and activity that met my gaze. Indian women, children, dogs and braves, were hurrying to and fro, seemingly intent on business of a most pressing and important character. My appearance was the signal for a succession of howls and yah! yahs! from the assembled crowd. The women clustered around me and gave expression to their hate in kicks, pinches and jeers; even the dogs snapped at my heels. After a walk of a few minutes, we cleared the skirts of the village, and shaping our course towards the river that ran through the centre of the valley, I was soon among a crowd of other captives. They were composed of Mexicans, chiefly, and all bore evidence of the struggle they had passed through, before yielding up their liberty; their clothes were torn, disclosing here and there ugly gashes, from which the blood had not yet ceased to ooze. One man among them especially attracted my attention. He was dressed in the costume of the mountain trapper, and his fur cap, fitting closely to his head, was a fit accompaniment to his tunic and leggings of dressed deerskin; his face had a peculiar expression which I could not account for, until I discovered that he had only one eye. At this time an Indian advanced toward us, bearing in his arms a quantity of small stakes; I was at loss to understand what was to transpire, when I heard my one-eyed companion mutter under his breath, "drat 'em, they be a goin' to stake us." Sure enough this was their intention; seizing us one by one, they stretched us on the turf in three files, the heads of one file resting between the feet of the row above him; driving the stakes firmly into the ground, they fastened thongs of raw hide to our wrists and ankles, and passing them around the pins, drew our feet and arms out to their utmost tension, making our joints fairly crack. Pinioned in this way, our heads were the only moveable parts of our bodies, and our upturned faces had the full benefit of the sun's rays, being subjected at the same time to attacks of swarms of insects. This torture was so very painful that many fainted, but the women soon brought the victims to consciousness by dashing an olla of water in their faces, and with yells of delight witnessed the renewal of the poor fellows' agonies. I was so completely disguised in dirt, that the flies seemed to pass me by in despair; and being thus in a measure relieved, I turned my attention to my companion on my right, the trapper. He seemed to be taking things very quietly, and evinced great patience and fortitude under his trials. The squaws were particularly attentive to him; and at the time I turned my head in his direction, two hags were amusing themselves sticking sharp pointed sticks into his body; he bore it manfully, but I saw tears of agony streaming from under his eyelids. Presently the air was filled with yells and whoops; our tormentors rushed off pell-mell, the guards only remaining. I asked what was the meaning of this new outbreak; to which the trapper replied that he supposed it was caused by the arrival of a new lot of those "gosh darned red niggers." Deeming this a good opportunity, I questioned him as to the intentions of our captors; to which he replied that we would be kept staked out in this barbarous way until the games and feasting, with which they always celebrated successful forays, had been completed; and then we would be put to torture and death. "How will they kill us?" I asked. "O, darn 'em, the varmints have as many ways as I have fingers and toes, to knock the life out of a chap; they most allus makes us run the gantlet, leastwise the Kimanch does; but ye see, they air such mighty unsartin niggers, they does a'most enything but what yer expect them ter." "Will we have to remain in this position until the Indians are ready to torture us?" I asked. "'Spect so," briefly answered my neighbor. The guard was now nearing us, and we remained silent. The feasting and festivities had now begun. We were unfastened and removed to the centre of the village, where a dance was about to begin. Our feet were still bound, but we could assume a sitting posture; thus situated, I saw for the first time the _mamanchic_. The young girls only take part in this celebration; they go through a number of graceful and intricate evolutions, finishing by forming in a semi-circle around the chief and his queen, who are seated on a terrace of the temple. I was so much more interested in trying to discover my wife among the numerous lookers on, that I paid no special attention to the dance. The performance having come to an end, we were again staked out, and our captors returned to their feasting, slaughtering fresh cattle to satisfy the demands of their appetites. Our wants were not so well supplied. The next morning the games were renewed; this time we were taken out on the prairie to witness the feats of horsemanship, performed by the braves and their visitors. These were very fine, and for the time being I forgot my own position in the interest excited in the daring feats of these children of the plains. They rode their horses at top speed; vaulting on their backs and discharging arrows with as much apparent ease as if they stood still. They went through all the evolutions of Indian warfare, and ended with a mock battle; their yells alone would have dismayed an ordinary adversary. Thirsty and tired, I and my companions were led back to our old position and again securely fastened. Turning to Black, I said that I supposed they would open the festivities to-morrow with our torture and death; to which he replied that he "'spected they would." At least I thought, it will only be another species of torture, and we would be quickly released from it by death. Our guard now brought us some water and burnt meat, of which we were allowed to partake. The thongs are again tightened; our guards move among us to see that all is secure; and the sentinel for the evening watch having been detailed, we are left to silence and our own thoughts--thoughts of our approaching doom, and perhaps of the loved ones far away in some Mexican border town, whose unavailing prayers are being offered up for our safety. Filled with these emotions, some poor fellow would give expression to his pent-up feelings in a long drawn sigh; the only sound that broke upon the stillness of the night. The moon's beams penetrated into the valley; the argent rays shedding a soft and subdued light, as they pierced the mist that was rising from the river. I knew that death was our portion, but little did I dream that on such scenes such awful morn should rise. CHAPTER VI. THE TORTURE. Another morning dawned; again we were brought forth, and from the information gained from the old trapper, I knew that our time for action had come. Lying in a group on the green sward, we watched the movements of our enemies with painful interest. Our hands and feet were bound, but we were not otherwise secured, and were therefore enabled to sit up and look around us; we saw that the Indians were divested of every superfluous article of dress or ornament, that their movements might be light and unimpeded. We saw them enter the woods and return with clubs freshly cut from the trees, an ominous indication of the fate in store for us. To the number of several hundred the savages had gathered upon the plain, and were arranging the preliminaries for their fiendish sport. We watched their preparations with a peculiar interest; at length all seemed in readiness--two rows of Indians stretched along the plain for a distance of about three hundred yards--all were armed with clubs, and stood facing each other; an interval of three or four paces separating the ranks. Between these lines we had to run and receive blows in passing, from all who were quick enough to hit us. We were told that if any of our number achieved the apparently impossible feat of passing the entire line, and could reach the foot of the cliff without being overtaken that our lives would be spared. I asked the old trapper if he believed this. "Not by a durn sight," was his reply; "its all a cussed injun lie, just to make us do our puttiest; they'll roast us all the same, blast 'em." I was satisfied that the promise was of no value, even if they should adhere to it; for the fleetest runner could never pass the lines. Several of the warriors now approached us, and untied one of the Mexicans; he was to run first. Although an athletic and active specimen of his race, he was quickly disposed of; running barely ten paces before he was stretched senseless, and brought back helpless and bleeding, while the air resounded with the wild yells of the savage bystanders. Three of the other captives soon met the same fate, and then it came my turn; I was unbound and led forward and stood awaiting the signal to begin the terrible race. Within a few moments a wild scheme had formed itself in my mind, and although fully realizing its desperate nature, I had determined to make the effort, even if I perished in the attempt. I had noticed that, with the exception of those forming the lines between which I was to run, the Indians all stood _behind_ me; and for a considerable space around me the ground was entirely clear. My plan was to start as if with the intention of entering the lane of savages, but to suddenly diverge to the right or left, as might seem most expedient, and run directly down the valley, with the hope that I might be able to reach the dense and tangled forest which fringed it, and conceal myself in its recesses until I could find some way out of my rock-environed prison. As I look back at it _now_, I can only wonder that I should have had the hardihood to attempt it. Not an Indian among the hundreds around but knew well all the paths and windings of the wooded borders of the valley, even supposing that I were fortunate enough to reach it; but that was improbable. Among so many it was likely there would be several able to outstrip me in speed, fast runner as I deemed myself; and if overtaken, I could expect nothing but more cruel treatment than I had yet experienced. Besides, although I did not know it at the time, the valley had but two entrances, and these were constantly guarded by a watchful picket. But at the time I thought of none of these things--"drowning men will catch at straws," says the old adage--and my hastily formed plan seemed to me to promise success. Having formed my resolution I was necessitated to put it in practice at once. The Indians were already impatient for another victim, and the signal being given I started on my race for life at the top of my speed. At first I ran directly for the living lane, where my enemies waited with poised clubs each eager to strike the first blow, but as I neared it I made a sudden break to the right, and gathering all my energies for one mighty effort, I broke through a group of old men and idlers who were watching the sport. Despite their efforts to intercept me I cleared them in an instant, and ran down the valley with the whole yelling mob at my heels. Some half dozen of my pursuers being swifter of foot forged ahead of their comrades, but they did not seem to gain upon me, and for a time it seemed that I would distance them entirely; but I had overestimated my strength, and to my alarm found myself growing weak, and running heavily and with painful effort. I had now, however, nearly reached the timber, and strained every nerve to gain its welcome shadow; looking back, I saw that one of my pursuers was within two hundred yards of me, and gaining rapidly; straining every nerve, I kept up my headlong pace, but when within fifty paces of the woods and with my enemy but little further behind me, I tripped and fell, and had barely time to spring to my feet before he was upon me; he was entirely unarmed, having thrown away his club during the chase. As he rushed upon me, I met him with a blow from my fist, delivered with all the force of which I was capable. Striking him directly under the chin, it knocked him completely off his feet, and he measured his length upon the grass. I turned with a spring, and was about to plunge into the thicket, when the dense undergrowth parted directly before me, and I stood face to face with an Indian of gigantic size and most singular appearance. For a moment I was completely paralyzed; not so my new opponent. Realizing the situation at a glance, he sprang upon me, and bore me to the ground with scarcely an effort. Emerging from the lethargy which had enthralled me for a moment, I struggled frantically to free myself, but in vain. Several others had now come up, and my fallen antagonist, who had been stunned for a moment, recovered himself, with his temper not at all improved by the rough handling he had received, and snatching a knife from the belt of one of the new comers, aimed a blow at me which would have ended my life on the instant, and prevented this narrative from being written. My captor seized his arm, and rebuked him so sternly, that he slunk away abashed. I was then allowed to rise to my feet, and my hands being bound, the huge Indian, who seemed to be in authority, and of whom the others evidently stood in awe consigned me to the custody of two warriors, and dismissing the rest with a wave of his hand, again disappeared in the thicket. Led between my two guards, I was soon taken back to the village, followed by an excited crowd of Indians, who showed a disposition to handle me pretty roughly, but their unwelcome attentions were prevented by my conductors who pushed rapidly through the crowd, and soon reached the lodge in which I had previously been confined. I was soon reinstalled in my gloomy prison, and after tying me in the usual manner, my attendants left me to solitude and misery. Bitterly disappointed by the failure of my daring scheme at the very moment when it seemed to promise success, my thoughts were the reverse of pleasant; and when my mind reverted to the fate of my wife, I suffered such mental agony, as I pray that you, kind reader, may never know. Another night passed, and remembering the words of the old trapper, I awoke filled with the conviction that it was to be my last day on earth. The usual scanty meal was supplied to me, and about an hour later I was again brought forth upon the plain. I was soon among my companions in misfortune, and like them securely tied to stakes; but allowed to sit upright, as if the red demons wished us to fully observe the preparations now going forward. [Illustration: The Torture.] Upon the level plain facing the temple, and at a short distance from it, scores of brawny savages were busily engaged planting firmly in the ground a row of massive posts; they were arranged in a semi-circle, and were about twenty in number. We saw many of the Indians go to the woods, tomahawk in hand; we heard the sounds of chopping, and saw them return with bundles of faggots; we saw them fastening curiously fashioned chains of copper to the posts; we observed them painting their faces and bodies in hideous stripes of red and black. It was a scene of fearful import, for we knew but too well that it was the prelude to the torture. What were my companions' reflections I knew not, for they spoke but little. But the set and stern expression that showed itself on every face, told me plainly that they fully realized the terrible drama in which they were to be the principal actors. The appearance of all was ghastly in the extreme. Travel-stained, covered with dust, and with spots of dried blood, some showing fresh and bleeding wounds--souvenirs of yesterday's rough sport--our clothing torn and disarranged, we were indeed objects of pity, calculated to excite commiseration in the breasts of any others than the brutal and sanguinary wretches who were about to put us to a terrible death. As for me, my brain was on fire; and could I but have freed myself from my bonds I would gladly have sought instant death at the hands of the nearest savage, rather than to longer endure the ever present torture of mind, and the not more acute physical suffering which I was soon to undergo. At last their preparations seemed completed, and the audience assembled. Camanches and Apaches alike gathered before the temple, forming a vast semi-circle. The terraces of the temple were occupied by the older men, and upon its summit were seated a group of men in strange costumes, the priests of Quetzalcoatl. Directly in front of the temple a sort of throne had been erected, and upon it sat the aged chief, with his subordinates grouped around him. An old Indian of most repulsive aspect, seemed to direct the proceedings, assisted by about a hundred of the younger warriors. A number approached us, we were released from our fastenings and led forward; our ragged garments were soon stripped from our bodies, and with dextrous rapidity we were bound singly to the stakes already prepared for us. To the hour of my death I can never forget that scene. For years it haunted me, and even now, at times I start from my sleep with a cry of terror as I fancy I see again that mob of yelling, painted demons, the crowded terraces of the temple gay with the bright colors of barbaric costumes, the little band of doomed captives, the fagots, stakes, and all the terrible instruments of death. Back of all, the snow white cliffs, fringed with the dark green foliage of the pines, and Heaven's sunshine falling over all, as if in mockery of the awful tragedy about to be enacted. I wake--and shuddering, thank God that it is only a dream. But it was all too real then. At a signal from their leader the savage executioners heaped the fagots around us, placing them at a sufficient distance to insure the prolongation of our sufferings, so that we might die slowly, and afford them ample time to fully enjoy our agonies. The fires were lighted, and the smoke rolled up in volumes, and threatened to suffocate us and put a speedy end to our torments. In a few seconds however, as the wood got fairly blazing, the smoke lifted, and as we began to writhe in agony, a yell of delight went up from more than three thousand savage throats. The heat grew more intense; my skin was scorched and blistered; dizzy and faint, I felt that the end was near, and longed for death as a speedy escape from such terrible pain. Some of my companions, rendered frantic by their sufferings, gave vent to screams of anguish; others endured in silence. Mustering all my fortitude, as yet not a sound had escaped me; I had closed my eyes, and was fervently praying for the relief which I knew death must soon give me, when I was startled by a wild cry, followed by a yell of astonishment from the savage spectators. Opening my eyes I saw the same gigantic Indian who had recaptured me on the day previous, making his way rapidly through the crowd, who fell back to right and left with precipitate haste. Rushing directly towards me he scattered the blazing brands, released me as quick as thought, and dragged me to the front of the temple, while the air resounded with the yells and exclamations of the Indians. Raising his hand he hushed them into silence, and uttered a few words in the Camanche tongue; their meaning was lost upon me; I could only distinguish the word "Quetzalcoatl," which I knew to be the name of their God. But the revulsion of feeling, and the terrible ordeal through which I had passed, proved too much for my exhausted frame; I swooned and sank insensible to the earth. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. WA-KO-MET-KLA. The Indian to whom I owed my life a second time, and who had braved the wrath of the fiends to snatch me from a death, in comparison to which all others pale into insignificance, the tried friend, whose friendship stood as a shield between me and petty persecution during my captivity, I shall ever hold in grateful remembrance. To him I owe the only hours of contentment that were vouchsafed me during seven years of existence; seven long years of toil and mental anguish. How can I picture to the imagination of my readers the noble qualities of head and heart with which this child of nature was endowed? He was a rough diamond, and it was only by the attrition of constant intercourse that his best qualities displayed themselves. Physically he was perfect; his movements were instinct with that grace and ease that are the attributes of those alone whose lives have been spent in the cultivation of all exercises that look to the development of the muscles. How vividly his image presents itself to my mind as I write; his body, which was nude to the waist, except on occasions, when religious observances demanded peculiar attire, was streaked most fantastically with different colored pigments. The head-dress, that consisted of two war eagles' plumes, one dyed vermilion, the other its natural hue, served only the more to distinguish a head that would have been conspicuous in any company. Suspended from his neck by a massive chain hung a disc of beaten gold, on which was rudely engraved the figure of a tortoise, the symbol of priesthood. Pendants of gold depended from either ear, and his arms were encircled above the elbow with broad gold bands. The limbs were encased in leggings of dressed fawn skin, ornamented along the seams with a fringe of scalp-locks; a guarantee of his personal bravery. Moccasins worked into grotesque designs with beads and porcupine quills covered his feet. Pervading all like an intangible essence was that ever present frank bearing and dignified courtesy, that at once marked him as a chieftain and ruler among men. Such was the medicine man of the Camanches and the high-priest of Quetzalcoatl, WAKOMETKLA. With returning consciousness, I found myself extended along the sward, the Indian kneeling by my side and holding in the palm of his hand some crushed bark, of a peculiarly pungent and aromatic odor. Clustered around me were a group of savages, who, judging by their menacing looks and excited gestures were not wholly pleased with the new turn which affairs had taken. One among them, emboldened perhaps by the unconcern of the chief, approached more nearly, and unsheathing his knife, raised the long, glittering, and murderous looking blade in mid air, preparatory to burying it hilt deep in my unresisting body. In a moment WAKOMETKLA was on his feet, his proud form dilating with wrath. Grasping the culprit by the throat, he hurled him from him with tremendous force, sending him reeling through the crowd and to the ground; then turning to those that remained, he administered a sharp rebuke and motioned them away; they dispersed without delay, leaving me alone once more; the priest, meantime having entered the temple. I could distinctly hear the crackling of the fagots and the agonizing wail of some poor victim, as the greedy flames, leaping higher and higher devoured his quivering flesh. Intermingling with the groans of the dying captives could be heard the triumphant yells of the blood-thirsty savages, which were echoed by the women that everywhere filled the terraces of the lodges and temple; their bright-hued robes forming a striking contrast with their dark complexions. Over this scene of butchery shone the sun, which had now reached its zenith, in all its unclouded brilliancy; the mountainous walls of milky quartz that enclosed the valley, catching his beams and reflecting them in myriad prismatic hues, that gave one the impression that he was in some enchanted domain. The priest soon returned accompanied by a young girl, who bore in her arms a quantity of roots and strips of long bark, and placing them on the ground at my feet commenced applying them, first the leaves, then the bark, to my limbs. Soon I was swathed and bandaged like a mummy; which operation being performed, I was taken in their arms and carried inside the temple. Descending a ladder we entered a darkened chamber, the walls of which were hung with robes and curious devices; passing through this room I was conducted to an inner apartment which was partitioned off by a curtain of buffalo robes. In the corner of this room was a couch on which I was placed. After giving the girl some brief directions, the priest left us, the girl following him, after having brought me an earthen vessel filled with a dark liquid, which I understood by her gestures I was to drink. Such was the magical effect of the leaves in which my burned limbs were bound, that I no longer felt any pain, and taking a deep draught of the liquid, I was soon asleep. I must have slept many hours, for on awakening I found that it had grown quite dark, the only light being supplied by a small bluish flame that was dimly burning on a tripod in the center of the room. My attention was attracted by the peculiar furniture--if such it might be called--of this strange place. The walls are hung with hideous shapes and skins of wild beasts; in which ever way I turn, I am attracted by odd shapes, such as the fierce visage of the grizzly bear, the white buffalo and panther; while interspersed among the horns of the cimmaron, elk and bison, are grim idols carved from the red claystone of the desert. All these, I feel sure, are the symbols of a horrid and mystic religion. The fumes of the charcoal begin to affect me, my head grows hot; the pulse beats quicker; I fancy I hear strange noises; I think there are animals moving on the stone pavement; the fitful flame discloses a shining object, whose sinuous and gliding movements betrays the presence of the dreaded _crotalus_; it approaches my bed; its bead-like eyes glittering with a baleful light. My terror and excitement have now become agonizing; the veins stand out upon my forehead like whip cords; I am bathed in a cold perspiration. Making a mighty endeavor, I free my feet from the thongs that bind them, and springing from the bed, rush wildly towards the center of the room. Once the sacred fire is reached, I can partially protect myself by scattering the glowing coals on the floor, and fight the reptiles with what they dread the most. In leaving the couch my foot becomes entangled, I give a sudden jerk, and to my horror and dismay, pull down a section of the fur-covered wall; a sight discloses itself that curdles the blood in my veins and thrills my frame with a paralyzing honor. _I have disturbed a nest of huge serpents!_ They move; uncoil themselves, and join the _crotalus_; suddenly the room seems alive with the venomous creatures. I hear the dreaded rattle and the sibilant hiss; rushing toward the fire, I seize the tripod and dash it to the ground, scattering the glowing embers in every direction. My fright becomes terrible, and I imagine the monsters are crawling over my body. With the frenzy of despair I rush to the door that leads out of this chamber of horrors, all the while uttering the most fearful shrieks. In a twinkling I am confronted by Indians, bearing lighted torches; taking in the situation at a glance, they enter the apartment, chase the serpents back to their hiding places, while I am hurried away to less disagreeable quarters. I have passed through many thrilling adventures, but for unparalleled horror, this one was without its peer. The following morning, I was taken into the presence of the priest. That something of unusual moment was about to transpire, I felt sure, from the general air and appearance of those in the room. WAKOMETKLA was seated on a throne, around him were grouped a number of chiefs in all the bravery of war paint, plumes and robes. It was the council chamber, and I was about to go through the ceremony of adoption into the tribe. It might have been interesting had I understood their tongue, but as it was, I played the part of a puppet. The profoundest silence reigned throughout the apartment, and the gray dawn, stealing in through the door of the lodge, pervaded the room and made it colder and more desolate than before. A chief advanced to my side, and muttering something in which I could only distinguish the words "Americano" and "Quetzalcoatl," led me to the foot of the dais. WAKOMETKLA arose and addressed me at length; then the warriors formed in a circle and moved around me, accompanying their movements with a wild sort of chant. A young boy and girl, standing on one side supplied the music, using for this purpose an Indian drum, which produced a monotonous but rhythmic sound. This ceremony over, I am again led out and my clothes stripped from my back; substituting in their stead leggings and moccasins only. My body is then besmeared with paint and oil. My hair is shaved with _scalping knives_, leaving only a small ridge on my head, that ran from my forehead to my neck. Thus disguised and regenerated, I am again led into the presence of the chief, who embraces me, and waving his arm a young warrior advances with a necklace, shield, bow and quiver, tomahawk and lance; these are given to me in addition to a tobacco pouch filled with _k'neck k'nick_, the Indian substitute for tobacco. Thus accoutered, I am once more placed in the center of a circle, this time outside of the lodge; a small piece of turf is removed and the savages again commence their incantations. The dance is exceedingly grotesque, and consists of a series of yells, jumps and jarring gutterals, which are sometimes truly terrifying. Every step has its meaning, and every dance its peculiar song. When one becomes fatigued by the exercises, he signifies it by bending quite forward and sinking his body towards the ground, then withdraws from the circle; when all have retired in this manner the dance is ended, and all that remains to make me one of them is _branding_. During these ceremonies, I often wondered why I should have been singled out for adoption, when there were others who would, in my opinion have answered their purposes so much better; the Mexicans, for instance, with whose language they were familiar, would have been more serviceable; again, why should they take anyone into the tribe? Later, all this was explained. It seems that the medicine man is averse to initiating any of his _own_ people into the secrets and hocus-pocus of his art, as the apprentice, with the knowledge thus gained, might in time become a formidable rival. By adopting a captive this risk is obviated, as under no circumstances could he aspire to the honors of priesthood. In the event of his escape, the only damage would be the loss of an experienced assistant. From this time I was always addressed by my new name TAH-TECK-A-DA-HAIR (the steep wind), probably from the fact that I outstripped my pursuers in my vain effort at escape. I was allowed to roam at will through the village, but I noticed that wherever I went, watchful eyes followed my every motion. I was actuated in my rambles solely by the desire to see my wife; vain effort. I entered lodge after lodge, climbed from terrace to terrace, but my patient and loving endeavor was unrewarded. Fatigued, and with a desponding heart, I retraced my steps towards the temple. Morning once more dawns; it is the hour of worship; groups may be seen at the doors of the different lodges; they separate, some incline their course to the river, where sparkling waters are just discernible, as the blue mist, that during the night had hung over the valley, rises upward. Filling their _ollas_ they return, carrying the earthen vessels on their heads. Others may be seen wending their way to the temple; I, among others ascend; arriving at the top, I find a number already congregated there; they make way for me, showing a deference as new as it is unexpected. I have a fine view of the village, and what an odd look it has; what strange structures meet my view; some are one, others two, three, and even four stories in height; they resemble pyramids with a piece of the top cut off; each upper story is smaller than that below it; the lower one serving as a terrace for the one above, and thus up to the top. The clay of which they are built is of a yellowish tinge. Leaning against each terrace is a ladder, that serves as stairs to the story above; no windows are to be seen, but doors lead into the lodge from every terrace. Those lodges occupied by warriors and chiefs are ornamented by long poles projecting from the top of the structure, from which float pennants, bearing various devices; the temple looms up over all. The corrals, in which the cattle are secured during the night, are near the houses of their owners. Close to the staff of the temple stands an altar, on which a fire is burning; and huddled in a small group near its base are a group of female captives; their forms are almost shrouded in the long striped Indian blankets. Impelled by a resistless force I near them; one turns towards me, it is my wife; opening my arms I rush wildly forward, overturning men and women by this sudden and precipitate movement. My wife is apparently as much frightened as the others; then recognizing my voice she breaks from the group and is soon in my arms. We were not long allowed to remain in each others arms; recovering from their surprise, the Indians seized and parted us. During the remainder of the time spent on the top of the temple, Mrs. Eastman was kept guarded and separated from TAHTECKADAHAIR, the Indian brave. There is a commotion, the crowd part, and WAKOMETKLA advances to the altar. The drum beats, all prostrate themselves; the drum again beats, and the initiatory ceremony is concluded; the crowd is motionless; all face to the east. The quartz wall that shuts in the valley, and whose pinnacles point heavenward in needle-shaped spires, brighten; the points sparkle like diamonds; a ray penetrates into the valley; the mountain suddenly seems on fire, and, as if by magic, the god of light flashes on our upturned faces, bathing the surrounding objects in a flood of glory. All nature seems jubilant. The birds carol forth their blithest songs; the river sparkles and dances in the sunlight; the drum is heard once more; the devotees prostrate themselves and bend in submissive adoration before the coming of the fiery god, Quetzalcoatl. CHAPTER VIII. A NEW VOCATION. This ceremony over, the priests and worshipers withdrew; my wife was led away by her guards, and I was left for a moment alone with WAKOMETKLA; he stood gazing toward the distant mountains and seemed lost in reverie. At length he roused himself, and turning towards me, approached and taking me by the arm, conducted me once more to the lower part of the temple. We descended to the subterranean apartments, and passing through several, at length entered a room of good size, but so littered with the various utensils of his profession as to be almost impassable. Huge earthen cauldrons, set upon blocks of stone, were ranged across one end, and these were filled with a thick liquid of a dark brown color. Bundles of dried herbs were suspended from the walls and ceiling; the plants seemed to be of many species, but were all strange and unknown to me. A large block of stone standing in the center of the room served as a table, and upon this were a number of piles of bark and small lumps of a thick resinous gum; in one corner, were two or three smaller stone blocks, each with a cavity in the center, and evidently used for the same purpose as a druggist's mortar. [Illustration: Mrs. Eastman in Costume.] I viewed the strange apartment and its contents with much interest, for I saw that in this place the old man compounded such simple remedies as he had been taught by experience, were necessary for the treatment of the ailments to which his tribe was subject. On entering, he had motioned me to a seat, and I had accordingly placed myself upon a fragment of rock and sat quietly observing his proceedings and reflecting upon the strange situation in which I found myself. My companion, for sometime paid no attention whatever to me; divesting himself of his robes and ornaments, he enveloped himself in a sort of tunic made from the skin of some wild beast; to what particular kind of animal it had once belonged I was unable to form an idea, as the hair had been removed and the surface painted in many colors, with curious designs; it was without sleeves, showing his muscular arms bared to the shoulder, and with bracelets of roughly beaten gold upon the wrists. Taking a piece of wood, shaped something like a paddle, he commenced stirring the contents of the cauldrons and tasting the mixture, occasionally adding small portions of a transparent liquid of a pale yellow color, which he poured from a small earthen vessel. For some time he continued his employment while I watched and meditated, but at length he ceased his labors and beckoned me to approach him. Taking a portion of bark from the table he placed it in one of the stone basins, and seizing a stone utensil, similar in shape to a large gourd, began crushing the bark, motioning me meantime to watch him, and working with great energy. He continued in this manner for some minutes, until he appeared to conclude that I had become sufficiently familiar with the process, and then directed me by gestures to take his place, and I soon found myself busily engaged reducing the bark to powder. At first the change from my hitherto enforced idleness was a pleasant relief, but I soon found that it was hard and exhausting labor; the perspiration rolled down my face in streams, and I felt a strong inclination to cease operations. My new master, however, plainly looked with disfavor upon such an intention, for the moment that I slackened in my toil, he would shake his head gravely and motion me to continue, and to work more rapidly, and I had no alternative but to obey. Of one thing I was satisfied, my new occupation was likely to be no sinecure; there was evidently work enough to keep me constantly employed, and WAKOMETKLA would no doubt see to it that I wasted no time. For the remainder of the day I was kept hard at it, with the exception of the brief period allowed me for partaking of my food. So far as quantity was concerned, I had no reason to complain of the fair supplied me, but its quality was not so satisfactory, it was a species of _tasajo_, or dried meat, but of what animal it had originally formed a part, I was entirely unable to determine. In place of bread, I was given a sort of cake made from the _piñon_ nuts, and not unpalatable, but a poor substitute for the food to which I had been accustomed. When my day's toil was over, WAKOMETKLA, motioning me to follow him, led the way into an adjoining apartment, and pointing to a rude couch of skins, indicated that it was to be my resting place for the night. Wearied by my unaccustomed labor, I threw myself down without the formality of undressing, and was soon buried in deep and dreamless slumber. At an early hour on the following morning I was awakened by WAKOMETKLA, and found myself much refreshed by the first night's sound sleep I had enjoyed for many days. I was again conducted to the scene of my labors of the day previous and soon found myself at work again. This time, however, I was set at a different employment from that in which I had been hitherto engaged. Seated upon the earthen floor, with a large flat stone before me, I picked over and separated the various strange herbs, sorting them into heaps; the medicine man stood by and directed my operations, uttering a grunt of approval when he saw that I comprehended his pantomimic instructions. At length, seeming satisfied that I could complete the task without further assistance, he left me, and for several hours I worked on alone. About the middle of the forenoon, I had nearly finished my labor, when WAKOMETKLA suddenly entered and motioned me to rise and follow him; we passed through several apartments and entered the mystery room. Approaching a recess in one corner, my master drew back a curtain of skins and disclosed an aperture of considerable size; this he entered and disappeared for a moment, but quickly returned, bearing in his hand a metallic circlet which glittered in the light of the lambent flame that arose from the altar; as he approached me I saw that it was a rudely fashioned collar of silver, its surface covered with engraved lines and strange cabalistic characters; this he speedily fastened around my neck in such a way that I could not displace it, and again motioned me to follow him; leaving me entirely in the dark, as to the object or meaning of this singular proceeding. Reaching the first terrace of the temple, we descended to the plain and passed through the main street of the village until we reached its outskirts. Although wondering greatly what new experience I was about to meet with, I could not fail to notice the great respect with which my strange protector was treated, a respect seemingly not unmixed with awe. Many curious glances were cast at me as we passed through the crowd of idlers and "dandies" who lounged about the open space before the temple, but no word was spoken as they drew back to make way for us. At the edge of the plain, and standing apart from the other structures, I had observed a small lodge; it differed in no respect from the others except in size. We walked directly towards this, and on reaching it WAKOMETKLA entered, motioning me to remain outside. Laying down upon the green turf, I abandoned myself to rest and reflection. Naturally, my thoughts were mainly of my wife; and the mystery as to her whereabouts and probable fate constantly occupied my mind. Had I but known it, my suspense was soon to be at an end; but I little dreamed that I was soon to see her again, to meet only to part for years, and with the certainty that she would be subjected to every degradation; and had I known it, such knowledge would have only caused me additional misery. For over an hour I laid motionless; at times watching the movements of a party of Indians who were engaged in ball play; at times lost in thought. At last my savage master, having finished his visit, the object of which I knew not, emerged from the lodge and signed me to rise. We retraced our steps until we reached the temple, when he indicated by gestures that I might remain without. I concluded from his manner that I was at liberty for a time at least to follow my own inclinations, and accordingly occupied myself in making a tour of the village, thinking it possible that I might see something of my wife. As I strolled about, I was surprised to find that I was entirely unmolested, although many of the red warriors looked at me with an expression that indicated a desire to "lift my hair." I afterward learned that the silver collar I wore was itself a safeguard which the boldest "buck" in the village would not dare to violate. My search was for the time unavailing; returning to the vicinity of the temple, I laid down upon the ground and awaited the summons of WAKOMETKLA, which I momentarily expected. It seemed, however, that he had either forgotten me, or was busied with something of more importance, as I was suffered to remain by myself for several hours. Watching the various groups around, I saw many sights, both new and strange to me. A number were engaged in gambling for the various trinkets they had procured in their successful foray. Their implements for this pastime were simple enough. Several Indians who sat quite near me were engaged in this amusement, and by watching them carefully, I was soon able to understand the game. They sat in a circle, with a heap of small stones in the center; one of them, grasping a handful of the pebbles would conceal them behind him, at the same time placing before him the article which he wished to wager. The player on his right would then stake against it any article which he deemed of equal value; and if the leader accepted the bet he would signify it; his opponent had then to _guess_ the number of pebbles taken by the first Indian; and if his conjecture was correct, became the possessor of the articles wagered. If he failed to guess the right number, the holder of the stones was the winner; then the next savage seized the pebbles, and so it went round and round the circle, the winners venting their exultation in yells and laughter, while the losers clearly indicated by grunts, expressive of disgust, their disappointment when fortune went against them. Suddenly my attention was attracted by a party of Indians who came forth from one of the more pretentious lodges. Among them were a number of the principal warriors including the head chief himself; with them were also several of the Apaches, who seemed, by their dress and bearing, to be men of some rank. They were engaged in a very animated discussion, accompanied with as much gesticulation as if they had been a parcel of Frenchmen. Directly two of the Camanches re-entered the lodge, and returned leading three women, white captives. Without a moment's warning my wife was before me, and I sprang to my feet and ran towards her, scarcely knowing what I was about. My darling saw me at the same instant and stretched out her arms as if to clasp me in her embrace, but she was firmly held in the grasp of one of the savages and could not stir. Seeing that I would not be permitted to approach her I halted, wondering what new scene of savage cruelty was about to be enacted. I was not long in doubt--from the gestures of the Indians, and the exhibition of some gaudy ornaments by one of the Apaches, I was convinced that a barter or trade of some sort was in progress, and a few moments sufficed to satisfy me that my surmise was correct, and to plunge me into still deeper wretchedness. The Camanche head chief, and one who seemed to be the leader of the Apaches conversed apart, the latter frequently pointing to my wife and evidently arguing with great persistence. At length the bargain seemed completed, and Tonsaroyoo the head chief of the Camanches led her to the Apache chieftain and consigned her to his custody; the other women were also taken in charge by the Apaches who delivered a number of ornaments and trinkets and two horses to their Camanche friends. The leader of the Apaches now uttered a peculiar cry, apparently a signal, for immediately the warriors of his party assembled from all parts of the village and ranged themselves before him. He seemed to give some order, for they ran instantly to where their horses were picketed, and with marvelous celerity prepared for departure. The being I loved best was about to be torn from me, probably forever, and subjected to the most terrible fate that could befall one of her sex. As the fatal truth impressed itself on my mind, I seemed paralyzed in every limb, and stood riveted to the spot, gazing hopelessly upon those dear features, as I then thought, for the last time. My poor wife was quickly mounted behind an Apache warrior, and, as the cavalcade moved off, she uttered a despairing scream, which seemed to rouse me from my lethargy. I endeavored to reach her, animated by a wild desire to clasp her once again to my heart, and welcome death together; but at my first movement I was grasped by a strong arm, and with her cry of anguish sounding in my ears as the party rode away, I found myself drawn within the temple and firmly held by WAKOMETKLA; he did not relax his grasp until we entered the mystery chamber, then releasing me, he regarded me not unkindly, and muttered to himself in his own language. Sinking under this last terrible blow, I threw myself upon the floor, and in the bitterness of my heart prayed for death. But death shuns those who seek it, it is said, and we were destined to suffer for years from the doubts and suspense occasioned by our sudden separation, neither knowing the fate of the other, and each scarcely daring to hope that their loved one could be yet alive. After a time WAKOMETKLA raised me to my feet and led me to the room in which I had slept previously; here he left me, and for hours I lay in a sort of stupor, sinking at last into a heavy but unrestful slumber. Following, came many weary days, during which I paid little attention to things passing around me. Absorbed in my sorrow, I took no note of time, until a change in occupation brought forth new plans in my mind, causing me to entertain hope for the future. But of this anon. CHAPTER IX. THE "MYSTERY BAG." Several months had elapsed since I entered upon my new duties. At first I was stimulated to extra endeavor by that curiosity which impels all novices to take an especially active interest in their profession, but I soon found that pounding bark, and gathering herbs, could become as monotonous as other less novel employments. I envied the women their tasks, as it would have been a change, and consequently a relief. It was a treadmill existence, and day succeeded day with unvarying sameness. I arose before dawn and went to the river; after a plunge in the sparkling water I returned to the temple and renewed the paint on my person, which had been effaced by the water. Constant exposure to wind and weather had tanned my body to the color of leather, and it did not require a great amount of art to enable me to imitate the true Indian complexion. Exposure and coarse wholesome food had made me very hardy, and I found that I could bear fatigue and work that I should have thought I was never capable of performing. To this training I was indebted for the strength that supported me in my arduous journey through the deadly jornada, when in quest of my wife. When my preparations were completed, it was time to ascend to the top of the temple and join in the morning's devotions. These over, I returned to the underground room and commenced the day's work. At first WAKOMETKLA would signify what he required by signs, and later, as I acquired a knowledge of the language, he would more fully detail his wishes, and ofttimes explain the effects and purposes of the drug. In this way I became as familiar with his materia medica, as himself; and from time to time offered suggestions that occurred to me, which seemed to please him. By constant and steady application I amassed a fund of knowledge concerning vegetable medicines that enabled me, on my return to civilization, through the co-operation of DR. CLARK JOHNSON, to make my knowledge available in alleviating suffering humanity. In my excursions into the woods I was accompanied by the chief, who instructed me how to gather the medicine plants, and where to find them. After a day spent in this manner, we would return to the village each carrying a basket on his back, filled with the results of our labor. By far the most important part of my work, in the estimation of the Indians at least, was the concoction of "medicine," or mystery in which my master and myself were supposed to be all potent The red men are slaves to superstition, and in order to gain control over them it is absolutely necessary to profess a thorough intimacy with everything that is mysterious and supernatural. They believe in the power of talismans; and no Indian brave would for a moment suppose that his safety in this world, or happiness in the next, could be secured, did he not possess, and constantly keep about him his "mystery bag." A description of this article, and the manner in which it is made may not prove uninteresting. When a youth has arrived at the age of sixteen it becomes necessary for him to "make his medicine;" to this end he leaves his father's lodge, and absents himself for one or two days and nights; entering the woods, where he may be secure from interruption, he seeks some quiet nook, and stretching his length upon the ground, remains in that position until he dreams of his medicine. During this time he abstains from food and water. When in his dreams the bird, reptile, or animal, that is to act as his guardian angel through life appears to him; or rather he imagines it does. As soon as he has learned what to seek for, he retraces his steps and joins his family again, who receive him with demonstrations of great joy; a feast is made in his honor, and he is treated with marked consideration. The festivities having come to an end, he arms himself with bow and arrows, or takes his traps, whichever may be best adapted to secure the animal he seeks, and leaving the village once more goes in pursuit of his quarry, not returning until his hunt has been crowned with success. Great care is to be observed in securing the "medicine" intact. The skin is then stuffed with wool or moss, and religiously sealed; the exterior is ornamented as the fancy of the owner may dictate; the decoration in most instances being of a very elaborate character. The bag is usually attached to the person, but is sometimes carried in the hand. Feasts are made, and even dogs and horses sacrificed to a man's medicine, while days of fasting and penance are suffered to appease his medicine, when he fancies he has in some way offended it. The Indian will not sell this charm for any price; indeed, to part with it is considered a disgrace. In battle, he looks to it for protection from death, and if perchance he is killed, it will conduct him safely to the happy hunting grounds, which he contemplates as his inheritance in the world to come. If he should lose it in the fight, let him battle never so bravely for his country, he suffers overwhelming disgrace, and is pointed at by the tribe as "a man without medicine," and remains a pariah among his people until the sacred mystery bag is replaced. This can only be done by rushing into battle, and wresting one from the enemy, whom he slays with his own hand. Once this is accomplished, lost caste is regained, and he is reinstated in the tribe, occupying a position even higher than before he lost the charm. Medicine thus acquired at the risk of life and limb is considered the best, and entitles the wearer to many privileges to which he could never have aspired before. When a brave has captured a mystery bag belonging to his opponent, he has performed a feat of great valor, far surpassing the glory of innumerable scalps. It is somewhat singular that a man can institute his medicine but once in a lifetime; and equally curious that he can reinstate himself by the adoption of medicine captured from the enemy. In these regulations are concealed strong inducements to fight: first, to protect himself and his medicine; and again, if the warrior has been unfortunate enough to lose the charm, that he may restore it and his reputation, while in combat with the foes of his community. I had been for a long time in the village before I was allowed to wander beyond its limits. Indeed, I was kept so constantly employed that I had no opportunity to explore the valley, even if I had been permitted to do so. But the efforts I made to please my Indian master were not without their effect. WAKOMETKLA soon began to place confidence in me, and allow me more freedom of action. I had, it is true, very little spare time, but occasionally my master would dispense with my services while he was occupied with the ceremonies of the temple, and at such times I found myself free to wander where I pleased. In this way, at odd times, I made myself familiar with the topography of the entire valley. At first I was not without hope, in my solitary rambles, that I might devise some plan of escape; for I had not by any means abandoned all hope of that nature, or resigned myself placidly to my fate. But I was not long in discovering that without a good horse, a supply of provisions, and some weapons of offense or defense, any such idea was entirely futile. The valley was of itself a prison, for it had neither entrance nor exit, except at its two extremities. The one by which I had entered I have already described in a previous chapter, and will not weary the reader by repeating it. The pass at the western end of the valley was simply a narrow cañon cut through the mountain, during centuries perhaps, by the action of water; its precipitous walls rose to the height of over two thousand feet, and in its gloomy recesses it was always twilight; its length was nearly a mile; and at its outer extremity it debouched upon a barren plain. At each end a guard of two men was constantly posted, relieving each other at regular intervals, and being changed every third day. To pass these vigilant sentinels, afoot and unarmed, was plainly impossible; and I soon banished the idea from my mind. I had noticed that WAKOMETKLA sometimes left the village and was absent for two or three days, returning laden with various herbs and plant, freshly gathered. I concluded from this that they were of species which did not grow in the valley, and to procure which he was obliged to ascend the various mountain ranges that barred my vision in every direction. I was anxious to accompany him on some one of these expeditions, thinking that I might thereby gain an opportunity for flight; but many long and weary months were to pass before I was to be granted that privilege. My life at this time was monotonous in the extreme; and so severe was the labor required of me, that I was frequently too tired even to think. In his trips to the borders of the valley in search of the materials for his medicines, WAKOMETKLA often took me with him, and by these means I gradually became familiar with many of the ingredients used. It was a source of never-ending wonder to me that this untutored savage should have been able to discover and prepare so wonderful a remedy as I found it to be. I had many opportunities of observing its effects upon the Indians; for the Camanches, although naturally a hardy race, partly from their mode of life, and partly from the fact that few of them are of pure Indian blood, are subject to very many of the same ailments that afflict more civilized communities. As the assistant of the great medicine man, I found myself treated with far more consideration than I would have supposed possible, and, in fact, it appeared after a time, as if the Indians considered me one of themselves. This state of affairs was not without its advantages. It ensured my freedom from molestation and at the same time gave me complete facilities for becoming familiar with the Indian character, their manners and customs, and mode of life. Of these I shall treat at length in another chapter. At the time I was occupied in making the observations and investigations which I shall lay before the reader, I had no expectation of ever placing a record of my experiences before the public. Hence in many things my knowledge of the subject is but superficial. Of those things which interested me, or from their strange nature made a deep impression upon my mind, my recollection is clear and vivid. But many details which might be of interest to those who have never seen, or been among the prairie Indians, have by the lapse of time and the many exciting scenes through which I have passed become in a measure effaced from my mind. But I shall endeavor to relate as fully as possible my checkered experiences; and this narrative, whatever its demerits, will have at least one attribute of excellence, it will adhere strictly to facts. CHAPTER X. INDIAN LIFE. The Camanches are supposed to be a branch or subdivision of the Shoshone or Snake nation, who, under various names or tribal appellations, dominate the entire area from the borders of British America to the Rio Grande. Although these tribes are known by many different names, such as "Shoshones," "Bonacks," "Utahs," "Lipans," "Apaches," "Navajoes," "Pawnee Picts," "Camanches," or "Cayguas," they vary but little in their general habits of life. Such differences as do exist are mainly the result of variations of climate. Until within a few years, the Camanches were undoubtedly the most warlike and powerful race of Indians on the continent. With the Apaches, Navajoes, and Lipans, they formed a sort of Indian confederacy; rarely at war among themselves, but always with the whites; and when united, able to put a force in the field which would ride over the Texan frontier like a whirlwind; and without hesitation penetrate hundreds of miles into Mexico, desolating whole provinces, returning sated with slaughter, and burdened with plunder. The Camanches are, or rather were at this time, divided into five bands, usually acting entirely independently of one another, but uniting in case of emergency; or for the purpose of making their annual raid on the Mexican towns. This occurs at the season when the buffaloes have migrated to the north, and is jocularly termed by the savages the "Mexican moon." It was on their return from one of these expeditions that the band of Tonsaroyoo, the head chief of the nation, had intercepted our unlucky party. The band of Tonsaroyoo (Lone Wolf) was the most numerous and powerful of the five, and hence was usually able to undertake their forays without the assistance of the other parties. Twice only during my long residence among them was a general levy or muster of the whole nation deemed necessary; and it was a spectacle not easily forgotten. In the first instance a raid of greater magnitude than usual had been determined upon, and every warrior was assembled to take part in it. Assembled at our village, they were joined by nearly five hundred Apaches, led by Mah-to-chee-ga (Little Bear), their second chief. Thus, when they defiled through the western portal of the valley, Tonsaroyoo rode at the head of nearly seven thousand warriors. With the Camanches, as with most other tribes, the chief rank is held by hereditary descent. Thus, the son of a chief usually succeeds his father in the rulership of his tribe or band; there are, of course, exceptions to this; but it is the general rule. The head chief and second chief of the nation, however, are chosen from among the chiefs of each tribe; the selection being made by the council. This body numbers twelve members, and are chosen by the whole nation; holding their positions during life, or until incapacitated by old age. Among them are found the most distinguished warriors of the tribe, and the head priest is also included in their number. The installation of a new counselor is considered by the Indians an occasion of great importance; and as it is a very interesting ceremony, I will briefly describe it. On the occasion in question, Ar-ran-e-jah (Bloody Arm), had announced his determination to retire from the position of first counselor, which he had held for many years. Calling together the chiefs and braves, he addressed them somewhat as follows: "Brothers, warriors of the Hietan; for many winters Bloody Arm has faithfully served you. He is no longer young, his body is weakened by the many wounds he has received in your defence, and he wishes for repose; and to be no longer burdened with the cares of the council. Bloody Arm's medicine is no longer good upon the war path; and he will enter the medicine lodge so that he will not be obliged to go to war, but can end his days in peace. We have many brave young warriors, who are deserving of promotion, let one of these be selected to fill my place; and may his medicine be good and his war-path be fortunate Warriors, I now give up the office of first counselor I have done." Tonsaroyoo replied as follows: "Arranejah, our hearts are sorry that you have decided to cease to be our first counselor. You have served the nation long and faithfully; your counsel has been wise; under your guidance we have greatly prospered, and we would rather that you should still direct us. But you say that your body is weak, and that you desire repose. It is well--we know that you have received many wounds at the hands of our enemies; that you were always first in the charge, and never turned your back upon the foe. We honor you, for your bravery, and you will always possess the love and respect of your people. "Now we must select a twelfth counselor. Will you name him for us?" "No, Tonsaroyoo," said the old man: "I never had an enemy among my warriors, and I will not begin to make them now. They are all brave, and I should not know whom to choose. Let the nation decide who is to succeed me. I have done." The form of an election was then gone through with; two braves being named for the position by the counsel, and a vote taken in the following manner: Two heaps of shells, one black, the other white, were placed upon the ground before the temple. Each warrior selected one from either pile, as he preferred, and placed the shells so taken so as to form a third pile. When all had deposited a shell in this heap, they were counted by two of the elder counselors, and the first candidate, who was a protégé of Tonsaroyoo, was declared rejected, having received too many of the black shells; as the rule is that if more than a certain prescribed number (which varies according to the number taking part in the election), are cast against a candidate he must be withdrawn, and another presented for approval. On the second ballot, Nau-ce-dah (Strong Shield), was chosen without opposition. He belonged to the band of Ston-ha-won, and was selected as much because of the personal popularity of his chief as from any merit of his own; for, although a daring warrior, he was a reckless fellow, and scarcely fitted to command or advise. The ceremony of his installation followed, and was conducted within a medicine lodge, erected for that especial purpose. Here were assembled the chiefs, priests, members of the council, and the leading warriors, with as many of the other braves as could possibly crowd into it. The new dignitary was then presented with a _white_ buffalo robe, and a head-dress of eagle's plumes, stained red, the insignia of his office. New arms and equipments were given him, and it was formally announced that Naucedah was the twelfth counselor of the Camanche nation; and that the next war party should be led by him. More speech-making followed, some of it decidedly eloquent, but with which I will not weary the reader. Tonsaroyoo presented the new counselor with twenty horses and a magnificent white shield; the assemblage then separated. The remainder of the day was devoted to feasting in honor of the event; the younger warriors amusing themselves as usual with horse racing and ball play. Naucedah failed to justify the wisdom of this selection, for his first war party resulted in disaster. Starting with about eighty warriors on a raid into the Utah country to steal horses, he led his unlucky band into an ambush, and barely twenty of them escaped; their leader being among the killed. The marriage relation can hardly be said to exist among the Camanches. Each chief or warrior, it is true, may have as many wives as he pleases, and they generally please to have a rather liberal number; but the tie is not a sacred one as with us; and no ceremony is required to legalize it. The commerce of the sexes is practically unrestricted. The Camanche procures his wife, or more properly his slave, by purchase, by barter, or as in the case of the white captives, by force of arms; and he disposes of her in an equally summary fashion when wearied of her. One particularly horrid custom to which their white prisoners are frequently subjected is the following: It sometimes occurs that a dispute will arise as to the ownership of a white captive; in this event it is referred to the council for settlement; and should they be unable to agree upon a decision, she then becomes _common property_, the victim of _all_! The Camanche has the same aversion to labor of any kind which characterizes all the aboriginal races. When not on the war path, or engaged in the pursuit of game, his time is about equally divided between eating, smoking, gambling, and sleeping. All the burdens of life fall upon the women, and they must endure them as best they may. Their duty it is to plant and cultivate the maize, and the few fruits and berries which the Indians deem necessary for food. They gather and prepare the piñon nuts, and _cure_ the tasajo, and prepare the food for their brutal masters. In the dressing of skins, and the manufacture of leggings, moccasins, and the few other articles of apparel which are required for comfort or ornament, they are especially skilled; and despite their multifarious duties they manage to accomplish a great deal of this work. In the matter of diet the Camanches are not by any means particular. Buffalo meat is their staple, and they prefer this to any other food; but when this fails them, there are always horses in plenty; and I found "horse-beef" to be very good eating, although at first the very idea of tasting it was repulsive to me. Before I had returned to civilization, however, I had partaken of so many queer dishes, and strange articles of food, that, if hungry, I do not think I would hesitate at anything short of cannibalism. A sort of stew, of which the flesh of young puppies forms the principal ingredient, is another Camanche luxury, and I learned in time to consider it very palatable; but I fancy most people would rather take it for granted than put it to the test. However, if any of my readers feel disposed to try the experiment, I can assure them that they may do so without fear of unpleasant consequences. The Camanches, in common with all the other "horse-Indians," are much addicted to horse racing; and almost every afternoon some sport of this kind would take place on the plain before the village. These trials of speed were for some wager, and the younger warriors would frequently lose all their worldly possessions in backing some unlucky steed, whose powers of speed or endurance they had overrated. At such times the taunts and exultation of the victors would sometimes give rise to a quarrel; knives would be drawn and brandished, and a bloody fight seem imminent, but the "Yau-pa-sai-na," or Indian policemen, would usually succeed in quelling the disturbance before much harm could be done. If his efforts seemed unavailing, the appearance of Tonsaroyoo, battle axe in hand, would be the signal for an immediate dispersion of the crowd; the intending combatants, especially, sneaking off with great precipitation. Knowing the fiery temper of Lone Wolf, and the fact that he looked upon these brawls and affrays with great disfavor, and had strictly prohibited their occurrence, the quarrelsome young warriors fully apprehended that he would have no hesitation in braining the first offender who came within his reach. This warlike chieftain was a man of very marked ability, and governed his tribe with admirable skill and judgment. From his severity, however, he was feared rather than liked by his people, and although implicitly obeyed at all times, he did not possess a tithe of the popularity which Stonhawon, the second chief, enjoyed. The latter was a bold, manly fellow; a really brave man and a sagacious leader; unusually successful in war, his parties never returned without either "hair or horses," as was frequently the case with others, and his invariable good nature and lavish generosity rendered him a universal favorite with his people. He was a pure-blooded Camanche, and altogether, one of the finest specimens of his race I ever beheld. To him I am indebted for many acts of kindness, and but for his favor, the opportunity of which I availed myself for making my escape, might never have occurred. CHAPTER XI. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY. I had intended to relate the experiences of my wife in such a manner that they might serve as a sequel to my narrative; but on reflection, the better plan seemed to be to portray, as graphically as possible, the events that influenced her life, in separate chapters, so arranged that the account should be distinct, yet in point of time, contemporaneous. The scene of her captivity, and the treatment she received at the hands of her captors, have made such a vivid and lasting impression on my mind, that in speaking of them, I seem almost to have undergone the torture in my own person. In writing her story therefore, I shall speak in the first person. The reader will, I think, see the superiority of this plan at a glance. Who has not felt his pulse quicken, and his heart go out in warmest sympathy at the recital of some tale of flood or field, as told by an eye-witness, when the same events related by a third party will only awaken a mild interest in the minds of his hearers. I crave the sympathetic attention of my readers, and this is my explanation for the plan I have adopted. * * * * * After the assault on our party had culminated in the death of my poor father and brother, the Indians surrounded our wagon, and lifting the canvas flaps, discovered my mother and myself ensconced behind our bulwark of blankets and boxes. They bade us come out by gestures so menacing, and scowls so terrifying, that it had a contrary effect on us than the one they wished to produce; for instead of obeying the command, we only shrank back into corners more remote, vainly thinking that the bales and robes, with which loving hands had surrounded us, would form a sufficient protection against the dreaded savage. At this critical juncture, my poor mother swooned back into my arms, overcome by fright. Seeing that their commands were not obeyed, the foremost Indian climbed into the wagon, and rushing on us with uplifted knife, grasped me by the hair and dragged me over the obstructions and out onto the ground. I cried aloud in my anguish, which only seemed to afford them the more amusement; the savage who had performed the manly deed, displaying for the edification of his comrades, a quantity of my hair, which he still held in his clenched hand. The wagon and the plunder it contained seemed to be the center of attraction. A dozen had entered in as many seconds, and although the canvas top hid them from view, they could be heard quarreling over the division of the spoils. During these fearful scenes, the events of years seemed crowding into minutes. Never have I suffered such mental or bodily torture before or since. My faculties succumbed to the severe strain, and I found myself falling into a kind of stupor, in which, though perfectly conscious of all that was transpiring, I seemed not to have been one of the principal actors, but an observer merely. Suddenly I was made aware that something unusual was taking place; the Indians crowded about the wagon, all the time gesticulating wildly, and yelling in a blood-curdling manner. I heard voices raised as if in altercation within the wagon. Rising above the din I distinguished the loved tones of my mother's voice, as if crying for help, and entreating for mercy. The noise grows apace; wild with terror, nerved with the resolution of despair, I rushed towards the wagon; reaching it a sight meets my eyes that petrifies me with horror; I try to move, speak, act; my limbs and tongue refuse to obey my will; this is what I see: A couple of brawny savages, maddened by strong drink, stand over the kneeling figure of my mother, their eyes inflamed with satanic passion. Holding together her torn garments with one hand, she parries with feeble and fast declining strength their revolting advances. With a mighty effort she reaches up and snatches a knife from the belt of the savage nearest her, and with the rapidity of thought plunges it into his body. He reels and falls against his companion. It is her last act on earth. With a yell of rage the tomahawk is lifted above her murderer's head, and descending is buried in her brain with a dull thud. A mist passes over my eyes; my brain reels, and the last thing of which I am conscious is the white tresses of my saintly mother, held high in air by this monster in human guise. God grant that it may never be my fate to pass through such scenes again. During the next twenty-four hours, my existence is that of an automaton merely. I know I am being conducted away from the spot where this awful tragedy was enacted. I am mounted behind my guard, to whose waist I am firmly bound by raw hide thongs. We encamp in a belt of cotton woods, near a small stream. Fires are lighted, food prepared; some is offered me, but I turn away from it in disgust; the hand that proffers the smoking meat seems covered with blood. I am taken from my couch of skins at the foot of a tall tree, and led through the underbrush into an open space, where the main party are assembled. Emerging into this clearing, my eyes fall upon my husband, who is approaching me from the other side of the encampment. It was as if I saw one who had arisen from the dead; with an effort I free myself, rush past the guard, and am in my husband's arms. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I give expression to my feelings in tears; they are the first I have shed, and seem to break the spell which has encircled me like an iron band. I am not long permitted to remain in my husband's embrace, as the Indian with an ugh! expressive of displeasure, grasps Edwin by the arm, and rudely separates us; we are led to opposite corners of the enclosure, there to await our departure, preparations for which are being rapidly completed. The lariats are coiled, blankets adjusted, and at a signal from the chief we mount, and defiling through the wood, emerge on the open prairie, pursuing our journey in Indian file. Before starting, one of our mules is brought up, on which I am mounted, a warrior riding by my side and holding in his hand a hair rope that passes through the bit ring that is attached to my animal. All day we keep up the march. Look in any direction and the eye meets one vast expanse of living verdure, the vision only interrupted by the horizon. North, south, east, and west stretches the prairie meadow, green as the sea, and in many respects not unlike the calm surface of the ocean. As the wind sweeps across its bosom, the silken blades bend in gentle undulations, and they are dappled into lighter and darker shades, like the shadows of summer clouds flitting across the sun. It was a scene of pure enjoyment, and I only realized, on being awakened from my day dreams how miserable was my lot. With slight interruptions, notably when my husband was lost in the buffalo hunt, and his recapture, we progressed steadily towards the village. On arriving I was taken at once to the temple, where I found myself among some eight or ten more female captives, who had but recently arrived. They were Mexican women, and, not understanding their language, I felt somewhat constrained. I was attracted to one fragile looking girl, whose age could not have been more than fifteen. She appeared utterly heartbroken and cast down by her misfortunes. I suffered enough, God knows; but my heart yearned towards this little stranger with tender sympathy; and in comforting her I seemed to lessen my own burdens. Although the others were kind to her to a degree, yet she seemed to evince a fondness for my society that was very flattering. The others addressed her as "Zoe," and in this way I learned her name. Henceforth we became inseparable; and as she accompanied me in my captivity, the reader will learn more of the sad history of this heroic girl, whose impulses, both of head and heart, added to her splendid courage, were the salient points in a character of surpassing sweetness. We were not allowed to leave the temple, although we were free to wander from terrace to terrace. Food and water was supplied us by the Indian women, who seemed to have us under their sole control. How can I describe the scenes of the next few days; the games, festivities, and most horrible of all, the torture; when we were compelled to stand on the lower terrace, and witness the agonies and death struggles of fathers, husbands and lovers; not even the poor consolation of indulging our grief undisturbed was permitted us; the Indian women who surrounded us seemed lost to all feelings of pity and humanity, and when one of our number was suffering tortures of mind, little inferior to the physical pain undergone by the object of her devotion, the fiends would give vent to derisive cries and jeers that were maddening to the poor creature. One of the Mexicans, whose father and lover were burned to death before her eyes, suffered such poignant anguish that her reason gave way, and she was borne inside the temple a raving maniac. After the events just related, nothing of moment occurred to break the monotony of our captivity. We were confined to our quarters under a surveillance that did not relax for a moment. It was understood that we were awaiting the announcement that was to decide what our future lot should be. The Mexicans learned from our attendants that the chiefs had decided to share the female captives with their Apache visitors; the selection to be made by lot. I had not seen my husband but once since we entered the village, and that sight was fraught with the most painful emotions. I knew, however, that for the present he was safe; the future I confided to Him whose loving care would protect and aid us in our trials. During this time my mind was in a state of complete despondency; no bright visions of future liberty and happiness came to relieve the dreary forebodings that oppressed me. In my wildest imaginings of the suffering that might be my portion, I did not approach the realities of my future existence. Those dark days of toil and degradation which succeeded each other in unvarying monotony, with blows for a welcome, and kicks as an incentive to labor. Even at this remote period I cannot recall the experiences of those times without a shudder; when the horizon of hope was environed by the dull blank of despair; and as each year dragged its weary length along, it almost seemed as if I was, "The world forgetting, And by the world forgot." CHAPTER XII. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY CONTINUED. One morning we were aroused quite early, our guard informing us that the lots had been cast and the captives disposed of. We were divided into equal numbers, the home tribe retaining one half, while their visitors appropriated the remainder. We quickly descended to the ground floor of the temple, and clustering about the door leading into the village street, awaited the final word from the chief, that was to deliver us into the hands of our new masters. On occasions like the present, the whole community was in a ferment of excitement, and crowded around us in great numbers, each more anxious than the other to have a view of the bartered captives. The Apaches seemed to be particularly anxious to take stock of their new acquisitions, and not a few scrimmages occurred between them and the Camanche women on this account. The men elbowed and the women bit and clawed at a furious rate. It might have been very amusing, but unluckily we came in for our share of the blows and objurgations. The mob pushed us against the walls of the temple so violently that we were in imminent danger of suffocation. To escape, and free ourselves from this unpleasant situation, it became necessary to exert ourselves and deal blows at the surging crowd, and in this way keep them back. Of course, such measures on our part met with a ready response, and soon we were in the midst of a row that threatened to assume large proportions. A chief who happened to be passing at the time, dashed into the crowd and soon quelled the rioters. Had it not been for this timely assistance we should certainly have been crushed to death. After a time we were left in comparative quiet; most of the idlers betaking themselves to the various groups scattered over the plain. Some of these parties attracted quite a number of spectators, and judging from their animated gestures, something of a very interesting character was taking place. One of the Indian women informed me that they were probably gambling. My attention was attracted to a small lodge, about one hundred yards to our right. Something of unusual moment seemed to be taking place. Warriors were seen to enter, and others would emerge and go in different directions, as if in great haste, and on urgent business. Pennants were flying from poles on the roof, and altogether the place presented a gala appearance. On inquiry, I learned that this was the council lodge, and that at the present moment, the final negotiations for our barter were being consummated. A short time afterwards, the chiefs and their attendants defiled into the street and approached us. Meantime, the number of horses that had been agreed upon as an equivalent for the captives, were brought up and delivered over to their purchasers. Just as I was brought forth to be delivered over to the Apache chief, my glance was arrested by the figure of my husband, who stood upon the outskirts of the circle. The recognition was simultaneous, and with a cry of joy I sprang towards him, but was instantly grasped by a savage and thrown violently back among my companions. The Apache chief put a small whistle to his lips, and blowing a shrill blast, soon assembled his party. I struggled to free myself from my tormentors and rush to my husband, but my efforts were of no avail. Half fainting, and wild with the agony of this rude parting, I was taken out on the plain, where the bulk of the party were making their preparations to depart. The pickets were drawn, lariats coiled, and the horses brought up. Every warrior had provided himself with an extra horse on which to mount his newly acquired property, but for some reason we were mounted on the horses ridden by our captors, and it was not until the next day that we made use of the "extra" horses. The Indians rode without saddles, as is their custom when on the war trail, but the women were provided with saddles; these saddles were peculiar contrivances, and the best description of them that occurs to me, is to have the reader picture to himself an ordinary saw-buck with the top cut off, so as to leave an inverted V. There were two of these fastened together by parallel strips of wood about eighteen inches in length; this was placed on the mustang's back, and a buffalo robe thrown over it, and fastened by a girth. Stirrups depended from the lateral sticks that kept the V's in position. The horse's bridles were mostly composed of hair, in some instances, however, they were of leather worked and stamped into elaborate designs; these were, no doubt, the fruits of their foray among the Mexican _pueblas_. We were mounted man fashion, each riding by the side of the Indian who claimed us as his property. Farewells having been exchanged, lances were poised, bows and quivers slung, and amid a fearful uproar of voices, intermingled with the howling of dogs, we took our departure. As we passed through the village I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of my husband, but even this poor consolation was denied me. Passing up the valley we entered the cañon, traversing its rocky bed for a distance of several hundred yards; on entering this gloomy pass, we formed into single file, each captive falling into line immediately in the rear of her guard; this order was henceforth maintained throughout the journey. Leaving the cañon we debouched upon an arid plain, and continued our line of march along the bank of the stream. The first day's journey was devoid of interest; we traversed long stretches of sandy plain, with scarcely any signs of vegetation, save here and there a clump of sage brush, or the wild pita plant, whose stalk towered into the air like a sign-post to guide the wanderer over these sandy wastes. The cactus and fetid creosote plant lined our path, the latter giving forth a most disagreeable odor as it was crushed beneath the horses' hoofs. Towards night we approached the base of a mountain, and entering a grove of willows and cottonwoods, halted, and dismounting, made preparations to encamp. The horses were staked out on the prairie and allowed to crop the gramma grass. The long lances were firmly planted in the soil, and bow, quiver, and shield, deposited on the ground in close proximity, together with the buffalo robes and bear skins. After watering the stock at the small stream that ran through the grove, wood was collected and fires built. Around these fires clustered the dusky warriors cooking the evening meal, which consisted of tasajo, and the nuts gathered from the piñon, which were roasted in the ashes. Long into the night the feasting was kept up, and as the fires languished fresh fuel was thrown on until they were blazing and crackling more cheerily than ever. The flames caused the forms of the savages to stand out in bold relief against the dark background of the surrounding gloom, and lighting up their faces displayed in all its fantastic repulsiveness, the war paint with which their bodies were bedaubed. Early the next morning the march was resumed. Towards noon the heat became so intense as to be hardly endurable, still we pushed forward with unvarying speed. After journeying in a southerly direction for a few hours we defiled into the bed of a river and followed its course for several hundred yards, when, striking a new trail, our course was laid in a westerly direction. The character of the country underwent a complete change; instead of the sandy desert, we were now passing over a prairie clothed with verdure. At intervals we would enter dense thickets of chaparral, and then emerge into glades, that were veritable flower gardens. At evening a halt was called, but only long enough to water the horses, and partake of a hasty meal; and continuing the march we forged ahead with increased speed. I judged by the animated gestures of the Indians that we were nearing our destination; my conjectures were not ill-founded, as about midnight we entered a valley, and passing through green fields, came in view of the lodges of the Apache encampment. Our approach was heralded by the barking of dogs, and soon we were surrounded by a vast multitude of women and children, who greeted the returning braves with great enthusiasm. We halted in the center of the village, and presently a large fire was blazing in front of the chief's lodge, around which the warriors assembled. The captives were placed in a row to one side, and except to be stared at by the women no further attention was taken of us. Each brave seemed bent on feasting himself, and while we were left to suffer the pangs of hunger and thirst, our masters indulged in gluttony of a most riotous and bestial nature. As the night advanced more fuel was added to the fires, until they crackled and blazed with tremendous fury. It was not long before the remains of the feast were cleared away, and the Indians reassembled, each with tomahawk in one hand, and a rattle in the other; then began the scalp dance, with which these tribes always celebrate their successful forays. A number of young women are selected who step into the ring, and holding up the recently taken scalps, begin a low chant. The braves circle round, brandishing weapons of various kinds, whilst they distort their faces and bodies into the most horrid shapes. Simultaneously jumping into the air, they come down on both feet with a blow and thrust of their weapons, while it would appear as if they were indulging in the most horrible butchery. Darting about their glaring eye-balls, as if actuated by the most fiendish passions. As the dance continues the excitement grows apace; the bystanders wave their torches and urge the actors on to renewed endeavor. The scene becomes one wild orgy, in which the lowest and most blood-thirsty passions are excited. The drums continue beating, the women shriek, men yell, dogs bark, and the whole scene becomes wild and terrible in the extreme. No description can do justice to this remarkable performance, but once seen it leaves a vivid impress on the mind that time can never efface. The dance was continued until the stars gradually disappeared, and the gray streaks of dawn ushered in the new day. Tired, and trembling with nervous excitement, I was conducted within the lodge; and throwing myself on the ground, I sought that repose that my body and mind so much needed. CHAPTER XIII. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY CONTINUED. Years have dragged their slow length along; once again I am surrounded by friends, and a husband's love shields me from the persecutions of a cruel captivity: yet, scenes and incidents of that terrible time recur to my memory with a vividness only too real. The capture, torture, and fatiguing marches, have left their imprint on my memory in ineffaceable characters. These were, however, but the overture to the drama. My intense sufferings commenced, and were comprised in the nine years of my life among the Apaches. I had passed a restless night; my couch was haunted by dreams of ill omen, and it was with a sigh of relief that I saw the morning's rays peeping through the crevices of our lodge of skins. I was enabled to look upon my surroundings, and take stock of my future home. The lodge was circular in form, measuring a circumference of about fifty feet at the base, narrowing as it extended upwards, until a space of about six feet was left open at the top; the framework consisted of poles driven firmly into the ground, and held in position by a covering of dressed buffalo skins. The floor in the center of the lodge was depressed sufficiently to form a fire-place, in which a few glowing embers could yet be seen. Ranged around the walls were the beds, seven in number, which were occupied by the chief and his six wives. I, of course, was included in the number. Some of the beds were tastefully draped with curtains of dressed skins, ornamented in various styles. The bed of the chief was perhaps the most gorgeous; on it could be seen the labor of five jealous women, each more anxious than the other to propitiate her lord by some extravagance of decoration, which would deflect the sunshine of his favor on her head to the envy and exclusion of the remaining members of the family. Suspended from stakes driven into the ground near the head of his couch rested the implements of warfare; lance, shield, bow, and quiver, together with the deadly tomahawk and murderous scalping knife. Extended along a line that bisected the wigwam, at a distance of perhaps twelve feet from the floor, were the scalps of his enemies. Judging from the great quantity of these ghastly trophies, my master was a man of immense valor and shocking brutality. Soon there was a movement, the curtains of one of the beds parted, and the head, shoulders and body of a tawny savage appeared. Leaving the lodge for a short time, she again returned with an armful of brush which she threw upon the fire; then falling upon her knees she blew the smoldering embers into a bright flame. The noise of the crackling wood aroused the others, and soon all the women were engaged in their household duties; one busied herself in preparing the morning meal; another was collecting into one pile a number of queer looking instruments, with whose use I was to become acquainted only too soon; still another, was devoting her attention to a young babe. Thus all were occupied. I was not long allowed to remain in undisturbed possession of my quarters. The woman in charge of the cauldron placed over the fire called for assistance, all were too busy to lend her aid, and one suggested that I should be aroused. This remark was received with general approbation, and soon I was on the floor, lifting kettles, fetching fresh fuel, and in fact, doing the bidding of my task-makers as best I might. This was the commencement of a life of unceasing toil. I was the pariah of our little community; having no rights that compelled respect, and being looked upon with feelings of suspicion and distrust by the Indian women, I was driven to perform the menial tasks and endure the ill-treatment of those who were only too happy, to visit on my unoffending and unresisting body, the ill-treatment _they_ had to endure from higher quarters. Breakfast being ready, the chief was aroused and the family clustered around the fire, attacking the contents of the kettle. To have seen them eat, one would have supposed that they had been strangers to food for a very long period; food was not eaten, it was devoured. After having partaken of the cakes of maize and tasajo, the work of the day began. Mahtocheega, of course, did nothing but smoke his k'neck k'nick and lounge about the lodge. His favorite pastime was to lie at full length in front of the door, and like any dog, bask in the rays of the sun. It was now the planting season, and from morn till night we were in the field, breaking the ground and sowing the grain. The implements used, were of a very rude character, the hoes being fashioned from the shoulder bone of the bison; the earth was broken by these, and all the cultivation that was required was performed with the aid of this article. Such was the great fertility of the soil, that maize and squashes grew almost spontaneously when planted. All through the day, we were compelled to stoop and bend over the ground, while the sun's rays becoming more and more intense, made life intolerable. Did we lag but for a moment, the ever vigilant eye of some adjacent Indian would note the movement, and swooping down on us would urge us to renewed exertion, by word or blow. My first day's experience in this species of farming, was excruciating agony. Being unskilled in the use of a hoe, I bruised myself severely, for, instead of breaking the soil, I came down with full force on my own limbs and feet; at such times a groan of agony would escape me, which, instead of eliciting sympathy, would only excite laughter. Maimed and bleeding, I toiled on, and wishing, oh! so fervently, that the next blow might be on my head, instead of the inferior parts of my body. Towards evening, my torture became unendurable, and throwing my tired body on the ground, I determined not to work longer, let the consequences be what they may. This conduct was so entirely unexpected, that it took my captors by surprise, and finding blows of no avail, they desisted, and left me to suffer alone. I had to be carried home, much to the disgust of those whose duty it was to bear the burden; arriving at the lodge, ointment was prepared from the juice expressed from the leaves of the pita plant, and being applied to my bruised limbs, soon allayed the inflammation and soreness. A brief description of this remarkable plant may not be without interest to the reader; what the _zamias_ is to the East Indian, the pita plant is to the Southern Indian--it is food, medicine, stimulant, and clothing. It is to be found in the greatest abundance along the great American desert, near the base of the Rocky Mountains. In places where it would seem impossible for living plants to thrive, there may be found the _lechuguilla_, its stalk rising to the height of twenty feet, and its thorny leaves branching out in clusters along its length; its fiber is made into rope; the sap expressed from its leaves, when boiled to the consistency of honey is an admirable dressing for wounds, causing light cuts to cicatrice almost immediately, and even ugly gashes will yield to it in time. The juice distilled, produces the fiery _mezcal_, familiarly known among the trappers as "pass whiskey." It is made quite extensively at El Paso, hence the _sobriquet_. The egg-shaped core, when cooked, yields a thick, transparent body, similar to jelly; it is very nutritious, and is used to a great extent by one branch of the Apaches, who bake it with horse-flesh; this tribe is called by the frontiersmen, _mezcaleros_ on this account. Without the aid of this plant, there are seasons when the Lipans, Apaches, and Camanches would perish from starvation. Too much cannot be said in praise of the wild aloe; it is one of the many striking instances in which an all-wise Providence has furnished man with a medicine and food combined. The laboratory of nature is full of similar plants whose uses are as yet imperfectly known, and have perhaps never been applied to the relief of the suffering. During my sojourn among the Indians I became familiar with the names and uses of many of these roots and plants, which I believe were never before known to civilized man. Several months had elapsed, the corn was planted and had nearly ripened. As I became hardened by exposure and toil, my lot seemed somewhat softened; I say seemed mitigated; the work was none the less arduous, only my capacity to bear toil had been strengthened. One day, Eeh-nis-kin (the crystal stone), intimated that I was to be branded; this intelligence filled me with terror. I had never seen any one marked in this manner, and I presumed the process was a painful one. After having finished the morning's work I had retired into the lodge, in order to complete some garments I was making, for Eehniskin's little boy, when a messenger arrived, announcing that the medicine man wished to see me, and bade me follow him. Arriving at the lodge in the center of the village, I joined a throng of captives, who like myself had been summoned to appear and receive the mark of bondage. Presently the crowd gave way, and the "hush-sh" that was echoed from mouth to mouth, warned us of the approach of Pa-nis-ka-soo-pa (the two crows), the high priest and great medicine of the nation. We were required to form a ring, leaving a space of some thirty feet in diameter. Silence reigned supreme; nothing was heard save the light tinkling of the rattles upon his dress, as he cautiously and slowly moved through the avenue left for him. He neared us with a slow and tilting step, his body and head entirely covered with the skin of a yellow bear, the head of which served as a mask to his own, which was inside of it; the huge bear's claws were dangling on his wrists and ankles. In one hand he shook a frightful rattle, with the other he brandished his medicine spear, to the rattling din of which he added the wild and startling yells and jump of the Indian, and the appalling grunts and snarls of the grizzly bear. After prancing around us for a short time, he built a small fire, and threw into it some bits of bluish clay, which turned black when subjected to the fierce heat; these were then pounded into fine powder. Taking a sharp-pointed stick, he pricked our chins in semi-circles with the point of this stick dipped in a lotion of the powdered clay and a blackish gum, which he poured from a stone vial. The sensation was as if one was sticking needles into your face. Soon after the operation was performed the skin began to burn and the punctured portion inflame; it then became very painful, but an application of the never-failing aloe soothed the inflammation. This was the ceremony of branding, and I carry the scar, and will continue to wear it to my latest hours. Returning to the lodge, I was greeted with jeers and derisive laughter by the women of my household; the dogs joined in the uproar, barking, perhaps, because others pointed the finger of scorn at me, and to be in sympathy with their masters. Even the filthy little children raised their tiny voices, accompanying their laughter with volleys of stones and sticks, thus "Catching at little bits of fun and glee, That's played on dogs enslaved, by dogs that's free." CHAPTER XIV. HOPES AND FEARS--AN ADVENTURE. For over two years my life was one unvarying monotony; a ceaseless round of toil. Day after day I was occupied with my duties in the laboratory, or in gathering roots and herbs for the preparation of the medicine. The daily life of the village presented a wearying sameness after I had become accustomed to its more novel peculiarities. There was little of excitement or interest in my surroundings. At first the arrival and departure of war parties, or the bands, who at regular intervals went forth to hunt, or to steal horses, attracted much of my attention; but eventually all these became tiresome; for when you have seen one of these gatherings, you have seen all, so little do they differ. Many times I accompanied Wakometkla in his trips beyond the valley, in search of those ingredients for his medicine, which could not be procured within its limits. I had not yet abandoned the idea of escape, should an opportunity offer, and I had hoped that in those expeditions beyond the valley, I might find the occasion for which I longed. But in this regard fortune did not favor me; I was always too closely watched to make the attempt with any hope of success; and it was not long before I satisfied myself, that even if I should succeed in getting clear of the valley, there was very little chance of my finding my way back to civilization. Gazing from the summit of one of the "spurs" of the mountain range east of the valley, I found my path to liberty barred by the desert, which stretched for many miles to the north and east. Southward, the prospect was scarcely more inviting; the country was almost equally barren, although more broken, and affording a better chance for concealment. But I knew that the expert Indian "trackers" would find my trail, no matter what course I might take; and an attempt to escape on foot could only result in my being overtaken, brought back, and probably tortured; for not even the influence of the high-priest himself would avail to save me, if detected in an effort to escape. With a good horse, success was possible; although it was an open question, whether I would be able to find my way through a country of which I knew so little. It seemed far more probable that I would either perish in the desert, or only survive its dangers to fall into the hands of other savages, more cruel and relentless than the tribe of which I had become an unwilling member. So I reluctantly concluded that the idea of flight must be abandoned, unless unforeseen circumstances should arise, giving me a far better opportunity then had as yet offered. That I should ever meet with such an occasion, however, was altogether unlikely; and in time, the very thought of escape was almost entirely banished from my mind. In the autumn of the second year of my captivity, the monotony of my existence was broken by a rather exciting adventure; and as it is the only experience of the kind I ever met with, I will briefly narrate it. In company with Wakometkla, I had gone in the early morning to the lower end of the valley to procure an herb, called by the Camanches "Iakara," which grew in great abundance along the sides of the cliffs. Hitherto we had been able to gather it at a short distance from the village, but having used it in large quantities, we had stripped the shrubbery on both sides of the valley of all that was fit for use, and were every day compelled to go to a greater distance, in order to obtain it in sufficient quantities. Hence on this occasion we had reached a distance of nearly ten miles from the village, before we were able to collect enough for our purpose. By this time we were considerably fatigued by our exertions, and sat down at the base of the cliff to rest and partake of such simple fare as we had brought with us. While thus occupied, my attention was attracted by an animal which suddenly appeared upon a ledge far above our heads. A singular animal it was, and would naturally excite the curiosity of any one who beheld it for the first time; to me, however, it was no stranger, as I had frequently seen others of the same species upon the cliffs bordering the valley, although I had never before had so favorable an opportunity for a close examination. Commonly known as the "Big Horn" or "Rocky Mountain Sheep," and found inhabiting all the mountain ranges which divide the continent, it seems a sort of cross between goat and sheep, having much of the appearance of the latter, with more of the habits of the former. Standing upon a rocky ledge which jutted out from the face of the cliff, it surveyed me with great apparent curiosity, and without any signs of fear. As soon as I perceived it, I sprang to my feet, and seizing my bow, in the use of which I had become quite expert, I quickly sent an arrow through the unsuspecting animal, and it tumbled headlong from its lofty perch and fell dead at my feet. Wakometkla, who had been rather taken by surprise by the suddenness of my movements, now came up to me, and praised my skill and quickness; he then condescended to assist me in skinning and cutting up the carcass. We then packed in the skin, such portions of the meat as we could carry with us, and hung the rest upon a tree, high enough to be out of the reach of the wolves and coyotes, so that we could return or send for it if we chose to do so. I supposed that we were to return at once to the village, but my companion directed me to remain, as he wished to proceed down the valley a short distance, in search of a species of bark for which we had been looking during our ramble, but had been unable to obtain. Telling me that he would return in a few minutes, he started off and was soon lost to view in the thicket. Reclining upon the ground I filled my pipe with the "k'neck k'nick," or Indian tobacco, and proceeded to make myself as comfortable as possible. Wakometkla's absence was prolonged far beyond what I had expected, and I was considering the advisability of starting in search of him, when a sound reached my ears as of some one breaking through the undergrowth, and concluding that it was my master returning, I laid back and abandoned myself to the contemplation of the blue smoke wreaths that curled above my head. As the sounds came nearer, I began to doubt whether it could be Wakometkla after all, for _his_ progress through the thick undergrowth that skirted the valley, was usually comparatively noiseless, but I was so absorbed in my own reflections, that I did not give it a second thought, but lazily awaited the appearance of the new comer, whatever he or it might be. In a few moments the mystery was solved, and in a manner the reverse of pleasant. Emerging from the dense undergrowth through which he had forced his way, the new arrival entered the little clearing near whose center I was reclining, and on turning to discover what had occasioned the noises I had heard, I beheld an object that sent a thrill of terror to my heart, and for a moment rendered me incapable of motion. The object in question, was a large animal, which I at once recognized as the _grizzly bear_; the most dreaded of all creatures that inhabit this region. CHAPTER XV. TREED BY A GRIZZLY. The bear was one of the largest of his kind, but it was not so much his size that impressed me with fear, as the knowledge of his fierce nature. It is true, that personally I knew but little of the habits of the animal, although this was not my first introduction to "old Ephraim," but from the tales of the Indians, I had learned enough to cause me to feel certain that I was in deadly peril. When my eyes first rested on the monster, he had just emerged from the thicket at the same point at which Wakometkla had entered it. On reaching the open ground he advanced a pace or two, and then halting, reared himself up and stood upon his hind legs, at the same time uttering a sound which resembled the "blowing" of hogs when suddenly startled in the forest. He remained in this upright attitude for some moments, rubbing his head with his fore paws and playing them about like a monkey; in fact, as he stood facing me, he looked not unlike a gigantic ape. He was of a yellowish red color, with legs and feet nearly black, but color is no characteristic among these animals, scarce two of them being alike in this particular. To say that I was not terrified by the arrival of this unwelcome intruder, would be to state an untruth. I was frightened, horribly frightened, and with good reason. To suppose that he would not attack me would have been absurd; I knew that in nine cases out of ten, the grizzly bear is the assailant; that no animal in America will willingly engage in combat with him, and that man himself shuns the encounter, unless well mounted, and even then, the prudent hunter always gives "old Ephraim," as the "mountain men" call him, a "wide berth," and rides on without interfering with him, unless the ground is perfectly open, so that his horse is not likely to be impeded. The white hunter considers the killing of a grizzly bear a feat of prowess equal to the destruction of _two_ Indians; while to the Indian, the destruction of one of these animals is one of the greatest feats in his life's history. Among Indian braves, a necklace of bear's claws is a badge of honor, since they can only be worn by a man who has himself slain the animals from which they have been taken. On the contrary, the grizzly bear fears no antagonist; he attacks the largest animals on sight. The moose, the elk, the buffalo, or wild horse, if caught is instantly killed. A blow from his paw will lay open the flesh as if gashed with an axe, and he can drag the body of a full grown buffalo, to almost any distance. He rushes upon man without the slightest hesitation, and frequently a dozen hunters will retreat at his approach. Nearly twenty bullets have on some occasions been fired into the body of a grizzly, without killing him, and only a shot through the brain or heart is certainly mortal. With such sanguinary fierceness of disposition and extraordinary tenacity of life, it is no wonder the grizzly bear is a creature to be dreaded. Had he the swiftness of the lion or tiger, his haunts would be inapproachable by man, and he would be a far more terrible assailant than either. Fortunately, however, he is slow compared with the horse, although he can easily outrun a man, and there is another peculiarity about him, which detracts somewhat from the danger of an encounter with this savage beast, he is not a _tree climber_, and many a life has been saved by this circumstance; for although he does not affect the forest, there is usually some timber in the vicinity of his haunts, and in many instances his intended victim has saved himself by taking refuge in a tree. Knowing well, by hearsay, all these facts, you can easily imagine my feelings, at finding myself face to face with one of these fierce animals, alone and without weapons, save my bow and arrows and knife. It is true, there was abundance of timber near at hand, but unfortunately the bear was decidedly nearer to me than any tree of sufficient size to promise a safe refuge. On lying down, I had, without thought, placed myself in the very center of the clearing, and I found myself at least one hundred yards from any of the larger trees; the bear had approached before halting, to within about eighty yards, and stood watching me, apparently surprised at our rencontre. Without doubt he would overtake me before I could reach and ascend a tree, and I was fairly bewildered by the utter helplessness of my situation. These reflections occupy many minutes of your time to _read_; I _thought_ them in as many seconds. Indeed, I had not time to form a plan of either defense or escape, when my antagonist, evidently concluding that I was fair game, dropped upon all fours, uttered a loud roar and rushed upon me with open mouth; simultaneously, I turned and fled with all my speed. Before I had covered half the distance that separated me from the tree towards which I had directed my flight, he was almost at my heels, and I had about determined to stop and engage in the desperate conflict that seemed inevitable, when his attention was attracted by an object in his path, and although the halt he made was but momentary, it enabled me to gain some ground, and I ran on with redoubled speed. The object in question was none other than the carcass of the "big horn," which lay fresh and bloody, rolled up in the skin, directly in my line of flight. The bear pawed it over, snatched a hasty mouthful, and then resumed the pursuit; but his brief hesitation had been my salvation, and I had reached the tree which I had selected before he could overtake me. My climbing experience gained during my expeditions with Wakometkla, now stood me in good stead, and I "shinned" up the tree with the agility of a monkey. I had no time to spare, however, for my ursine friend reached the base of the tree before I had ascended far enough to be entirely out of reach, and rearing up, succeeded in getting a slight hold of my right foot. I clung to the tree with the desperation of despair, and the moccasin giving way, I soon drew myself above his reach, with no other injury than a severe scratch. In a few seconds I was safely ensconced among the branches, about thirty feet from the ground, while my baffled antagonist was walking round and round it, uttering growls of rage, and stripping the bark from the tree with his terrible claws. During my hasty flight I had slung my bow across my back, and had fortunately preserved it safely. My quiver, well filled with arrows, being attached to my person by a belt, I was well supplied with ammunition; and thinking it about time to commence offensive operations, I secured myself to the tree with strips of leather cut from my shoulder belt, and commenced trying my skill as an archer, with the bear as a living and movable target. Owing to my cramped position in the tree, my aim was necessarily uncertain, and many of my shafts went wide of the mark; still, I did succeed in hitting the brute several times, but with no other effect than to increase his rage and apparent determination to watch until he should tire me out, and overcome by fatigue or sleep, I might fall from the tree, and thus become an easy victim. Seeing this, I desisted after a while, and settled myself down to wait as patiently as I might for him to tire of his watch, or for relief of some sort to arrive. Perhaps an hour had elapsed when I heard a noise on the opposite side of the clearing, and on looking in that direction I saw Wakometkla just emerging from the woods. The bear saw him at the same instant, and abandoning his post of sentinel, rushed towards his new enemy. The old Indian waited long enough to discharge three or four arrows with great rapidity, and then ascended the nearest tree with a rapidity quite surprising in a man of his age and build. Two of his shots had taken effect--that is, they had hit the bear; but they caused no diminution of his energy or fierceness. He rushed to the base of the tree, and vented his rage in stripping the bark from its trunk. Finding that his intended prey had escaped him, he soon desisted from this occupation, and returning to the carcass of the "big horn," began devouring it, at the same time keeping a constant watch upon our movements, so as to preclude the possibility of our slipping away. In spite of the uncomfortable nature of our position, I could not help laughing at the ludicrous picture we presented, perched in the trees like a couple of monkeys, hardly daring to move lest we might lose our hold and tumble into the clutches of our unpleasant neighbor. The bear soon finished his repast, indeed it was but a mouthful to an animal of his size and appetite, and he commenced walking back and forth between the two trees in which we were severally ensconced, evidently trying to form some plan by which he could get at us. But his cogitations apparently resulted in nothing; and in fact, we were not at all disturbed as to the probability of his being able to reach us. We knew that we were perfectly safe in our lofty retreat, but how long we might have to remain there was another matter, and _I_ for one was decidedly wearied of my airy prison. I knew that no search would be made for us for several days, as we frequently remained absent two or three days at a time when on these expeditions. Our only hope was that our self-appointed jailor might weary of the task he had set himself, or be compelled to go in search of food or water; and in that case we could improve the opportunity, and get out of reach without difficulty. For hour after hour, however, he kept up his sentinel-like tramp from tree to tree; at times varying the monotony of his proceedings by frantic attacks upon their trunks. The tree to which I had retreated was not more than eighteen inches in diameter, and I was not without fear at one time that he would succeed in demolishing it altogether, and bringing me "down by the run." I was not destined, however, to find out whether he was able to accomplish that feat or not, for after tearing away at it for a while, and making the splinters fly in a rather alarming manner, he seemed to tire of it, and resumed his patrolling between the two trees. The day had worn away to near its close, and I was contemplating the unpleasant prospect before me of passing the night in my very uncomfortable quarters, when the sound of hoof-strokes reached my ears. Looking out through the opening, upon the plain, I saw a party of about a dozen Indians riding leisurely up the valley, evidently one of the hunting parties on their return. They were nearly a mile from our position, but in these elevated regions sounds can be heard at almost incredible distances, and I at once shouted at the top of my voice, to attract their attention. Wakometkla did the same, and we were evidently heard, for they halted for a moment, and after a glance in our direction, galloped towards us. As they neared us I expected to see the bear take himself off without ceremony, but to my surprise, he showed no signs of such an intention. On the contrary, when they had passed about half the distance at first separating us, he advanced to the edge of the plain and stood as if inviting attack. The Indians rode up to within a few rods of the grizzly, and then seeing us in our haven of safety they realized the situation at a glance, and burst into uproarious laughter. This seemed to irritate the grizzly, for he uttered a roar of rage and rushed fiercely at them; then ensued an exciting and amusing scene. The Indians at first used only the lasso, and in a few seconds three or four of them had "roped him," and by spurring up their horses, he was dragged first one way and then another, making frantic efforts to free himself, and growling savagely all the while. Meanwhile the other horsemen rode up as near as safety would permit, and fairly riddled him with arrows. Overcome by superior numbers, "old Eph," at length succumbed to his fate, and a few lance thrusts soon put an end to his existence. Wakometkla and myself quickly descended from our tree fortresses and joined the party, who greeted us with exclamations expressive of satisfaction, at having rescued us from our unpleasant predicament: The bear was soon skinned and cut up, and we returned to the village with our rescuers. As far as I was concerned, I felt fully satisfied with my experience as an interviewer of grizzly bears, and had no desire to repeat it, for although hunting the bear may be a pleasing pastime, it is not quite so pleasing when the bear _hunts_ you. However, "all's well that ends well," and if this narrative affords my readers any amusement, I shall never regret my day spent in a tree top. CHAPTER XVI. SOME CURIOUS CUSTOMS. The winter had been unusually severe, in several instances snow had fallen; a thing of rare occurrence in these latitudes. Not having prepared for such weather, by laying in an unusual supply of provisions, we were reduced to the verge of starvation, having recourse in our dire extremity to roots and berries, which we dug from the ground. During one week, I lived solely on the juice expressed from the cactus leaves, which I procured by stripping the plant of its thorny excrescences and paring the leaves with my knife. The juice yielded was thick and gummy, and of a sweetish taste. This diet could not sustain life for any length of time. Fortunately I had the good luck to discover some mesquite berries, that had been secreted by one of the tribe. This discovery proved my salvation, as without this timely addition of food, I should certainly have perished. During this season of hardship, many died of starvation. When a death occurred, the family of the deceased would yield themselves up to the most heart-rending grief. Their lamentations would succeed in attracting a crowd of sympathizing mourners who would join the family, and by indulging in yells, groans, and screeches, convert the whole scene into the most hideous travesty, which did violence to all those feelings of awe and solemnity, that are experienced by viewing the last sad rites of Christian burial. When an Indian dies, his body is painted, oiled, and dressed in its best attire, a fresh buffalo skin (if it is to be had), and failing this, a blanket is wound tightly around the body, and bound with thongs, then other blankets are soaked in water until they become very soft and elastic, when they also are wound around the body with great care and exactness, so as to exclude the air. This done, the dead warrior's arms are placed by his side and a liberal supply of food (when the article is plenty); placed on the scaffold. These scaffolds are constructed by placing three upright posts in the ground in the shape of a parallelogram, and connecting them by lateral bars. Over these bars are placed a number of willow rods, on which the body rests, in such a position that the feet will be towards the rising sun. The scaffolds are placed high enough to be out of the reach of dogs and wolves, yet not so high as to be inaccessible to the family, some portion of whom visit it daily, bringing food and water, which they place near the head of the corpse. The spirit is supposed to be in need of this sustenance on his journey to the happy hunting grounds. Once there, his spear, bow, and arrows will enable him to kill game in plenty. When the scaffolds decay and fall, the relatives collect the bones and bury them. The skull, which by this time has become perfectly bleached and purified, is taken and placed among a number of others which form a circle, the faces turned inward and facing a large shaft, around which is heaped a quantity of buffalo skulls. In this position they are preserved for years, the objects of religious veneration. The scaffolds of the chiefs are distinguished from the others by pieces of red or blue cloth which are thrown over the bodies. A party had been dispatched in search of food, and were expected back hourly. How anxiously we awaited their arrival none may know, who have not suffered the pangs of hunger. At last they made their appearance, bringing with them a quantity of berries called by the Indians oth-to-toa. This berry was pleasanter to taste than the mesquite. The juice, when extracted and mixed with water, tasted very much like the orange. In one of my strolls I had observed some blackbirds, and in the hope of finding their nests, I was induced to wander to a greater distance from the village than I had been at any previous time. My search was rewarded by a quantity of eggs, and filling my Indian shirt with as many as I could carry, I retraced my steps. In struggling through the tangled underbrush, I lost my way, and after wandering about for some time in the hope of finding the path, I came to a small spring that was bubbling up from a crevice in the rock. The night had closed in rapidly, and, finding it was too dark to prosecute my journey further, I concluded to remain here for the remainder of the night. Gathering a few dried leaves, I soon had a fire lighted, and then securing enough brush to last me until dawn, I set about preparing my supper, which was merely roasted eggs. This frugal meal was soon dispatched, and heaping more wood on the fire, I selected a dry spot, and stretching my tired limbs, was soon in a sound slumber. How long I slept I know not, but I was awakened by peals of thunder and flashes of the most vivid lightning. These sounds were unusual in this country, as rain rarely fell in these latitudes. Should a storm of any magnitude pour its waters through the gorge in which I then was, I felt my position would be perilous in the extreme. I gathered up my supplies, that were collected at such an expenditure of labor, and scrambled over rocks and through sand towards the side of the mountain. I had not gone far when the rain commenced--first in large drops, and then in a steady patter; before many minutes the storm burst upon the mountain in all its fury. The rain fell in sheets, and literally deluged surrounding objects. My resting place was becoming untenable, and my life was momentarily imperiled by huge masses of falling rock, which had been loosened from its bed and came tearing down the mountain side, carrying all before it. Shielding myself behind trees and boulders, I climbed upwards, in the hope of finding a more permanent shelter than that afforded by the stumps of trees. The rain continued to pour down with increasing fury, and anon the vivid flash quickly followed by the startling roar of the thunder, and the noise of the seething flood, which by this time was bounding through the cañon, conspired to make the scene more terrible. Almost despairing, and thoroughly drenched, I was about yielding myself up to the fury of the tempest, when my eye fell upon what appeared to be a crevice in the rock. Hastily making towards it, I entered. The deeper I penetrated the larger it became, and I found myself at last snugly ensconced within the recesses of a vast cave. Congratulating myself on this good fortune, I was about preparing to resume my rudely interrupted slumber, when I was startled by the sight of two glaring eyes that were peering at me from the depth of the cave. Here was a dilemma. I had certainly intruded on some wild animal, and penetrated its lair. My situation became unpleasant in the extreme. Turn in whichever direction I might, those fiery eyes followed me, and at last I found that I was being subjected to the influence of a horrible fascination. My unpleasant experience with "old Eph" recurred to me with more force than pleasure; and the thought that I might have to deal with a grizzly, made doubly ferocious by being bearded in his den, caused the cold perspiration to stand out in beads upon my forehead. Suddenly I was startled by a roar that echoed through the cave. Those piercing eyes approached nearer. Mad with fright, I rushed to the mouth of the cave, and began a headlong descent down the steep banks of the cliff. In my wild scramble I dislodged stones and brush, which came tumbling precipitately after me, and I also heard another noise which struck terror to my heart; it was the foot stroke of the infuriated animal that was pursuing me! Not knowing whither I was going, but actuated by the sole desire to escape from this new danger, I very shortly found myself nearing the swollen river that was bounding through the cañon. There was no alternative, and, bracing myself for a final effort, I plunged into the swollen stream and breasted the waves, hoping to reach a rock that raised its head above the water, about an hundred yards down the stream; struggle as I might, I felt the rapid current sweeping me on with the rapidity of an avalanche. Should I reach it or be borne down the torrent, and be dashed to pieces against some hidden boulder? Nerving myself for one grand effort, I breasted the current, and, to my joy, found I was nearing the rock; striking out with the strength of despair I reach the refuge--the waves dash me against its sides--I clutch at the jagged ends that project out of the water, and by their aid clamber out of the reach of immediate danger! Finding myself safe, I look about me. The first object that attracts my attention is the lithe form of my pursuer who is running up and down the bank lashing his tail in fury, and occasionally breaking forth in the most savage roars. In its yellow coat and cat-like movements I recognize the dreaded cougar--the tiger of the western mountains--an animal that, when once aroused, will not hesitate to attack man or beast. He seemed to be deliberating whether to follow me into the stream. It was plain he disliked entering the water, and after pacing to and fro for some little time, turned abruptly and left the bank. Thinking I had achieved a victory, and finding that now I was safe, my courage was assuming a very bold front; I picked up a stone and threw it in the direction of the beast. Foolish action! It hit the cougar, and turning, he now rushed to the bank, and, bellowing with rage, plunged into the river. My position now became critical in the extreme. Once the rock was gained, I would certainly be mangled by the fierce creature. I could not take flight by water, as he could easily overtake me. My terror was extreme, and I lost the power of will. Fright had made me imbecile, and I rushed about the crest of the rock like a crazy man. All this time the enraged brute drew nearer; his paws touch the base of the rock; he is in the act of drawing his dripping limbs out of the water. Mouth open, tongue extended, and eyes inflamed with rage, the cougar prepares for the deadly spring. But look! the surface of the rock moves, gives way, and slides with a gentle motion towards the river. He makes a desperate effort to free himself from this natural trap, but in vain; the rock moves faster every moment, and with one grand rush this land slide is engulfed in the turbid waters. Instantly the body is thrown back into the seething flood, and my last view of him is as he turns a bend and disappears forever. After waiting several hours for the waters to subside, I am enabled to wade to the opposite shore, and, discovering my own trail by accident, wend my way back to the village. My adventure is related to Wakometkla, and soon spreads throughout the village. From this time forth I am regarded in the light of a hero, but on what grounds I was never able to satisfactorily determine, as I could scarcely consider running away from a danger heroic. CHAPTER XVII. THE BUFFALO DANCE. The buffalo being the main dependence of the Camanches for food, it naturally follows that they are fully alive to the importance of securing an abundant supply of meat during the season in which these animals migrate to the southern prairies. The superstition which forms so large a part of the Indian character is especially noticeable in the ceremonies in which they engage every year for the purpose of securing a successful hunt. This ceremony, although not peculiar to any special tribe, is a very novel one, and may be of interest to the reader. Like all other tribes, the Camanches lead lives of idleness and leisure, and consequently devote a great deal of time to their sports and amusements, of which they have a great variety. Of these dancing is one of the principal, and may be seen in a variety of forms. Among these are the scalp dance, the boasting dance, the buffalo dance, and a dozen other dances, all of which have their peculiar characters and meanings or objects. [Illustration: The Scalp Dance.] These exercises are extremely grotesque in their appearance, and to the looker-on, who knows not their meaning or importance, they are an uncouth and frightful display of starts, jumps, and yelps, and jarring gutturals, which to a stranger are truly terrifying. But when one gives them a little attention, and becomes initiated into their mysterious meaning, they become a subject of the most intense and thrilling interest. Each dance has its peculiar step, and every step has its meaning. Each dance also has its peculiar song, and that is frequently so intricate and mysterious, that not one in ten of the young men who are dancing and singing it know the meaning of the song they are chanting over. None but the medicine men are allowed to understand them; and even they are generally only initiated into the secret on the payment of a liberal stipend for their instruction, which requires much application and study. There is evidently a set song and sentiment for every dance, for the songs are perfectly measured and sung in exact time with the beat of the drum; and always with a uniform set of sounds and expressions, which plainly indicate certain sentiments, which are expressed by the voice, though sometimes not given in any language whatever. They have other dances and songs which are not so intricate or mysterious, and which are understood by every person in the tribe, being sung in their own language. Some of these have much poetry in them, being perfectly metred, but without rhyme. It is of the buffalo dance, however, that I propose to treat in this chapter, and of which I will try to give the reader as clear an idea as is possible from a mere description; but no words of mine can enable you to fully realize the strange tumult, scampering, grunting and bellowing with which my ears have been so often assailed. The buffalo is essentially a wandering creature, congregating at times in huge herds, and roaming from north to south or from east to west, apparently without any directing impulse, but in reality in search of forage. Although their movement to the southward usually takes place at a stated season of the year, it varies greatly in the number who take part in it. Hence it sometimes happens that the Camanches are unable to procure their necessary supply of meat, and in some cases, when the migration occurs at a later period than usual, the Indians find themselves practically without food, and disastrous seasons of famine ensue. This involves the sending forth of expeditions in search of the tardy herds. These hunting parties, having to pass through the country occupied by other tribes, are almost certain to be assailed and harassed by them, and sometimes compelled to return with the loss of many of their number, and without accomplishing the object of the expedition. Hence the Indians are loth to undertake these hunts, and prefer to depend upon the means which their superstition leads them to believe will have the effect of bringing the buffaloes within their hunting grounds. This is nothing more than the buffalo dance, and when the emergency arises, every Indian musters and brings out his mask (the skin of a buffalo's head, with the horns on), which he is obliged to keep in readiness for this occasion. Then commences the buffalo dance, which is held for the purpose of making "buffalo come," as the Indians term it, or, in other words, of inducing the buffalo herds to change their feeding grounds, and direct their course towards the vast prairies to the eastward of the Camanche villages, where the young braves can shoot them down, and the tribe be enabled to procure an abundant supply of food. During the greater part of the year the hunters can find the buffaloes within twenty miles of the village, and entirely within their own territory; but in some seasons the young men range as far about the country as they can safely venture on account of their enemies, without finding meat. When this intelligence is brought back to the village, the chiefs, medicine men and counselors sit in solemn council until they have decided upon the most practicable expedient for overcoming the difficulty, and they rarely fail to decide upon the old and only expedient, which has never failed. The chief issues his orders to the runners or criers, who quickly proclaim it throughout the village, and in a few moments all are assembled to take part in the dance, which at once begins. The place where this strange performance is carried on is the public area in the center of the village, directly in front of the temple. About ten or fifteen Indians join in the dance at a time, each with the skin of the buffalo head, with the horns on, placed on his head, and armed with his lance or bow, with which he is accustomed to kill these animals. I have said that this dance always has the desired effect of making "buffalo come." It never fails, from the simple reason that when it is once begun it cannot be stopped, but is kept up incessantly night and day until the welcome herds are descried by the watchful look-outs. Drums are beaten and rattles shaken, songs and yells are continually shouted, and lookers on stand ready, with masks on their heads and weapons in their hands, to take the place of each dancer who becomes fatigued and falls out of the ring. A chain of look-outs is established connecting the hills surrounding the village with those to the eastward, and the moment buffaloes are discovered by the distant watchers, they speedily pass the signal from one to anther until it reaches the village. It is instantly understood by the whole tribe, and the joyful intelligence is received with shouts of thanks to their strange god and to mystery men and the dancers, who have been the immediate cause of the successful result. During my residence in the Camanche village, these dances were sometimes kept up for two or three weeks without intermission, until the buffaloes made their appearance. Hence the buffalo dance can never fail, and the Indians consider it an infallible means of bringing the herds into their country. Every man in the tribe is obliged to be provided with the mask of the buffalo, which he can use whenever he is called upon to dance to make "buffalo come." The mask is put on over the head, and has a strip of the skin hanging to it of the whole length of the animal, with the tail attached to it, which passes down over the back of the wearer and drags on the ground. When one of the dancers becomes wearied of the exercise, he indicates it by leaning forward and sinking his body to the ground. One of the lookers-on then draws a bow upon him and hits him with a blunt arrow, and he falls like a buffalo and is immediately dragged out of the ring by the bystanders, who brandish their knives about him, and, having gone through the motions of skinning him and cutting him up, they release him, and his place is at once supplied by another who dances into the ring with his mask on. By thus relieving one another the dance is kept up day and night until they reach the desired end, and make the "buffalo come." When the signal is given that the buffaloes have made their appearance, the dance is discontinued at once, and a scene of great excitement ensues. The masks are quickly thrown aside; the Indians prepare for the hunt with marvelous rapidity, and mounting their horses, gallop wildly down the valley to pass the eastern entrance. In the village, where all had been enduring the utmost privation, with starvation staring them in the face, a scene of feasting and carousal would follow. Each would bring out their private stores, and the provisions that might in an emergency have lasted for several weeks would be consumed in a day. Even the dogs were not forgotten, but received a liberal share of the refuse portions of the feast. The usual games and amusements followed, and from the deepest gloom and despondency all seemed to pass at once to the other extreme, and joy and exultation to reign supreme. From the distance required to be traversed, the hunting parties would usually not return until the third day after their departure. Then came another scene of feasting, but this time on a far larger scale. The choicest pieces are sacrificed to appease their mysterious god, without which ceremony the Indians believe that all their future hunts would be unsuccessful. The largest portion of the meat is cured and made into tasajo, so that the proceeds of one successful hunt will often provide the entire community with food for many weeks. [Illustration: The Buffalo Dance.] When I first saw the buffalo dance, I viewed it with much interest, but when continued for days and weeks, it becomes excessively wearisome from the perpetual howling din and clamor kept up, keeping the village in a continual uproar, and usually causing me to offer up most fervent prayers that the buffalo would "come," if it was only to be relieved from the noise and confusion which are occasioned by this curious ceremony. Unlike the northern Indians, the Camanches resort to the buffalo dance only on rare occasions, but when they do undertake it, their persistence is admirable; and for this reason, the other tribes have a saying, or sort of proverb, that when the Camanches dance for "buffalo" it is a good moon to hunt, but a bad moon on the war-path. Their meaning probably is, that the buffalo are sure to "come," when the Camanches dance for them, but that the Camanches are equally sure to "go for" any other tribe who encroach upon their hunting grounds at such times. Such is the buffalo dance; one of the most curious of the many strange customs of the prairie Indians. CHAPTER XVIII. A STRANGE HISTORY. One of the most noted warriors of Tonsaroyoo's band was a pure blooded Mexican. A man of medium size, but athletic and well-proportioned, and not more than thirty years of age; he was distinguished even among these savages for his cruelty, nay, even ferocity of disposition, and lust for bloodshed. His position in the tribe was that of a sub-chief, and he had attached to himself a chosen body of about sixty warriors, all men of bad standing and little character in the tribe, but all noted as desperate fighters. With this party "Hisso-de-cha" (the Spanish Serpent), might be said to be on a perpetual war-path, for he was never contented to remain idly in the village for any length of time, but was continually instituting private forays in all directions. In these operations he was in no wise particular as to the objects of his attacks. Plunder and slaughter being apparently his only motive, he would attack any party he met with that was not too numerous, and in this way had several times embroiled the Camanches in war with friendly tribes, despite the stern reproofs he received from Tonsaroyoo for his lawless conduct; his uniform good fortune in these enterprises, however, had thus far prevented him from falling into entire disrepute with the leaders of the tribe. "Success covers a multitude of sins," says the proverb, and so it proved in his case. Notwithstanding his evil nature, I was for various reasons strongly attracted towards this man. Chief among these was the fact that he spoke English--not very fluently, it is true, but sufficiently to be able to carry on a conversation without much difficulty. Then, from the time of my first entry into the village he had treated me with uniform kindness; why this was so I know not, but the fact remains that he did so, and it was by his assistance that I was enabled to perfect myself in the Indian language, and also to gain some knowledge of Spanish, which afterwards did me good service. Much of my spare time, when he was not absent with his band, I spent in his company, and in our talks I had gained considerable knowledge of his past history. What I had heard, however, only made me more curious to hear the whole, and one evening I importuned him to give me some account of his past life. After some hesitation he consented, and filling our pipes, we reclined upon a buffalo robe before the entrance to his lodge, while he told me his story. THE RENEGADE'S HISTORY. "My real name is Pedro Vargas--_carrai_! it sounds strange enough in my ears now, for it is many years since I have heard it uttered. "I was born on the banks of the Del Norte, where my father was a _vaquero_ on the estate on Don Ramon d'Echeverra. I remember but little of my childhood, except that my life was a hard and unhappy one, for I was one of eleven children, and we were miserably poor. When I reached my eighth year, I was considered old enough to assist my father in his daily duties; under his tuition, I was able in a few months to ride like a Camanche, to fling the lazo with unerring aim, and to perform with credit most of the drudgery which fell to my share. In this manner the time passed until I was about eleven years of age, when the events occurred which separated me from home and friends, and indirectly made me what I am--the boldest warrior of the Hietans--"Hissoo-de-cha," the renegade, the terror of the frontier. "The estate of Don Ramon was situated so far down the river as to be out of the track of the Indian raiding parties, and for a generation the red-skinned warriors had never troubled that region. But in the autumn of the year of which I speak, a large party of Camanches had entered Chihuahua, and penetrating almost to the very center of the province, had there met with a severe reverse, and were compelled to retreat without plunder, scalps or captives. Not daring to return to their village empty-handed, for, as you know, the very squaws would have hooted them, they recrossed the Grande above San Vicente, made a wide detour, and coming down the Pecos, again entered Mexican territory, and made a flying raid upon the river towns. "From its remoteness from the usual scene of these Indian forays, the inhabitants of this region were resting in fancied security, and had made no preparations to resist such an attack. As a natural consequence, they fell an easy prey to the savage invaders. "The rancheria of Don Ramon was one of the first attacked, and the proud old Don and his three sons, with most of their rancheros and vaqueros, were surprised and slaughtered. Of my own family, my sister Conchita, a girl of sixteen, and myself, alone escaped death; and we, with many other captives, were hurried off in charge of a small detachment of Camanches. Of the journey to this village I need not tell you, as you have, perhaps, passed through a similar experience. "On our arrival here, my sister soon became the wife of a chief, and to this circumstance I was indebted for much better treatment than usually falls to the lot of a captive. And here let me tell you that your own escape from torture and death was little less than miraculous. In my long experience with the tribe, I have never known of a similar incident. But Wakometkla is a very singular man, and so greatly is he reverenced by his nation, that he can do many things which Tonsaroyoo himself would hesitate to undertake. "_Carrambo_, but this story-telling is dry work. See if there be not a flask of mezcal within the lodge. _Caval_--you have found it? So--that is better;" and my strange companion, having swallowed a copious draft of the fiery liquid, resumed his narrative: "The first two years of my captivity were comparatively without incident, but at the beginning of the third year I was formally adopted into the tribe. As you yourself have gone through the ceremony, it is unnecessary to describe it, but as the circumstances in my case were somewhat different from yours, I found myself on an equality with such of the young braves as had never been on the war-path. "A few months later I joined a war party led by one of the subordinate chiefs, and during the expedition I was fortunate enough to take two scalps. This at once constituted me a warrior, and, liking the excitement and adventurous life, I soon became noted among the young men of the tribe. I joined every war party, and, being singularly fortunate, soon gained distinction as well as scalps and plunder. By the time I was twenty years of age, I was admitted to be one of the first warriors of the nation, and had attracted to myself a number of the more reckless spirits, who would follow anywhere that I would lead. "I had long been desirous of taking the command of a war party, thinking thereby to gain notoriety, and if fortunate enough to be unusually successful, I might thereafter be entrusted with the leadership of expeditions of more importance. "I had frequently importuned Tonsaroyoo, then as now the head chief of the nation, to allow me to undertake such an enterprise, but up to this time he had persistently refused to do so. "Finding that I could not obtain his permission, I determined to do without it, and secretly assembled those warriors on whose fidelity and silence I could rely. I made known to them my plans, and succeeded in inducing about thirty braves to take part in the rash undertaking. "Leaving the village under the pretense of hunting, we crossed the "Llano Estacado," to the head waters of the Pecos; and descending that stream nearly to its mouth, diverged to the west and crossed the Rio Grande. We traveled by night and remained concealed during the day, and by the exercise of the utmost caution, succeeded in evading the Lipans and Cayguas, through whose territory we had to pass. I had laid all my plans before leaving the village, and was quite confident that the raid would be a successful one. It was my intention to attack only the haciendas, and if possible to effect my object by surprise, for I knew that if I could return without the loss of a man, with a few scalps and a moderate amount of plunder, I would receive far more praise than if I had brought back twice as much booty, but with the loss of one or more warriors. "After crossing the river, the first hacienda within reach was that which had been my former home. It had passed into the possession of Don Rafael d'Echeverra, the brother of Don Ramon, and presented much the same appearance as in former times. Unfortunately for the success of my project, there was present at the hacienda a small party of American trappers, who had for some reason strayed into this region. These men had known Don Rafael, at Santa Fé, where he had at one time resided, and they had accordingly been made welcome at the hacienda. "Two of their number, while out on a hunt at a few miles distance, had crossed our trail, for I had led my party as near to the hacienda as I dared; and, having concealed ourselves in a dense chaparral, we were waiting for night, it being my intention to attack in the darkness, when the smallness of my force could not be easily discovered. Scenting danger at once, the hunters returned by a circuitous route to the hacienda, and warned its occupants. As a natural consequence, when we made our assault some hours later, they were fully prepared for us, and instead of surprising them we were ourselves surprised and greeted with a withering volley from the rifles of the trappers. At the first fire I received a severe wound, and fell from my horse with a broken leg. Panic-stricken at the fall of their leader, and demoralized by the unexpected reception they had met with, my followers quickly retreated in confusion, and I was left wounded and a prisoner in the hands of the men I had sought to destroy. "Upon discovering that I was a white man, so great was the indignation of the Americans, that I should have been put to death on the spot but for the intercession of Don Rafael. Finding that I was a native Mexican his sympathy was excited, and at his entreaty my life was spared, and the Don's own surgeon attended to my wounds. It was nearly two months before I had sufficiently recovered to be able to go about, and by that time every one on the estate knew my history, or rather that version of it which I saw fit to give them. I had represented to Don Rafael that I had been compelled to accompany the war party against my will, and concealed the fact that I had been the leader of the band. My story was easily credited because of my youth, and I was treated with great kindness. In another month I had entirely regained my health, and Don Rafael proposed to me to enter his employ as a vaquero. To this I assented, although I had fully determined to return to my tribe at the first opportunity. But I had first several objects to accomplish, and I was therefore compelled to bide my time, and wait for a favorable occasion. "Accordingly I joined the vaqueros of the rancheria, and for two months performed my duties to the entire satisfaction of my master. My object in thus remaining, when I might have made my escape at any time without difficulty, was twofold. In the first place I knew that it would not do for me to return to the Indian village empty-handed. My ill-considered and unauthorized foray having resulted in defeat and disaster, I could not expect a very cordial reception on my return, unless I performed some very daring feat in making my escape, or returned with a more than ordinary share of booty. The last I could not hope to accomplish, but the former was quite possible. "My second design was of an entirely different nature, and its successful accomplishment promised to be a very difficult matter. "Don Rafael's immediate family consisted of a wife and daughter, the latter a girl of fifteen, and one of the most rarely beautiful women it has ever been my fortune to behold. Her I had resolved to possess, and it was this reason more than any other which impelled me to the execution of the bloody deed I am about to relate. "Guadalupe, as she was called, evidently viewed me with marked disfavor, but this only intensified the passion I felt for her. I was consumed with desire, and determined that no obstacles should prevent me from accomplishing my purpose. "It was not long before the opportunity I sought presented itself, and the events took place which rendered me doubly an outcast from those of my race and color." CHAPTER XIX. A STRANGE HISTORY CONTINUED. "The hacienda of Don Rafael was a stone building, or rather a collection of buildings, forming a square. Like nearly all Mexican dwellings it was but one story in height, but covered a large extent of ground. It was flat roofed, with a parapet, breast high, running around the edge. There were few external windows, and these were mere slits in the wall, guarded by heavy iron bars and massive wooden shutters. The interior of the square formed a large court-yard, entrance to which was gained by two archways, one at each extremity. These were closed by great jail-like doors--in fact, the whole structure had some resemblance to a fortress, a style of architecture peculiar to this region, and rendered necessary for security against the annual raids of the Indian warriors. "On entering the _patio_ or court-yard, you saw the real front of the house. Here the windows had glazed sashes reaching to the ground, and opening on curtained verandahs. The surface of the _patio_ was paved with brick, and in the center stood a fountain, surrounded by orange trees. "Since the attack which had resulted in my becoming an inmate of the hacienda, more care had been taken to guard against future attempts of a like nature. The great gates were closed at sundown, and some attempt was made at keeping a regular watch or guard during the night. At first the sentinels were tolerably vigilant, but the lazy rancheros soon wearied of their unaccustomed duties, and before long the detail of a guard was omitted, and affairs subsided into their accustomed quiet. "The American trappers had departed, and all seeming favorable for the accomplishment of my plan, I was not long in putting it into execution. I had taken pains to become familiar with the internal arrangements of the mansion, and knew exactly where the different members of the household slept. Selecting a night when there was no moon, I picked out two of the fleetest mustangs from the corral, and secured them, fully prepared for flight, among a clump of trees at a short distance from the hacienda. "During my residence among the Camanches, I had become familiar with a certain herb possessing strong narcotic properties. This I had searched for and found without difficulty, and with it I had managed to drug a portion of the food prepared for the evening meal, so that at a comparatively early hour, the entire household was wrapped in profound slumber. My preparations were all completed, and when I deemed that the proper hour had arrived, I descended from the _azotea_, where I had been lying in wait; and noiselessly entered the apartments of the family. Reaching that occupied by Don Rafael, I sought his bedside, and placing one hand over his month, I stabbed him to the heart, and he died with scarcely a struggle. Quickly transferring his scalp to my belt, I proceeded with my bloody work, passing from room to room, until eight victims had perished beneath my blows, and eight bleeding scalps garnished my waist. "Knowing that I had but little time to spare, I now prepared for flight. Hastily collecting such articles of use or ornament as would be likely to seem of great value in the eyes of the Indians, and such as I could easily carry, I made them into a pack of small compass, and returning to the _azotea_, I lowered them to the ground with a lariat, which I had previously placed there. I then sought the apartment of Guadalupe. Entering it without noise, I beheld her, by the dim light of a night lamp, reclining upon her couch, buried in profound sleep. I quickly bound her hands and feet, and gagged her in the Indian fashion, with a pear-shaped piece of wood secured by a strip of leather. I then raised her to my shoulder, and bore her to the roof, and by the aid of the lariat, which I had secured to the parapet, I easily descended with her to the plain below. A few seconds rapid walking enabled me to gain the horses, and a few minutes later I had fastened her to the saddle, and we were riding at full speed to the northwest. Knowing the route well, I lost no time, and at daybreak had nearly reached the point at which I intended to cross the Rio Grande. "Day was just breaking when I rode through a belt of chaparral, and emerging upon the prairie beyond it, came suddenly upon a horseman, whom I at once recognized as one of the Mexican hunters attached to the hacienda d'Echeverra. Before he could recover from his astonishment at our unexpected meeting, I had literally ridden him down, and brained him with a single blow of my steel mace, one of the weapons which I had taken from Don Rafael's armory, and the same one you have frequently seen me carry. Adding his scalp to those I had already taken, and rifling his person of whatever of value he possessed, I resumed my flight, and traveling steadily all day, found myself by nightfall practically beyond pursuit. "My fair captive had long since recovered consciousness, and I had removed the gag from her mouth. I will spare you a recital of her prayers and entreaties when she realized her position. Suffice it to say that, after a perilous and wearisome journey, I reached this village in safety with my prize, and was greeted as one returned from the dead; for the survivors of my party had brought back the news of my fall, and I had been mourned by my wives and my poor sister as dead. Now all was rejoicing; a feast was made, the scalp dance was performed, and I found that by my bold exploit I had fully recovered my standing among the warriors of the tribe. "Guadalupe was added to the number of my wives, and until her death three years later, remained my favorite. About a year after my return my sister sickened and died, during my absence with a war party, thus leaving me without ties, save such as I had made for myself in my tribe. "I was now completely Indianized, and began a series of expeditions which resulted so successfully as to cause my advancement to the position of a sub-chief, and to my being frequently entrusted with important enterprises. In fact, the more desperate an undertaking, the more certainly would I be called upon to achieve it. To this state of affairs I made no objection, for I coveted the sort of distinction or notoriety it gave me, and as I rarely failed of success, I steadily gained in prestige and influence. But I have never been able to attain a seat in the council, or to reach any higher rank than that I now hold. This I attributed to the influence of Tonsaroyoo and Wakometkla, both of whom regard me with ill-concealed dislike, although they are compelled to acknowledge me as one of the best warriors of their nation. "I have led my chosen band in many a daring adventure, and have never returned without some trophy of my prowess. Among the many scenes of this nature through which I have passed, I will recount the following, which will prove to you that in what I have said of myself I have made no idle boast. "On one occasion Stonhawon, the second chief, went with about two hundred warriors into the Utah country, with a view of replenishing our stock of horses, as we had lost a large number through the polite attentions of the Utahs and Arapahoes. His party was gone some fifteen days, and returned with only eight horses, and with the loss of five men. This was considered a terrible disgrace, and many of the young warriors begged me to lead them, and by a successful raid remove the shame they felt at the defeat of Stonhawon's party. "Selecting barely fifty men, but those the most daring braves of the tribe, I left the valley by the eastern entrance, and crossing the desert, struck southward into the Lipan country. With this tribe we were at the time at peace, but I cared little for that, and the warriors of my party were equally unscrupulous. I sent forward a dozen spies, and moved forward cautiously with the main body. My reputation was committed to my present success, and I took more than ordinary pains to sustain it. Every man of my band was well armed and mounted, and I had full confidence in our ability to overcome double our number. One of the spies now returned and informed me that they had discovered a Lipan village of seventeen lodges, situated on the banks of a small stream. I directed them to return and watch them closely, and to apprise me of any movement they might make. The spy went back, but soon returned and informed me that they had moved down the creek, which was a tributary of the Pecos, had passed through a small cañon, and were encamped near its mouth. I ordered him to send in all the spies except three, and direct these to keep a sharp look-out. "I then determined to follow them down the cañon, and attack them at its mouth, thus cutting off all chance of their retreating into the cañon; but a spy now brought me word that they had moved further down and encamped on the edge of the timber, with the evident intention of remaining there. I then made a wide circuit, and crossed the ridge lower down with the largest division of my party but left about twenty warriors ambushed in the cañon. "From the summit of the hill I had an excellent view of the enemy's position, and my plans were quickly formed and executed with almost equal rapidity. Under cover of the timber I led my party until we gained the rear of the encampment. Then spreading out widely, we advanced to the edge of the timber, and shouting our savage war-whoop, rushed upon the Lipans. They were so completely surprised that we were among the lodges before they could make scarcely a semblance of defense, and many of them were cut down as they emerged from the lodges. "Those who escaped the first attack retreated towards the cañon, but on attempting to enter it were met by my detached party and repulsed with considerable loss. They then retreated to the west and gained the shelter of the woods, while we hastily collected our plunder and prisoners and retraced our steps towards our village, our spoils consisting of thirty-nine scalps, forty-eight captives, women and children, and over two hundred horses; and this notable victory was gained without the loss of a warrior, although we had twenty-three wounded. "The Lipans gathered reinforcements from other bands, and followed our trail, but did not succeed in overtaking us before we reached our village; and here we are too strong to be attacked. Great was the rejoicing upon our return; the scalp-dance was performed, feasts prepared in our honor, and I found myself looked upon as a greater brave than ever. "This expedition was but the prelude to a series of similar ones, and as my luck did not desert me, I soon found that more than half the tribe were anxious to accompany the war parties which I led. It suited me better, however, to operate with comparatively small parties, say of fifty or sixty men, and to take only those who would render unquestioning obedience to my authority. For this reason I selected men of no great prominence in the tribe, but whom I knew to be good fighters, to accompany me on these expeditions, so the victories we achieved might redound mainly to my credit. "One day I started out to hunt, accompanied by only five young warriors. After five days journey, during which we found no game, we ascended a slight eminence, and saw before us a large prairie. At some distance out a party of about thirty Indians were engaged in killing buffaloes. We could also see their village at about four miles distance. Here was an opportunity not to be lost. We passed along behind the crest of the hill until we had gained a position between them and their village, and then passed through a gully and concealed ourselves in the path they must necessarily take. We were able to discover by their costume that they were Pawnee Picts, a tribe with whom we were generally at peace, but I considered that fact of no importance. "The unsuspecting hunters, having finished butchering and dressing the buffaloes they had killed, began to approach us in straggling parties of four or five, their horses loaded with meat which they were bearing to the village. When the first of them came abreast of us, I made a signal, and five of them fell before our arrows. As the next party came up we brought down three more, and then rushed from our hiding place, and some began scalping the dead, while the remainder were cutting the lashings of the meat in order to secure the horses. Having taken eight scalps, we sprang upon the horses we had freed from the packs, and retreated precipitately, fearing to be overpowered by numbers. We made direct for the timber, and having secreted our horses, took refuge in a rocky place in the mountain, where we felt protected for a while from their attacks. To attack us in front they had to advance right in the face of our fire, while to reach our rear they had to take a circuitous route of several miles around the base of the mountain. "The enemy had now gathered in force, and displayed the utmost bravery, for they made repeated assaults nearly up to the position that sheltered us. Their arrows showered around us without injury, but we could bring one man down at each shot. To scalp them, however, was impossible. One of the enemy, who seemed to be a great brave, charged right into our midst and inflicted a severe wound on one of my party. Before he could retire, I cut him down with one stroke of my battle-axe, and added his scalp to those we had already taken. By this time the enemy had nearly surrounded us, which led me to believe that retreat would be our safest course; so when night came we evacuated our fortress unperceived by our enemies. "They, deeming our escape impossible, were quietly resting, intending to attack us with their whole force in the morning, and take our scalps at all hazards. Moving with the stealth of the cougar, we proceeded along the summit of a rocky cliff until we came to a ravine, through which we descended to the plain below, which was here covered with heavy growth of timber. We reached the spot where we had concealed our horses without difficulty, and made the best of our way home. In order to avoid hostile war parties we were obliged to take a roundabout course, and it was not until the eighteenth day after our departure that we reached the village. The tribe had given us over for lost, but when they saw us returning with nine scalps and with but one of our party hurt, their grief gave way to admiration, and we were greeted with shouts of applause. "The years I have spent among the Camanches are filled with such exploits as these, but their recital would weary you, and I will not further prolong my story." As the renegade finished his narrative, we sat and smoked for some time in silence. Then a sudden thought struck me and I said to him: "Hisso-de-cha, I have often thought that I should like to go on the war path. Why can you not take me with you when you next go forth with a war party?" "That I would willingly do," he replied, "but it would never be permitted; or at all events, I never could gain Wakometkla's consent to such a thing; but perhaps you can induce Stonhawon to let you accompany him, and I think he could manage it. He is now preparing to go on an expedition of some sort, as he is anxious to surpass my recent success against the Arapahoes. But come, it is time we were asleep, and if you are not tired of listening to me, I am decidedly tired of talking; so permit me to bid you a _bueno noche_;" and so saying, the renegade arose and retired to his lodge. I was not long in following his example, but sleep did not close my eyelids until nearly dawn. Reflecting upon the strange story of my still stranger companion, and seeing in imagination the many bloody scenes through which he had passed, my mind gradually turned to the subject which had so long lain dormant--the hope of escape from my hated bondage. At last there seemed a chance that my intense longing for freedom might be gratified; and I determined to spare no effort towards inducing Stonhawon to consent to my forming one of his war party. Hastily formed plans and wild schemes of all descriptions chased one another through my brain, and it was nearly morning before I fell into a troubled sleep, haunted even in my dreams by visions of blood and slaughter. CHAPTER XX. THE BUFFALO HUNT. The season was now approaching when the buffalo might be expected in great numbers on the plains to the east of us, and all the warriors were making the most extensive preparations for their grand buffalo hunt. They had commenced the ceremonies by song and dance, as related in another chapter and now, all that was necessary for their happiness, was the actual appearance of the bison. Young men left the camp daily, and scoured the plains, in order to get the first news of the herd; while others stationed themselves on high cliffs, and patiently waited the advent of the animal which was to supply them with food. A signal had been agreed upon, by which the village would be made aware of their presence as soon as the buffaloes were in sight. Meantime every Indian was busy, perfecting his arrangements for the chase. Lances were re-pointed, arrows headed, and bows strengthened. Most of the time, however, was employed in training the ponies, and the plain, in front of the village, presented a very animated appearance as the horsemen were seen dashing along at top-speed, throwing the lasso, or rushing headlong up to another warrior, who personated a buffalo, go through the motions of killing him. These scenes fired me with a desire to see a buffalo hunt myself. I had reason to believe that the Indians trusted me sufficiently to permit of my accompanying them on the proposed expedition; but then I was totally inexperienced in the management of their weapons, on horseback, never having had occasion to use them when mounted. However, I determined to try, and going to Wakometkla, I made known my wishes. He concurred quite heartily in my request, and even went so far as to offer me his own lance and spear. My determination to accompany the party was soon bruited throughout the village, and many were the offers of advice, ponies, and implements of the chase, that were pressed upon my acceptance. After some hesitation, I selected a pony that pleased me, and arming myself with bow and arrows, sallied forth upon the plain, to put into practice the hints that had been imparted to me in regard to hunting the bison. At first it was up-hill work; and my frantic endeavors to slide on the side of my pony and discharge an arrow from under his neck, caused my instructors no small merriment. After a severe fall--and I had many such--I would be assisted to my horse's back, and recommended to try it again, with as much coolness as if I had merely fallen from a chair. [Illustration: The Buffalo Hunt.] Notwithstanding the many times I came to grief, in trying to wield bow and arrow, or lance, effectively, I kept persistently at it, and in a week's time I had become a somewhat expert horseman, and could shoot an arrow with tolerable accuracy. I now wished that buffaloes would be signaled as approaching, quite as ardently as did the warriors; but in the meantime, I persevered in my practice. One day it occurred to me that I should like to learn to throw a lasso, and procuring one, I coiled it, mounted, and went in search of some object on which to practice. By some mutability of fortune a donkey had strayed into our midst, and had remained with the tribe for many years. No one used him, but all considered it their privilege to tease the poor brute. He bore it calmly and with that fortitude which is a distinguishing trait of his species. Deeming him a very fair substitute for a buffalo, I gave my pony a sharp cut with the whip, and dropping the rein upon his neck, prepared to throw my lasso. My imaginary buffalo seemed to suspect that all was not right, and acting on his suspicions galloped away, not giving my intentions the benefit of the doubt. It was of no avail, however, for, urging my pony to increased speed, I was soon within range, and twirling the lasso around my head a few times, I launched it, directing its course, as nearly as my poor skill would permit, towards the donkey's head. It would certainly never have touched him had he pursued the direction in which he was then running. But his evil genius prompted him to turn, and, shaping his course so as to bisect mine at right angles, he raised his head, and, giving vent to one of those musical neighs (?) for which the animal is somewhat famous, rushed on in his mad career. Poor brute! the noose hovered over him a moment, like some bird of prey about to swoop down on its quarry, and then settled over his head and shoulders. My horse knew more about the use of this peculiar instrument than I did, for no sooner had the lasso passed over the head of the donkey than he planted his fore feet firmly on the ground, and braced his body to receive the shock. Before I was aware of anything, I felt a sharp jerk at my wrist, and the next moment I was sailing over my pony's head, and going in the direction of the donkey at a more rapid rate than was agreeable. I soon struck _terra firma_, but with such force that the concussion caused me to see more stars than I thought the heavens were capable of containing. To add to my embarrassment, the rope had become fastened to my wrist, and in such a manner that I could not free myself. The donkey, recovering from the effect of the shock, started off at headlong speed, dragging my unresisting body after him. How long this novel journey would have continued I have no means of knowing had I not fortunately been rescued by a passing Indian. After an examination, I found that with the exception of torn clothing and a few scratches, I had come out of this adventure safely; but I never more had any desire to run amuck with donkeys. The Indian then explained the manner in which the lasso was thrown, and under his tuition I became somewhat of an adept in this novel art. The following morning the signal from the look-out announced that the herd were in sight. Then there was hurrying to and fro, and mounting in hot haste. Indians were seen rushing frantically in every direction, whilst the greatest hilarity prevailed among the squaws. Horses were driven into the corrals and quickly bridled, whilst those who were to participate in the hunt were busy divesting themselves of all superfluous clothing. Some armed themselves with a bow and a few arrows, while some depended on their lances only. The party had by this time assembled in front of the lodge where Tonsaroyoo was standing giving the final instructions to the band. These were very brief, and as soon as he had finished speaking, everything being in readiness, we mounted our horses, and were off like a whirlwind. Passing up the valley, we climbed the cliff and defiling around the narrow ledge of rock that guards this entrance to the village soon deployed upon the prairie. As we swept along over the plain on this glorious morning, my spirits rose, the blood coursed through my veins in rapid pulsations, and I felt as if I could have destroyed a herd of buffaloes single handed. In these latitudes such is the purity of the air that one seems to be taking in at every breath the veritable elixir of life. Your spirits are buoyant, and all nature seems to be smiling and gay. As we journeyed we overtook the scouts, who were returning to apprise us of the exact location of the buffaloes. After making their report, they would wheel into line and sweep on with the main party. We had proceeded about twenty miles, when we reached a level stretch of prairie, and directly in front of us, at a distance of perhaps two miles was the herd quietly grazing, all unsuspecting of the danger that menaced them. It was not a very large drove, and they kept quite close together. It was the season when the buffaloes wandered off from the main herd in small bands, and the prairies were dotted for miles with these black clumps, like great dark splashes on a carpet of emerald. The plan of attack was decided upon in council, and the band disposed of in a manner that would insure the complete and speedy extermination of our game. We were about to make a "surround." The warriors were divided into two columns, and taking opposite directions, drew themselves gradually around the herd at a distance of about a mile from them. We continued to deploy in this manner until a complete circle was formed, and then, at a given signal, we closed in upon the buffaloes, keeping our impatient steeds at a moderate pace. The herd soon got the wind of the advancing enemy, and fled in a body in the greatest confusion. To the point where the buffaloes were aiming to cross our line, the horsemen were gathering, and forming in column, brandishing their weapons and yelling in the most frightful manner, by which means they turned the surging mass. Seeing themselves baffled at this point, they would rush off in an opposite direction, when they would again be met by a formidable column and again repulsed in utter confusion. By this time we had closed in from all directions, forming a continuous line that circled the throng like the deadly coils of the cobra. The buffaloes had become completely demoralized, and were eddying about in a crowded and confused mass, hooking and climbing upon each other. Now was the time for the onslaught. Tonsaroyoo, by whose side I was riding, placed the whistle to his lips and gave the signal. Then followed a scene of wild confusion. The horsemen dashed upon the bewildered buffaloes with the rapidity of thought almost, using their lances and arrows with murderous effect. In the turmoil a cloud of dust was raised which in part obscured those of the band who did not immediately surround me. The excitement was intense, and soon all became one immense blur, in which hunters and buffaloes were indiscriminately mixed. I could see the Indians galloping their horses around the animals and driving the whizzing arrows or long lances to the hearts of their quarry. My own pony had penetrated deep into the herd, and with a sagacity that a long experience alone could develop, was laying his course straight for an enormous bull that was flanking the herd. Had _my_ taste been consulted, I should certainly have declined to try conclusions with such an ugly customer, but there was no avoiding the encounter, and, selecting an arrow, I drew my bow and waited a favorable opportunity to send it through the bison. On sped the pony, and in a few moments I was brushing the flank of the buffalo. At a glance I saw that he had been wounded and was tearing along, blind with rage. I let fly my arrow, which pierced his neck; its effect was only to increase his fury, and, wheeling round, he rushed on me with savage desperation. Never can I forget the sight as he bore down upon us. Infuriated with the wounds already received, his shaggy mane partly concealing his bloodshot eyes, and bellowing fiercely, he poised his head for a final charge. My horse tried to escape the onslaught, but we had penetrated into the main body, and our actions were impeded by the other buffaloes. I concluded our destruction was inevitable, but, as a last resort, I had determined to leap to the ground and trust to luck to lead me out of this dilemma. As I was preparing to dismount, a lance lying upon the ground caught my sight, and I instantly changed my resolution. If I could secure the weapon all might yet be well. I determined to make the effort at all hazards, and throwing my arm into the sling that depended from the neck of my horse, I swung lightly from his back, and hanging by my arm and foot, made ready to grasp the lance with my disengaged arm. As we swept along I succeeded in securing it, and reseating myself, prepared to drive it deep into the side of the enraged bull. I had scarcely time to poise the instrument when the buffalo charged down on us like a whirlwind. Bracing myself as best I might, I pulled violently on the reins and threw my steed to one side, just in time to prevent his being gored to death, at the same time lunging out savagely at the animal. The shock was terrific, and I went whirling from my horse's back some twenty feet on the prairie. I was not so violently stunned but that I was quite conscious of the danger I was in of being trampled to death by the hoofs of the demoralized herd, and, gathered myself up in time to grasp the trailing lasso that was fastened to my pony, I was dragged far out on the prairie. Badly bruised, my skin lacerated and in places bleeding profusely, I felt in no condition to take an active part in the hunt; in fact, my unique experience was, I thought, sufficient to last me a lifetime. Riding at some distance from the _melee_, I had an excellent opportunity to watch the progress of the hunt. The slaughter continued with unabated fury. The plain was covered with dead and dying buffaloes. Horses could be seen galloping over the prairie riderless, while their dismounted masters were flying for their lives before the infuriated animals. Sometimes the serried ranks would open, and the blinded horsemen, so intent upon their prey, amidst the cloud of dust, were wedged and hemmed in among the crowding beasts, over whose backs they were obliged to leap for security, leaving their horses to the fate that might await them in the results of this wild and desperate war. Many were the bulls that turned upon their assailants and met them with desperate resistance, and many were the warriors who were dismounted and saved themselves by their superior running abilities. Some who were closely pursued by the bulls, would wheel suddenly around, and snatching the part of buffalo robe from their waists, throw it over the horns and eyes of the maddened animal, and darting to one side, drive an arrow or lance to its heart. Others dashed upon the prairies by the side of the affrighted beasts which had escaped from the throng, and closely escorting them for a few rods, bring down their hearts' blood in streams, and their huge carcasses upon the enameled turf. In this way the whole herd was quickly annihilated. The war lasted perhaps thirty minutes, and resulted in the total destruction of the herd, which, with all their strength and fury, were doomed, like every beast, to fall before the destroying hands of mighty man. I had sat trembling on my horse, and witnessed this extraordinary scene. Although I was not enabled to accurately estimate the number killed, yet I am sure several hundred buffaloes fell in this grand onslaught. After the battle the scene was curious in the extreme. The hunters were moving about amongst the dead and dying animals, leading their horses by their halters, and claiming their slain by the private marks upon their arrows, which they were drawing from the wounds in the animals' sides. A few buffaloes had the good fortune to escape, but, after wandering off on the prairie for some distance, they would stop, stand a while, looking around as if in bewilderment, then turning, as if bent on their own destruction, return to the herd, and mingling with the dead and dying, swell the slaughtered throng with their numbers. When all was finished, and the arrows had been claimed, a general council was held, the Indians seated in a circle on the ground. The pipe was passed around, each taking a few whiffs. It was decided to wait until the women and extra horses had arrived from the village, a messenger having been despatched to announce our success, and ordering the squaws to repair to the scene and carry the meat back to the encampment. We had not long to wait for the arrival of the women. They came in a gang, making the air resound with their yells of rejoicing. As soon as they came up they were greeted with disdainful silence by the assembled warriors, and Tonsaroyoo having issued a few directions, they fell to, and were soon deep in the mysteries of skinning and butchering the slain buffaloes. As soon as a carcass had been cut up, it was placed in a covering of the hide, and placed upon the pony's back waiting to receive it. As soon as one was loaded, an Indian boy took him in charge and led him off to the village. The plain presented a peculiar appearance, dotted here and there with the ladened ponies returning to camp, and reminded me of a caravan on the African deserts, such as I had seen in books, more than anything else. The warriors soon rode off, leaving the women, boys, and dogs to complete the destruction. Our entry into the village was an ovation. Conquering heroes could not have been more graciously received. During the next week all hands were engaged in a round of feasting and dancing, interspersed with religious ceremonies, and in some instances of self-immolation. No scene of the long series in which I was both actor and spectator, gave me a better idea of the Indian character. To fight, slaughter, prey, eat and sleep, seemed to be the end and aim of their existence. To outnumber his adversary and hence consummate his destruction, was the highest possibility of prowess. To bear torture without evincing the weakness of physical suffering was the sublimity of courage; and when death finally overtook them, to go to the happy hunting grounds well supplied with the implements that would produce carnal enjoyment was the apotheosis of enjoyment! CHAPTER XXI. MRS. EASTMAN'S STORY CONTINUED. I had now been five years among the Indians, and during that time my life was chiefly trials and hardships. Rest, a word unknown in my vocabulary. It would appear that I owed allegiance to no particular individual, but on the contrary, I was called upon to perform the most arduous tasks by man, woman, and child. My labors in the field having come to a conclusion, I was inducted into the mysteries of curing and dressing skins of various animals, making moccasins and gathering berries for the winter stock. During a period of three months rain had not fallen, and this fact gave rise to a peculiar ceremony, which I will briefly relate. The crops were suffering severely from the drought, and it was decided in council that the "rain makers" should invoke the clouds, and by a series of conjugations cause the heavens to open their floodgates. The women had become clamorous and implored the medicine-men to intercede for rain, that their corn patches, which were now turning pale and yellow, might not be withered and they be deprived of the customary annual festivity and the joyful occasion of the "roasting ears" and the "green corn dance." The plaints of the women were entertained, but these wise (?) men discreetly recommended caution and deliberation, lest by undue haste the Great Spirit might become incensed and defeat their endeavors. This stratagem was very pellucid, because the longer they delayed the formalities, of course the greater would be the chance of success; but the importunities of the women became daily more persistent, and the council was at length convened. The medicine-men assembled in all the bravery of their grotesque trappings, and the fires being lighted, a large quantity of wild sage and other aromatic herbs was thrown upon the flames, that their savory odors might ascend as a peace-offering to the Great Spirit. Some twelve or fifteen young warriors volunteered to try their medicine and see if the clouds could not be made to yield their vapor by the charm of their eloquence. It was a dreadful alternative, as, failing to produce any result, they suffered everlasting disgrace at the hands of the entire tribe. The preliminaries having been arranged, the candidates were drawn by lot and a day assigned to each one to lift his voice on high and persuade the rain to descend. The celebrant took up his position on the top of the council lodge, while below the worthy doctors continued to burn their incense, and with song, prayers, and incantations, commanded the clouds to obey them. Wah-kee (the shield), ascended the wigwam at sunrise and made elaborate preparations to frighten the clouds into obeying him. After indulging in war-whoops, brandishing his lance, shield and tomahawk, and going through various other absurd performances, he subsided and betook himself to counting his mystery beads. The whole village had assembled, and were howling lustily for his success. Not a cloud appeared--the day was calm and hot; and when the sun declined behind the mountains, he descended from his exalted position, and withdrew with a crestfallen air. He returned to his lodge a sadder if not a wiser man, disgraced and with no prospect of ever attaining to the dignity of a medicine man. The next morning the performance was repeated, Om-pah (the Elk), saying that his importunities would certainly be heard. He was quite nude, and his body besmeared with yellow clay. A beautiful shield was displayed on his left arm, and his right hand grasped a long lance. The skin of a raven adorned his head. Shield and lance were flourished, but in vain. Not a cloud obscured the brightness of the noon-day sun. The squaws were crying, and the corn was withering at its roots. War-rah-pa (the beaver), was the next, but he, like the others, spent his time in vain; and Wak-a-dah-me took the stand the next morning. He was much more gaily attired than any of his predecessors. In addition to a shield ornamented with "red chains of lightning," he carried in his left hand a bow and single arrow. The concourse was as great as on any previous day. Striking an attitude, he tossed up a feather to ascertain the course of the wind, then turning to the mob below, began a lengthy harangue, something after the following manner: "Apaches! Children of the Sun!--You behold me here a sacrifice. I shall this day relieve you of your distress and bring joy to your lodges, or I shall live among the dogs and old women for the remainder of my days. My friends, you saw which way my feather flew. I shall hold my shield in that direction, and the lightning will draw a great cloud, and this arrow, which is feathered with the quill of the white swan will make a hole in it. "Warriors! this opening in the lodge at my feet shows me the medicine-men. They are seated in a circle and are crying to the Great Spirit above who commands the sun and clouds. Three days they have sat there. Have they done aught to relieve your distress? Om-pah tried and failed, because on his head was the raven. It flies _above_ the storm. War-rah-pa is the beaver, and he lives _under_ the _water_. How could he succeed? My friends, I see you are in great distress, and nothing has yet been done. This shield belonged to my father, the Mad Bull. It was taken from a black cloud, which will come over us to-day. I am the son of my father, and will surely bring you relief. I have done." Thus flourished Wakadahme, alternately addressing the clouds and the people. It so chanced that as he was speaking, a small cloud appeared on the horizon, and as it approached grew larger, until the heavens were overcast. Then drawing his bow to its utmost tension, he let fly the arrow, which sped up into the gathering blackness, and was lost to view. Presently the sky was illumined with a vivid flash, and peal upon peal of thunder followed in rapid succession. The crowd dispersed, running to their lodges in the greatest confusion; but the great warrior who had brought about this happy state of things remained at his post, strutting around the apex of the lodge in all the might and majesty of his new made glory. Even rain could not drive him away from the scene of his triumph. There he stood, the moist cynosure of all eyes. After this all was joy and gladness. Wakadahme was loaded down with honors, and every chief in the tribe was anxious to have him select one of his daughters for a wife. He accommodated six of them, but prudential reasons interposed between him and the seventh. From this time forth he was an honored and puissant warrior, chief, and mystery man. Numerous amusements were indulged in by the tribe, and all had for their end and aim some gambling operation. The youths had an exhibition of arrow shooting which they called the "game of the arrow." Those most distinguished in this exercise assembled on the prairie a little distance from the village, and each one having paid his "entrance fee," such as a shield, robe, pipe, or other article, would step forward to the mark, and, selecting ten arrows, proceed to shoot them in the air in rapid succession. The one who could get the greatest number up before the _first_ fell to the ground claimed the "pool" and went away in the best of spirits, displaying his gains as he journeyed through the village. The older braves passed their time in horse racing. This species of sport varies but little among the Indians from that which obtains among civilized communities. A track is mapped out upon the level prairie, and a couple of lances, from which pennants are streaming, are planted firmly in the ground at a point which denotes the goal. The riders start from the upper end of the course, and plying the whip with all their vigor, come thundering down the course with the speed of the wind. A judge is appointed whose decision is irrevocable, and grouped around him are the spectators intent on making their bets and watching the progress of this tournament of speed. Occasionally sham fights are inaugurated, when brave meets brave in all the fierceness of battle array to go through the motions of Indian warfare, circling around the foe, or bunching together, come down on the enemy with startling suddenness, discharging a cloud of arrows, then, wheeling short around, retrace their steps and prepare to receive the shock of their enemy's advance. One day a messenger brought the news that buffaloes had made their appearance on the plain, and a numerous party was at once formed to go in their pursuit. After having been gone about two days they returned laden with the fruits of victory, and throwing the meat down in one pile, issued their orders to have it cured at once. This arduous task was delegated to the women, and in a very short time poles were planted in every direction. The meat was dressed and then cut in long strips of about a quarter of an inch in thickness, and, being hung over the lines, was left to dry in the sunshine. When it is cured the buffalo meat becomes _tasajo_, and in this state may be preserved for a great length of time. It is cured without salt; in fact, the Indians rarely if ever use this condiment, which is so essential to the civilized white. This seems to be accounted for by the fact that they use very little vegetable food. Hence, during my captivity, I became quite reconciled to the absence of salt, and for months after my return to the whites did not feel any desire to use it. So strong is the force of habit. It had been announced that during the annual religious ceremonies soon to commence, we would have the pleasure of entertaining a band of "club" Apaches, who would participate in the festivities, and preparations of the most elaborate character were made for their reception and entertainment. Of all my experience in the character of a captive, these were, perhaps, the most shocking. Never shall I forget the terrible ordeal of that bloody week, when human gore ran like water, and it seemed a miracle that such a band of fiends were not swept off the face of the earth! CHAPTER XXII. FEASTS, FASTS, AND FACTS. This chapter is to be a faithful description of mystery, hocus-pocus, _vou-doo_, and Indian superstition, concrete and abstract. The entire ceremonial of Indian worship has for its groundwork the basest and most groveling superstition. All events in any way out of the ordinary run of human affairs are directly traced to the Good or Evil Spirit. If their affairs are in any way confused, or do their war parties come to grief, the misfortune is laid at the door of O-kee-hee-de (the Evil Spirit), and when fortune smiles upon them, and bountiful harvests, game, scalps, and victories are theirs, it is directly attributable to the influence of the Great Spirit. An infant's knowledge begins by the inculcation of this proposition, and during its lifetime, existence is enjoyable or the reverse, according as the Good or Evil Spirit smiles on him. In this fact is displayed the resemblance between a savage _fetich_ and the ideal Christian religion. It is the distinction that exists between the bud and full-blown flower,--a wild, barbarous groping after the perfected civilized idea. The Indian has his ideas of a heaven and a purgatory, but they are carnal and material. As he lives in this world, so he proposes to exist in the world hereafter. The happy hunting grounds are merely a repetition of his present life, only in those blissful elysian fields a Good Spirit wills that game shall always be in abundance, and hunting facilities inexhaustible. Contrary to the faith that obtains among Christians, the Indian maintains that the Good Spirit inhabits the realms of the Evil Spirit, while his opposite, the Evil One, haunts the domains of the blest. This curious, not to say absurd state of affairs, is accounted for in the following manner: It is maintained that an Indian suffers for his crimes only for a length of time commensurate with the sins committed. Hence, while professing their conviction in a future administration of rewards and punishments, they also maintain that a very Judas of his tribe will, after expiating his sins, enjoy the fullest delights of his more upright companions. Thus it becomes very necessary, in their opinion, that the Good Spirit should meet them in purgatory, and by word and act increase their sufferings and bring them to a realizing sense of the power of him whom they have offended; while, on the other hand, the Bad Spirit roams through their Paradise still tempting the happy. Those who have gone to the regions of punishment, they believe will be tortured for a time proportioned to their offences, and then, being transferred to the land of the happy, they are again liable to the temptations of the Evil Spirit, and answerable again at a future time for their new offences. It will be seen that this scheme of salvation is rather crude and not as satisfactory in its details as one might desire. In regard to the topographical positions of these two places--heaven and hell--little can be ascertained. As near as I could learn, the offenders inhabited a county lying far to the north, where snow and ice were the minor concomitants of a bleak and barren land; whilst they suppose the happy hunting grounds to be in the region of perpetual sunshine, where every prospect is of the most charming character, and only the keenest enjoyment is experienced; where buffaloes and other Indian luxuries abound. To such lengths was superstition carried, that the young warriors of the tribe deemed no tortures, however brutal or sanguinary, too severe that would by their endurance gain them the admittance to this favored region; and to this end, annual feasts and religious ceremonies were instituted, that the appalling cruelty of the rites might well make the stoutest heart tremble, and the most valiant spirit quake with fear. The Apaches were now on the eve of one of these festivals, and those who aspired to be considered as braves, and to establish a reputation for endurance under pain and suffering, were making minute and careful preparations to endure the infliction creditably. There was to be a series of performances under the sole supervision of one grand master of ceremonies. This worthy was the head medicine of the nation, and was looked up to with a species of veneration verging upon adoration. The rites were to be inaugurated by a grand dance in the open air. The ground selected for this performance was immediately in front of the medicine lodge, and embraced an area of about half an acre. Previous to the inception of the ceremonies, a number of the women were set at work with large wooden mallets, pounding the turf, which was done in order to make the ground hard, smooth and level. As soon as this was accomplished, a curb was erected in the centre of the space by driving stakes in the ground in the form of a circle, just leaving sufficient space between each one to admit of a free passage of air. The curb rose to a height of about three feet, the top being covered by stretching a buffalo robe over the stakes. Within this enclosure was placed a small stone altar, on which burned the sacred flame. Under no circumstances was the flame allowed to be extinguished. In the event of its ceasing to burn, it would have been considered an ill omen, and in order to propitiate the Good Spirit, it would have become necessary to sacrifice a female captive. All was now in readiness, and on the following morning Mahtocheega and the chiefs of the nation assembled in the medicine lodge preparatory to commencing the "death dance." Sixteen young men participated in the dance. They stood to one side in a group, isolated from the crowd. They were decked out in the most gorgeous trappings, each one personating some animal which they imitated as closely as possible, both in action and sound. Beginning by circling around the curb in a measured tramp to the sound of the Indian drums and rattles, they gradually accelerated their pace until they were going at full speed, meanwhile indulging in the most frightful yells, groans, whoops, and cries. This was kept up without intermission for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, when the medicine man sounded a shrill blast on his whistle, and, as if by magic, the performers dropped upon "all fours" and began to practice the distinctive peculiarity of the animals they personated. Their actions were a source of considerable amusement to the bystanders, and each actor was applauded vociferously when by some particular gesture, or trick, he faithfully portrayed the habits of the animal he represented. Some of these actions were of a very gross, not to say revolting character. In the heat of the excitement a wild scream startled the bystanders, and soon the women were rushing in every direction, seemingly in the most abject terror. Pursuing them was a hideous monster entirely nude, his body being blackened with charcoal and bear's grease until it shone like ebony; his face was marked with a profusion of white rings about an inch in diameter, and around his mouth were frightful indentures which closely resembled canine teeth. In addition to his hideous appearance, he gave the most frightful shrieks as he dashed through the crowd. This unearthly creature carried in his hand a staff of about six feet in length, with a red ball at the end of it, which he pushed along the ground in front of him as he ran. All eyes, save those of the braves engaged in the dance, were upon him as he dashed on in pursuit of the women. They fled in the wildest disorder falling over each other in their frantic endeavors to elude the monster's grasp. The master of ceremonies now interfered, and advancing from his position beside the chief, ran up to where the women were struggling with the demon, and, thrusting his medicine pipe before the black monster, held him immovable under its charm. This action enabled the females to get safely out of his reach, and when free from danger, although their hearts still beat with the excitement, they soon became calm, and, seeing that he was ignominiously subjugated by the charm of the all-potent pipe, indulged in the most extravagant laughter, and shouts of applause at his sudden defeat, and at the ridiculous posture in which he was held. They presented a striking picture as they stood there face to face--the old man standing erect, his face tremulous with suppressed emotion, while his eyes gleamed with rage and hatred. The evil spirit on the other hand, cowed, and trembling, seemed transfixed with terror. At intervals he would make an effort to break the spell, and darting to one side attempt to break off in the direction of the prairie; but the ever-vigilant chief was at his side in a twinkling and holding the potent charm _to his nose_, reduce him to instant obedience. Thus they stood, the one with his body painted black and representing the Evil One, frowning everlasting vengeance on the other, who sternly gazed him back with a look of exultation and contempt, as he held him in check and powerless under the influence of his magic charm. When the superior power of the chief had been fully tested and acknowledged, and the women had been allowed ample time to remove themselves to a safe distance and place innumerable barriers between themselves and this fiendish monster, the pipe was gradually withdrawn from before him, and he was once more allowed to follow the dictates of his low and bestial mind. No sooner did he feel himself free from this constraining influence than he dashed into the center of the group of dancers, and attacking one of the young men who was dressed in the guise of a buffalo, _hivung ee a wahkstia chee a nahks tammee ung s towa; ee ung ee aht ghwat ee o nungths tcha ho a tummee osct no ah ughstom ah hi en ah nohxt givi aht gahtch gun ne_. After this performance he visited three others in succession, and indulged in antics of a light character, that elicited shouts of laughter and rounds of applause. The Indians considered the strict observance of this particular ceremony as highly important, and calculated to be of great benefit in attracting game to their vicinity in the coming season. During the scene Okeehede had become quite exhausted by his exercise, and seemed to be anxiously looking around for some feasible means of escape. The women had by this time overcome the fear which his entrance had caused, and now gathered about him in shoals, poking him with bits of stick, throwing stones at his body, and giving expression to their dislike in various ways that suggested themselves on the spur of the moment. At length, one more courageous than the rest gathered a handful of yellow clay, and drawing quite near, awaited her opportunity when the fiend's attention was directed to another quarter, then dashing up to him, emptied the contents of her hands over his body. The change was magical; the yellow clay was attracted and held by the grease with which his body was besmeared, turning his color from black to bright yellow. He seemed to become quite heartbroken at this signal disgrace, and losing control of his feelings, commenced crying vehemently, when, as quick as thought, a fearless young maiden made a frantic clutch at the magic, ball-tipped wand. She was successful beyond her most sanguine anticipations, and flew through the crowd, bearing the trophy high above her head. The other women gathered around her, beseeching her to let them break the wand, and thus end the spell. Their entreaties were at last acceded to, and the stick was broken into fine bits, which were hurled at their whilom owner. His power was now gone; his strength also, and, gathering his energies for one grand and final effort, he plunged headlong towards the prairie with a howling mob of women at his heels. As he struggled along his movements were impeded by every known device, and at each fall he was set upon by the enraged and triumphant females, who exulted in his ignominious downfall, supplementing their jeers with blows from sticks, stones and whips, until he at length escaped by diving into the underbrush that grew at the base of the hills, and disappeared from view. The dance had by this time come to an end, and preparations were made for the commencement of the cruelties which were about to take place within the lodge. The medicine chief, who acted as master of ceremonies, approached Mahtocheega, and made a requisition for musicians, and after a brief consultation he gave orders to have two of the female captives perform this arduous and monotonous task. Zoe and myself were chosen, and we were at once ushered within the sacred precincts of the lodge. We were the only women who were permitted to view the scenes which I am about to relate. Would to God I had been spared the revolting spectacle! As we entered, the candidates for the cruelties were about taking their places in spaces assigned them, as also the chiefs and doctors of the tribe, whose duty it was to look on, bear witness to, and decide upon the comparative degree of fortitude with which the young men sustain themselves in this most excruciating ordeal. The chiefs situated themselves on one side of the lodge, and opposite them were seated the musicians. The medicine chief took up his position in the center of the circle, near a small fire, with his big pipe in his hands. Gravely filling it with k'neck k'nick, he lighted it at the flame, and began puffing great clouds in the faces of the aspirants, that the Great Spirit might give them strength to bear their tortures manfully. Directly under the aperture in the roof of the lodge was a curious arrangement of buffalo and human skulls, which were divided into two parcels. Placed over them at an elevation of about five feet was a delicate scaffold made of four posts, not larger than a willow rod. In the crotches of these poles were placed lateral rods of about the same thickness, and resting on these transversely were a number of still more delicate sticks. On the center of this frame was a small stone altar, from which issued the sacred fire. Immediately under the frame on the ground was placed a knife and a bundle of splints, which were kept in readiness for the infliction of the cruelties which I shall endeavor to explain. From the top of the lodge depended a number of cords, which, passing through the roof, were held by men on the outside, who, on a given signal, were to suspend the victims between heaven and earth. An attendant now advanced to our side of the structure, bearing in his arms two curious looking objects, which, on investigation, proved to be sacks containing in each about two gallons of water. These were articles of superstitious regard, and held in great veneration by the Indians. They were constructed of the skin of the buffalo's neck, and most elaborately sewed together in the form of a large tortoise, with a bunch of eagle's quills appended to act the part of tail. Accompanying each was a drumstick, and, with a few directions how to use it, he left us. After a brief incantation, accompanied by more vigorous puffs at the big pipe, the order was issued to remove the scaffold. The skulls were placed on posts at the back of the lodge, and two stalwart savages took up their positions in the center of the open space, one with the knife in his hand, the other holding the splints. One by one the candidates advanced; their frames were greatly emaciated by the fasting, thirsting, and wakefulness to which they had subjected themselves during four days. Placing themselves on their hands and feet, or otherwise, as was best suited for the performance of the operation, they were grasped roughly by the attendants, and an inch or more of flesh taken up between the thumb and finger of the man who held the knife. The knife had been ground sharply on both sides, and then notched, so that the effect of pushing it through the skin might be made as painful as possible. As soon as the incision was made, the attendant ran a skewer through the still quivering flesh. The cord was then lowered from the roof and fastened to the splints, when, the signal being given, the cords were tightened and the victim was suspended in mid-air. More splints were passed through his shoulders, arms, thighs, and legs. In some instances, they remained upon the ground until this painful operation was completed. The time consumed in preparing the victims for suspension was about five minutes. As the body dangled in mid-air, and while the blood was streaming down the victim's sides, the bystanders would grasp at the body, and hang upon the splints each man's shield, bow, and quiver. In some instances, a buffalo's skull was attached to his lower limbs, to prevent the struggling which would otherwise have taken place, to the disadvantage of the sufferer. When these were adjusted, the body was raised higher until the weight swung clear. In this plight they became a fearful sight to look upon. The flesh, to support their bodies with the additional weights attached thereto, was raised some eight inches by the skewers, and their heads sinking forward on their breasts, or thrown backward in a much more frightful condition, was a sight that made one's blood curdle, and the heart turn sick at the ghastly, bloody spectacle. The fortitude with which the victims bore this torture almost surpasses belief. As the knife was thrust through the flesh not a muscle moved, and some even called attention to their faces, and challenged the judges to detect the first symptom of weakness or faint-heartedness. Truly it was a fearful sight, and as the knife _ripped_ through the flesh, it was more than I could bear, and, throwing down the drumstick, I give way to the most violent grief. It was not until I was severely admonished to continue my task, that I could sufficiently control my emotion and resume the horrid thrum thrum of the monotonous music. As soon as a victim was thoroughly suspended, a number of demons in human guise clustered around him, devising means that would make this exquisite agony more intense. One would advance with a long pole in his hand and commence turning the bleeding body, slowly at first, but the motion would be gradually accelerated until the victim would cry out in bitterness of spirit and in tones the most lamentable and heart-rending that the human voice is capable of producing; appealing to the Great Spirit and beseeching him not to forsake his servant in this, his hour of severest agony. He is turned faster and faster. There is no hope for escape; not the slightest respite, until by fainting he is relieved from his tormentors, and left to hang, apparently a lifeless corpse. When it has been ascertained that he is, as they term it, "entirely dead," his torture ceases, and there hangs suspended by cords, all that remains of a form that a few hours since was instinct with life and vigor. His medicine bag, which he has clung to all through the trying ordeal with the tenacity of despair, has dropped to the ground. Even this potent charm deserts its owner in his hour of greatest need, when, if at any time, its supposed supernatural protection should be most felt. The signal is now given to the men on the outside of the lodge to lower the body, and he is gently laid upon the ground. In this helpless condition he lies, looking like some mass of putrefaction that has just been removed from a charnel-house. During this time he is said to be in the keeping of the Great Spirit, whom he trusts will protect, and finally give him strength to get up and walk away. After lying some time on the ground, an attendant removes the splints from the breasts and shoulders, thereby disengaging him from the cords by which he has been suspended, but the others, with the weights attached, are suffered to remain imbedded in the bleeding wounds. As soon as consciousness returns he attempts to move. No one is allowed to assist him or offer him aid, as he is now in the enjoyment of one of the most exalted privileges that Apaches can lay claim to--that of trusting his life to the keeping of the Great Spirit. Presently he crawls away, dragging his weights after him, which, as they clatter over the hard earthen floor of the lodge, make a mournful accompaniment to his groans and sobs. He creeps to another part of the lodge; where a savage sits in grim silence awaiting his coming. In his hand is a hatchet, and immediately in front of him is a dried buffalo skull. The sufferer draws near, and, holding up the little finger of his left hand, makes a short speech, and calling upon the Great Spirit to witness his self-sacrifice, unflinchingly lays the doomed finger on the skull. One quick, sharp stroke by the Indian who wields the hatchet and the finger drops from the hand--a sacrifice to a fanatic's zeal. No bandages are applied to the fingers, nor are any arteries taken up; in fact, no attention whatever of a surgical character is paid to the wounds, lacerations, and bruises. They are left for the "Great Spirit to cure." It is rather remarkable that the bleeding is not so profuse as might be expected from the severity of the torture, and soon ceases, probably from the fact of their extreme exhaustion and debility; the want of sustenance and sleep, checks the natural circulation, and is at the same time an admirable preparation for the tortures, and enables them to bear the infliction without the same degree of pain that might, under other circumstances, result in inflammation and death. During these cruel scenes, the chiefs and dignitaries of the tribe are looking on unmoved, and by taking mental notes of the way in which the victim bears this terrible torture, decide who are the hardiest and stoutest hearted, who can hang the longest by his flesh without fainting, and who will be the soonest up after he is cut down. In this way they judge of the physical capacity of the young braves to bear hunger, fatigue, and suffering; and to those who acquit themselves the most worthily is entrusted the leadership of "forlorn hopes," war parties resolved on desperate enterprises, etc., etc. This scene was enacted during a whole day, and in that time some forty or fifty young men went through the agonies of suspension and amputation. All the while the din and clatter was undiminished. Did we but relax our efforts for a moment, a brawny savage was at our side, and by word and blow commanded us to recommence. What with the physical and mental fatigue caused by this continuous and seemingly everlasting thrumming, joined to the horrid sights, sounds and emotions to which we were subjected, and the revolting and bloody nature of the drama, it seemed as if we were under the influence of a horrid nightmare. As if we had suddenly been wafted away in the arms of some hideous genii to realms of darkness, and were maliciously compelled to be the unwilling spectators of scenes which even at this day, the bare remembrance of, causes the blood to chill with horror and the frame to vibrate with agony at their recollection. God grant that such cruelties may soon disappear off the face of the earth, _together with the actors and instigators of these horrible rites!_ CHAPTER XXIII. THE WAR PARTY. The following morning found me entirely occupied with my new plan of escape, and I lost no time in gaining such information as I could, concerning Stonhawon's intentions respecting his projected expedition. By making a few cautious inquiries of some of the warriors whom I knew to be favorably disposed towards me, I learned that the party would probably depart within three days. The first point necessary to the success of my plan was to obtain the consent of Wakometkla, and this I feared would be no easy task. After considering the matter fully, I concluded that my best course would be first to get Stonhawon's permission to accompany the party, and, if possible, induce him to intercede for me with the old medicine man. To the lodge of this redoubtable chief I accordingly bent my steps, and, on approaching it, found him seated without, engaged in conversation with several of the older warriors. Not daring to interrupt their conference, I remained at a little distance until the interview was ended. From the few sentences I overheard I concluded that the chief was unfolding his plans or some portion of them to the principal warriors of his party. Directly the council seemed to be over, and the warriors separated, leaving the chief seated as before at the entrance to his lodge. I was about to approach him and proffer my request, when Hissodecha, the renegade, suddenly made his appearance, and walking directly up to Stonhawon addressed him as follows: "My brother is going on the war-path?" "Yes, Hissodecha," said the chief; "I am weary of this idleness, and my young men are impatient and clamor to be led against the Arapahoes, who have invaded our territory and cut off several of our hunting parties. I have therefore determined to take out a strong party and strike a blow that will teach these cowardly horse thieves a lesson!" "Stonhawon," said Hissodecha, "it is my wish that we should be friends, and that the ill-feeling which has existed between us and our young men should cease. For this reason I have come to offer you my services on your expedition as a volunteer, and if you accept my offer, I will join your party with my entire band and serve under your orders. Let my brother speak. I await his decision." While Hissodecha was speaking, I observed a gratified expression upon the countenance of Stonhawon, and I saw that he would gladly avail himself of the renegade's offer. But why Hissodecha should make so unusual a proposition puzzled me extremely, and I waited anxiously to hear the remainder of their conversation. As the renegade ceased speaking, Stonhawon arose in silence, filled and lighted his pipe and passed it to Hissodecha, who took a few whiffs and returned it to the chief. The latter followed his example, and then, emptying the pipe, he returned it to its case of fawn skin, gaily decorated with the quills of the porcupine stained in bright colors, and spoke as follows: "Hissodecha, your words are good; you are a great brave, and you shall ride with me on the war-path. With your aid I shall surely be successful, and when we return in triumph, who shall deny to the friend of Stonhawon a seat in the council? I know my brother's wish, and it shall yet be gratified. Now, let us assemble our warriors and make ready for departure, as I wish to start before sunrise to-morrow." To this the renegade yielded a ready assent, adding that his party could be ready to leave in an hour if necessary. He then said: "I must ask my brother one favor, and that is that Tahteckadahair may accompany our party." "Why does Hissodecha ask this?" said the chief, looking at me in surprise; for, on hearing my name mentioned, I had drawn nearer. "Does my brother not know that no one but Wakometkla can grant his request?" "Because," said Hissodecha, "if Stonhawon asks the medicine chief, he will not refuse; but were I to make such a request, it would be in vain." Stonhawon reflected for a moment and then addressed me so abruptly that for an instant I was confused and unable to make a reply. "Tahteckadahair," said he, "why do you wish to join the war party which I am about to take out?" I was endeavoring to frame a reply when the renegade answered for me. "The young man is tired," he said, "of being left in the village with the squaws and old men while the other young braves are going to war or to hunt and winning scalps and plunder. He thinks that he should be given the same privileges as others since he has been regularly adopted into the tribe, and I think his request is a reasonable one and should be granted." I now added my persuasions to those of Hissodecha, and Stonhawon finally said that if Wakometkla's consent could be gained he would have no objection to my forming one of his party. He also said that he would speak to the medicine chief and use his influence to get his consent to my making my first appearance as a warrior. He was as good as his word, and a few hours later I saw him enter the temple, evidently in search of the old man. Hissodecha was confident that his request would be granted, and I accordingly busied myself, under his direction, in preparing to make my _debût_ as a Camanche brave on the war-path. The renegade easily supplied me with the necessary weapons and equipments from his own stock, and I soon found myself provided with a long steel-pointed lance, adorned with a crimson pennon, and a sort of battle-axe of an ancient pattern, evidently the spoil of some Mexican hacienda. Besides these a war bow, a quiver of arrows, their points dipped in the subtle poison used by the Camanches, and a tomahawk and scalping-knife were given me. These completed my offensive equipments. For defense, besides all these, I received a circular shield made of the tough hide of the buffalo bull stretched upon a wooden frame, and dried and hardened until it was almost of the consistency of iron. To provide me with a horse was the next thing in order, and this did not promise to be very difficult, as more than two thousand mustangs were grazing upon the plain. The renegade, however, was not easily suited in his choice of a horse. Thorough horse jockeys as all the Camanches are, Hissodecha seemed the sharpest of the tribe in this particular. Of this fact I had become aware long before, for in the races which the Indians so frequently indulged in, he was almost invariably the winner, thus showing that he possessed rare knowledge and judgment of the points of a good horse. On this occasion I began to think that he would exhaust the supply before he found one to his mind, but after rejecting about forty for one fault or another, most of which blemishes I was entirely unable to discover, he fixed upon a large piebald mustang as the one who should have the honor of bearing me upon my first war-path. Leading the horse back towards the village, we soon reached the spot where the warriors who were to form the expedition had already picketed their horses for the night, so as to be ready for an early start on the morrow. Staking my new acquisition out upon the plain, we returned to the lodge, and my strange friend, handing me a hair bridle and a buffalo robe and leathern girth, told me to get some food and return to his lodge in an hour, and he would "paint" me for the war-path. I was too much excited to eat much, and my simple meal was soon dispatched. On entering the temple, I had looked around apprehensively, expecting to meet Wakometkla, and rather dreading to encounter him, feeling uncertain what sort of a reception I would meet with. The old medicine man, however, was not to be seen, and I wandered through the various apartments with which I had become so familiar during the long years of my captivity, wondering if this was really to be my last look at them, or if my desperate scheme was to result in failure, and end in my being brought back, perhaps to torture and death. It was now time for me to return to Hissodecha, and I started to leave the temple for that purpose. Crossing the mystery chamber, I was about to ascend the ladder, when a tall form suddenly emerged from the obscurity of a recess in the wall, and Wakometkla stood before me. The old man seemed strangely moved for one of his stern nature and practical stoicism. Taking me by the hand, he led me to the center of the room, where the light of the sacred fire enabled him to more plainly discern my features, and gazed upon me for a moment without speaking. At length he spoke in a low tone, unlike his usual sonorous accents: "So my son is not content to remain in peace and safety with me here, but longs to go forth in search of adventure, and to emulate the deeds of the foolish young braves, who imagine that they are already great warriors?" I was at a loss what to reply, but managed to mutter a few words expressive of my desire to take part in at least one war party, and assured him that I would be certain to return in safety. "You cannot be sure of that;" said the old man, in what seemed to me a sad tone, "we cannot control our fate; but as you wish to go you shall have your wish. At Stonhawon's request I have given my consent, and I shall sacrifice to Quetzalcoatl for your speedy and safe return. Now go and complete your preparations, for you have no time to lose." So saying, he turned and left the apartment without another word. At this moment, despite my ardent longing to escape from an existence that was loathsome to me, and return to my own people, I could not avoid a feeling of regret at the idea of parting from this noble specimen of his race, to whom I was indebted for my life, and for the many acts of kindness which had rendered my captivity endurable. But the measure of regret I felt was not sufficient to turn me from my purpose, and remembering my appointment with Hissodecha, I hastened to fulfill it. In crossing the open square before the temple, I met Stonhawon, who informed me that the party would start at daybreak, and warned me to be in readiness. Assuring him that there was no danger of my forgetting it, I hurried to the lodge of the renegade, whom I found in no very amiable humor at my delay. On explaining the cause of my detention, his ill temper was abated, and he quickly proceeded to prepare me for my appearance in my new rôle of an Indian warrior. Stripping me entirely, he invested me with a new pair of leggings and mocassins; leaving me naked to the waist. Producing a number of little packets containing pigments of various colors, he commenced operations by painting my face, neck and breast blood red, and my arms and the rest of my person that was exposed in alternate bands of black and yellow. Upon my breast he delineated with considerable skill the figure of a grizzly bear; upon my forehead a star, and across my face narrow stripes of black. My arms he encircled with black and white rings at regular intervals, and then laying aside his colors, held up before me a small mirror, that I might view the picture I presented. My contemplation of myself satisfied me that I made about as hideous looking a savage as any in the village--but of that the reader can judge for himself from the accompanying picture, which is a very accurate representation of me as I then appeared. Hissodecha finished his work by saturating my hair, which reached nearly to my waist, with a mixture of oil and some black coloring, which rendered my appearance more savage then ever. He then bound about my head a narrow fillet or band of scarlet cloth, and placed in it two feathers or plumes stained blue. He then stood off and viewed me for a moment, and pronounced my toilet complete, with the exception of a few ornaments. These he soon provided in the shape of a pair of bracelets of roughly beaten gold. My necklace of silver, which Wakometkla had placed upon my neck when he first took me in charge, I still wore, and the renegade, surveying his work with some complacency, remarked that no young brave of the party would present a finer or more warlike appearance from the Indian point of view than myself. He then presented me with a fine _serape_ for protection against the weather, and advising me to get what sleep I could, dismissed me for the night, bidding me lie down in his lodge upon some skins. My excitement, however, was so great, that I found it impossible to sleep, I was impatient for the dawn, that I might be in motion, and leaving my hated valley prison, as I fondly hoped, for the last time. The hours dragged wearily away, and it seemed as if the morning would never come; but at last a faint glimmer of light in the east showed that the time for action had come. I started up, and taking my simple horse furniture, made my way to where the horses were picketed. I found many of the warriors already astir and lending their horses to the water. Joining them, I had soon attended to the wants of my charger, bridled him, and snapping the buffalo robe upon his back, I mounted him and rode back to the lodge of Hissodecha. At the same time he emerged from the lodge in all the full glory of his war paint. His horse had already been brought up by one of his band, and advising me to eat as hearty a meal as possible, he mounted and rode down to where the warriors were assembling. Hastily devouring a few mouthfuls of tasajo, I speedily followed him, and although but a few moments had elapsed, found the party almost ready to start. The entire population of the village had by this time assembled to see us off, and I found myself the subject of some very flattering remarks as I rode through the throngs of women, children, and dogs, while immediately surrounding the war-party were grouped all the male members of the community who were not of the expedition. The renegade had directed me to attach myself to his band, and I accordingly did so, being received with great cordiality by the younger braves, who complimented me on my warlike aspect and fine equipments. Stonhawon, who had been holding a hurried consultation with Tonsaroyoo, who stood aloof as though not wishing to compromise his dignity by evincing any interest in an expedition which he did not lead, now rode up and gave the signal for departure. Instantly the band, numbering about five hundred warriors, wheeled, and forming with the rapidity of thought in single file, the only formation used on the march by the prairie Indians, rode off at a rapid pace down the valley, amid the shouts and yells of those we left behind. By this time the sun had fully risen, and on looking back I could see upon the summit of the temple the usual group of priests and their assistants, and among them I could plainly distinguish the tall figure of Wakometkla. I fancied that I could see him wave his hand as if in adieu, but it may have been only fancy, for the distance was too great to decide with certainty. As we rode rapidly along, I noted every object rendered familiar by my long residence in the valley with a peculiar interest, for I hoped that I was looking upon the well-known scene for the last time. It was a glorious morning, and the exhilaration of the rapid motion, as my horse bore me along with proud, springy step, seemed to increase my strength, and I experienced a buoyancy of spirits and a vigor of body I had never known before. I felt strangely hopeful and exultant--in fact it seemed as if I were already free. Riding rapidly we soon reached the valley's lower extremity, and passing around the face of the cliff upon the narrow ledge described in a previous chapter, we crossed the crest of the mountain range, and descended by a zig-zag trail to the plain below. Our route lay directly across the desert to the eastward, and it was well into the afternoon before we had passed it and reached the great grass prairie beyond. On reaching the prairie our course was deflected to the north, and about sundown we halted at a spring known as the "_Ojo Caliente_," which the leaders of the party had evidently selected as our camping ground for the night. The order to halt once given, we went into bivouac with marvelous celerity. Our horses were picketed in a wide circle far out upon the plain, as the gramma grass there is longer and more luxuriant than in the immediate neighborhood of the springs. Stripping our animals of their equipments, we bring them to within about a hundred yards of the spring. Each man strikes his spear into the ground, and rests against it his shield, bow and quiver. He places his robe or skin beside it. There is his tent and bed. The row of spears are soon aligned upon the prairie, forming a front of several hundred yards, and our camp is complete. No drilled troops in the world can equal the rapidity with which these Indians form or break camp; and yet every movement is executed without orders, and as if by intuition. Fires were soon kindled, and strips of tasajo brought forth and cooked. Pipes were lighted, and the warriors sit in groups around the red blaze, recounting their adventures, and laughing and chattering incessantly. The paint glitters upon their naked bodies in the glare of the fires; it is a wild and savage scene, and yet grotesque in its very savageness. For two hours we remain about the fires, some cooking and eating, others smoking, others freshening the hideous devices of the war paint with which all are besmeared. Then the horse-guard is detailed, and marches off to the caballada, and the Indians, one after another, spread their robes upon the ground, roll themselves in their _serapes_ or blankets, and are soon asleep. For a time I found it impossible to sleep, although wearied with the unaccustomed exercise of the journey. Reclining upon my robe in a half sitting posture, I watch the scene around me. The fires have ceased to blaze, but by the light of the moon I can distinguish the prostrate bodies of the savages. White objects are moving among them; they are dogs, prowling about in search of the remains of their supper. These run from point to point, growling at one another, and barking at the coyotes that sneak around the outskirts of the camp. Out upon the prairie the horses are still awake and busy. I can hear them stamping their hoofs and cropping the rich pasture. At intervals along the line I can see erect forms standing motionless; these are the guards of the caballada. At length I begin to grow drowsy, and lying down upon my robe, I wrap myself in my _serape_, and in a few moments am asleep. CHAPTER XXIV. MY FIRST SCALP. I was roused before dawn by the stir and bustle around me. On rising to my feet, I found the party preparing to march. Every warrior ran out for his horse; the pickets were drawn, and the animals led in and watered. They are bridled; the robes are thrown over them and girthed. We pluck up our lances, sling our quivers, seize our shields and bows, and leap lightly upon horseback. Our line is already formed, and, wheeling in our tracks, we ride off in single file to the northward. From conversation with my companions the night previous, I had discovered that only the leaders of the party knew our destination. The rank and file were as ignorant of the intentions of their commanders as is usually the case among the armies of more civilized peoples. The young braves who were my chosen companions on the march and in the camp, neither knew nor cared whither we were bound. They expected the expedition to result in our return with an abundance of scalps and plunder, and that was all they cared about. During the forenoon we passed over a "_motte_" of prairie or park. Its surface was nearly level, but it was studded here and there with clumps and coppices of cottonwoods and other trees and shrubs. To the north the horizon was shut in by a lofty mountain chain which seemingly barred our pathway, although at a great distance, and between us and this barrier was a range of much less elevation, such as are called "foot hills" in this region. About noon we came upon a small stream which crossed our line of march, running off to the eastward. Upon its banks we halted for a short period, watering and feeding our horses, and satisfying our own appetites from our supply of dried meat. This done we resumed our march. We now found the timber islands became less frequent, and in half an hour's ride we left them altogether behind, and rode for several miles over an open plain. We saw timber ahead of us, and had approached within about a mile of it when one of the runners or spies, about fifty of whom were scouting ahead, came back and reported to the chief that they had discovered a small herd of buffalo grazing upon a small prairie or sort of natural clearing beyond the belt of woods. Although we were well provided with dried meat, the prospect of fresh buffalo steak was not unpleasing, and a hunt was at once determined upon. Halting the party Stonhawon directed the renegade to take his own band and join the scouts ahead. Together the bands would constitute a hunting party of about one hundred warriors, quite large enough for the destruction of the small herd before us. As I had attached myself to the band of Hissodecha, I found myself destined to take part in the enterprise, and anticipated no little amusement and sport. Riding forward cautiously until we reached the timber, which was a not very dense chaparral, we rode slowly and silently through the bushes until we encountered a number of scouts _cached_ in the thicket, and evidently waiting for us. "What is it Han-na-ta-mauh?" asked Hissodecha of the leader of the scouts as they rode up. The scout replied that they had found the fresh tracks of a small herd of buffaloes, and on following them up had found the animals feeding upon a small prairie beyond the chaparral in which we were concealed. The renegade dismounted, and telling me to accompany him, walked forward with the scout to the edge of the thicket. Peering cautiously through the leaves, we had a full view of the open ground. The buffaloes were upon the plain. It was, as Hanatamauh had said, a small prairie about a mile and a half in width, closed in on all sides by a thick chaparral. Near the center was a _motte_ of heavy timber growing up from a dense underwood. A spur of willows running out from the timber denoted the presence of water. "There's a spring there," said the renegade, turning to me; "I have been here before, and know the ground. How can we get at them?" he continued, turning to the scout; "do you think we can approach them?" "No," said Hanatamauh, "there is not cover enough; and besides, they are getting further away from the bushes as they feed." "What then?" asked Hissodecha; "we can't run them; they would be off through the thicket in a moment, and we would lose them all." "Yes," replied the scout, "that is certain; but we can get them for all that. I never saw a better place for a 'surround,' and it will take but a short time to get your braves in position." "True," said Hissodecha, "if the wind is right. How is it?" "There is none," said the scout taking a feather from his head-dress and tossing it in the air. "You see it falls direct." "I see," said Hissodecha; "let us divide the men. We have enough to pen them in completely. You can guide one-half of them to their stands. I will go with the rest. You, Tahteckadahair," he continued, "had better bring up your horse and stay where you are. It is about as good a stand as you can get. You will have to wait patiently, as it may be an hour before all are placed. When you hear the signal, which will be the hunter's whistle, you may gallop forward and do your best. If we succeed we shall have plenty of sport and a good supper, and I suppose you are ready for that by this time." The renegade now left me, followed by the scout, and went back to the rest of the party. Their intention was to separate the band into two equal parties, and each taking an opposite direction, to place men at regular intervals around the prairie. They would keep in the chaparral while on the march, and only discover themselves when the signal was given. In this way, if the buffaloes did not take the alarm, we should be almost certain of securing the entire herd. As soon as Hissodecha left me, I selected my hunting arrows, which, unlike those used for war, are not poisoned. Then I brought up my horse, and having nothing else to do, I remained seated upon his back watching the animals as they fed on, unaware of their danger. The screaming of birds who flew up from the thicket showed that the hunters were proceeding to their stands. Now and then an old bull, standing like a sentinel on the outskirts of the herd, would snuff the wind and strike the ground violently with his hoof as though suspecting that something was wrong; but the others did not seem to mind him and kept on cropping the luxuriant grass. Suddenly an object made its appearance, emerging from the _motte_ in the center of the prairie. It looked like a buffalo calf proceeding to join the others. As usual, a pack of coyotes were sneaking around the herd, and these, on perceiving the calf, made an instant attack upon it. To my surprise, it seemed to fight its way through them, and soon joined the herd and was lost to view among them. I thought no more of it, and was wondering how much longer I would have to wait for the signal, when I noticed that the buffaloes were lying down one after another. In a few minutes eight or ten were stretched upon the turf, and I observed that they fell suddenly as if shot, and some of them appeared to kick and struggle violently. I had heard of a curious habit of these animals known as "wallowing," and concluded this must be it. As I had never witnessed this manoeuvre, I watched them as attentively as possible, but the high grass prevented me from seeing much. At all events, I thought, the "surround" will be complete before they get ready to move, and I waited patiently for the signal. The buffaloes still continued to lie down one after another, and at length the last one of the herd stretched himself upon the prairie. At this instant the shrill notes of the Indian whistle reached my ears, and a wild yell arose from all sides of the prairie. I urged my horse forward; a hundred others had done the same, all yelling at the top of their voices as they shot out of the thicket. Filled with the wild excitement incident to such a scene, I galloped forward with my bow strung and arrows ready, intent upon having the first shot. To my surprise the buffaloes did not stir. The Indians closed in, yelling as they came, and we pulled up our horses in the very midst of the prostrate herd. I sat upon my horse as if spell-bound, looking about me in consternation and wonder. Before me lay the bodies of the buffaloes, and I seized with a superstitious awe when I perceived that every one of them was dead or dying. Blood flowed from their mouths and nostrils, and from wounds in the side of each the red stream trickled down. The prairie carpet was dyed with it. My companions seemed at first as much surprised as myself, but some of the more astute quickly divined the mystery and commenced looking about with keen scrutiny. Suddenly the renegade urged his horse forward, and on turning to see what he had discovered, I saw the buffalo calf, whose existence I had for a time forgotten. The calf had been concealed behind the carcass of one of the buffaloes, but now appeared to be endeavoring to make off into the timber. Hissodecha rode up to it, evidently intending to pierce it with his lance, when the animal suddenly reared up, uttering a wild human scream. The shaggy hide was thrown aside, and a naked savage appeared, holding up his arms as if pleading for mercy. His appeal was a vain one, however, for the ruthless renegade pinned him to the earth with a thrust of his lance, and, springing from his horse, finished him with his tomahawk. He then scalped him, and, remounting his horse, directed some of the warriors to scour the prairie, as they might find another "calf" concealed in the long grass. With the rest of the party he rode up to the _motte_, and they quickly formed in a circle, around it. Familiar as I had become with Indian cruelty, I felt a sensation of horror and disgust at this cool shedding of blood, and I halted irresolutely by the body of the dead Indian. He lay stretched upon his back, naked to the breech clout, the red stream flowing from the lance wound in his side. His limbs quivered, but it was in the last spasm of departing life. The hide in which he had been disguised lay near him, where he had flung it at the moment he was discovered. Beside him were a bow and several arrows. The latter were covered with blood, the feathers steeped in it and clinging to the shafts. They had pierced the bodies of the buffaloes, passing entirely through. Each arrow had taken many lives. I was still contemplating the dead man, when a yell from the _motte_ attracted my attention, and I rode thither. I reached the spot just in time to see the body of another Indian dragged out from the thick undergrowth, and his fortunate slayer, who happened to be one of the younger braves, took the scalp with great complacency, as it was his first trophy of the kind. The Indians evidently believed that another of the _Coyoteros_ or Wolf Apaches, for to this tribe the two dead savages were declared to belong, was concealed in the thicket, for they were formed in a sort of irregular circle around the copse, peering into it from every direction. Hissodecha now ordered the warriors to close in from every direction and search the thicket. In this manoeuvre I found myself compelled to take part, as otherwise I would have incurred the stigma of cowardice. We dismounted from our horses and pressed into the thicket from all sides. For a few seconds nothing could be heard but the cracking of the undergrowth as we forced our way through it. Suddenly a yell arose from the side opposite to my position, and almost instantly a third _Coyotero_ sprang from a dense clump of willows near the spring, and made for the opening. It chanced that I was directly in his path, and he was rushing upon me with upraised knife. Strong as might be my repugnance to taking human life, the instinct of self-preservation was still stronger, and before he could reach me I had pierced him with an arrow, and he fell dead almost at my feet. In an instant the warriors had gathered around me, and I was being congratulated upon my bravery and skill. Not feeling particularly proud of the achievement, I was about to remount my horse, when Hissodecha reminded me that I had neglected to scalp the fallen foe; so I was compelled to perform that operation, which I did rather clumsily. A thorough search through the thicket and over the prairie having satisfied my savage companions that no more of the _Coyoteros_ had been present, we returned to the dead buffaloes and began skinning and cutting them up. Stonhawon soon arrived with the remainder of the band, and as it was nearly sundown, we encamped upon the spot; the spring furnishing water, and the grass of the prairie an abundance of rich food for the horses. As for ourselves, we feasted in true savage fashion, finding the fresh steaks, tongues, and hump ribs a decided improvement upon the tasajo which had previously been our diet. I was compelled to listen to many encomiums upon my courage and dexterity, and some of the young braves ventured the opinion that Tahteckadahair would soon be as great a warrior as Hissodecha. Painfully impressed by the scene of slaughter in which I had been an unwilling participant, I held myself aloof as much as possible from the merry groups around the camp fires, and at an early hour wrapped myself in my blanket, and wearied by the fatigue and excitement of the past two days, I was soon buried in a heavy and dreamless sleep, which continued until the dawn of another morning again compelled me to come forth; and this time it was not as an inexperienced brave, but as an acknowledged warrior; for I had slain an enemy and taken my first scalp. I cannot say, however, that my increase of notoriety was a source of satisfaction to me, but quite the contrary. Somewhat to my surprise we remained by the _motte_ spring for three days. This was necessary in order to convert the buffalo meat into tasajo, as we had not a sufficient supply for our purpose. On the evening of the third day, the meat being sufficiently "cured," we "struck camp" and rode off to the north until we had reached the chain of mountains which crossed our path. Here we turned to the eastward, and journeyed along their base intending to cross at a well known pass about twenty miles above. Reaching it at nightfall we again encamped, designing to pass the mountain range the next morning. CHAPTER XXV. THE FEAST OF THE GREEN CORN. The fields, or more properly speaking, the patches of corn were quickly ripening, thanks to the arduous efforts of Wakadahme and his wonderful arrow, and the whole tribe was waiting impatiently the time when the signal should announce that the feast of the green corn was about to commence. Next to fighting, your Indian likes eating; about one half of his time is employed in catering to the cravings of his stomach. When not engaged in fighting his enemies, or marauding in the vicinity of the Mexican border-towns, he occupies his energies in the hunt or chase. At the time of my enforced residence among the Apaches, they were not restricted and confined to reservations as at present. They considered themselves masters of the country which they inhabited, and were free to roam in any direction their fancy might dictate. When in search of game, they would scour the plains to the northward, and on some occasions would penetrate deep into the country of their enemies, the Crows and Blackfeet. Numerous encounters would result from this intrusion on the rights of others. At times they would meet and repulse their opponents, and continue the hunt, return laden with the fruits of the chase, and girdles plentifully garnished with their victim's scalps. At such times, their return home partook of the character of an ovation; fires would be lighted, food prepared in abundance, and high revelry be the order of the day. Gathered around the council fires, with an eager and attentive multitude of old men, women and children, constituting themselves an audience, the braves would indulge in the most fantastic and highly colored narratives of their deeds of valor and heroic bearing in the presence of an enemy. Seated in a circle around the blazing fire, and smoking their clay pipes, each one in turn would relate the incidents of his particular case, reciting the most improbable deeds of valor, and ending up, usually, with the oft-told tale, of how he gained his _sobriquet_. His listeners had doubtless heard the same story on many similar occasions, but repetition has no horror for an Indian, and judging from the flattering silence with which his speech is received, and the many complimentary expressions with which he is greeted at its close, one would at once conclude that the remarks were new and original. Boasting is an Indian's weak point; given a listener, and the amount of bombast and mock heroics which he will inflict on one, simply staggers belief. If, on the contrary, the hunting party has not been successful, but defeat and misfortune has been their portion, then the scene is changed. In place of feasting and revelry, they are greeted with a death-like silence, and, as the remnant of the party defile through the village, they are objects of the closest scrutiny by anxious mothers and wives. If the keen eyes of love, search in vain for the form of him, who a few weeks before left the village in the glory and vigor of manhood, a heart-rending wail goes up, which is instantly echoed by the assembled women, until the welkin resounds with mournful cries. As on more joyful occasions, a rush is made in the direction of the council lodge, and it then becomes the painful duty of the survivors to relate their mishaps, and how such and such an one met the enemy with his accustomed bravery, and foremost fighting, fell. In these recitals, the party in question always meet a foe who vastly outnumbers them, and according to their account, their opponents always suffer terribly in slain, and would have eventually been overcome, and completely routed, had not some trifling accident--which could not be foreseen--occurred to mar the effects of their stunning prowess. I have never seen an Indian fight, and am not able to judge of their actions on the field of battle, but, if observations of the red man in his home, is any criterion, I should venture the opinion that an Apache would fight valiantly under one condition, namely: when his party were numerically stronger than the opposing force. I think they have a just appreciation of the Falstaffian method of conducting warfare, and are firmly convinced that "he who fights and runs away," has better opportunities for glory, rapacity and booty, another day. As these pages are being written, the country is again startled by the news of fresh Indian outrages, this time, against the constituted authority of the country, and close on the heels of the news of the reopening of Indian hostilities, comes the thrilling intelligence that a General has been shot in cold blood, and whilst under the protecting and sacred influence of a flag of truce. Such dastardly and treacherous conduct, thrills one with a righteous indignation, and we are more than ever impressed with the belief that measures, the most rigorous, should be instituted, and that the government should put to one side any feelings of mawkish sentimentality, and mete out to these red-handed savages the retribution their desserts merit. The case under consideration is only one among many. How many immigrant trains dragging their slow length over the trackless and boundless prairies, have met a similar fate; and their misfortune never so much as heard of. Whole villages on the borders have been attacked, captured and pillaged; their inhabitants murdered in cold blood, or carried off into a captivity that was worse even than the knife of the savage. Who can count the lonely victims who have been waylaid on their toilsome journey, by a party of howling savages, and being surrounded, before they were aware almost of the presence of an enemy, set upon and brained in the most cruel manner, and their bodies left weltering in their own gore, a repast for wolves and coyotes--horrible reflection; to think of the numbers who have suffered this fate, and died unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown; while their murderers were these same gentle red children, of whose interests the government has exercised such a watchful care, guarding them against the rigors of winter by a plentiful supply of food and blankets, and during the spring furnishing them with powder and the most improved fire-arms, that they might thereby be enabled to steal forth from their reservation, prey on helpless travelers, and returning covered with the blood of their white brothers; praise their Great Father at Washington, and thank him, through their agent, for the many inestimable gifts he has placed in their hands, by whose judicious use they have gratified their dominant passions, and turned many a happy home into a chamber of mourning. Out upon such a policy! War, to the bitter end, is the only "policy" that should be for a moment entertained, in dealing with these fiends; and when they are at last exterminated off the face of the earth, it may, perhaps, be safe for a man to undertake to travel through his own land. My readers may think I speak with undue heat on this subject, but the memory of my sufferings and trials, during the time that I remained among the Apaches, make it almost imperative that I should speak freely and without reserve. Those who are at home, and surrounded by the protecting influence of a father's or husband's care, cannot fully appreciate the perils and degradation consequent upon a life of bondage, and I sincerely trust that it may never be their misfortune to undergo similar experiences. I must apologize for this lengthy digression, and will hereafter endeavor to keep more closely to the thread of my narrative. As before stated, the Indians always made the most extensive preparations for the feast of the green corn; and it was looked forward to with the most eager anticipations. Several weeks before the corn had fairly ripened, the head chief and medicine men met in conclave, and decided on what measures were to be pursued during the festivities. In most instances, a few of the older women of the tribe were selected, and appointed to watch the patches of corn attentively. Every morning they were required to pick a few ears of corn, and without dividing the husk, bring it to the medicine chief; Eeh-tohk-pah-shee-pee-shah (the black moccasin), who would examine it, and if it was not deemed sufficiently ripe, they would be dismissed with an injunction to appear again on the following morning, with another handful of freshly gathered corn. This performance was continued until the samples examined were considered to have arrived at a stage of sufficient ripeness, when the fact was announced by criers, who went through the village proclaiming the joyful intelligence. For several days previous to the announcement of this gratifying news, the Indians had subjected themselves to a thorough purgation, using for this purpose a decoction of various bitter roots and herbs, which they termed _asceola_ (the black drink). This course of treatment enabled them to attack the corn with ravenous appetites, and to gorge themselves until they could scarcely move. On the appointed day the tribe are all assembled, and in the center of the lodge a kettle is hung over a fire, and filled with the coveted grain. This is well boiled, and offered to the Great Spirit as a sacrifice. This is an imperative ceremony, and must be performed before any one can indulge the cravings of his appetite. During the time that the cauldron is boiling, four chiefs and mystery men dance around the steaming kettle. They are painted with white clay, and in one hand they hold a stalk of the corn, while with the other they grasp the rattle. As they move around the fire, they chant a weird song of thanksgiving, taking particular pains to remind the Great Spirit that they are doing all this in his honor, and restraining their appetites that he may be pleased, and propitiated, to the extent of furnishing them with a bountiful supply during the ensuing season. Whilst the medicine men are performing in this manner, a number of others form in a circle, outside of the inner one, and with stalks of corn in each hand, go through a somewhat similar ceremony. Wooden bowls are placed on the ground immediately under a tripod, formed by joining together three poles, of about twelve feet in length, which are also ornamented with ears of corn. In each of the bowls is placed a spoon, made of the horn of the buffalo, or mountain sheep, in which the feast is to be served. The dance is continued until the chiefs decide the corn is sufficiently boiled; when, at a given signal, the dance is stopped for a few minutes, and again resumed, this time to a different tune. Then the master of ceremonies removes the smoking vegetable and places it upon a small scaffold of sticks, which they erect over the fire. Having done this, the _first_ fire is removed, and the ashes are gathered and buried. A new fire is then made in the place occupied by the old one. The new one is started by a very painful process. Three men seat themselves on the ground, facing each other, and procuring a hard block of wood, commence drilling violently with a stick, by rolling it between the palms of the hand. Each one catches it in turn from the other, without allowing the motion to stop, until smoke, and at last, a spark of fire is seen, and caught in a piece of punk, whereat there is great rejoicing among the bystanders. When this fire is kindled, the kettle is again placed over the fire, and refilled with the vegetable. Now the feast begins, an onslaught is made on the contents of the pot, and the Indians rush off in all directions to devour the corn. Soon fires are blazing in every lodge, and all are indulging in the grossest gluttony. This feast lasts until the corn is exhausted, or becomes too hard to eat with any degree of comfort. When an Indian has gorged himself to the fullest capacity, he has recourse to his _asceola_, and is soon in a condition to recommence with as much vigor as at first. These scenes filled me with disgust, and I often thought how happy those brutes would be if they were only endowed with the wonderful attributes of that little sea monster, the polyp, who, when his body is cut in half, suffers no inconvenience, but gormandizes as much as ever, with this advantage, that the food, instead of remaining in his stomach, passes out at the other end; thus allowing him to indulge in the pleasure of gluttony, without the inconvenience of being gorged. CHAPTER XXVI. DANGER AHEAD. We started again at early dawn, and commenced the passage of the defile through the mountain. The pass was tortuous and rugged, but as we rode in single file we experienced but little difficulty, and after about three hours of alternate ascents and descents, we gained its outlet and debouched upon the plain beyond. It was a timber prairie, studded with _mottes_ of tall cottonwoods, and bisected near its center by a small stream. A heavy belt of timber fringed the northern horizon, and towards this we directed our course. As we were now liable to come in contact with hostile parties of other tribes, Stonhawon exercised great caution. Nearly a hundred runners or spies were sent in advance, while the main body advanced slowly; the chief receiving frequent reports from the scouts. About ten o'clock we halted on the banks of the _arroyo_, and while watering our animals, one of the scouts returned and made some communication to our leader. In a few moments it became known to the entire band that a large war party of Arrapahoes had been discovered ahead. Beyond the belt of timber was a large grass prairie, a favorite haunt of the buffalo and upon this the Arrapahoes had halted to hunt, and after getting a good supply of meat, were engaged in converting it into tasajo, preparatory to an extended raid upon the tribes to the southward. It is probable that we, ourselves, were intended to receive their polite attentions, but if this had been their object it was frustrated by the fact that we were out upon the same errand as regarded themselves. At the eastern extremity of the prairie, a mountain rose from the plain; it was an isolated peak of small altitude, its height being but a few hundred feet, and in shape almost a perfect "sugar loaf." The belt of timber which formed the southern boundary of the prairie, extended to the mountain, and fringed its base. Near the foot of the mountain the Arrapahoes were in bivouac, their horses grazing upon the plain. Long rows of stakes and lines were erected, and upon these the buffalo meat was hung in strips, and was fast blackening in the hot sun. Evidently a few more hours would complete the process of its conversion into tasajo. A number of fires were kindled near the base of the mountain, and around these were grouped the Arrapahoe warriors, engaged in the usual Indian pastime of eating. A more favorable opportunity for attack could not be wished, provided we could approach near enough to take them by surprise; but to effect that, promised to be difficult, as we would certainly be seen the instant we passed the timber; and in that case, surprise would, of course, be out of the question. Our leaders, Stonhawon and Hissodecha, stood apart, apparently holding a sort of "council of war." Their conference, however, was quickly ended; the renegade made some proposition to which Stonhawon seemed to assent, for he signed us to mount, and we instantly resumed our march. In a few minutes I was able to fathom their design from the course taken. Skirting the belt of timber, and screened by it from the views of the Arrapahoes, we directed our course towards the lone peak. The timber belt was perhaps two hundred yards in width, and filled with a dense undergrowth. In its shadow the spies crept along its northern margin, moving parallel to our course, and keeping a close watch upon the enemy. The renegade's plan seemed to be to approach them as closely as possible under cover of the forest, and then make a sudden dash, taking them by surprise, and effecting their utter rout. As events showed, I had judged correctly of the intentions of our leaders, or at least partially so; but there was one detail of the plan, which I had not thought of, which was presently put in execution. After riding slowly for about two hours we reached the point, trended off to the north, and encircled the mountain. Here Stonhawon halted the main body, but the band of Hissodecha, which numbered about sixty warriors, was reinforced by about the same number detailed from the chief's party and sent round the mountain to attack the enemy in the rear. I was about running off with this party, when Stonhawon beckoned to me, and on my riding up to him, directed me to remain with him. I was quite surprised at this, and looked towards Hissodecha, expecting that he would urge that I be permitted to accompany him; but to my still greater surprise, he did not seem to notice me at all, and with his band soon disappeared behind a spur of the mountain. I had little opportunity, however, to reflect upon this circumstance, for our party was quickly put in motion, and passing through the wood, were soon ranged along its outer margin, sheltered from view by the thicket, and awaiting the signal to charge upon the foe. [Illustration: Massacre of Whites on the Western Frontier.] We were barely two hundred yards from their position, and could plainly distinguish the varied hues and designs of the war paint upon their persons. Their number was about equal to our own, and with the advantage of a surprise, it seemed probable that we might utterly destroy them. Like hounds held in the leash, we awaited the signal--at last it came--the shrill notes of the war whistle pierced the air, and it was instantly followed by the wild intonation of the Camanche war whoop as we burst forth from the timber and charged with headlong fury upon the foe. For a moment I thought that the surprise would be complete, for our sudden appearance seemed likely to completely demoralize the enemy. But the Arrapahoes, although greatly surprised and alarmed at our sudden onslaught, showed no signs of panic, indeed, it is next to impossible to really surprise an Indian. A few of those that were nearest to us were ridden down, transfixed with lances, or brained by blows from our war clubs and battle axes; but the larger number, hastily plucking up their lances and seizing their other weapons, rushed for their horses, and before we could reach them were mounted and forming to receive us. Riding at a headlong pace, a few seconds brought us upon them, and we closed at full speed. A confused and deadly _melee_ followed, the combat being mainly hand to hand. Blows and lance thrusts were exchanged, arrows whistled through the air, ghastly wounds were given and received; the air resounded with the groans of wounded and dying men, and the wild war cries of the contending warriors. Exactly what I did I hardly know, so great was the excitement and confusion. I know that I gave and received blows, and mechanically defended myself from the attacks made upon me; but the incidents of that brief yet terrible struggle seem like a dream to me now. The impetus of our first charge had carried us entirely through the enemies line. We then wheeled and charged them anew; and this manoeuvre was repeated many times. Our adversaries seemed to be getting decidedly the worse of the conflict, and we could see unmistakable signs of an inclination on their part to take refuge in flight, when something seemed to suddenly change their determination, and they again assaulted us with renewed fury. We were not long in discovering the cause; during the fight we had many times changed positions with our adversaries, and we were now facing towards the mountain. Attracted by a noise in our rear, we glanced in that direction, to behold a sight that filled us with dismay. Approaching us at fall speed was a party of fully one hundred Arrapahoes, evidently a detachment from the band we were fighting. Coming from the north, they had got within a quarter of a mile of us before we had discovered them, the tumult and confusion of the conflict preventing us from perceiving them sooner. As Hissodecha and his party, from some unaccountable delay, had not arrived upon the ground, our position was a perilous one. In a moment, the new enemies would be upon us, and without doubt we would be overwhelmed. Instant action on our part was imperative, and our leader, with ready perception of that fact, gave the signal to close in together and charge upon our immediate opponents. With a wild yell we rushed upon them, breaking through their line, and retreating rapidly towards the base of the mountain. Here a number of large rocks had fallen upon the plain from the cliffs above, and laid in such positions as to form a sort of natural breastwork. Indeed, the masses of rock, from their peculiar formation and grouping, had a striking resemblance to the ruins of some vast building. Behind these rocky bulwarks, we sheltered ourselves, and prepared to receive the attack which we felt sure the Arrapahoes, strengthened by their opportune reinforcement, would certainly make upon us. Indeed, we could see that they were preparing to do so, and I, having by this time had quite enough of fighting, was awaiting the assault with dread, when I was suddenly called by Stonhawon. Hastening to his side, as he sat on his horse, he directed me to accompany one of the young braves who was standing by him, and had apparently received his instructions. These the chief repeated for my benefit. We were to ascend the mountain, with all possible speed, and send up from its summit a "signal smoke," to hasten the arrival of Hissodecha and his party, still unaccountably delayed. Leaving our horses and most of our weapons with the party, we set off at once; the wild yells of the Arrapahoes, as they advanced to the attack, ringing in our ears, and being echoed by the defiant war-cry of the Camanches, as the latter prepared to receive the onslaught. CHAPTER XXVII. THE ESCAPE. Turning in the direction of the mountain, we put our horses into a hard run, and in a few moments were tearing our way through the mezquite bushes that fringed its base. The undergrowth became denser as we advanced, and it was found advisable to abandon the ponies and forge ahead on foot. The safety of our party depended in a great measure on the celerity of our movements. Hastily dismounting, and tying the cattle to some sturdy sage bushes, we continued our ascent, and it was not many minutes before we had reached a portion of the mountain that shelved out over the ravine, thus forming an admirable position for the signal operations. My companion briefly explained the method of smoke signals, which were made by gathering a quantity of very dry underbrush for the fire, and green twigs, boughs of pine, balsam, and hemlock, being placed upon the blazing wood, covers the flame and throws off a dense smoke that may be seen at great distances. After ascertaining his views, and receiving my instructions, I plunged into the wood and busied myself collecting materials for our telegraph operations. It was not long before we had a sufficient quantity of material gathered, and placing the dry wood in such a manner that it might be easily ignited, my companion produced his tinder apparatus, and was soon at work drilling the block of hard wood, and frantically endeavoring to coax a spark that might set the pile in a blaze. As few, if any, of my readers understand the method by which Indians light their fires, I will hastily describe it. The Indian is unfamiliar with the use of matches; even the more primitive flint and steel is a sealed book to him; hence he resorts to a very simple but laborious contrivance. Each Indian supplies himself with two dried stalks of the Mexican soap plant, about three-fourths of an inch in diameter. One is made flat on one side; near the edge of the flat surface a small indentation is made to receive the point of the other stick, and a groove cut from this down the side. The other stick is made with a rounded end, and placed upright upon the first. Placing the stick with a flat surface between the feet, the point of the other is placed in the hole made to receive it, and turning it between the palms with a backward and forward motion, and pressing the point forcibly into the lower stick, a fine powder is made, which runs through the groove and falls on the ground. By constant and rapid motion the wood begins to smoke, and at length the fine particles take fire; the spark is soon nursed into a flame, and the brushwood ignited. In this manner our fire was lighted, and heaping up the pine and hemlock boughs, the surrounding atmosphere was one dense cloud of smoke. Stealing to the very edge of the cliff, I peered over and anxiously scanned the plain below. I could see Stonhawon's band fighting desperately with their foes, who, by their superior numbers, were overpowering the Camanches. Immediately behind the belt of timber, and to the left of the contending factions, was the party comprising the band under the leadership of Hissodecha. They were moving cautiously around the timber, and had not as yet observed the signal. Once more the signal was worked, this time sending up a denser cloud than before. It was observed by the ambushed party; they drew rein, and after a hasty consultation, turned and retraced their steps. The movement was not executed any too soon, as the main party were retreating before the successful assault of the enemy, and endeavoring to gain the friendly cover of the wood. Hissodecha pressed rapidly forward, and emerging on the plain, swooped down upon the flank of the victorious Arrapahoes. This sudden movement entirely changed the aspect of affairs. The Arrapahoes fell back precipitately in the direction of the ravine, hoping by this means to gain shelter, and if the worst came to the worst, disband and scatter over the mountain. It was a thrilling scene, and I almost wished I was one among them. Our mission was accomplished, and my companion intimated that we should descend the mountain and join the war-party. As we descended, the Camanche preceded me, pushing his way through the bushes with a rapidity only acquired by long practice. Suddenly the thought flashed across my mind that now, if ever, was my golden opportunity. What would there be to prevent my braining the Indian in his tracks and then escape? It was a savage and brutal alternative, to be sure; but it was my only chance, and I might wait years in vain before another opportunity would present itself. As I revolved the scheme in my mind, my hand went instinctively to my belt and grasped the tomahawk. I trembled with excitement, and as if to keep pace with my thoughts, my steps quickened, and a few strides brought me close upon my victim. My quick and labored breathing must have attracted his attention, as, suddenly wheeling, he confronted me, and evidently read the murderous intention in my eye, he sprang lightly to one side, and unsheathing his knife, stood as if expecting an attack. Simultaneously with this action, I drew my tomahawk and rushed upon him, aiming a blow at his head. He adroitly parried it with his arm, but in so doing received a severe wound in the shoulder. Darting at me, he clutched my arm, and twining his limbs about my person, made a desperate endeavor to bring me to the ground. The tomahawk was of no use now; I allowed it to fall from my grasp, and with the disengaged hand clutched my knife. My antagonist's superior strength began to tell. I felt powerless, and his eyes gleamed with fiendish triumph. He raised the shining blade preparatory to sheathing it in my body, when I suddenly felt the ground giving way beneath my feet, and in less time than it takes to relate it, we were rolling over a precipice with a sheer fall of about ten feet. The savage clung to me with a death-like grip, and encircling my neck with his arm, grasped my throat _with his teeth_. Those were fearful moments. I struggled to disengage my hand from his vice-like grip. The blood gurgled from my mouth, my tongue protruded, and I was gasping for breath in the last throes of strangulation, when we came to the ground with a terrific shock. The savage gave one yell that curdled my blood, and instantly relaxed his hold, falling limp and lifeless by my side. I was not many minutes in disengaging myself from my antagonist, and in doing so I was made aware of the cause of the sudden turn of events that had saved me from a horrible death. It would appear, that during the struggle and fall, the hand that grasped my knife was encircled around the body of my foe, and when we struck the ground, my body being uppermost, the knife had been driven to the hilt into his back by the force of the concussion. Everything now depended on the celerity of my movements. The remainder of the party would no doubt wonder at our long absence, and despatch runners to seek the missing "signal" makers. It would require but a glance at the prostrate form of their comrade to enable them to realize the true state of affairs, and to make instant preparation to follow, overtake the fugitive, and mete out to him the reward of his perfidy. Hastily possessing myself of what few arms I needed, and taking the bag of parched corn that was suspended from the girdle of the fallen savage, I made my way to where the ponies were _cached_, and springing on my animal, urged him forward at the top of his speed, leading the Indian's pony by the lariat attached to his bridle. My plan was to strike out over the prairie in a southerly direction, and by traveling without cessation, endeavor to put a wide gap between pursuer and pursued, and thus be enabled to reach in safety some of the Mexican frontier towns. I was certain that this plan was feasible, from the conversation I had heard from time to time among the warriors of our band. Indeed, it was proposed by Hissodecha, to raid on some one of the _pueblas_, if they were unsuccessful in their attack on the Arrapahoes, as by this means they would avoid the ignominy of returning to the lodges of their people, without being able to display the fruits of a successful foray; such as scalps, horses, captives, etc. By riding my pony until he dropped from exhaustion and then availing myself of the fresh lead horse, I could travel an immense distance without drawing rein. It was growing dark when I started, and I had not traveled far before the night closed in, and I had to trust to the instinct of my horse to carry me safely over the prairie. My course was shaped by a certain star that would keep me on the right trail if I held it steadily in view. About midnight I halted at a small stream to water the horses, and hastily prepare for myself a small portion of the parched corn, which was done by mixing a handful in a gourd filled with water. This corn is invaluable to those who wish to traverse long distances, without being hampered with unnecessary luggage. With a sack or gourd of this article, containing about an half bushel, one can travel fifteen or twenty days without other sustenance. On we sped, the animals straining every muscle and nerve, their flanks heaving and flecked with foam. No sound broke upon the stillness of the night, save the rapid hoof-strokes of the mustangs, and occasionally the yelp of a coyote that was startled in his midnight prowlings by our sudden and rapid advance. Directly in my coarse loomed up a huge mound, and further on the dark forms of a range of low hills were outlined upon the horizon. I concluded to push on and gain their shelter. Once within their protecting shadow, I could pursue my course more leisurely, and without the fear of immediate detection. My grand anxiety was to hide or blind the trail, and by this means baffle the sleuth hounds, who were by this time in full pursuit. I had not proceeded far when the pony came to a sudden halt, which almost unseated me. I tried to urge him forward by word and action, but it was of no avail; he refused to move, and stood trembling like an aspen. Leaning forward and peering over his neck, I discovered, to my dismay, a wide chasm, which fully explained why the mustang had refused to be urged forward. The banks on either side were quite level, and no indentations or ruggedness marked the line of separation. One could ride up to its very brink without being aware of a break in the prairie level. I had thus come upon one of those _barancas_, the result of volcanic action, that are so frequently met with in this country. There was no alternative but to ride along its edge until I came to a point where its sides were depressed to the level of the plain. This, of course, involved a long detour, and a consequent loss of valuable time. My only consolation was in the reflection that my enemies, in following the trail, would be compelled to resort to the same tactics. I had journeyed down its banks about three miles, before I found an opportunity to cross. As I reached the opposite side, I turned and looked back. Away to my right, and in the direction from whence I came, I discerned a number of dark specks on the horizon, which filled me with the direst apprehensions. These dark objects were, doubtless, the forms of my pursuers, who had, it would seem, traveled with a celerity almost equaling my own. The chase now assumed a desperate aspect; before me lay life, hope, and freedom; behind was a nemesis that represented captivity, torture, and death. I plied the whip vigorously to the flank of my jaded steed, in the frantic endeavor to reach the cover of the mountain. I had not proceeded far on my course, when my pony showed unmistakable signs of giving out. Indeed, I had not made more than a mile on my course, when the animal stopped abruptly. I could feel him tremble under my weight; and dropping on his knees, I had scarcely time to leap to the ground before he fell, and drawing a deep sigh, he turned on his side and died, being absolutely ridden to death. I had no time to waste in mourning the brave little animal that had carried me thus far so faithfully. My robe was quickly transferred to the other horse, and the flight resumed. Reaching the base of the hills, I was so fortunate as to find water; and throwing myself at the foot of a tall cottonwood, with the lariat of the mustang attached to my wrist, I determined to snatch an hour's rest, of which both my mustang and myself were very much in need, after our long and arduous ride. I was awakened by a violent pulling at my wrist, caused by the horse, in trying to reach fresh grass. In a few moments I was up, mounted, and away once more in the direction of the Mexican towns. Towards evening I came to a river of some magnitude. It was now the dry season, and the stream was only a rivulet compared to what I judged it must be, when swollen by the rains and melting snows from adjacent mountains. I had, during the latter part of my journey, been casting about in my mind a series of plans, which would enable me to blind my trail, when lo! here was an opportunity that surpassed my most sanguine expectations. To urge my horse into the stream was the work of a moment, and then turning his head with the current, I continued the journey. At times the water would brush the animal's flanks; again, it would suddenly shallow, and scarcely cover his fetlocks; occasionally I would strike a deep hole, and be obliged to swim the animal some rods, before reaching _terra firma_. These irregularities in the river-bed were due to its quicksand formation, which was constantly shifting, shallowing here, deepening there, and it would have been sure destruction to horse and rider, if we stopped for a moment in our tracks. After journeying in this manner for about a mile, I entered a cañon, whose walls ascended to a height of thousands of feet, perpendicularly. On emerging from this gloomy pass, a sight met my gaze that made me shout for joy. Gaining the bank of the stream, I saw extended before me, waving fields of grain, and in the background, the modest spire of a little church, which was surmounted by a gilt cross, that fairly scintillated under the rays of the noon-day sun. I had arrived then, at last, within the confines of civilization, and my career as a savage, was about to be abruptly terminated. As I pushed forward, along the road that skirted the grain fields, and the familiar sounds of former days fell upon my ears--the tinkle of the cow bells, the busy hum, that filled the air like the whisper of early recollections, wafted down through the airy halls of time--made the scenes, trials and sufferings, appear but as a horrid dream, and I seemed to be just waking to reality. A glance at my tattooed and painted form, however, soon brought me back to a realizing sense of my position, and set me to reflecting how I should explain my presence in this hostile guise, to any chance inhabitant whom I might meet. * * * * * After much cogitation on the subject, I concluded it would be best to ride boldly into the village, and seeking the _Alcaid_, explain my situation in as good Spanish as my limited knowledge of the tongue, would permit. I had not gone far, when I was encircled by a crowd of bewildered and frantic Mexicans, who were shouting, "_Indios!_" "_Los Indios!_" at the top of their squeaky voices; while I made a running accompaniment to their remarks, by holding up my hands, with the palm outstretched towards them, and shouting in my turn, "_Amigo!_" Reaching the _plaza_, I dismounted, entered the _cantina_ and called for a basin of water. Stripping the plumage from my head, and relieving my body of its meretricious adornment, I plunged into the bath prepared for me, and came out, an entirely different looking individual. The news of my arrival had collected an eager and enthusiastic multitude, who filled the _patio_. I said enthusiastic, but all due allowance must be made for the natural and inherited indolence of the Mexican. On emerging from the inn, I was greeted with several shouts, and fifty people were asking me questions in one breath, all bent on having them answered in less than no time. I finally succeeded in relating my history, adventures and escape, and wound up with an appeal to their charity; setting forth my utterly destitute condition, in the most glowing terms my execrable Spanish would permit. It was an animated scene; the men in the checkered serape, or stripped blankets, conical sombreros, with broad brims, calzoneros of velveteen, with rows of shining buttons, and a sash of gaudy color, encircling their waists. The women were no less conspicuous; draped in the graceful sebazo, the short vogna, and the finely embroidered chemisette. My appeal was not met with that spontaneous generosity that I could have wished; in fact, they contributed nothing, and as a last resort, I was compelled to offer my horse for sale; which venture was more successful, and I soon disposed of him at a very fair price. I was now enabled to buy the few articles of clothing that I was most in need of, and after lingering a few hours in the village, I concluded to push on towards Santa Fé, in the hope of falling in with some party of traders, or miners, and then trust to the chapter of accidents for the rest. Fortune favored me in my designs, as I soon had an opportunity to join a party of Mexicans, who were _en route_ for the Capital of New Mexico, on trading schemes intent. I accompanied them in the capacity of muleteer. Arriving in Santa Fé, I immediately repaired to the largest inn, being attracted thither by a number of uncouth characters, in hunting shirts, and slouch hats. I entered unobtrusively, and took a quiet survey of the scene. The room was the _cantina_, and all were indulging in potations, more or less deep, of El Paso whiskey. The atmosphere was redolent of the fumes of tobacco, and commingled with the shouts and coarse language of the men, was the shrill treble of the women, who darted here and there, through the throng, like sunbeams. I was attracted by one rude specimen, who seemed bent on getting up a fight. This great rough fellow, of six feet and over, called a trim little _poblana_ to him, with, "hyar, my little muchacha! vamous, and git me some of that'er Pass, good now, and clar!" Then, as the liquor was produced, he offered the waiter a quantity of money, which was unhesitatingly accepted, with a "_mucho bueno, señor_." "Hooraw for you! come along, let's licker up all round, and have a dance; you're the gal for my beaver; bully for old Missouri!" Suddenly, a pistol was discharged in a remote corner of the room, and there was an instantaneous rush in that quarter, succeeded by loud cries, oaths, blows, shooting, din, and confusion. Sick and weary of such scenes, I left the _cantina_, and sallying forth into the _plaza_, wandered down the street, not knowing where to go, or what was to become of me. I cared less. CHAPTER XXVIII. A NEW DEPARTURE. Glad to escape from such a scene of riot and violence, I walked rapidly along the narrow street, without any definite idea of where I was going. I soon passed the low and squalid looking rows of _adobe_ buildings, which compose the greater part of the famous "Cuidad de Santa Fé," and came out upon the open plain beyond. My attention was attracted by a small group of wagons parked upon the plain a short distance off, and I walked towards them, thinking perhaps, to fall in with some of my own countrymen, of a different class from the brutal roughs I had lately met. The wagons were but four in number, and the party to which they belonged comprised only twelve or fifteen persons. They were mostly Americans, and from their dress and manner I took them to be a party of miners. All were stout, hardy looking men, with an air that bespoke familiarity with hardships and adventure. They had just struck camp, and were evidently preparing for departure. One, who seemed to act as their leader, was directing operations, and apparently exercised a degree of authority unusual among men of this class. He was a stout, broad-shouldered man, with a good natured expression of countenance, and from his voice and features, easily distinguishable as an Englishman. The others addressed him as "Harding," or "Ned." One or two giving him the familiar appellation of "Hard Pan," which seemed a sort of _sobriquet_ by which he was known. There was something in his appearance which inspired me with the belief that in him I might find a friend; and impelled by this feeling I approached him, and addressed him as "Mr." Harding, explained that I was a stranger and destitute, in what was to me a strange land, and implored him to give me employment of some kind with his party, so that I might in time be enabled to return to my home in the distant East. "Where do ye come from, lad?" said he, looking at me with some interest, and noticing the ineffaceable marks upon my face--my legacy from the Camanches, and which I am destined to carry to my grave. In as few words as possible I told him my story, interrupted by many exclamations of wonder and sympathy from my simple-minded listener. As I concluded he slapped me on the back, and declared that I should join his party, and should never want for a bite or sup while Ned Harding was to the fore. By this time the other men of the party had gathered around, and I was compelled to repeat my tale, which excited both pity and interest in the breasts of the kind-hearted miners, who declared that the "cussed Kimanch ought to be wiped out." "Aye, every mother's son of them," added Ned, "for playing such tricks upon travelers, the bloody-minded heathen." It was soon agreed upon that I should accompany the party, who were on their way to the old Spanish mine of San Ildefonso, formerly noted as one of the richest in the province of New Mexico, but for many years deserted by the Mexicans from terror of the savage Apache and Navajo. The men composing the party of which I had now become a member, were not to be deterred in their search for a golden harvest by any fears of such a nature, and had determined to visit the old mine and "prospect" in its vicinity, with the hope of finding a paying lead. They had with them all the necessary utensils for their purpose, were well-armed, and with an abundant stock of provision, and seemed one and all to be confident of success in their enterprise. I will spare the reader unnecessary details, and merely state that we started within an hour on our journey, and after a wearisome and uninteresting trip of eighteen days, reached the scene of our future operations, and which was destined to be my abiding place for nearly two years. A suitable spot was selected, convenient to both wood and water; a few rude huts were erected, and the town of "Harding" sprang into being. After getting fairly settled, and resting somewhat from the fatigue incident to our journey and our labors in preparing our camp, we divided in parties of three and four, and went to "prospecting" in various directions for the precious metal, which was the object of our expedition. In this we were moderately successful and we soon had our mining operations in full blast. I always worked in company with "Ned," as I had learned to call him, and although he favored me to a degree, assigning to me all the lighter portions of the work, I soon found that it was the most severe labor I had ever undertaken, although I had been inured to toil and hardship of almost every kind daring my long residence with the Camanches. The old mine was situated at the base of a precipitous cliff of quartz rock. A number of rude shafts pierced the mountain side. Some had penetrated to a considerable depth; others more shallow, showing that the _lead_ had proved unprofitable, and been speedily abandoned. On the banks of a little stream which wound around the base of the cliff, stood the old smelting house and ruined ranches of the Mexican miners. Most of them were roofless and crumbling to decay. The ground about them was shaggy and choked up. There were briers, mezcal plants, and many varieties of cactus; all luxuriant, hirsute, and thorny. These we speedily cleared away, and selecting one of the largest of the old smelting houses, we soon put in order for work. Besides our "quartz" mining in the old shafts and in new ones which we opened we also engaged in "gulch" and "surface" mining in the vicinity. As some account of the different modes employed to get at the precious metals, with which the rocks and soils of the far western states are so richly stored, may not be uninteresting to the reader, I will briefly give it. Mining for gold alone is divided into two general classes: that which seeks the metal from the solid rock or quartz, and that which finds it in sand, gravel, or soil. The former process is the universal and familiar one of all rock mining, following the rich veins into the bowels of the earth with pick and powder, crushing the rock and separating the infinitesimal atoms of metal from the dusty, powdered mass. The theory of the geologists is, that this is the original form or deposit of the precious metals; that the gold found in gravel, sand, or soil, lying as it does almost universally in the beds of rivers, or under the caves of the mountains, has been washed or ground out of the hard hills by the action of the elements through long years. Washing with water is the universal means of getting at these deposits of the gold. But the scale on which this work is done, and the instrumentalities of application vary from the simple hand-pan, pick, and shovel of the original miner, operating along the banks of a little stream, to grand combination enterprises for changing the entire course of a river, running shafts down hundreds of feet to get into the beds of long ago streams, and bringing water through ditches and flumes, and great pipes for ten or twenty miles, and withall to wash down a hillside of golden gravel, and extract its precious particles. The simple individual pan-washers are the first in the field, but it soon ceases to be profitable to this class of operators, and they soon move on in search of richer "diggings." The other means are employed on greater or less scales of magnitude, by combinations of men and capital. All the forms of gold-washing run into each other, indeed; and companies, sometimes consisting of only two or three persons, with capitals of a few hundred dollars merely, buy a sluice claim, or seize a deserted bed, and with shovel and pick, and a small stream of water, run the sands over and over through the sluiceways, and at the end of the day, or week, or month, gather up the deposits of gold in the bottoms and at the ends of their sluices. From this, operations ascend to a magnitude involving hundreds of thousands, and employing hundreds of men as partners or day laborers for the managers. Sometimes, too, the enterprise is divided, and companies are organized that furnish the water alone, and sell it out to the miners or washers, according to their wants. The raising of auriferous sands and gravel from the deeply covered beds of old streams, by running down shafts and tunnels into and through such beds, is called "deep diggings," or "bed rock diggings;" and in their pursuit, the bottoms of ancient rivers will be followed through the country for mile after mile, and many feet below the present surface of the earth. The miners in this fashion go down until they reach the bed rock along which the water originally ran, and here they find the richest deposits. The other sort of heavy gold washing, employing powerful streams of water to tear down and wash out the soil of hillsides that cover or hold golden deposits, is known as "hydraulic mining." This is the most unique and extensive process, involving the largest capital and risk. The water is brought from mountain lakes and rivers, through ditches and flumes, sometimes supported by trestle work, fifty or one hundred feet high, to near the scene of operations. Then it is let from the flumes into large and stout iron pipes, which grow gradually smaller and smaller. Out of these it is passed into hose, like that of a fire engine; and through this it is discharged with terrific force into the bank or bed of earth, which is speedily torn down and washed with resistless separating power into narrow beds or sluices in the lower valleys; and as it goes along these, the more solid gold particles deposit themselves in the rifts or slight barriers placed for that purpose across its path. Usually, in large operations of this kind, the main stream of water is divided in the final discharging hose into two or more streams, which spout out into the hillside as if from so many fire engines, but with immensely more force. One of these streams would instantly kill man or animal that should get before it; and fatal accidents frequently happen from this source. Sometimes a water company taps lakes fifteen or twenty miles off in the mountains, and turns whole rivers into its ditches. There are in some localities supposed rich gold banks and beds, which only require water for development, but to get which would require an outlay for ditches of many hundred thousand dollars. It is probable that it would be richly paying investment, however, and the principal reason why it is not undertaken is the lack of certain laws, regulating mining claims, and the conflicts and doubts that are occasioned by the neglect of the government to establish the terms of ownership in mining lands. As it is now, possession is the principal title to mining properties; prospectors and miners have established a few general rules for determining the rights of each other, and they can occupy the properties that they discover or purchase to a certain limited extent. No one person is permitted to take up more than a certain amount in feet or acres. The government so far has done nothing with these mineral lands, whose real ownership is still in itself, and derives no revenue from them. Whenever difficulties arise and are brought before the courts, the regulations of the miners of the district where the properties are located has generally been sustained. But the apprehension that the government will yet assume its rights and establish different rules for the possession and use of these lands, and the uncertainty and controversies growing out of the present loose ways of making and holding claims, are a serious obstacle to large enterprises, and a hindrance to the best sort of mining progress and prosperity throughout all the western mining country. The profits obtained in some cases of extensive deep diggings and hydraulic mining are very great. A thousand dollars a day is often washed out by a company holding rich soil and employing a large force; and a run of several weeks, averaging from fifty to one hundred dollars a day for each man employed is frequently recorded. A single "cleaning up" after a few weeks' washing in a rich place has produced fifty thousand dollars in gold dust and nuggets; and in some cases, even one hundred thousand dollars has been reported. These are the extreme cases of good fortune, however; other enterprises are run at a loss, or with varying result; but the gold washing, as a general thing pay good wages, and a fair return to the capital invested. It is hardly possible to imagine, and wholly impossible to describe the ruin and wreck to be seen everywhere in the path of the larger gold washing operations. Streams naturally pure as crystal, become changed to a thick, yellow mud, from this cause, early in their passage out from the hills. Many of them are turned out of their original channels, either directly for mining purposes, or in consequence of the great masses of soil and gravel that come down from the gold washings above. Thousands of acres of fine lands along their banks are ruined forever, by deposits of this character. The mining interest respects no rights but its own. A farmer may have his whole estate changed to a barren waste, by a flood of sand and gravel from some hydraulic mining up the stream. If a fine orchard or garden stands in the way of the working of a rich gulch or bank, orchard and garden are doomed. They are torn down, dug out, washed to pieces, and then washed over side hills. Where the process of hydraulic mining has been, or is being carried on, the country presents an appearance of devastation and ruin that is scarcely imaginable; forming a frightful blot upon the face of nature. For this sort of mining on a large scale, we had no facilities, so we were compelled to work in a very small way, and be satisfied with correspondingly small results. News of our successful establishment of the old mine, in some way reached Santa Fé, and, rushing to the conclusion that we had found a new Eldorado, all the floating population of that decaying city swooped down upon us, and we soon found quite a populous settlement growing up around us. A very decided change in our situation resulted from this, and some rather exciting events transpired, but these I will leave for another chapter. Soon after the accessions to our community had become so numerous, my friend and partner, Ned Harding, fell ill. This put a sudden stop to our mining operations, and for several weeks I was compelled to remain by the side of his rude couch, attending to his wants, and doing all that I could to facilitate his recovery. Among the new arrivals at our "diggings" was a Mexican, who had followed the profession of a _medico_ in former times, but who was now an inveterate gold hunter; one of the sort who are perpetually on the move from place to place, seeking placers of fabulous richness, but never working any claim long enough to fairly develop it. Perhaps they have no sooner commenced operations in one place, when a rumor comes of rich finds at some far distant point, and off they go, to repeat the same performance indefinitely. When Ned was first taken sick, I thought of this Mexican doctor, and at once went in search of him. With some difficulty I persuaded him to get out of the hole in which he was working, and go to see my friend. We had a few simple medicines among our supplies, and from some of these the ex-doctor prepared a potion for Ned, which he declared would be "_mucho bueno_," and that the patient would be all right in "_tres dias_," at the most. The result, however, failed so justify his expectations, for Ned became no better, although there was no marked change for the worse. It went on in this way for several weeks; I continuing to give the medicines prescribed by the Mexican physician, but without any apparent result. Ned seemed to be in a kind of low fever, and to constantly lose strength. The stomach seemed to entirely refuse its office, and it was almost impossible to give him any food, however light, that he could keep down much longer than while eating it. He complained greatly of pain in the back and head, and a constant feeling of nausea at the stomach, or, as he expressed it, "I tell ye, lad, theare's something thear as wants to come up and can't." Finally, seeing no signs of improvement from the treatment pursued by our Mexican friend, and becoming greatly alarmed at Ned's condition, I was sitting one day, in great despondency, upon a stump in front of our hut, when it suddenly flashed upon my mind that I had never tried the Indian remedy, in the preparation and administration of which I had spent so great a part of my life. For some reason it had never occurred to me to use it, and indeed, I did not know whether it was possible to procure the necessary ingredients, in my present location, although I judged it probable that I might do so. At all events, I determined to make the attempt, and accordingly I went "prospecting" for the required herbs, roots, etc., that very day. After two days spent in this way, I succeeded in procuring all the ingredients which I had so many times compounded under Wakometkla's direction, and lost no time in preparing the medicine. I then commenced giving it to my patient in small doses, at intervals of four or five hours, through the day, and was soon gratified to find an almost immediate improvement in his condition. The second day after commencing this treatment, the fever left him; he broke out into a profuse perspiration, and fell into a deep sleep, which lasted for many hours. When he awoke he complained of feeling very hungry; and when I prepared some food he ate quite heartily, and retained it on his stomach without difficulty. Encouraged by these favorable indications, I continued the medicine, and with surprising results. His recovery was so rapid that it seemed almost miraculous. In eight days he declared himself entirely well, and almost overwhelmed me with expressions of gratitude, declaring that I had saved his life. I told him that his thanks were due not to me, but to Wakometkla, the strange old medicine-man of the Camanches, or, more properly, to that higher Power, which had enabled this uneducated savage to discover and prepare from the simple growths of the forest and mountain, so wonderful a remedy for "all the ills that flesh is heir to." Ned was so universal a favorite among the miners, that his illness had excited great sympathy and commiseration. As he went about, trumpeting forth my praise as a medical practitioner, I soon found that I had gained considerable notoriety. The miners dubbed me "Doctor," and called for my services in all cases requiring medical assistance. With Wakometkla's remedy alone as my entire pharmacopoeia, I battled with many forms of disease incident to our rough and exposed life, and met with almost unvarying success. In fact, in that region I expect I shall never be known by any other title than "Doctor," although I do not claim or fancy such a designation. It would be well for the people if the old school mineral physicians, who are rapidly ruining the health of the entire nation by the free use of deleterious and poisonous drugs, would take a leaf from the book of nature, and re-study their profession in the same school from which I graduated--the school of nature. CHAPTER XXIX. THE "VIGILANTS." With the influx of population to our settlement came adventurers of all classes; desperadoes, gamblers, broken down professional men, _nymphs du pave_ of the coarse and vulgar sort, gentlemen who "had interests" in "wild-cat" mines in half the counties of the Pacific States, _greasers_, or Mexicans, Indians (_pueblas_)--in short, a conglomerate mass of humanity; or, judging by later events, one might rather say _inhumanity_--such as is nowhere to be seen but in the mining towns of the far West. Under the instructions of Ned Harding, we had on our first arrival "located" all the "claims" that there was any probability of our working, and we were therefore secured against interference on the part of the new comers, who went prospecting all over the adjacent country, locating claims by the hundred. As the process of "locating" claims may be new to the reader, I will give a brief description of it. The first thing is to find your "lead," for this precious metal is not found indiscriminately in every rock or ledge you may chance upon. It is found only in the quartz rock, a ledge of which, say twenty feet in thickness, may run like a curbstone set on edge for many miles across hills and in valleys. It may be a mile in depth, and maintain a nearly uniform thickness, being perfectly distinct from the casing rock on each side of it, and keeping its distinctive character always, no matter how deep or how far into the earth it extends. Wherever it is bored into, gold and silver are found; but none in the meaner rock surrounding it. This peculiar rock formation is called a "lead;" and one of these you must first find before you have anything to "locate" a claim upon. When your prospecting has resulted in the discovery of a "lead," you write out and put up a "notice" as follows: NOTICE. I (or we), the undersigned, claim one (or more, according to the number of the party) claim of three hundred feet, and one for discovery, on this silver--(or gold) bearing quartz lead, or lode, extending east and west from this notice, with all its dips, spurs, and angles, extensions and sinuosities, together with fifty feet of ground on each side for working the same. Then you file a copy of the same with the Mining Recorder in the town, and your claim is "entered." In order to secure it, however, you must, within ten days, do a certain amount of work upon the property, or any one may re-enter it at the expiration of that time. Among the most important citizens in every mining community are the assayers, of whom there are generally a swarm to be found about every new strike; some of them the veriest charlatans that ever disgraced an honorable profession. When you have located your claim, the next thing is to select some specimens and subject them to the test of the "fire assay." For this purpose it is customary to select the richest lump you can find, and take it to the assayer. On the result of his assay, he will predicate that a ton of such ore would yield hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars; and in this way many a worthless mine has been sold for a large price. In fact, I think, as a rule, the speculators made far more than the miners themselves. We had at one time an assayer in our camp, who obtained such rich results from every specimen of rock brought to him, that he soon had a virtual monopoly of the business. No matter what specimen might be brought to him, he would demonstrate that it contained so large a portion of gold or silver, that the development of the mine could not fail to be profitable. Some of his rivals in the trade, becoming jealous of his superior success, conspired together and concocted a plan for his overthrow. One of them procured somewhere an old lapstone, and breaking it into small fragments, selected one as the specimen to be subjected to the intended victim for testing. They let several of the principal miners into the secret, and as there had been some doubts of the reliability of the reports of the assayer in question, they readily assented to assist in proving the truth of the matter. So one of them brought him the "specimen" and left it for assay. The result was encouraging in the extreme; for in the course of an hour the assayer sent in his report, from which it appeared that a ton of rock equal to the sample, would yield $1,324.80 in silver, and $214.58 in gold. The whole matter was at once made public, and the discomfited charlatan immediately found that important business called him elsewhere, and departed between two days. It was well for him that he did so; for so great was the popular indignation, that it is probable he would have found a _permanent_ residence in the vicinity, could the excited miners have laid hands on him at this time. The town of "Harding" had now developed into an embryo city. We had nearly two thousand inhabitants, representing every grade of civilization and barbarism, principally the latter. At night the place presented an animated spectacle; for about every third shanty was either a drinking den or a gambling hell. All were brilliantly lighted and wide open to the street, from which you could see the excited groups around the gaming tables, or before the bars. Every man went armed to the teeth. Fights and affrays were of almost daily--nay, hourly--occurrence. The crack of the pistol became a very familiar sound in my ears, and so frequent were the scenes of violence and murder, that I began to think that the men I was among were worse than the savages with whom my lot had been cast in former years. To such a pass did the insolence and brutality of these desperadoes come at last, that the better class of the miners began to talk among themselves of the necessity for doing something to check it; but none seemed disposed to take the lead, and things went on from bad to worse, until the arrival of a new actor upon the scene brought them to a climax, and disorder and violence culminated in a sudden and severe spasm of justice. The new arrival, who was destined to be the principal figure in the tragic scenes about to be enacted, was a Kentuckian, named Reid. He was some twenty-eight or thirty years of age, of medium size and finely proportioned, but very athletic. He had a frank and engaging expression of countenance, and nothing in his appearance would seem to indicate the hardened ruffian; yet he was reported to have slain thirty-two men in affrays or personal difficulties since he came into the mining country. From the very day of his arrival, this man became the acknowledged leader of all the lawless elements of our community; and as he seemed to be thirsting for notoriety, outrage followed outrage in rapid succession. Among our own original party was a quiet, inoffensive German, named Schaeffer, than whom a more peaceable man could nowhere be found. Against him Reid seamed to have a special spite from the moment he first encountered him; and finally, meeting him one evening in the "El Dorado" saloon, he forced a quarrel on him, and then shot poor Schaeffer dead, before the latter had time to make a movement in his own defense. He apparently supposed that this would be passed over in the same manner as his previous ill deeds; but for once he was mistaken. In killing Schaeffer he had roused against him a determined and bitter enemy, none other than Ned Harding himself, who was now acting as mayor, or alcalde, of the town named in his honor. Ned quickly gathered together our own party, and some twenty-five of the leading men in the place, and announced his determination to form a "Vigilance Committee," and rid the town of the desperadoes who infested it. The entire party acquiesced in the wisdom of the proposal, and the committee was organized then and there. After some consultation, a plan of operations was agreed upon, and at once put in practice. The next morning a neatly written note appeared posted in several prominent places in the camp, warning all objectionable characters to leave town within twenty-four hours, or their lives would be forfeited. This document was signed, "The Vigilants," and naturally created considerable stir and excitement among the parties at whom it was directed, and many of them took the warning and departed; but some of the more desperate, in all about twenty in number, banded themselves together under the leadership of Reid, and swore that they would never leave town, except of their own free will, and defied the Vigilants to touch any one of their number. At the expiration of the twenty-four hours, we determined to arrest all the members of Reid's party, and deal with them as they deserved. Accordingly, we mustered our forces, and at the same time made known our intentions to most of the more prominent men in the camp. When all our arrangements were completed, we proceeded in search of our _game_, and in a couple of hours had caught and caged every member of the gang, with two exceptions. One of these had in some way become aware of our intentions, and he found it convenient to seek another locality without delay. The other man was no less a person than Reid himself; and he went about boasting that no man dare arrest him, and threatening with instant death any man who should attempt it. This duty Ned Harding had reserved for himself, and when all was in readiness, he set out to accomplish it. As he was not known to be a "Vigilant," and was noted as a man of very quiet and peaceable character, no suspicion attached to him of being concerned in the matter. Arming himself, he went into the main street of the village, and entering one of the principal saloons, confronted the desperado. The latter must have seen in Ned's eye that he meant mischief, for he made a motion as if to draw a weapon; but before he could do so, he was seized by the throat, and thrown to the ground with the full force of Ned's muscular arm. Other "vigilants," to the number of about twenty, closed in around the fallen man and his captor, with drawn revolvers, and guarded against any attempt at rescue. Reid was securely bound, lifted to his feet, and placed in close confinement in one of the shanties belonging to our party, under the guard of two well-armed and determined men. Two hours later all the prisoners were brought up for execution. The miners turned out in large numbers, and forming in solid column, armed to the teeth, they marched up the principal street and halted in front of the building where most of the prisoners were confined. The doomed men were quickly brought out, and informed of the fate in store for them, at the same time Ned Harding made his appearance, leading Reid, and the same announcement was made to the latter. Such a scene as ensued, I hope never to see again. These apparently fearless desperadoes, who had repeatedly imbrued their hands in human blood without an instant's hesitation, were transformed on the moment, into a pack of whining cowards; begging and entreating in the most abject manner, that their lives might be spared. Reid, the ringleader of all, was the most utter craven of the whole number, and shrieks, curses and prayers for mercy rolled unceasingly from his lips, until the rope choked his utterance. Just outside the camp, stood a considerable grove of trees; to this we repaired with our prisoners, and in ten minutes more they were run up, one after another, and each hung convulsed in the death agony, at the end of a lariat. To me, the utter cowardice displayed by these ruffians was surprising--but there is something about the desperado nature that is unaccountable--at least, it seems unaccountable, and it is this. The true desperado is gifted with splendid courage, and yet he will take the most infamous advantage of his enemy; armed and free, he will stand up before a host and fight until he is cut to pieces, and yet, when brought under the gallows, he will plead and cry like a child. The case of Reid, was especially notable, from his bloody reputation, and the many instances of courage he had shown in his conflicts with other outlaws. Yet, when brought face to face with death, in a different form, he seemed the veriest poltroon that ever walked. Words cost nothing, and it is easy to call him a coward (as all executed men, who fail to die "game" are invariably called by unreasoning people), and when a man like Reid, so exhausts himself by tears, prayers and lamentations, that he has scarcely strength enough to stand under the gallows, it seems hardly possible that he could be otherwise. Yet he had frequently defied and invited the vengeance of banded Rocky Mountain cut-throats, by shooting down their comrades or leaders, and never offering to hide or fly; he had shown himself to be a man of unquestioned bravery, for no coward would dare do such things. We often read of the most brutal and cowardly murderers, who, when on the gallows, make their last dying speeches without a tremor of the voice, and are swung off, into eternity, with what seems like the calmest fortitude. Hence, it seems clear, that in such low and degraded natures, it cannot be _moral_ courage that sustains them. But if moral courage is not the requisite quality, what is it that such men as Reid, lack? Bloody, desperate, reckless, and yet kindly mannered and urbane gentlemen, who never hesitate to warn their enemies of their intention to kill them on sight, when next they meet. It seems to me a question worthy of study and solution. The executions over, we returned to the town, first detaching a party to remove and bury the bodies. Then the assemblage quietly dispersed, and that night our little community saw the first peace and quiet it had known for many a day. The condition of affairs in the new mining districts was peculiar. One reason why murder and outrage were so prevalent, was, that the rough element generally predominated, and among this class a person is not respected until he has "killed his man," as they express it. When any new arrival came into camp, no one thought of inquiring if he was honest or industrious, but, had he killed his man? If not, he was a person of small consequence, and unworthy of further notice; if he had, the cordiality of his reception, and his standing in the community was graduated according to the number of his victories. No man could rise to any position of influence, with bloodless hands, without long and weary labor, but if he were known to have killed half a dozen men, his worth was at once appreciated, and he became a man of note in the community. Hence, it is not surprising that many men were killed without the pretext of provocation; so impatient were these persons to achieve distinction and emerge from their obscurity, and become shining lights among the fraternity of desperadoes. "There goes the man that killed Jack Smith," was the sort of celebrity mostly coveted by this class of people; and I know of several cases, where persons tried to "kill their men," for no other reason, and in some instances were successful, in others, got killed themselves for their pains. In such communities it is utterly impossible to convict a man of murder, arising from one of these public brawls or affrays, and it is only when patience ceases to be a virtue, and the long-suffering miners and others of the law-abiding classes, rise in their might, and by an indiscriminate execution of all persons of bad character, clear the atmosphere for a time, that such crimes are ever punished. The desperado stalked the streets with a swagger, graded according to the number of his homicides, and a nod of recognition from him, was sufficient to make an humble admirer happy for the rest of the day. The deference that was paid to a desperado of wide reputation and who kept his "private graveyard," as the phrase went, was marked and cheerfully accorded. When he moved along the sidewalk in his excessively long-tailed frock coat, shiny stump-toed boots, and with dainty little slouch hat, tipped over his left eye, the small-fry roughs made room for his majesty; when he entered the restaurant, the waiters deserted bankers and merchants, to overwhelm him with obsequious attention; when he shouldered his way to the bar, the shouldered parties wheeled indignantly, recognized him, and--apologized. They got a look in reply, that made them tremble in their boots, and by this time, a gorgeous barkeeper was leaning over the counter, proud of a degree of acquaintance that enabled him to use such familiarity as "how are yer Jack, old feller; glad to see you; what'll you take? the old thing?" meaning his usual drink of course. The best known names in the mining towns, were those belonging to these bloodstained heroes of the revolver. Governors, politicians, capitalists, leaders of the legislature, and men who had made big strikes, enjoyed some degree of fame, but it seemed local and insignificant, when compared with the celebrity of such men as these. There was a long list of them. They were brave, reckless men, and carried their lives in their own hands. To do them justice, they did their killing principally among themselves, and seldom molested peaceable citizens, for they considered it small credit to add to their trophies so small an affair as the life of a man who was not "on the shoot," as they termed it. They killed each other on slight provocation, and hoped and expected to be killed themselves, for they considered it almost disgraceful for a man not to die "with his boots on," as they expressed it. Gradually their ranks were thinned by the ever ready pistol, but it was not so much this, as the change in public sentiment, that caused them mainly to disappear from the older mining communities. Now, except in newly opened diggings, the genuine desperado is a thing of the past. CHAPTER XXX. CONCLUSION. About this time rumors were rife that the Indians were contemplating a raid on the mine, and operations were temporarily suspended. Meetings were called, and a committee of defence organized, with a view to taking such measures as would place the settlement in a position to successfully resist all, or any attempts of the savages. Those who had had any experience in Indian warfare were called to the council, and consulted on the best means to avert the impending calamity. The panic was more painfully apparent among those who had come upon the scene hampered with goods and chattels of various kinds. These worthies were brimful of wrath and whiskey, and gave free vent to the expression of their opinions regarding the outside world generally, and Indians in particular. They were fertile in suggestion; and the many schemes they advanced for the total destruction of all who threatened their private interests would have reflected credit, not to say renown, on a Don Quixote. The thought of my enslaved wife was never absent from my mind. Day and night, sleeping and waking, her image haunted me. I fancied her suffering every degree of misery; and the consciousness that I was powerless to snatch her from the toils of relentless captors, caused me the most poignant anguish. I had a vague, half formed notion of seeking her unaided, and by once more assuming my Indian trappings and cognomen, advance in to the Apache country, penetrate to their villages, and by a bold dash, seize my wife and bear her defiantly off in the very teeth of my adversaries. This would have been very spirited and chivalrous, no doubt, but unfortunately, the obstacles that opposed themselves to this plan were legion. No sooner did I convince myself of the impracticability of such a mode of procedure, than other plans would present themselves, which, in their turn would have to be relinquished when submitted to the rigorous test of practicability. This constant strain on my mind interposed stumbling blocks to my material prosperity, as I had no heart for my work, and wandered about the diggings aimlessly. I was rallied by my comrades on my morose temper, and recommended to try work as an effectual antidote for the causes that were preying on my health. One balmy afternoon, as I sauntered among the working parties, gazing abstractedly at their operations, my attention was attracted to a group, who seemed to be very much excited by some event. A few had gathered about an object lying upon the ground, while others were running frantically in different directions as if they were possessed. My curiosity being excited I approached the group, and found that the cause of this alarm was one of their comrades, who had been bitten by a snake. The poor fellow was moaning piteously; and so sure was he that his death was only a matter of a few hours time, that he had begun to make the few bequests that would dispose of all his worldly goods, including the little hoard of "dust," so long and patiently sought for. One of his friends knelt at his side, and was endeavoring to pour the contents of a flask of whiskey down his throat. The poison had taken immediate effect, and he doubtless would have been a corpse in a few hours. I was immediately recognized, and one of the miners accosted me with "Hullo! Eastman, just the man we want; now is your time to produce some of those marvelous herbs you have told us about, and see what you can do for this poor fellow." My sympathies were awakened; my mind threw off its semi-stupor; and hastily glancing about me on the ground, I sought for some of those simple herbs and plants, that I had seen so effectually used in similar cases. Hastily gathering what I needed, I soon had leaves bandaged about the swollen parts, and then turned my attention to making a decoction of the herbs. This I forced the patient to take, and after caring for him assiduously during a few hours, I had the satisfaction of noting a marked change for the better. I was deluged with congratulations, and in a short time the fame of this new exploit in the healing art was noised abroad throughout the mine. My new friends were not miners, in the proper sense of the term, but a party of "mountain men," who had been allured hither by exaggerated reports of the immense wealth that was represented as scattered broadcast over the surface of the earth, and was only waiting for a claimant. Arriving on the ground they had staked out a claim, and fell to work without any delay. It is needless to add that they did not realize the immense riches they had so fondly anticipated. The result was that they had sickened of their bargain, and many were for pulling up stakes and returning to the free and easy life among the mountains. A short time after the episode just related, there came to our camp one day, a trapper, who had but just returned from his traps, and was on his way to the nearest trading post, to exchange his peltries for powder, wearing apparel, etc. From him we learned that the Indians were preparing for some extensive raid, as he had seen numerous parties who were in their war paint. Among other items, he related how he had been captured by a hand of Apaches, and had remained among them eight days before he succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his guard. From him I gained the first information concerning my wife. He had been captured by some of Mahtocheega's band, and by the description he gave of the white captives at that time in the village, I felt sure that my wife was one of the number. Learning that on his return he would proceed to the same locality in quest of "beaver plew," I determined to accompany him. About half a dozen signified their intention of following my example, and a party was soon made up. The trapper bade us adieu, promising to return as soon as his skins were traded for the supplies of which he stood in need. Gathering together what little money I had, I purchased a horse, rifle and pistol, and prepared to go in search of my lost wife. We had not long to wait for our new friend; he returned in less than a week's time, and all being in readiness, we gathered up our traps, and took a final leave of the mine of San Ildefonso. Passing out at the northern end of the settlement, we struck the Santa Fé road, and followed its sinuous windings for some days. We passed through the sleepy Mexican towns, that were situated along the route, without disturbing in the least degree the habitual drowsiness of their inhabitants. On the fourth day we made a stretch of sixty miles through that terror of travelers in this section--the "jornado del muerto." After having crossed in safety, we rested one day to recuperate the animals, and soon after arrived in Santa Fé, halting at the inn that had been the scene of the shooting affray on my former visit. Our stay in the capital of New Mexico was not of long duration, and once more we resumed our journey, striking out in a westerly direction towards the mountains. Our first encampment was on the banks of one of the tributaries of the Rio Colorado. Staking our horses out, as is the custom, we gathered around the camp fire, discussing our evening meal of fresh antelope steaks. Many were the stories told of trapper life, and as we filled our pipes for a smoke before retiring, the subject of conversation was upon food. All had some anecdote to relate and after each had spun his yarn, Harding, who up to the present had been silent, drawled out, "Wal, I 'spect as how yer have had some tol'rable bad jints in yer time, but I think I kin jest lay over anything in this yer party in the way o' supper. Howsumever, I will give yer a chance to hear how this nigger once got his supper up on the Yallerstone, last season. "Yer see, I had been in them parts arter beaver, which war plenty, an' no mistake; an' one day, when I had gone to _cache_ some skins, I left my rifle in the grass near my traps, like a gosh darned fool. Who should came along but a party of them black niggers, the Crows; and the first thing they sot eyes upon was my shootin' iron. In course, I seed it all, and jist had to lay low and cuss my tarnal stupidity, while them 'ere Crows hopped around like mad at finding my rifle and things. They was so pleased, 'peared like they forgot theirselves, and didn't foller up my trail, but galloped off, carryin' my plunder along with them. He! he! they mount a did as well, and let ole Harding alone." "I reckon that, too," remarked one; "'taint like they made much out of that spekalashun." "Yer see, I war cleaned out, an' left with jest a pair o' leggins, better than two hunderd miles from anywhur. The company's post war the nearest, so I jest took down the river in that direcshun. I never seed varmint so shy. They wouldn't a been, blast 'em, if I had er had my traps, but there wa'n't a critter, from the minners to the buffler, that didn't take on as if they knowed how this nigger war fixed. I could get nothing for two days but lizard, an' scarce at that. I chewed up the old leggings, until I was as naked as Pike's Peak." "Golly! was it winter?" "No, 'twur calf time, and warm enuff for that matter. I didn't mind the want o' garments in that way, but I kud a eat more o' it. I soon struck a town of sand rats, and I made snares of my hair, and trapped some on 'em, but _they_ grow shy, too, cuss 'em, and I had to give up that claim. This war the third day, and I wur gettin' powerful weak. I 'gin to think this child's time had come, and I would have ter pass in my chips. 'Twur a little arter sun up, an' I war sittin' on the bank, when I seed something cur'ous like floatin' down stream. When it kim closer, I seed it wur the karkidge of a buffler, and a couple of buzzards floppin' about on the thing, pickin' its peepers out. 'Twur far out, an' the water deep; but I said I was goin' to fetch it ashore, an' I did. I took to the water an' swum out. I could smell the animal afore I wur half way. I wur soon close up, and seen at a glimpse that the calf wur as rotten as punk. The birds, they mizzled. I wa'n't agoin' to have my swim for nothin', so I tuk the tail atween my teeth, and wagged my flippers for the shore. I hadn't made three strokes When the tail pulled out. I then swum round and pushed that 'ere thing afore me, until I had got it high and dry on a sandbar. 'Twur like to melt when I pulled it out o' the water. 'Twa'n't eatable nohow. I see the buzzards still flying about, and fresh ones comin', an' I took a idee that I might get some, so I laid down close to the buffler, and played possum. I wa'n't long there 'fore a big cock com a floppin' up, and lit on the karkidge. I grabbed him by the leg. The cussed thing wur nearly as stinkin' as the other; but it wur die dog, buzzard, or buffler; so I skinned the buzzard." "And ate it?" inquired one. "No-o" slowly drawled the trapper, "it ate me." A general laugh followed this remark. "The rest o' the birds got shy, and kept away on t'other side. 'Twa'n't no use tryin' _that_ dodge over again. Jest then I 'spied a coyoat comin' lopin' down the bank, an' another follerin' upon his heels, an' two or three more on the same trail. I know'd it would be no joke grippin' one o' them by the leg, but I made up my mind to try it, an' I laid down jist as afore, 'side the calf. 'Twur no go! they smelt a rat, an' kep' cl'ar. Then I tuk a fresh idee in my head. I went for some o' the driftwood an' made a pen around the buffler; an' in the wink o' my eye I had six o' the varmints in the traps." "Then you had 'em, eh, old boy?" said one. "You bet; I jest took a lot of stones, clomb up on the pen, an' killed the hull kit o' them. Such a jumpin' an' yowlin, as when I peppered them varmints; he! he! he! ho! ho! Arter this I had some 'at to eat; an' in a few days reached the company's post." "Did you ever see any of those redskins again?" I inquired. "Wal, you jest better believe I did. Yer see those five notches on this ere rifle? wal, they stand for Crows, they do." A general laugh followed this yarn, and all averred that his experience in the eating line was unequalled. After the trapper had finished his story, we wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and were with the exception of the horse guard, soon in a deep slumber. The next morning we were up and moving at sunrise; and after a march of twenty miles, came to a small stream heading in the Piñon range. It was fringed with cottonwood trees, and there was grass in abundance for our horses. We made a halt for an hour, and then proceeded on our journey. We had not gone far when we made a discovery that changed all our plans. Harding had been riding about a hundred yards ahead of the main party, when we observed him suddenly stop, bend down, and then throwing up his hands, beckon us on. We were soon up to the spot, asking in a breath what was the matter. He pointed to the ground, and sententiously replied, "_fresh Injun sign_." A consultation was held, and after an interchange of opinions, it was agreed that the trail was made by Apaches, and that from the trampled nature of the ground, it indicated the presence of a large party. We had no doubt as to their intentions. They were evidently bound south on their annual foray. Now was my time beyond peradventure. Never could I have had such another opportunity; perhaps even if I waited patiently for years. I briefly related to my companions the circumstances of my capture, captivity, and subsequent escape, and asked their aid in rescuing my wife. Each grasped me cordially by the hand, and expressed their willingness to "see me through;" and after a few moments more spent in consultation, we agreed on the following plan: To push on at once and as speedily as possible for the Indian village, secrete ourselves in the adjacent mountains until nightfall, and then leaving the horses concealed in the bushes that fringe the base of the mountain, advance on foot to the chief's lodge. Once within its portal, it would be the work of a moment to seek out my wife, apprise her of what was transpiring, and quietly leading her out, hasten to our animals, mount, and ride away. This plan seemed feasible, and as moments were precious, we resumed the march. About noon we debouched through the mountain pass into a country of "openings;" small prairies bounded by jungly forests, and interspersed with timber islands. These prairies were covered with tall grass; and buffalo signs appeared as we rode into them. We saw their "roads," "chips," and "wallows." These signs filled us with pleasurable anticipations; as who has not longed for the delicious "hump ribs," which, when once tasted in all their juicy richness, are never to be forgotten. The full-grown forms of the cacti were around us, bearing red and yellow fruit in abundance. We plucked the pears of the pita-haya, and ate them greedily; in short, we dined on fruits and vegetables of many varieties, indigenous only to this wild region. But our stomachs longed for the favorite food, and we pushed on through the openings. We had ridden about an hour among the chaparral, when Harding, who was riding in advance, pointed downward, and intimated by signs that he had struck fresh buffalo tracks. Very soon after the animals came in view, and by using the bushes as cover, we made a very effectual "surround," killing some three or four. That night we regaled ourselves on buffalo, and the following morning pushed on with renewed vigor, and in the best of spirits. Near evening on the fourth day following, we arrived at the foot of the Sierra; and directly in front of us, about midway up the valley, or pass, more properly speaking, lay the Apache village. An exclamation of joy escaped my lips. At last, then, the hopes and longings of nine weary years were about to be satisfied. My reflections were abruptly terminated by Harding remarking that it was highly important that we seek cover and approach the village cautiously, if we expected our efforts to be crowned with success. All felt the justness of this observation, and seeking the cover of the mountain, we proceeded on our journey. In a short time we had advanced as near as we deemed it prudent, until the night should close in. Our reins were tightened, and we sat on our weary horses, looking over the plain. A magnificent panorama under any circumstances lay before us; but its interest was heightened by the peculiar circumstances under which we viewed it. The lodges were dotted over the plain in picturesque profusion, the smoke curling gracefully up in their dreamy spirals. One lodge stood apart, and from its size and decorations, we at once guessed it to be the abode of the chief. Harding confirmed our conjectures. Several droves of horses were quietly browsing on the open prairie. The sun was setting. The mountains were tinged with an amber colored light; and the quartz crystals sparkled on the peaks of the southern Sierras. It was a scene of silent beauty. We remained for some time gazing up the valley, without any one uttering his thoughts. It was the silence that precedes resolve. An hour has fled; the sun sinks below the horizon, and the mountains take on a sombre hue. It is night. We urge our horses forward once more, keeping close to the mountain foot; conversing in whispers, we crawl around and among the loose boulders that have fallen from above, and after an hour's ride we find ourselves opposite the town. The night passes slowly and silently; one by one the fires are extinguished, and the plain is wrapped in the gloom of a moonless night. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the stream, and the wolf howls on the skirts of the sleeping village. Dismounting, we gather in a little knot, and consult as to what plan we shall pursue. It is finally determined that Harding and myself shall penetrate into the village, enter the chief's lodge, abduct my wife, and hastily rejoin our comrades, who will hold themselves in readiness to cover our retreat, and, if the worst comes to the worst, keep our pursuers at bay until we have made good our escape. Hastily divesting ourselves of all unnecessary accoutrements, we started out on the plain, and cautiously approached the chief's lodge, which loomed up in the darkness like some hideous genii. An Indian dog that was lurking about the door gave the alarm, but Harding's knife entered his vitals ere he could repeat it. Now was the critical moment. Drawing the flap aside that served as a door, I peered cautiously in; all was silent; a small fire was burning in the center of the lodge, its fitful gleam dimly illuminating the interior. A number of low couches were ranged around the wall. But at this juncture a dilemma presented itself. Here were a number of women, one of when was certainly my wife; but how was I to ascertain in which of these couches she reposed. If I should trust to chance, advance to the first one and peer in, and by so doing startle its inmate, even though that inmate were my wife, the peculiar nature of the visit would so startle her that she would not be enabled to recognize the intruder. However, I determined to approach the first bed and trust to the chapter of accidents for the rest. Advancing noiselessly to the side of the couch, I lifted the curtain of dressed buffalo hide. The fire cast a dim light over the face of the sleeper, and, oh, joy, it was the loved features of my wife. I tried to speak, whisper her name; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I trembled like an aspen, and had to grasp the bed for support. This movement awakened the sleeper, and with an half-suppressed exclamation, she sprung to a sitting posture. To breathe her name, clasp her in my arms, and rush for the door, was the work of an instant, and hastily snatching a robe that was suspended from the side of the lodge, I enveloped her in it, and rapidly gained the cover of the mountain. In a few moments our party was in full gallop down the valley. Leaving the Indian village, we started with all speed on our return. I did not anticipate pursuit, and we made no attempt to conceal our trail. Indeed, my mind was so occupied with the grand fact that I had recovered my long-lost darling, that I thought of nothing else. As we rode along, each recounted to the other the story of their toils, trials, and sufferings; a thousand question were asked and answered; and in the joy of the present and hope for the future, we were for a time happy. About the middle of the forenoon we approached a thick chaparral, and were just entering it, when a party of about sixty Apaches suddenly rushed out from its leafy coverts, and with the rapidity of thought we were surrounded and captured. My wife was able, by her influence with the leader of the party, to save us from indignity, and a lengthy parley followed. I made known to the chief my desire to recover my wife, and endeavored to arrange some terms of purchase or barter. In this I was, after a time, successful, and, after an interminable siege of pipe smoking and discussion, relative to the price, we came to terms, and in a few minutes I had _purchased_ my wife at the cost of all my _worldly_ possessions. But I cared not for this; on the contrary, I was only too glad to recover my wife at any cost, and felt no regret at parting from the accumulations of two years of toil and hardship. Resuming our journey, we reached Santa Fé in safety, in a few days, and commenced making preparations for our return to the East. The kind-hearted Mexican women overwhelmed my wife with attentions, and she was soon provided with apparel more suitable than the barbaric, although beautiful, Indian costume. My principal difficulty was the want of money, and I was much perplexed to know how to secure a sufficient sum to enable us to return to our friends. It is probable that had I freely stated our circumstances and narrated our sad story, generous hearts might have been found among the many American miners and trappers sojourning in the town; for many a noble heart beats beneath a rough and unpromising exterior; but my pride shrank from appearing in the character of a mendicant, and I finally came to the conclusion that we must remain at Santa Fé for a time, until I could find some employment by which to earn sufficient means to enable us to return to our former home. I had forgotten the fact that I possessed a warm friend in Ned Harding, or, if I had thought of him in this connection, it was not with any idea that he could aid me. In this I was mistaken, as the sequel will show. On the third morning after my return, Ned called me out under pretence of taking a walk, and after strolling about for a time in silence, he opened his mind as follows: "Well lad, what are ye goin' to do next? I suppose you don't intend to stay here in this 'ere God forsaken hole, that these yaller-bellies calls a city; the Lord forgive their ignorance; if they could only see Lunnon, once--well, as I was a sayin', you can't stay here, and you can't take your little girl back into the mining kentry, very well; so what do you mean to do? let old Ned know, and don't go round, keepin' as close as an ister, and never sayin' nothin' to nobody." Thus admonished, I forgot my reserve, and fully explained to him my dilemma. He listened in silence until I had finished, and then broke forth with--"Why, Lord bless ye, lad, yer gettin' foolish, certain, ho! ho! yer little woman has turned yer head, sure; why, you forgot all about the mine, and I reckon there's vally enough to that to send ye home like a nabob, if you like to travel that way." "The mine!" I exclaimed in surprise, "why Ned, I thought we had abandoned it altogether, you don't mean to tell me that I can realize anything from the claim?" "You bet, I mean just that;" said Harding, his features expanding into a broad grin as he marked my look of utter astonishment. "Why lad, if we were all agreed on the thing, I've got a party here that'll give us five thousand apiece for our claim--I ain't such a fool as I look, and it wa'nt for nothin' that I left Pete there a holdin' possession, and there he'll stay till he hears from me--so now if you're willin' to take five thousand for your sher, just say the word, and we'll have it settled in no time." Further inquiry elicited the information that during the two days previous, while I had spent my time in unprofitable cogitation, Ned had been "kinder prospectin' round among the speckilaters," as he termed it, and had found parties willing and anxious to buy the claim held jointly by Ned, Pete Jackson, and myself, for fifteen thousand dollars in cash. Ned had brought with him some specimens of the quartz which he had shown to the intending purchasers, and some of which they had subjected to assay, and the result of this had determined them to buy the claim if everything could be satisfactorily arranged. It did not take me long to decide, in fact, I fairly jumped at the offer. The sum mentioned seemed a princely fortune at the time, and, in fact, to one in my situation it really was so, for wealth is but comparative, after all. The following morning the trade was arranged, the necessary papers drawn up, and Ned left the same afternoon for the mine in company with the buyers, to deliver the property and complete the transaction. In a few days he returned, and I soon found myself in possession of five thousand dollars in gold coin, the largest amount of money I ever owned. I now hurried the preparations for our departure, and a few days later we joined an eastward bound train, and journeyed with it towards the rising sun! With the details of our journey I will not weary the reader, suffice it to say that we made the trip without trouble or molestation of any sort, and reached St. Louis in safety. How strange it all seemed, to walk about the streets of the great city of the West, and as the residents fondly term it "the future great city of the world;" everything seemed so unreal, after the long years of my captivity and wild life among the mountains, that I used sometimes to fancy that it was all but a dream and I would presently awake to find myself again in the temple with Wakometkla, in that strange and far off land hidden among the mighty mountains of the Sierra Madre. We remained but a few days in the metropolis of the West, and then journeyed to a point further eastward, where my wife had relatives living, or at least supposed that some might yet be surviving. On our arrival we found such to be the case, and a joyful reunion was the result; we being received as two risen from the dead. And now our cup of happiness was indeed full; reunited after so long a separation and such bitter suffering we had returned at last to friends and home! In conclusion, I can only express my thanks to those kind readers who have followed me patiently through all my wanderings, and listened to my simple, yet I hope not uninteresting narrative of the hardships and perils through which I have passed. If the story of our captivity has proved a source of entertainment to the reader--if it haply excites a feeling of sympathy and interest for the many wretched captives who yet remain in a servitude worse than death among the rude tribes of the West--if it renders the general public more familiar with a region of which so little is known--if should chance to afford to those officials of our government, to whom the subject is relegated, any new views in reference to the proper method of dealing with the Indians--if it accomplishes any of these ends, I shall be more than repaid for my labor in its preparation. My thanks are also due to my kind friend, Dr. Clark Johnson, without whom opportune aid this book would never have been written. And now kind reader, for the present at least, _farewell_. THE END. TO THE PUBLIC. As there has been considerable inquiry concerning the remedy to which allusion is herein made, I will, by way of explanation, make the following statement, which will relieve me from a large amount of correspondence with anxious inquirers. The remedy is the most remarkable purifier of the blood that I have ever known; it is a tonic, a diuretic, a nervine, and a gentle laxative. Is is alterative, sudorific, soporific, and deobstruent. These qualities, harmoniously blended into one single remedy, make one of the very best combinations which can possibly be taken into the human system. It is a very remarkable remedy in disease of the stomach. Dyspepsia cannot exist any length of time if the remedy be taken as directed, _instantly_ after eating. All Diseases of the Liver and Bowels readily succumb to its magic influence, while all nervous diseases and all diseases of the blood are speedily eradicated by the peculiar elements in its composition, which act directly upon such difficulties. We have thousands upon thousands of certificates from persons who have been afflicted with various maladies, and who have been cured by the use of this remedy; and I am, myself, frequently made surprised to learn what wonderful results follow the use of this medicine. The remedy, Dr. CLARK JOHNSON'S INDIAN BLOOD SYRUP, is sold by agents in nearly every post-village in the United States; but wherever it happens that I do _not_ have an agent, I shall be glad to make one, and would invite honorable persons to communicate with me upon the subject of an agency. _I require no money from agents except as the medicines are sold._ Trusting that the afflicted will make a trial of this remarkable remedy, which has providentially fallen upon my notice, I am, with respect, Yours, truly, C. JOHNSON, _Jersey City, N.J._ _July 1st, 1873._ +----------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent spelling in the original document | | have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 10 temporarly changed to temporarily | | Page 29 by changed to my | | Page 34 gutteral changed to guttural | | Page 64 gutterals changed to gutturals | | Page 68 rythmic changed to rhythmic | | Page 70 discernable changed to discernible | | Page 73 Hugh changed to Huge | | Page 86 Shoshoness changed to Shoshones | | Page 94 Stanhawon changed to Stonhawon | | Page 95 removed repeated word "the" | | Page 109 orgie changed to orgy | | Page 114 tassajo changed to tasajo | | Page 116 use changed to uses | | Page 118 apalling changed to appalling | | Page 120 unforseen changed to unforeseen | | Page 122 cascass changed to carcass | | Page 136 otb-to-toa changed to oth-to-toa | | Page 153 vanqueros changed to vaqueros | | Page 168 circuituous changed to circuitous | | Page 176 buffoloes changed to buffaloes | | Page 234 conlcude changed to conclude | | Page 235 occaions changed to occasions | | Page 235 foreseen changed to foreseen | | Page 236 goverment changed to government | | Page 236 deseerts changed to desserts | | Page 239 wierd changed to weird | | Page 242 Is changed to It | | Page 244 Stonawon changed to Stonhawon | | Page 247 imperitive changed to imperative | | Page 249 "tying the cattle" should read "tying | | the horses" | | Page 259 by changed to my | | Page 260 meritricious changed to meretricious | | Page 260 encirling changed to encircling | | Page 264 soubriquet changed to sobriquet | | Page 266 deleted extra word "under" before | | "undertaken" | | Page 267 mental changed to metal | | Page 269 rifs changed to rifts | | Page 270 goverment changed to government | | Page 291 praticability changed to practicability | | Page 296 buzzarts changed to buzzards | | Page 297 buzzart changed to buzzard | | Page 297 buzzarts changed to buzzards | +----------------------------------------------------+ 
33344	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) THE DODGE NARRATIVE, 1780 FACSIMILE REPRINT _Sixty-three copies printed sixty being for sale_ NARRATIVE OF MR. JOHN DODGE DURING HIS CAPTIVITY AT DETROIT REPRODUCED IN FACSIMILE FROM THE SECOND EDITION OF 1780 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE BY CLARENCE MONROE BURTON [Illustration] CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA THE TORCH PRESS NINETEEN HUNDRED NINE THE DODGE NARRATIVE The narrative of John Dodge is one of the records of frontier life during the period of the American Revolution that displays the intense feeling of hatred and unfairness evinced by the British soldiers to the American rebels. It was written and published during the time of the greatest excitement in the West--the scene of the Narrative--and is historically valuable because of being contemporary with the events in question. It was considered of great importance at the time of its first appearance, having been at once reprinted in England[1] and passed through at least three editions in America.[2] In other writings published in England in 1779, appear the first public notice of the cruelties and gross irregularities in the administration of justice in Detroit under the rule of Lieutenant Governor Henry Hamilton, and the presentment of Hamilton by the grand jury of Montreal for murder in the execution of a Frenchman convicted of stealing. From the Narrative were taken the charges made against Hamilton, when he was a prisoner in Williamsburg, in consequence of which he was confined in irons and barely escaped a more serious, and perhaps even a capital punishment.[3] But little at the present time can be ascertained of Dodge. He was born in Connecticut, July 12, 1751, and was the son of John Dodge and his wife, Lydia Rogers.[4] John Dodge, the father, was a Baptist minister by profession and a blacksmith by trade. His son John was one of a numerous family of children. His brother Israel, who was with him in the West, was nine years his junior, having been born September 3, 1760. Before John had reached his nineteenth year he had wandered into the northern part of the Ohio district and had entered into business as a trader in Sandusky. He was familiar with the Indian language used in his neighborhood and frequently acted as interpreter. Many of the events of his life from this time, are contained in his Narrative and it is needless to repeat them here, but mention might be made of other acts of his and records pertaining to him, of which he makes no mention. On the fourth day of April, 1776, Dodge, with William Tucker, purchased a house and lot in Detroit, from Joseph Poupard Lafleur, for 3,000 livres, and a few days later Tucker agreed to repay Dodge whatever sums he had paid for this house if Dodge "went down the country," as he then contemplated.[5] Dodge did not go "down the country," but remained in Detroit and sold his interest in the land to William Tucker July 6, 1777. In this deed Dodge is described as "a trader of Detroit," and it is stated that he bought the house and lot of Lafleur June 7, 1774.[6] His Narrative does not agree with the records in all cases, for he says he was confined in jail from January to July, 1776, in daily expectation of death, while the records show that he purchased this house and lot during this period. The story of the rescue of a prisoner from the Indians, related in his Narrative, is contained in the report of the Virginia Council of June 16, 1779. Sometimes at liberty, engaged in trading, and sometimes confined in jail as a rebel, he remained in Detroit and Mackinac till May, 1778, when he was sent down to Quebec, at which place he arrived on the first day of June. In the reports of rebel prisoners at Quebec in June and July, 1778, are three entries referring to Dodge as follows: "John Dodge, 24 years old, from Connecticut, a trader settled at Detroit for seven years, sent down by Lieutenant Governor Hamilton. His commercial effects at Detroit. Taken up on suspicion of having been in arms with the rebels."[7] He remained in Quebec until the ninth day of the following October when he escaped, going first to Boston and subsequently to General Washington. Dodge does not state where or when he met Washington, but as the General was in attendance at Congress from December 21, 1778, until some time in the following January, he probably met him at Philadelphia. Dodge says he visited Congress "having some matters relating to Canada worthy their hearing." This related to the "certain expedition" referred to by Washington in his letter of December 29th, a proposition to invade Canada. Dodge was at Fort Pitt in the early part of January, 1779, and from that port wrote a letter to John Montour.[8] There is no record of Dodge's appearance before Congress, but he wrote a letter on the subject, to Congress, as follows: Honorable Congress Pitsburg Jeneary 25 1779-- as I have Ben one of the grateest Suferers that is now in the united States of Ameraca Both in Person and Property I have Sufferd Every thing But Death Robd Plundered of Every far thing that I was master of But loock upon it as an honour that I have Suffard in so just a Cause as we are now Engagd in and very happy that I have made my Escape from the Enemi after Being Prisener two years and nine months I think it my Duty as I am now in the Service of the united States to Enform your honnours of the Proceedings and Carriings on in the Department whare I am--it Both greaves and Shagrans me to the hart to Se matters so Ill Conduckted as theay are in this Department--it is very natural for Every one that has the Cause of his Contry at hart to Enquire into the reason of our grevences--is not one the farmers Being Drove of thair Plantation on our fronteers By the Saveges--Could theay remaind on thair Plantations theay Could have Ben very Sarvesable in Suppliing our main army in Provisions in Stead of that the Poor mifortonate Peopel are obleged to retreet into the thick Setled Contry and I may Say live almost upon the Charrity of the Contry which of consequence must Distress the hole Contry for Provisions we will Enquire why those Saveges are our Enemies theay are Bribd By the British to take up the hachet against us whare is thair rendevous Detroit a place Stockaded in with Cedar Pickets and Eighty Soldiers to gard it But it is Strong Enough to keep a large Quantity of goods in so the British Can and Do give near a millian Presents to Bribe the Saveges to fall upon our fronteers and Distress our hole Contry--But we will Suppose that Place to Be Esily taken which it raly is if matters ware Conducted as theay ought to Be--But we will Say that the Publick has Ben at grate Expence for two years Past and thare is nothing Done I may Say nothing thare is a fort Bult at Bever Criek and one at tuskerowayes which if theay are not rainforst with men and Provisions very Spedily we have no reason to think But theay will fall into the hands of the Enemi in the Spring now had one of those forts Ben Bult at Preskeele or Kichoga or any whare on the lake side the men might have Ben Employed this winter in Boulding of Boats or gundelows So that in the Spring we Could Command the lakes which if we Dont we Cant keep Detroit if we take it or if the winter had Seveir we Could have gone on the ice and taken Detroit and vessels to and with half the men that it would have taken at any other Season of the year for the vessels would Be all froze up But in Stead of that theay are Bult in an Endian Contry whare that all Supplies may Be very Esily Cut of and give the Saveges Susspicon that we are a going to Conker them and not our Enemi the English and very good right theay have after thare has Ben such threats throw out to them as thare has we hant the reason But to Expect then all against us Before general McIntosh marcht from Bever Criek the governer of Detroit Put up a few of the lower Sort of Saveges By Bribing them to Send word to the general that theay would meet him at Shuger Criek and give him Battel at the Same time thare was more than four to one Sent him word that theay would not Enterfeir or misleit him on his march as he had told them that he would go to Detroit the general marcht to the Place But thare was not one that apeard against him he then gave word that all those Saveges that Did not Come in within twelve Days time and join him that he would loock upon them as Enemies and use them as Such and that he would Destroy thair hole Contry--now it was an impossibillity for those nation that sent him word that theay would not misleit him to get word in that Short Space of time which the general thought Proper to Set much more Come in--now what Can we Expect But to have them all against us if thare is not Some Spedy rimedy--I Cannot Say what opinion your honours may have of the Saveges But I Can asure you that theay are very numerous thair numbers are not known that thare has not one out of a hundred taken up the hachet against us yet But we Cannot But Expect theay will if there is not Proper Steps taken and that Spedily--we will Supose that the Proper Steps are for us to march threw thair Contry and take Detroit which is Esily Done if matters ware Conducted as theay ought to Be--and By having that in our Possession and the lakes it will Be in our Power to forse all those near nations to Come upon our terms and that will Enduce all the farrons ones to Be upon aliance with us and then we Shall have all the trade of that Extensive Contry Quite from the north west hutsons Bay lake Superier the heads of the macceippia which will make our Contry florish--But we will Say the Publick has Ben at grate Expence for two years Past and we are no nearer now than we was when we fust Set out But what is the reason it is Because thare was Peopel Sent that Knew nothing of the mater the general told me that he was Brought up by the (sic) Sea Shore and that he knew nothing abought Pack horseing in this wooden Contry--I Dont take it upon me to Dictate or Sensure no one But I think that ought to Be Enquired into Before thare was thousands Spent But now it is to recall the horses and Bollocks are Dead the Provisions is Eat the men must have thair Pay it is Sunk lost gone and here we are Still going on in the Same way the general has likewise got the ill will of all his officers the melitia in Protickaler which I am very sorry for as theay are the only Peopel that we have to Depend upon to Do any thing in this Deartment--now if thare was not any one that knew how matters Should have Ben Conducted it would have Ben a meteriel Diference--But thare is a gentlemon of an unblemisht Carrecter who has Singulied himself By leaveing Every thing that was near and Dear to him and Come in to this Quarter of the Contry Prepared Proper talks for the Saveges and as he was grately respected By all those who knew him it had its Entended Effect and I Can asure your honnours that it has Ben the Saving of hundreads of lives and I Can further asure you By various Surcomstances and Credible Intilegence that if he had not have Come and Did what he Did that thare would not have remaind one family this Side alagane mountains--he is Still Striveing to keep them from falling upon us But as here is others here Strieveing to Set them up it will Be a very Difecult matter for him to Do it he has Sent for the Cheifs of the nations to Come in and that thare is Still mercy for them if theay will know thair Duty and as his Enfluence is grate with all those nations who know him I am in hope it will have its Effect But I Should not Be Disapointed if theay Did not after receiveing Such threts as theay have he has like wise at his own Privat Expence hired men and Sent threw the hole Contry abought Detroit and this side found out the Situation of it and when I was Prisener with the British I have heard them often make remarks that if he Did not Come against that we had not another man in our Parts that knew the Situation of the Contry and had the Enfluence with the natives as he had--But whatever knoledge he may have Concarning those matters he has not never had the offer of ordering of them But in Stead of that he has Ben Put under an arest By the fals raports of a Poor Ignorant Set of Peopel which is to the Eternal Shame of our Contry after he had Savd them from Being masacereed By the Saveges that was his reward--now I beg that your Honnours will take it into Consideration and order some Spedy arangement Before this Quarter of the Contry is ruined a house Devided against it Self Cannot Stand and your honnours may rely upon it that is the case here if I have taken to much liberty I Beg your honnours will loock over it as I would not wish to Do more than My Duty--form your most obedient and humble Servant--John Dodge-- upon Colo. Morgans arival here he Sent an Express to the Endian nations for them to Come in and thare has two runners jest arived here with Speaches of grate Concequence which I suppose he will acquaint Congress with the Eairliest oppertunity-- (_in pencil_) Specimen of the Literati of '76--! (_Indorsement_) Letter from John Dodge Pittsburg 25 Jany 1779 Read Feby. 17th.-- Referred to the board of war-- This letter or statement was not received by Congress till December 13, 1781, nearly two years later, and the committee to which it was referred, reported adversely to the suggestions contained in it, March 20, 1782. Early in 1779, Lieutenant Governor Henry Hamilton was captured by General George Rogers Clark at Vincennes and was carried to Williamsburg, Virginia, as a prisoner of war. The letters and Narrative of Dodge had been read by some members of the Council of Virginia and the Council resolved, June 16, 1779, that because of the cruelties inflicted by Great Britain on the American prisoners of war, it was proper to begin a system of retaliation, and they conclude their resolution as follows:--"this board has resolved to advise the governor that the said Henry Hamilton, Philip Dejean and William LaMothe, prisoners of war, be put in irons, confined in the dungeon of the public jail, debarred the use of pen, ink and paper and excluded all converse except with their keeper, and the governor orders accordingly." The charges preferred by Dodge against Hamilton, were urged as an additional reason for confining the latter in jail. Hamilton answered that the statements of Dodge were mutual, and that the latter was "an unprincipled and perjured renegade."[9] Hamilton's excuses were not well received, and although no longer confined in irons, he remained in prison for some time, but was finally released and subsequently returned to Canada as Lieutenant Governor of the province. Dodge was appointed Indian Agent by Virginia and was located in Kaskaskia from 1780 to 1788 and possibly until a later date.[10] When claims of the Revolutionary soldiers to the western lands were being considered Dodge laid claim to a section, as a refugee from Canada[11] and his heirs were awarded a tract containing 1280 acres in the year 1800. This indicates that Dodge died before May 8th of that year. Four patents were issued to the heirs of John Dodge for lands in town sixteen, range twenty, Ohio, July 12, 1802. Henry L. Caldwell, a grandson of Israel Dodge, wrote as follows:--"I do not know the date of the death of Colonel John Dodge, neither can I locate his grave or that of my grandfather, Israel Dodge, but the remains of both are, beyond doubt, resting in the old grave yard in Ste. Genevieve, Mo., which adjoins the catholic grave yard."[12] John Dodge, while living at Kaskaskia, held a commission of Colonel received from Governor Patrick Henry of Virginia. His brother Israel Dodge was a lieutenant under him at that place. Israel had married Ann Hunter at Carlisle, Pa., before he moved to the West, and at Vincennes, their son Henry, who afterwards became the first Governor of the Territory of Wisconsin, was born October 12, 1782. He was named after Moses Henry, who was in the fort at Vincennes when it was captured by Governor Hamilton in 1778, being the only private in the "Army" which held out against the British invader. There is a letter from John Dodge from Kaskaskia, June 23, 1783, informing the Indians that Detroit had been captured by the Americans. A false report. Va. St. Pap. 3. 500. A letter to Philip Boyle at Sandusky, July 13, 1779, in Farmer's Hist. of Detroit 1. 173. This letter was intercepted by the British. It enclosed the proceedings of the Virginia Council concerning Hamilton. Dodge was a great traveler in his day. Born in Connecticut in 1751, he went to Sandusky, Ohio, in 1770, thence to Fort Pitt (Pittsburg), thence back to Sandusky, thence in succession to Detroit, Michillimackinac (Mackinac), Detroit, Quebec, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Fort Pitt, Vincennes (Indiana), Kaskaskia (Illinois), Ste. Genevieve (Missouri), and New Orleans. We find mention of the man at these places and it is very probable that his travels were much more extensive.[13] In the Harman papers, as reported by the Missouri Historical Society, is the following reference to Dodge in a letter from John Rice Jones, dated October, 1789: "John Dodge and Michael Antanya, with a party of whites and armed Piankeshaw Indians, came over from the Spanish side and attempted to carry off some slaves of Mr. John Edgar, and otherwise were guilty of outlandish conduct, threatening to burn the village." Dodge and Edgar were old friends and fellow prisoners at Detroit. They were both arrested and confined in that place as being too friendly towards the American cause. Edgar was one of the witnesses relied upon to prove that Dodge was entitled to the land grant for which he had made application as a Canadian refugee. James Wood[14] of Frederick County, Va., who is mentioned in the Narrative, was appointed to command an expedition against the Shawanese, and armed his company at his own expense. He was also deputed, by the House of Burgesses, in 1775, to go among the several tribes of Western Indians and invite them to a treaty at Fort Pitt. He set out on his errand June 25, 1775, and was gone two months. He "underwent the greatest fatigues, difficulties and dangers." He was ordered paid £250 for "the great service he hath done to this colony, by his diligent and faithful execution of the commission with which he was intrusted." The meeting of the Indians, which is referred to in the Narrative, took place at Fort Pitt in October, 1775. One of the Indian chiefs who was present on the occasion, was Shegenaba, the son of the famous Pontiac. His father had recently been killed in a war between the Indians, and he refers to this event in his speech, a part of which is as follows: Fathers: From the information I have had of the commandant of Detroit, with distrust I accepted your invitation, and measured my way to the council fire with trembling feet. Your reception of me convinces me of his falsehood, and the groundlessness of my fears. Truth and he has long been enemies. My father, and many of my chiefs, have lately tasted death. The remembrance of that misfortune almost unmans me, and fills my eyes with tears. The following is another letter by Dodge: Fort Pitt Decr 13th 1781. Sir I think it my indispencible duty to Lay before your Excellency a State of the Western Islianoy Country which may Probably throw Some light on the Various Reports which may have Reached you through Channels not so well acquainted with it as I am--Since Col George Rogers Clark took Possion of that Country by order of the State of Virginia the inhabitants have been obliged to furnish The means of Subsistance for a number of troops stationed Thare--Received bills for payment but the Greatest part of them protested and Still Remains unpaid which have Not only impoverished the Country to a Great Degree but Numbers have Joynd the Spanish Settlements on the Same Account and indeed the Greatest part are determined to Follow them if their Grievances are Not Remedied in Consequence the enormous Expence the State of Virginia has Been at in that quarter will be but of little advantage To the united States if the inhabitants all leave that Country and Join the Spanish Settlements who are Making use of Every means and giving Every incouragement In their power Even to our allied Savages but as Yet their efforts has proved inafectual with them But as Poverty is always loyable to temptation I fear their Warmest attachment to us Will be Seduced by those Who have it in their power to Supply them the inhabitants are too inconsiderable to Guard themselves from the Hostilities of our Enemies and have often Solicited me to Represent their Situation to Congress before the State of Virginia Gave up their Claim to that Country--the the Chief of the indian Nations Sent a Speech to Congress Representing the State of his Nation and if Nothing Cold be done in Regard of Suplying them Beged an answer Which to my knoledge was lodged with the board of War and Never no answer Received--Should Congress think proper to Send troops to protect and keep that Country under Subjection the Only Way in my Humble opinion to Furnish them Would be to send Some Confidential person with a proper Supply of Merchandize which would in incourage the Settlement of the Country Cultivate the Savage interest Supply the troops with Every Necessary the Return would also answer for Exportation and Finally open a Very Profitable and Extensive trade in a little time--But these hints I beg leave to Refer to your Excellencies own better Judgment Consious that if they are worth your Notice Will direct them into their Proper uses--I propose to Leave this Soon for that quarter and Shall be Very happy in Rendering any Service in my Power which may be advantageous to the United States that Your Excellency may think Proper to intrust to my mannagement--Pleasd to Excuse the freedom of my remarks Which you Will do me the Honour to Corruct I have the honour to be with the Greatest Respect Your Excellencies Most Obd and Very Humbe Servt-- Jno. Dodge To His Excellency President of Congress (Dec. 13, 1782) (_Indorsement_) Letter 13 Decr. 1781 John Dodge Read Feby. 27, 1782 Referred to Mr. Wolcot Mr. Clark Mr. Patridge The Comd discharged (_Address_) His Excellency President of Congress Philadelphia The Committee to whom was referred the Letter of John Dodge report That they have made the fullest enquiry that the circumstances of the case would admit, relative to the Facts mentioned in said Letter, But have not been able to obtain any Evidence to support them--and are therefore of opinion that the Committee ought to be discharged. March 20, 1782. In council June 16, 1779. The board proceeded to the consideration of the letters of colonel Clarke, and other papers relating to Henry Hamilton Esqr., who has acted for some years past as Lieutenant Governour of the settlement at and about Detroit, and Commandant of the British garrison there, under Sir Guy Carleton as Governour in Chief; Philip Dejean Justice of the Peace for Detroit and William Lamothe, Captain of volunteers, prisoners of war, taken in the county of Illinois. They find that Governour Hamilton has executed the task of inciting the Indians to perpetrate their accustomed cruelties on the citizens of these States, without distinction of age, sex, or condition, with an eagerness and activity which evince that the general nature of his charge harmonized with his particular disposition; they should have been satisfied from the other testimony adduced that these enormities were committed by savages acting under his commission, but the number of proclamations which, at different times were left in houses, the inhabitants of which were killed or carried away by the Indians, one of which proclamations, under the hand and seal of Governour Hamilton, is in possession of the Board, puts this fact beyond doubt. At the time of his captivity it appears, that he had sent considerable detachments of Indians against the frontier settlements of these states, and had actually appointed a great council of Indians to meet him at the mouth of the Tanissee, to concert the operations of this present campaign. They find that his treatment of our citizens and soldiers, captivated and carried within the limits of his command, has been cruel and inhumane; that in the case of John Dodge, a citizen of these states, which has been particularly stated to this Board, he loaded him with irons, threw him into a dungeon, without bedding, without straw, without fire, in the dead of winter and severe climate of Detroit; that in that state he harrassed and wasted him, with incessant expectations of death; that when the rigours of his situation had brought him so low that death seemed likely to withdraw him from their power, he was taken out and attended to somewhat mended, and then again, before he had recovered abilities to walk, was returned to his dungeon, in which a hole was cut seven inches square only, for the admission of air, and the same load of irons again put on him; that appearing again to be in imminent danger of being lost to them, he was a second time taken from his dungeon, in which he had lain from January to June, with the intermission before mentioned of a few weeks only; That Governour Hamilton gave standing rewards for scalps, but offered none for prisoners, which induced the Indians, after making their captives carry their baggage into the neighborhood of the fort, there to put them to death, and carry in their scalps to the Governour, who welcomed their return and success by a discharge of cannon; that when a prisoner brought [a]live, and destined to death by the Indians, the fire already kindled, and himself bound to the stake, was dexterously withdrawn and secreted from them by the humanity of a fellow prisoner; a large reward was offered for the discovery of the victim, which having tempted a servant to betray his concealment, the present prisoner Dejean being sent with a party of soldiers, surrounded the house, took and threw into jail the unhappy victim, and his deliverer, where the former soon expired under the perpetual assurances of Dejean, that he was to be again restored into the hands of the savages, and the latter when enlarged was bitterly and illiberally reprimanded and threatened by Governour Hamilton. It appears to them that the prisoner Dejean, was on all occasions the willing and cordial instrument of Governour Hamilton, acting both as judge and keeper of the jail, and instigating and urging him by malicious insinuations and untruths, to increase rather than relax his severities, heightening the cruelty of his orders by the manner of executing them; offering at one time a reward to one prisoner to be the hangman of another, threatening his life on refusal, and taking from his prisoners the little property their opportunities enabled them to acquire. It appears that the prisoner, Lamothe, was a Captain of the volunteer scalping parties of Indians and whites wh[o] went out from time to time, under general orders to spare neither men, women, nor children. From this detail of circumstances which arose in a few cases only, coming accidentally to the knowledge of the Board they think themselves authorized to presume by fair deduction what would be the horrid history of the sufferings of the many who have expired under their miseries (which therefore will remain forever untold) or who having escaped from them, are yet too remote and too much dispersed to bring together their well grounded accusations against these prisoners. They have seen that the conduct of the British officers, civil and military, has in its general tenor, through the whole course of this war, been savage & unprecedented among civilized nations; that our officers and soldiers taken by them have been loaded with irons, consigned to loathesome and crouded jails, dungeons, and prison ships; supplied often with no food, generally with too little for the sustenance of nature, and that little sometimes unsound and unwholsome, whereby so many of them have perished that captivity and miserable death have with them been almost synonimous; that they have been transported beyond seas where their fate is out of the reach of our enquiry, have been compelled to take arms against their country, and by a new refinement in cruelty to become the murtherers of their own brethren. Their prisoners with us have, on the other hand, been treated with moderation and humanity; they have been fed on all occasions with wholesome and plentiful food, lodged comfortably, suffered to go at large within extensive tracts of country, treated with liberal hospitality, permitted to live in the families of our citizens, to labour for themselves, to acquire and to enjoy property, and finally to participate of the principal benefits of society while privileged from all its burthens. Reviewing this contrast which cannot be denied by our enemies themselves in a single point, which has now been kept up during four years of unremitted war, a term long enough to produce well founded despair that our moderation may ever lead them into a practice of humanity, called on by that justice which we owe to those who are fighting the battles of their country, to deal out at length miseries to their enemies, measure for measure, and to distress the feelings of mankind by exhibiting to them spectacles of severe retaliation, where we had long and vainly endeavoured to introduce an emulation in kindness; happily possessed by the fortune of war some of those very individuals, who having distinguished themselves personally in this line of cruel conduct, are fit subjects to begin on with the work of retaliation, this Board has resolved to advise the Governour that the said Henry Hamilton, Philip Dejean, and William Lamothe, prisoners of war, be put into irons, confined in the dungeon of the publick jail, debarred the use of pen, ink, and paper, and excluded all converse except with their keeper. And the Governour orders accordingly. Attest Archibald Blair C. C. (_A copy_) MR. DODGE'S NARRATIVE Of his SUFFERINGS among the BRITISH AT DETROIT. [Illustration] [Illustration] AN ENTERTAINING NARRATIVE Of the cruel and barbarous Treatment and extreme SUFFERINGS of MR. JOHN DODGE DURING HIS CAPTIVITY OF MANY MONTHS AMONG THE BRITISH. AT DETROIT. IN WHICH IS ALSO CONTAINED, A particular Detail of the SUFFERINGS of a Virginian, who died in their Hands. Written by Himself: and now published to satisfy the Curiosity of every one throughout the UNITED STATES. THE SECOND EDITION. DANVERS, near SALEM: Printed and Sold by E. RUSSELL. next the Bell-Tavern. M,DCC LXXX. At the same Place may be had a Number of new Books, &c. some of which are on the Times--Cash paid for Rags It is worthy of remark, that the three persons who make a principal _inglorious_ figure in the following NARRATIVE, viz. Governor _Hamilton_, _De Jeane_ and _Le Mote_, were afterwards taken by the brave Colonel CLARKE, of Virginia, at Fort St. Vincent, and are now confined in irons in a goal in Virginia (by order of the Legislature of that State) as a _retaliation_ for their former _inhuman_ treatment of prisoners, who fell into their hands, particularly Mr. DODGE, who has the pleasing consolation of viewing his _savage adversaries_ in a similar predicament with himself when in their power----though it is not in the breast of generous AMERICANS to treat them with equal barbarity. A NARRATIVE, & I sometime since left the place of my nativity in Connecticut, and, in the year 1770, settled in Sandusky, an Indian village, about half way between Pittsburgh and Detroit, where I carried on a very beneficial trade with the natives, until the unhappy dispute between Great-Britain and America reached those pathless wilds, and roused to war Savages no ways interested in it. In July, 1775, Capt. James Woods called at my house in his way to the different indian towns, where he was going to invite them, in the name of the Congress, to a treaty to be held at Fort-Pitt. the ensuing fall; I attended him to their villages, and the Savages promised him they would be there. Capt. Woods also invited me to go with the Indians to the treaty, as they were in want of an interpreter, which I readily agreed to. Soon after the departure of Capt. Woods, the Commander of Fort-Detroit sent for the Savages in and about Sandusky, and told them that he heard they were invited by the Americans to a treaty at Pittsburgh, which they told him was true; on which he delivered them a talk to the following purport: "That he was their father, and as such he would advise them as his own children; that the Colonists who were to meet them at Pittsburgh were a bad people; that by the indulgence of their Protector, they had grown a numerous and saucy people; that the great King not thinking they would have the assurance to oppose his just laws, had kept but few troops in America for some years past; that those men being ignorant of their incapacity to go through with what they intend, propose to cut off the few regulars in this country, and then you Indians, and have all America to themselves; and all they want is, under the shew of friendship, to get you into their hands as hostages, and there hold you, until your nations shall comply with their terms, which if they refuse, you will be all massacred. Therefore do not go by any means; but if you will join me, and keep them at bay a little while, the King, our father, will send large fleets and Armies to our assistance, and we will soon subdue them, and have their plantations to ourselves." This talk so dismayed the Indians, that they came to me and said they would not go to the treaty, at the same time telling me what the Governor of Detroit had said to them. On this Mr. James Heron and myself having the cause of our country at heart, asserted that what the Governor had said was false and told them that the Colonists would not hurt a hair of their heads, and if they would go to the treaty, that I, with Mr. Heron, would be security, and pledge our property, to the amount of four thousand pounds, for their safe return. This, with the arrival of Mr. Butler with fresh invitations, induced some of them to go with me to the treaty. In the fall I attended a number of them to the treaty, where we were politely received by the Commissioners sent by Congress. The council commenced; the Indians, who are always fond of fishing in troubled water, offered their assistance, which was refused, with a request that they would remain in peace, and not take up the hatchet on either side. On the whole, these Indians were well pleased with the talk from the Congress, and promised to remain quiet. The Commissioners thinking it proper, sont the Continental belt and talk by some of the Chiefs to the Savages who resided about the lakes. These Chiefs being obliged to pass Sandusky, in their rout, Mr. John Gibson, Agent for Indian affairs requested me to accompany them, and furnish them with what they stood in need of; on which I took them home. On my arrival at the village I found the Savages in confusion, and preparing to war, on which I called a Council and rehearsed the Continental talk, which with a present of goods to the amount of twenty five pounds, quieted them. This I informed Congress of, agreable to their request, by express, and that the Governor of Detroit was still urging the Indians to war. Soon after this, a party of Savages from the neighborhood of the lakes, came to my house on their way to the frontier to strike a blow: I asked them the reason they took up the hatchet? They replied, that the Governor of Detroit had told them, that the Americans were going to murder them all and take their lands but if they would join him, they would be able to drive them off, and that he would give them twenty dollars a scalp. On this I rehearsed the Continental talk, and making them a small present they returned home, believing as I had told them, that the Governor was a liar and meant to deceive them. On this I thought proper to write the Governor of Detroit, what he was to expect should he continue to persuade the Indians to take up the Hatchet. He was so enraged at the receipt of this letter, that he offered one hundred pounds for my scalp or body, he sent out several parties to take me without effect, until having spread an evil report of me among the indians, on the fifteenth of January, 1776, my house was surrounded by about twenty soldiers and savages, who broke into the house, made me a prisoner, and then marched me for Detroit. It was about the dusk of the evening, when, after a fatiguing march, I arrived at Detroit, and was carried before Henry Hamilton, late a Captain in the fifteenth regiment, but now Governor and Commandant of Detroit; he ordered me to close confinement, telling me to spend that night in making my peace with GOD, as it was the last night I should live; I was then hurried to a loathsome dungeon, ironed and thrown in with three criminals, being allowed neither bedding, straw or fire, although it was in the depth of winter, and so exceeding cold, that my toes were froze before morning. About ten o'clock the next morning, I was taken out and carried before the Governor, who produced a number of letters with my name signed to them, and asked me if they were my hand writing? To which I replied they were not. He then said, it was a matter of indifference to him whether I owned it or not, as he understood that I had been carrying on a correspondence with Congress, taking the Savages to their treaties, and preventing their taking up the hatchet in favor of his Majesty, to defend his crown and dignity that I was a rebel and traitor, and he would hang me. I asked him whether he intended to try me by the civil or military law, or give me any trial at all? To which be replied, that he was not obliged to give any damn'd rebel a trial unless he thought proper, and that he would hang every one he caught, and that he would begin with me first. I told him if he took my life, to beware of the consequence, as he might depend on it that it would be looked into. What, says he, do you threaten me you damn'd rebel? I will soon alter your tone; here take the damn'd rebel to the dungeon again, and let him pray to God to have mercy on his soul, for I will soon fix his body between heaven and earth and every scoundrel like him. I was then redelivered to the hands of Philip De Jeane, who acted in the capacity of judge, sheriff and jailor, and carried back to my dungeon, where I was soon waited on by the Missionary to read prayers with me; but it was so extremely cold, he could not stand it but a few minutes at a time. In conversation with him, I told him I thought it was very hard to lose my life without a trial, and as I was innocent of the charge alledged against me. He said it was very true, but that the Governor had charged him not to give me the least hopes of life, as he would absolutely hang me. I remained in this dismal situation three days, when De Jeane came and took out one of the criminals who was in the dungeon with me, and held a short conference with him, then came and told me, the Governor had sent him to tell me to prepare for another world, as I had not long to live, and then withdrew. I enquired of the criminal, who was a Frenchman, what De Jeane wanted with him? But he would not tell me. The evening following he told his brother in distress, that De Jeane had offered him twenty pounds to hang Mr. Dodge (meaning me) but that he had refused unless he had his liberty; De Jeane then said, that we should both be shot under the gallows. Being at last drove almost to despair, I told De Jeane to inform the Governor I was readier to die at that time than I should ever be, and that I would much rather undergo his sentence, than be tortured in the dreadful manner I then was. He returned for answer, that I need not hurry them, but prepare myself, as I should not know my time until half an hour before I was turned off. Thus did I languish on in my dungeon, without a friend being allowed to visit me, denied the necessaries of life, and must have perished with the cold it being in the depth of winter, had not my fellow-prisoners spared me a blanket from their scanty stock. Thus denied the least comfort in life together with the unjust and savage threatning I received every day, brought me so very low, that my inability to answer De Jeane's unreasonable questions, with which he daily tormented me respecting innocent men, obliged him to notice my situation, and no doubt thinking I should die in their hands, they thought proper to remove me to the barracks, and ordered a Doctor to attend me. The weather had been so extreme cold, and my legs had been bolted in such a manner, that they were so benumbed, and the sinews contracted, that I had not the least use of them; and the severity of my usage had brought on a fever, which had nigh saved them any further trouble. After I had lain some time ill, and my recovery was despaired of, De Jeane called and told me that the Governor had altered his mind with respect to executing me, and bid me be of good cheer, as he believed the Governor would give me my liberty when I got better; I replied it was a matter of indifference to me whether he gave me my liberty or not, as I had much rather die than remain at their mercy: On which he said, "You may die and be damn'd," and bounced out of the room. When I had so far recovered as to be able to set up in my bed, my nurse being afraid I should inform her husband of her tricks in his absence, told the Governor that I was a going to make my escape with a party of soldiers, that I was well and could walk as well as she could, though at that time my legs were still so cramped and benumbed with the irons and cold, that had kingdoms been at stake I could not walk. On this information, De Jeane came and told me to get up and walk to the dungeon from whence I came. I told him I was unable: "Crawl then you damn'd rebel, or I will make you." I told him he might do as he pleased, but I could not stand, much more walk: On this he called a party of soldiers, who tossed me into a cart and carried me to the dungeon: Here, by the persuasion of the Doctor, who was very kind and attentive, I was allowed a bed and not ironed. By his care and the weather growing milder, I got rid of my fever and began to walk about my dungeon, which was only eight feet square; but even this was a pleasure too great for me to enjoy long, for in a few days I was put into irons. The weather now growing warm and the place offensive, from the filth of the poor fellows I had left there, and who were afterwards executed, I relapsed. By persuasion of the Doctor who told them unless I had air I should die, a hole about seven inches square was cut to let in some air. I remained ill until June, although the Doctor had done all that lay in his power; he then let the Governor know, that it was impossible for me to recover unless I was removed from the dungeon, on which he sent De Jeane to inform me, if I would give security for my good behavior, that he would let me out of prison. Being by my usage and fever, reduced to a state of despondence, I told him that it was a matter of indifference what he did with me, and that his absence was better than his company: He then published it abroad, and several Gentlemen voluntarily entered into two thousand pounds security for me, and I once more was allowed to breath the fresh air, after six months confinement in a loathsome dungeon, except eight or nine weeks that I lay sick at the barracks. On my going abroad, I learned that all the property I left in the woods, to the amount of fifteen or sixteen hundred pounds, was taken in the King's name and divided among the Indians. As I had but little to attend to but the recovery of my health, I mended apace. As soon as I could walk abroad, Governor Hamilton sent for me and said, he was sorry for my misfortunes, and hoped I would think as little as possible of them; that I was in a low state, he thought I had best not think of business, or think of what I had left, as he would lend me a hand to recover my losses. This smooth discourse gave me but little satisfaction for the ill usage I had received at his hands; however, I was determined to rest as easy as I could, until I had an opportunity of obtaining redress. As soon as I found myself so far recovered as to be able to do business, which was in September, I applied to the Governor to go down the country, but he put me off with fine words, a permission to do business there, and a promise of his assistance. I now settled my accounts with the persons with whom I was connected in trade, and found myself seven hundred pounds in debt. My credit being pretty good, I set up a retail store, and as many of the inhabitants pitied my case, they all seeming willing to spend their money with me. My being master of the different Indian languages about Detroit, was also of service to me, so that in a short time I paid off all my debts, and began to add to my stock. In the spring of 1777 I heard there was like to be a good trade at Machilimakanac, on which I applied to the Governor, and with a great deal of trouble got a pass, went and met with good trade. On my return Governor Hamilton by several low arts attempted to pick my cargo, which as it would spoil the sale of the remainder, I could not allow. As he had no pretence for taking them from me by force, it once more provoked him to wrath against me; he greatly retarded my sales by denying me a permit to draw my powder out of the magazine; also ordered myself and two servants to be ready at a moment's warning to march under Capt. Le Mote on a scouting party with Savages: I told him it was against my inclination to take up arms against my own flesh and blood, and much more so to go with Savages to butcher and scalp defenceless women and children, that were not interested in the present dispute: He said it was not any of my business whether they were interested in the dispute or not; and added if you are not ready when called for, I will fix you. Lucky for me he was soon after called down the country, and succeded by Capt. Mountpresent as Commander, who ordered Le Mote to strike my name out of his books: but my servants with their pay, I lost entirely. The party of Savages under Le Mote went out with orders not to spare man, woman or child. To this cruel mandate even some of the Savages made an objection, respecting the butchering women and children, but they were told the children would make soldiers, and the women would keep up the stock.--Those sons of Britain offered no reward for prisoners, but they gave the Indians twenty dollars a scalp, by which means they induced the Savages to make the poor inhabitants, who they had torn from their peaceable homes, carry their baggage until within a short distance of the fort, where in cold blood, they murdered them, and delivered their green scalps in a few hours after to those British Barbarians, who on the first yell of the Savages, flew to meet and hug them to their breasts reeking with the blood of innocence, and shewed them every mark of joy and approbation, by firing of cannon &c. One of these parties returning with a number of woman and children's scalps, and three prisoners, they were met by the Commander of the fort, and after usual demonstrations of joy delivered their scalps, for which they were paid; the Indians then made the Commandant a present of two of the prisoners, reserving the third as a sacrifice to the manes of one of them that had fell in the expedition. Being shocked at the idea of one of my fellow-creatures being tortured and burnt alive by those inhuman Savages, I sought out the Indian who had lost his relative, and to whom, according to the Indian custom, this unhappy man belonged; I found him, took him home with me, and by the assistance of some of my friends and twentyfive pounds worth of goods, I persuaded the inhuman wretch to sell his life to me. As the rest of the gang had taken the prisoner about two leagues distance, and were making merry over him, we were obliged to lay a scheme to deliver him from their hands, which we did in the following manner, it being midnight and very dark the Indian, myself and two servants crossed the river in a batteaux to where they were carousing around this unhappy victim. The Indian then went to his companion, and under a pretence of taking the prisoner out to answer a call of nature, delivered him to me, who lay at some distance, and I carried him to the batteaux. As soon as he found himself in the hands of his deliverer, his transport was too great for his tender frame; three different times he sunk lifeless in my arms, and as often by the help of water, the only remedy at hand, I prevented his going to the land of spirits in a transport of joy. None but those who have experienced it, can have an idea of the thoughts that must have agitated the breast of a man, who but a few minutes before saw himself surronnded by Savages, whose dismal yell, and frightful figures, heightened by the glare of a large fire in a dismal wood, which must have harrowed up the soul of an uninterested bystander, much more one who knew that very fire was prepared for his execution, and that every moment the executioner was expected to arrive.--The executioner arrives; he advances towards him; he losens this unhappy victim from the tree to which he was bound, no doubt as this young man imagined to be led to the stake; but as it were in an instant, he finds himself in the hands of his deliverer and fellow-countryman. This, as I said before was too much for him to bear; however I got his almost lifeless corpse to my house, where I kept him hid. The Indian, according to our agrement in an hour or two after I was gone, returned seemingly much fatigued, and told his fellow Savages who were impatiently waiting to begin their brutal sacrifice, that the prisoner had escaped, and that he had in vain pursued him. Some time after this I found an opportunity and made an agrement with the Captain of a vessel going to Michilimakanac, to take my unhappy inmate with him, but one of my servants being tempted, by a large reward that was offered for retaking the above prisoner, informed De Jeane, that he was hid in my house, on which my habitation was soon surrounded by a party of soldiers under the command of said De Jeane, and myself, the young man and four servants were made prisoners, and having demanded my keys, which I delivered, we were hurried to goal and confined in different rooms. Here this unhappy young fellow, in high expectations of seeing his friends, was once more plunged into the horrors of imprisonment. [Illustration: REPRESENTATION of the Indian Manner of burning an English Prisoner.] I was sent for and carried before the Commandant, where, on being examined who was the person in my house, I frankly told him it was a young man whom I had bought of the Indians when they were going to burn him, and that I meant to send him to Canada to be out of the way of the Savages, but De Jeane, like other men of bad principles, thinking no man could do a good action without sinister views, said that he believed I had purchased him to serve my own ends, and that he would find them out, which the Commandant ordered him to do as soon as possible, and I was ordered to prison. De Jeane then took my servant, who was his informant, ironed him, put him in the dungeon, and after keeping him three days on bread and water, the lad almost frightened out of his senses, sent for De Jeane, and told him that the day before I was taken up I had wrote several letters, and on his bringing a candle to seal them, that I said, if he told any one that I was writing to Pitsburg, that I would blow his brains out. This suiting De Jeane's purpose, he made the lad swear to it, and then set him with the rest of my servants at liberty. I was now once more called before the Commandant, who told me he understood I was going to send an express to his Majesty's enemies, in consequence of which he had taken an inventory of my effects, and meant to send me to Canada. I told him he was misinformed: He then taxes me with what De Jeane had forced from my servant; asked me where I was writing the day before I was taken? I told him to my correspondents in Montreal; and luckily for me a neighbor of mine, having been at my house, was produced, who declared the truth of what I said, and that I being hurried, had given him the letters to carry on board the vessel. This with some other false accusations being cleared up, I was once more released on giving fresh security. Though myself and servants were, for want of a pretence for detaining us, set at liberty, it was not so with the unfortunate young man whom I had purchased from the Indian; he still remained in prison, daily tormented with the threats of De Jeane, that he would deliver him to the Indians, which so preyed on his spirits, that in a short time it threw him into a fever. I then applied to Capt Montpresent, the Commandant, who gave me permission, and I removed him to sick quarters, where I hired Jacob Pue, of Virginia, his fellow prisoner, to attend him. I also, when leisure would permit, attended him myself; but De Jeane, who still haunted him, had so great an effect on him, that one day when I visited him, he called me to his bedside and said to me, that De Jeane had just left him, that he told him to make haste and get well, as the Indians were waiting for him. Pray Sir, (said the young man to De Jeane) for GOD's sake try to keep me from the Indians, for if they get me they will burn me. Keep you from them, said De Jeane, you damn'd rebel you deserve to be burned, and all your damn'd countrymen with you, for you need not think Dodge can save you; General Hamilton is now come up, and he will fix you all. I tried to comfort him, and told him to be of good courage: Oh! replied he. I am almost distracted with the idea of being burnt by the Savages; I had much rather die where I am, than be delivered into the hands of those horrid wretches, from whom I so lately by your hands escaped, the recollection of which, makes me shudder with horror. He could say no more; he sunk under it, and in a few hours after, death, more kind than his cruel tormentors, released him from his troubles. I paid the last tribute to this my unhappy Countryman, and had his corpse decently interred, attended by the Missionary and most of the principal Merchants of the town. [Illustration] As Hamilton was arrived, I had every thing to expect that his malice could invent, more especially as De Jeane, to whom his ear was always open, had told him (as I was informed) all and more than what had happened during his absence. About a month after the death of the unhappy young man above related, I had occasion for some of my powder out of the magazine: I wrote an order to the conductor, according to custom and waited on the Governor to have it signed; on presenting it to him, he looked at it, and then looked at me with a sarcastic smile said, It is powder you want, you damn'd rascal is it? At the same time tearing my order and throwing it in my face: You have behaved yourself very well, have you not? After my granting you your life, you would not go with Le Mote, would you not? says, he and starting up in a great passion as though he would strike me, put himself between me and the door. What, says he, you have a damn'd deal of influence with the Indians; you can purchase prisonners without my approbation can you? you damn'd rascal. Sir, said I, I am no rascal; not a word out of your mouth, says Hamilton, go about your business and take care of me or I will fix you: I replied it had always been my study to take care of him; not a word, says he, go about your business, and bless your stars I was not here instead of Capt. Montpresent, for I would have fixed you, you damn'd scoundrel. Here I took my leave, went home and determined to think as little of Mr. Hamilton and his usage as possible, until I had an opportunity of getting redress. Notwithstanding the hatred of Hamilton and De Jeane; I spent the forepart of the winter very happily, until the 25th of Jan. 1778, when several Merchants of the town got permission to go to Sandusky to trade, and as they proposed encamping about two leagues from the town, myself and several others in a friendly manner, proposed and did accompany them in our sleighs to their first stage; but on our return, I being a head, was challenged by De Jeane, at the head of thirty or forty soldiers, by asking who came there? To which I replied, John Dodge; he then ordered the soldiers to seize me and the two gentlemen in the sleigh with me, and forced us to return to the encampment we had just left, where he seized the whole of the gentlemen who were going by permission to Sandusky, with their goods, sleighs, &c. and carried the whole of us the next morning back to the fort, and charged us with sending out goods to supply (as he politely termed it) the rebels. After being detained three days in prison I was taken to De Jeane's house to see my papers, books, desk, &c. examined. They broke open my desk pretending to have lost the key. On searching, they could not find any thing worth their notice, or what they expected to find. De Jeane then gave me my keys, and told me to send for my desk and take care of myself as he would watch me: I told him, as he had taken it from my home and broke it, he should mend it and send it home before I would receive it: Stop a little said he, I will speak to the Governor and fix you yet if I can; he then gave me into the case of the guard, and ordered me to goal. About the fifth day after this, not hearing any thing from him, I sent for my violin, and was diverting myself, when Governor Hamilton passed by, and inquired who was playing on the violin, to which the Corporal of the guard answer'd it was me. The next day De Jeane waited on me with a Blacksmith, who soon clapped on a pair of hand-bolts; and now, says De Jeane, I have fixed you, you may play the violin until you are tired; I asked him what I had done to be treated thus; for that you must apply to the Governor said he, for it is his pleasure that you are so: He then threatened to put on my leg bolts; on which I told him I did not value his irons, but if he kept me prisoner, I should look to him for my property, (about 3000l.) Yes, says he, we will fix you and your property too, and then left me. About six days after, I was taken to my own house, where two English and two Frenchmen, by order of the Governor, took an inventor of my goods, and soon after sold the whole at vendue, for about 1900l. New-York currency. Thus being a second time robbed of my property, I lay a prisoner as contented as possible, without any thing material happening until the first of May. On the first of May 1778, I was put on board a vessel to go down to Quebec, and by some of my friends furnished with provision and necessaries for the voyage; but of these I was robbed by De Jeane, and had it not been for some gentlemen, passengers in the same vessel, I must have suffered with hunger. On the first of June I arrived at Quebec, where I was conducted to Mr. Printices the Provost Marshal! Ha! ha! says he, Mr. Dodge, are you here? I have often been told you were a damn'd rascal doing all you could against government. It is a pity Governor Hamilton did not hang you when he was about it, as he would have saved government a great deal of trouble. From hence I was conducted on board the prison ship Mariah, with a number of Farmers, taken off their plantations by the Savages. Two days after I was put on board the prison ship, we were visited by Mr. Murray, Commissary of Prisoners, to whom I gave an account of my capture and ill usage; he told me, he would speak to the General, and give me an answer. Two days after, he came on board, and told me, as it was very difficult times, I could not have a hearing at present; I told him I wanted nothing but what the English constitution allowed, and if I could not get that in Quebec, I would apply to England; to which he replied I had better be easy, for if I did not, he would put me in irons again. I remained on board the prison ship until the begining of August, when Mr. Murray came on board, and informed me that I was not to go with the prisoners; but if I would give my parole, I should be allowed the liberty of Quebec. I asked him the occasion I could not be sent with the other prisoners; he replied it was the Governor's orders: I asked him if I was to be allowed any support; he said, not any. I told him it was very hard to be dragged from my house, robbed of my property, deprived of my liberty, sent 1200. miles in irons, and still be held a prisoner in the town of Quebec, without any allowance for support: All my applications were in vain, I was set on shore under parole the fourth of August, and the ship sailed with the other prisoners soon after. The cause of my detention, as I was afterwards told by Mr. Murray, was, that Governor Hamilton, of Detroit, had wrote the General not to send me round with the other prisoners; for if I got into the United States, he knew I would come immediately upon him, and as I knew the country, was well acquainted with the languages of the different Indians about the lakes, and had great influence among them, should be the means of their losing the fort, which would be much against the crown. On my enlargement, I soon got acquainted with a number of gentlemen, who were friends to the United States, and the cause in which they were engaged. Some days after going on shore, I fell in company with a Mr. Jones, who happened at that time to be reading a letter sent by General Montgomery, while he lay before Quebec, to Gov. Carlton, and on concluding it said he hoped General Montgomery was in hell, and that all the rebels would soon be with him; to this I made a reply, words ensued, and then blows; he drew on me, but I parried his thrust with my cane, so that I only got a small wound on my knee: He then made a complaint and I was sent for by the General, who threatened to put me in confinement, if I did not find security; this I soon found, and bonds were given for me for two months: at the end of which, as they neglected renewing them and left me without parole or security, I hired an Indian guide, and on the ninth of Oct I quitted Quebec. After a fatiguing march through the woods, on the 20th of Nov. I arrived at Boston, where I was kindly received and politely treated by General Gates who supplied my wants and forwarded to me to his Excellency, General Washington; I, waited on him, was politely received and sent on to Congress, having some matters relating to Canada, worthy of their hearing. Had the love of my country no ways prompted me to act against the tyranny of Britain. I leave it to the world to judge whether I have not a right to revolt from under the dominion of such tyrants and exert every faculty God has given me to seek satisfaction for the ill usage I received than if I had ten thousand lives, and was sure to lose them all: I think should I not attempt to gain satisfaction I should deserve to be a slave the remainder of my life. FINIS [Illustration] NOTES [1] Almon's _Remembrancer_, 1779. [2] First edition, Philadelphia, 1779, and second edition, Danvers, Massachusetts, 1780; also printed in _Connecticut Gazette and Universal Intelligencer_, February 2, 1780. [3] _Virginia State Papers_, 1, 321. [4] _Dodge Genealogy_, page 137. _American Ancestry_, 6, 192. The sketch in _The Magazine of Western History_, 4, 282, contains many errors. [5] _Wayne County Records_, B. 9, 91. [6] If this date is correct it would appear that Dodge was in Detroit before he was brought there as a captive. [7] Manuscript, British Museum. [8] For a history of the Montour family see Egle's _Notes and Queries_, 3rd series, 1, 118. John Montour was arrested and confined in Detroit in 1778. See _Michigan Historical Society Collections_, 9, 434. [9] _Michigan Historical Society Collections_, 9, 512. [10] _Fergus Historical Series_, number 31, page 62. See also number 33, pages 159, 182, 183, 209; also _Calendar of Virginia State Papers_, 1, 367. [11] _American State Papers_, _Public Lands_, Volume 1, (Gales and Seaton), 106, 110. A letter from John Rice Jones on file in the Interior Department, dated January 18, 1800, states that Dodge and his wife were both dead. [12] Letter from Henry L. Caldwell to Louise M. Dalton, Missouri Historical Society, dated December 4, 1906. Mr. Caldwell died April 11, 1907, a very old man. Miss Dalton was secretary of the Missouri Historical Society and died in June of the same year. [13] A little information is obtained from the Ste. Genevieve records, now in possession of the Missouri Historical Society, and a letter of John Rice Jones now on file in the Interior Department at Washington. The Jones letter is dated January 18, 1800, and in it he says that John Dodge was married somewhere in Virginia and that both Dodge and his wife are dead. From the other records it appears that the wife's name was Ann. [14] Wood was a Revolutionary soldier and officer of considerable importance, and was elected Governor of Virginia, serving from December 1, 1796, till December 1, 1799. He died July 16, 1813. _American Archives_, 4th Series, Volume 4, 110-115. See also same series, Volume 2, 1209, 1240. Wood's _Journal_ is in _The Revolution on the Upper Ohio_, page 34. _Old Westmoreland_, 18. _American Archives_, 4th Series, Volume 3, 1542. INDEX Antanya, Michael, assists Dodge, 15. Beaver Creek (Bever Criek), 9. Blair, Archibald, 23. Boston, visited by Dodge, 7, 15; Dodge meets General Gage there, 56. Boyle, Philip, letter to, 15. Butler, Mr., aids Dodge in inducing Indians to make treaty, 31. Caldwell, Henry L., grandson of Israel Dodge, 14. Canada, Dodge proposes to invade, 8. Carleton, Sir Guy, Governor in Chief of Michigan Territory, 19; Mr. Jones reads letter from, 55. Carlisle (Pennsylvania), Israel Dodge marries Ann Hunter at, 14. Clark, Gen. George Rogers, of Virginia, captures Lieut.-Gov. Hamilton, 13; takes possession of the Western Illinois country, 17; letters to Congress considered by board, 19. Clark, Mr., Dodge's letter to Congress referred to, 19. Congress, Dodge visits, 7, 56; writes letter to, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13; reports adversely to suggestions in letter, 13; Dodge writes second letter to, 17, 18; Committee of, report on the John Dodge report, 19; Commissioners of, treat with Indians, 32; Dodge informs, of council with Indians at Sandusky, 32. Congressional Board, the, reports on letters of Colonel Clark and others relating to Hamilton, Dejean and Lamothe, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23; recommends punishment to be inflicted upon these prisoners, 23. Connecticut, birthplace of Dodge 15; Dodge leaves, 29. Continental talk, 32, 33. Dejean, Philip, prisoner of war, 13; Justice of the Peace for Detroit, 19; prisoner of war, 19; his cruel treatment of Dodge and other prisoners, 20, 21, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 47, 48; captured by Colonel Clark of Virginia at Fort St. Vincent (Vincennes), 28; imprisons Dodge a second time, 45; informs Hamilton concerning Dodge, 48; seizes Dodge and companions near Sandusky, 51; examines Dodge's papers, 51. Detroit, John Dodge locates there, 6; refers in letter to its garrison, 9; Governor of, bribes savages, 9; proposes to take by force, 10; visits, 15. Dodge, Henry, son of Israel Dodge, 14; born October 12, 1872, 14; first Governor of Wisconsin Territory, 14. Dodge, Ann Hunter, wife of Israel Dodge, 14. Dodge, Israel, brother of John Dodge, 6; commissioned as lieutenant, 14. Dodge, John, birth, 6; parentage, 6; early life as a trader, 6; purchases land, 6; confined in jail, 7; appointed Indian Agent by Virginia, 14; lays claim to western lands, 14; patents issued to his heirs, 14; date of death, 14; place of burial, 14; holds commission as colonel, 14; places visited in his travels, 15; writes second letter to Congress, 16, 17; acts as interpreter for Captain Wood, 29; makes present to Indians, 32, 33; writes to Hamilton, 33; taken prisoner by Indians at instigation of Hamilton, 33; taken to Detroit, 33; condemned to death, 34, 35; his suffering and sickness in prison, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38; released from prison, 39; his property confiscated, 40; engages in mercantile business, 41; rescues prisoner, 43, 44; taken captive by Dejean, 45; called before Commandant Mountpresent, 46; ordered to prison, 46; released, 47; threatened by Hamilton, 50; goes to Sandusky, 51; seized by Dejean, 51; cast into goal, 52; his property confiscated second time, 52; brought before Mr. Printices, Provost Marshal at Quebec, 53; put on board prison ship _Mariah_, 53; visited by Mr. Murray, Commissary of Prisoners, 53; paroled, 54; encounter with Mr. Jones, 55; forced to give bonds, 55; leaves Quebec, 56; arrives at Boston, 56; sent by Gates to General Washington, 56; appears before Congress, 56. Dodge, John, Sr., father of John Dodge, 6. Dodge, Lydia Rogers, wife of John Dodge, 6. Dodge Narrative, time and place, 5; importance, 5; reprints, 5. Edgar, John; Dodge attempts to carry off slaves of, 15; old friend of Dodge, 15; arrested and confined at Detroit, 15, 16; witness for Dodge, 16. Fort Pitt, (Pittsburg), Dodge's visit to, 8; conference with Indians at, 16; speech of Shengenaba at, 16. Gates, General, Dodge visits at Boston, 56. Gibson, John, agent for Indian affairs, 32. Hamilton, Lieut. Gov. Henry, cruelties and irregularities of his rule in Detroit, 5; indicted for murder, 5; confined in irons, 6; sends Dodge as prisoner to Quebec, 7; bribes savages, 9; captured by Gen. George Rogers Clark, 13; released from prison and reinstated as lieutenant governor of Canada, 14; letters of Colonel Clark relating to, 19; incites Indians to perpetrate cruelties, 20; Committee's report as to his treatment of John Dodge, 20, 21; gives standing reward for scalps, 21, 32; capture by Colonel Clark at Fort St. Vincent (Vincennes), 28; dissuades Indians from assembling at Fort Pitt, 30, 31; Dodge writes letter to, 33; throws Dodge into prison at Detroit, 34; advises Dodge not to try to obtain redress, 40; orders Dodge to march with scouting party of savages, 41; threatens Dodge, 42, 50; succeeded by Captain Mountpresent, 42; returns to Detroit, 49; orders Dodge detained at Quebec, 54, 55. Harman papers, their reference to Dodge, 15. Henry, Moses; Henry Dodge, his namesake, 14; his bravery at Vincennes, 14, 15. Henry, Patrick, commissions Dodge as Colonel, 14. Heron, James, aids Dodge in inducing Indians to make treaty, 31. Illinois (Islianoy) Country, the, Dodge refers to it in letter to Congress, 17, 18; effect of its occupancy by troops under Col. Clark, 17, 18. Indians, bribed by Hamilton, 9; offered standing reward for scalps, 21; invited by Capt. James Wood to a treaty at Fort Pitt, 16, 29; dissuaded by Hamilton from assembling at Fort Pitt, 29, 30; persuaded by argument of Dodge and Heron, 31; make treaty with Commissioners of Congress, 32; their cruelty to prisoners, 42, 43, 44. Jones, John Rice, letter from, 15. Jones, Mr., in company with Dodge, 55. Kaskaskia, Dodge located there as Indian Agent, 14; visits, 15; writes letter from, 15. Kichoga, 9. Lafleur, Joseph Poupard, sells land to Dodge, 6. Lamothe, William (Le Mote), prisoner of war, 13, 19; Captain of Volunteers, 19; captain of volunteer scalping party of Indians and whites, 20; his capture by Col. Clark, of Virginia at Fort St. Vincent (Vincennes), 28; commands scouting Indians, 41, 42. Mackinac, 7. _Mariah_, prison ship, Dodge confined on, 53. McIntosh, General, marches from Beaver Creek, 9; Dodge censures in letter to Congress, 11. Michilimackinac, Dodge trades at, 41; arranges to send rescued prisoner there, 45. Missouri Historical Society, references to Dodge, 15. Montgomery, General, Dodge speaks in his defense, 55. Montour, John, letter to from Dodge, 8. Mountpresent, Capt., 42, 47, 50. Morgan, Col., his arrival at Pittsburg, 12; sends message to the Indian (Endian) Nations, 12. Murray, Mr., Commissary of Prisoners, visits Dodge, 53; informs Dodge that he is not to go with prisoners, 54. New Orleans, 15. New York, visited by Dodge, 15. Ohio District, John Dodge in, 6. Patridge, Mr., Dodge's letter to Congress referred to, 19. Philadelphia, visited by Dodge, 15. Piankeshaw Indians, 15. Pittsburg (Fort Pitt), Dodge visits, 15. Pontiac, his son Shegenaba speaks at Fort Pitt, 16, 17. Presque Isle (Preskeele), 9. Printice, Mr., Provost Marshal of Quebec, 53. Pue, Jacob, of Virginia, hired to attend fellow prisoner, 47. Quebec, John Dodge sent as prisoner to, 7, 53; escapes, 7; visited by Dodge, 15. Sandusky (Ohio), Dodge locates there as a trader, 6, 29; visits, 15; disturbed by Revolutionary War, 29; Savages hostile in, 32. Shawnee Indians, 16. Shegenaba, son of Pontiac, speech at Fort Pitt, 16, 17. Ste Genevieve (Mo.), Dodge buried at, 14; Dodge visits, 15. Sugar Creek (Shugar Criek), 9. Tanisee River, the, Hamilton appoints council of Indians to meet at the mouth of, 20. Tucker, William, has negotiations with John Dodge, 6. Vincennes (Ind.), George Rogers Clark at, 13; captured by Gov. Hamilton, 14; visited by Dodge, 16; Hamilton, Dejean, and Lamothe taken prisoners at, 28. Virginia, Council of, letters and narratives of Dodge read by members of, 13; recommends the punishment of Henry Hamilton, Philip Dejean and Wm. La Mothe, 13; expenses in connection with the Illinois country, 17. Washington, Gen. George, Dodge meets him, 7, 56. Williamsburg (Va.), Hamilton taken to by Clark, 13. Wolcot, Mr., Dodge's letter to Congress referred to, 19. Wood, James, appointed to command expedition against the Shawnee, 16; deputed to invite Western Indians to a treaty at Fort Pitt, 16, 29; his fatigues, difficulties and dangers, 16; his compensation, 16; meeting with the Indians, 16; calls at the house of Dodge, 29. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. Long "s" has been modernized. 3. Due to the poor printed quality of the original text, a lot of commas look like periods. Obvious errors have been silently corrected. 4. Apart from the changes listed above, no other modifications have been made for this e-text version. 
879	----	THE BOY CAPTIVES An Incident of the Indian War of 1695 by John Greenleaf Whittier BEGINNING THE township of Haverhill, even as late as the close of the seventeenth century, was a frontier settlement, occupying an advanced position in the great wilderness, which, unbroken by the clearing of a white man, extended from the Merrimac River to the French villages on the St. Francois. A tract of twelve miles on the river and three or four northwardly was occupied by scattered settlers, while in the centre of the town a compact village had grown up. In the immediate vicinity there were but few Indians, and these generally peaceful and inoffensive. On the breaking out of the Narragansett War, [1] the inhabitants had erected fortifications, and taken other measures for defence; but, with the possible exception of one man who was found slain in the woods in 1676, none of the inhabitants were molested; and it was not until about the year 1689 that the safety of the settlement was seriously threatened. Three persons were killed in that year. In 1690 six garrisons were established in different parts of the town, with a small company of soldiers attached to each. Two of these houses are still standing. They were built of brick, two stories high, with a single outside door, so small and narrow that but one person could enter at a time; the windows few, and only about two and a half feet long by eighteen inches wide, with thick diamond glass secured with lead, and crossed inside with bars of iron. The basement had but two rooms, and the chamber was entered by a ladder instead of stairs; so that the inmates, if driven thither, could cut off communication with the rooms below. Many private houses were strengthened and fortified. We remember one familiar to our boyhood,--a venerable old building of wood, with brick between the weather-boards and ceiling, with a massive balustrade over the door, constructed of oak timber and plank, with holes through the latter for firing upon assailants. The door opened upon a stone-paved hall, or entry, leading into the huge single room of the basement, which was lighted by two small windows, the ceiling black with the smoke of a century and a half; a huge fireplace, calculated for eight-feet wood, occupying one entire side; while, overhead, suspended from the timbers, or on shelves fastened to them, were household stores, farming utensils, fishing-rods, guns, bunches of herbs gathered perhaps a century ago, strings of dried apples and pumpkins, links of mottled sausages, spare-ribs, and flitches of bacon; the fire-light of an evening dimly revealing the checked woollen coverlet of the bed in one far-off corner, while in another-- "The pewter plates on the dresser Caught and reflected the flame as shields of armies the sunshine." [2] Tradition has preserved many incidents of life in the garrisons. In times of unusual peril the settlers generally resorted at night to the fortified houses, taking thither their flocks and herds and such household valuables as were most likely to strike the fancy or minister to the comfort or vanity of the heathen marauders. False alarms were frequent. The smoke of a distant fire, the bark of a dog in the deep woods, a stump or bush, taking in the uncertain light of stars and moon the appearance of a man, were sufficient to spread alarm through the entire settlement and to cause the armed men of the garrison to pass whole nights in sleepless watching. It is said that at Haselton's garrison-house the sentinel on duty saw, as he thought, an Indian inside of the paling which surrounded the building, and apparently seeking to gain an entrance. He promptly raised his musket and fired at the intruder, alarming thereby the entire garrison. The women and children left their beds, and the men seized their guns and commenced firing on the suspicious object; but it seemed to bear a charmed life, and remained unharmed. As the morning dawned, however, the mystery was solved by the discovery of a black quilted petticoat hanging on the clothes-line completely riddled with balls. As a matter of course, under circumstances of perpetual alarm and frequent peril, the duty of cultivating their fields, and gathering their harvests, and working at their mechanical avocations, was dangerous and difficult to the settlers. One instance will serve as an illustration. At the garrison-house of Thomas Dustin, the husband of the far-famed Mary Dustin [who, while a captive of the Indians, and maddened by the murder of her infant child, killed and scalped, wit the assistance of a young boy, the entire band of her captors, ten in number], the business of brick-making was carried on. The pits where the clay was found were only a few rods from the house; yet no man ventured to bring the clay to the yard within the inclosure, without the attendance of a file of soldiers. An anecdote relating to this garrison has been handed down to the present time. Among its inmates were two young cousins, Joseph and Mary Whittaker; the latter a merry, handsome girl, relieving the tedium of garrison-duty with her light-hearted mirthfulness and-- "Making a sunshine in that shady place." [3] Joseph, in the intervals of his labors in the double capacity of brick-maker and man-at-arms, was assiduous in his attentions to his fair cousin, who was not inclined to encourage him. Growing desperate, he threatened one evening to throw himself into the garrison well. His threat only called forth the laughter of his mistress; and, bidding her farewell, he proceeded to put it in execution. On reaching the well he stumbled over a log; whereupon, animated by a happy idea, he dropped the wood into the water instead of himself, and, hiding behind the curb, awaited the result. Mary, who had been listening at the door, and who had not believed her lover capable of so rash an act, heard the sudden plunge of the wooden Joseph. She ran to the well, and, leaning over the curb and peering down the dark opening, cried out, in tones of anguish and remorse, "O Joseph, if you're in the land of the living, I 'll have you!" "I 'll take ye at your word," answered Joseph, springing up from his hiding-place and avenging himself for her coyness and coldness by a hearty embrace. Our own paternal ancestor, owing to religious scruples in the matter of taking arms even for defence of life and property, refused to leave his undefended house and enter the garrison. The Indians frequently came to his house; and the family more than once in the night heard them whispering under the windows, and saw them put their copper faces to the glass to take a view of the apartments. Strange as it may seem, they never offered any injury or insult to the inmates. In 1695 the township was many times molested by Indians, and several persons were killed and wounded. Early in the fall a small party made their appearance in the northerly part of the town, where, finding two boys at work in an open field, they managed to surprise and capture them, and, without committing further violence, retreated through the woods to their homes on the shore of Lake Winnipiseogee. Isaac Bradley, aged fifteen, was a small but active and vigorous boy; his companion in captivity, Joseph Whittaker, was only eleven, yet quite as large in size, and heavier in his movements. After a hard and painful journey they arrived at the lake, and were placed in an Indian family, consisting of a man and squaw and two or three children. Here they soon acquired a sufficient knowledge of the Indian tongue to enable them to learn from the conversation carried on in their presence that it was designed to take them to Canada in the spring. This discovery was a painful one. Canada, the land of Papist priests and bloody Indians, was the especial terror of the New England settlers, and the anathema maranatha [4] of Puritan pulpits. Thither the Indians usually hurried their captives, where they compelled them to work in their villages or sold them to the French planters. Escape from thence through a deep wilderness, and across lakes, and mountains, and almost impassable rivers, without food or guide, is regarded as an impossibility. The poor boys, terrified by the prospect of being carried still farther from their home and friends, began to dream of escaping from their masters before they started for Canada. It was now winter; it would have been little short of madness to have chosen for flight that season of bitter cold and deep snows. Owing to exposure and want of proper food and clothing, Isaac, the eldest of the boys, was seized with a violent fever, from which he slowly recovered in the course of the winter. His Indian mistress was as kind to him as her circumstances permitted,--procuring medicinal herbs and roots for her patient, and tenderly watching over him in the long winter nights. Spring came at length; the snows melted; and the ice was broken up on the lake. The Indians began to make preparations for journeying to Canada; and Isaac, who had during his sickness devised a plan of escape, saw that the time of putting it in execution had come. On the evening before he was to make the attempt he for the first time informed his younger companion of his design, and told him, if he intended to accompany him, he must be awake at the time appointed. The boys lay down as usual in the wigwam in the midst of the family. Joseph soon fell asleep; but Isaac, fully sensible of the danger and difficulty of the enterprise before him, lay awake, watchful for his opportunity. About midnight he rose, cautiously stepping over the sleeping forms of the family, and securing, as he went, his Indian master's flint, steel, and tinder, and a small quantity of dry moose-meat and corn-bread. He then carefully awakened his companion, who, starting up, forgetful of the cause of his disturbance, asked aloud, "What do you want?" The savages began to stir; and Isaac, trembling with fear of detection, lay down again and pretended to be asleep. After waiting a while he again rose, satisfied, from the heavy breathing of the Indians, that they were all sleeping; and fearing to awaken Joseph a second time, lest he should again hazard all by his thoughtlessness, he crept softly out of the wigwam. He had proceeded but a few rods when he heard footsteps behind him; and, supposing himself pursued, he hurried into the woods, casting a glance backward. What was his joy to see his young companion running after him! They hastened on in a southerly direction as nearly as they could determine, hoping to reach their distant home. When daylight appeared they found a large hollow log, into which they crept for concealment, wisely judging that they would be hotly pursued by their Indian captors. Their sagacity was by no means at fault. The Indians, missing their prisoners in the morning, started off in pursuit with their dogs. As the young boys lay in the log they could hear the whistle of the Indians and the barking of dogs upon their track. It was a trying moment; and even the stout heart of the elder boy sank within him as the dogs came up to the log and set up a loud bark of discovery. But his presence of mind saved him. He spoke in a low tone to the dogs, who, recognizing his familiar voice, wagged their tails with delight, and ceased barking. He then threw to them the morsel of moose-meat he had taken from the wigwam. While the dogs were thus diverted, the Indians made their appearance. The boys heard the light, stealthy sound of their moccasins on the leaves. They passed close to the log; and the dogs, having devoured their moose-meat, trotted after their masters. Through a crevice in the log the boys looked after them, and saw them disappear in the thick woods. They remained in their covert until night, when they started again on their long journey, taking a new route to avoid the Indians. At daybreak they again concealed themselves, but travelled the next night and day without resting. By this time they had consumed all the bread which they had taken, and were fainting from hunger and weariness. Just at the close of the third day they were providentially enabled to kill a pigeon and a small tortoise, a part of which they ate raw, not daring to make a fire, which might attract the watchful eyes of savages. On the sixth day they struck upon an old Indian path, and, following it until night, came suddenly upon a camp of the enemy. Deep in the heart of the forest, under the shelter of a ridge of land heavily timbered, a great fire of logs and brushwood was burning; and around it the Indians sat, eating their moose-meat and smoking their pipes. The poor fugitives, starving, weary, and chilled by the cold spring blasts, gazed down upon the ample fire, and the savory meats which the squaws were cooking by it, but felt no temptation to purchase warmth and food by surrendering themselves to captivity. Death in the forest seemed preferable. They turned and fled back upon their track, expecting every moment to hear the yells of pursuers. The morning found them seated on the bank of a small stream, their feet torn and bleeding, and their bodies emaciated. The elder, as a last effort, made search for roots, and fortunately discovered a few ground-nuts [*glycine apios*], which served to refresh in some degree himself and his still weaker companion. As they stood together by the stream, hesitating and almost despairing, it occurred to Isaac that the rivulet might lead to a larger stream of water, and that to the sea and the white settlements near it; and he resolved to follow it. They again began their painful march; the day passed, and the night once more overtook them. When the eighth morning dawned, the younger of the boys found himself unable to rise from his bed of leaves. Isaac endeavored to encourage him, dug roots, and procured water for him; but the poor lad was utterly exhausted. He had no longer heart or hope. The elder boy laid him on leaves and dry grass at the foot of a tree, and with a heavy heart bade him farewell. Alone he slowly and painfully proceeded down the stream, now greatly increased in size by tributary rivulets. On the top of a hill he climbed with difficulty into a tree, and saw in the distance what seemed to be a clearing and a newly-raised frame building. Hopeful and rejoicing, he turned back to his young companion, told him what he had seen, and, after chafing his limbs awhile, got him upon his feet. Sometimes supporting him, and at others carrying him on his back, the heroic boy staggered towards the clearing. On reaching it he found it deserted, and was obliged to continue his journey. Towards night signs of civilization began to appear,--the heavy, continuous roar of water was heard; and, presently emerging from the forest, he saw a great river dashing in white foam down precipitous rocks, and on its bank the gray walls of a huge stone building, with flankers, palisades, and moat, over which the British flag was flying. This was the famous Saco Fort, built by Governor Phips, [5] two years before, just below the falls of the Saco River. The soldiers of the garrison gave the poor fellows a kindly welcome. Joseph, who was scarcely alive, lay for a long time sick in the fort; but Isaac soon regained his strength, and set out for his home in Haverhill, which he had the good fortune to arrive at in safety. Amidst the stirring excitements of the present day, when every thrill of the electric wire conveys a new subject for thought or action to a generation as eager as the ancient Athenians for some new thing, simple legends of the past like that which we have transcribed have undoubtedly lost in a great degree their interest. The lore of the fireside is becoming obsolete, and with the octogenarian few who still linger among us will perish the unwritten history of border life in New England. [Footnote 1: The "Narragansett War" was a name applied to that part of King Philip's War which resulted from the defection of the powerful tribe of Narragansetts, formerly allies of the English, to the standard of the Indian chief.] [Footnote 2: Longfellow's *Evangeline,* lines 205, 206.] [Footnote 3: "Her angel's face As the great eye of heaven shyned bright And made a sunshine in the shadie place; Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace." --Spenser: *The Faerie Queene,* bk. I. canto iii. st. 4.] [Footnote 4: *Anathema maranatha* occurs at the close of St. Paul's first epistle to the Corinthians, and in the English version is made to appear as a composite phrase. It has so passed into common use, *maranatha* being taken as intensifying the curse contained in *anathema*. The words are properly to be divided, *maranatha* signifying "The Lord cometh."] [Footnote 5: An interesting account of Sir William Phips will be found in Parkman's *Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV.* Hawthorne also tells his romantic story in *Fanshawe and Other Pieces.*] 
26965	----	[Illustration: THE WOUNDED PIONEER.] HEROES AND HUNTERS OF THE WEST: COMPRISING SKETCHES AND ADVENTURES OF BOONE, KENTON, BRADY, LOGAN, WHETZEL, FLEEHART, HUGHES, JOHNSTON, &c. PHILADELPHIA: H. C. PECK & THEO. BLISS. 1860. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, BY H. C. PECK & THEO. BLISS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. CONTENTS. Daniel Boone. 11 Simon Kenton. 19 George Rogers Clarke. 24 Benjamin Logan. 32 Samuel Brady. 38 Lewis Whetzel. 45 Caffree, M'Clure, and Davis. 58 Charles Johnston. 66 Joseph Logston. 74 Jesse Hughes. 81 Siege of Fort Henry. 87 Simon Girty. 103 Joshua Fleehart. 118 Indian Fight on the Little Muskingum. 129 Escape of Return J. Meigs. 137 Estill's Defeat. 144 A Pioneer Mother. 154 The Squatter's Wife and Daughter. 167 Captain William Hubbell. 173 Murder of Cornstalk and his Son. 185 The Massacre of Chicago. 189 The Two Friends. 211 Desertion of a young White Man, from a party of Indians. 219 Morgan's Triumph. 229 Massacre of Wyoming. 233 Heroic Women of the West. 243 Indian Strategem Foiled. 250 Blackbird. 265 A Desperate Adventure. 268 Adventure of Two Scouts. 276 A Young Hero of the West. 299 PREFACE. To the lovers of thrilling adventure, the title of this work would alone be its strongest recommendation. The exploits of the Heroes of the West, need but a simple narration to give them an irresistible charm. They display the bolder and rougher features of human nature in their noblest light, softened and directed by virtues that have appeared in the really heroic deeds of every age, and form pages in the history of this country destined to be read and admired when much that is now deemed more important is forgotten. It is true, that, with the lights of this age, we regard many of the deeds of our western pioneer as aggressive, barbarous, and unworthy of civilized men. But there is no truly noble heart that will not swell in admiration of the devotion and disinterestedness of Benjamin Logan, the self-reliant energy of Boone and Whetzel, and the steady firmness and consummate military skill of George Rogers Clarke. The people of this country need records of the lives of such men, and we have attempted to present these in an attractive form. [Illustration: CAPTURE OF BOONE.] HEROES OF THE WEST. DANIEL BOONE. In all notices of border life, the name of Daniel Boone appears first--as the hero and the father of the west. In him were united those qualities which make the accomplished frontiersman--daring, activity, and circumspection, while he was fitted beyond most of his contemporary borderers to lead and command. Daniel Boone was born either in Virginia or Pennsylvania, and at an early age settled in North Carolina, upon the banks of the Yadkin. In 1767, James Findley, the first white man who ever visited Kentucky, returned to the settlements of North Carolina, and gave such a glowing account of that wilderness, that Boone determined to venture into it, on a hunting expedition. Accordingly, in 1769, accompanied by Findley and four others, he commenced his journey. Kentucky was found to be all that the first adventurer had represented, and the hunters had fine sport. The country was uninhabited, but, during certain seasons, parties of the northern and southern Indians visited it upon hunting expeditions. These parties frequently engaged in fierce conflicts, and hence the beautiful region was known as the "dark and bloody ground." [Illustration: BATTLE OF BLUE LICKS.] On the 22d of December, 1769, Boone and one of his companions, named John Stuart, left their encampment on the Red river, and boldly followed a buffalo path far into the forest. While roving carelessly from canebrake to canebrake, they were suddenly alarmed by the appearance of a party of Indians, who, springing from their place of concealment, rushed upon them with a swiftness which rendered escape impossible. The hunters were seized, disarmed, and made prisoners. Under these terrible circumstances, Boone's presence of mind was admirable. He saw that there was no chance of immediate escape; but he encouraged his companion and constrained himself to follow the Indians in all their movements, with so constrained an air, that their vigilance began to relax. [Illustration: DANIEL BOONE.] On the seventh evening of the captivity of the hunter, the party encamped in a thick cane-break, and having built a large fire lay down to rest. About midnight, Boone, who had not closed his eyes, ascertained from the deep breathing of all around him, that the whole party, including Stuart, was in a deep sleep. Gently extricating himself from the savages who lay around him, he awoke Stuart, informed him of his determination to escape, and exhorted him to follow without noise. Stuart obeyed with quickness and silence. Rapidly moving through the forest, guided by the light of the stars and the barks of the trees, the hunters reached their former camp the next day, but found it plundered and deserted, with nothing remaining to show the fate of their companions. Soon afterwards, Stuart was shot and scalped, and Boone and his brother who had come into the wilderness from North Carolina, were left alone in the forest. Nay, for several months, Daniel had not a single companion, for his brother returned to North Carolina for ammunition. The hardy hunter was exposed to the greatest dangers, but he contrived to escape them all. In 1771, Boone and his brother returned to North Carolina, and Daniel, having sold what property he could not take with him, determined to take his family to Kentucky, and make a settlement. He was joined by others at "Powel's Valley," and commenced the journey, at the head of a considerable party of pioneers. Being attacked by the Indians, the adventurers were compelled to return, and it was not until 1774, that the indomitable Boone succeeded in conveying his family to the banks of the Kentucky, and founding Boonesborough. In the meantime, James Harrod had settled at the station called Harrodsburgh. Other stations were founded by Bryant and Logan--daring pioneers; but Boonesborough was the chief object of Indian hostility, and was exposed to almost incessant attack, from its foundation until after the bloody battle of Blue Licks. During this time, Daniel Boone was regarded as the chief support and counsellor of the settlers, and in all emergencies, his wisdom and valor was of the greatest service. He met with many adventures, and made some hair-breadth escapes, but survived all his perils and hardships and lived to a green old age, enjoying the respect and confidence of a large and happy community, which his indomitable spirit had been chiefly instrumental in founding. He never lost his love of the woods and the chase, and within a few weeks of his death might have been seen, rifle in hand, eager in the pursuit of game. [Illustration: SIMON KENTON.] [Illustration: LOGAN.] SIMON KENTON. Simon Kenton was born in Fauquier county, Virginia, on the 15th of May, 1755. His parents were poor, and until the age of sixteen his days seem to have been passed in the laborious drudgery of a farm. When he was about sixteen, an unfortunate occurrence threw him upon his own resources. A robust young farmer, named Leitchman, and he were rival suitors for the hand of a young coquette, and she being unable to decide between them, they took the matter into their own hands and fought a regular pitched battle at a solitary spot in the forest. After a severe struggle, Kenton triumphed, and left his antagonist upon the ground, apparently in the agonies of death. Without returning for a suit of clothing, the young conqueror fled westward, assumed the name of Butler, joined a party of daring hunters, and visited Kentucky, (1773.) In the wilderness he became an accomplished and successful hunter and spy, but suffered many hardships. In 1774, the Indian war, occasioned by the murder of the family of the chief, Logan, broke out, and Kenton entered the service of the Virginians as a spy, in which capacity he acted throughout the campaign, ending with the battle of Point Pleasant. He then explored the country on both sides of the Ohio, and hunted in company with a few other, in various parts of Kentucky. When Boonesborough was attacked by a large body of Indians, Simon took an active part in the defence, and in several of Boone's expeditions, our hero served as a spy, winning a high reputation. In the latter part of 1777, Kenton, having crossed the Ohio, on a horse-catching expedition, was overtaken and made captive by the Indians. Then commenced a series of tortures to which the annals of Indian warfare, so deeply tinged with horrors, afford few parallels. Having kicked and cuffed him, the savages tied him to a pole, in a very painful position, where they kept him till the next morning, then tied him on a wild colt and drove it swiftly through the woods to Chilicothe. Here he was tortured in various ways. The savages then carried him to Pickaway, where it was intended to burn him at the stake, but from this awful death, he was saved through the influence of the renegade, Simon Girty, who had been his early friend. Still, Kenton was carried about from village to village, and tortured many times. At length, he was taken to Detroit, an English post, where he was well-treated; and he recovered from his numerous wounds. In the summer of 1778, he succeeded in effecting his escape, and, after a long march, reached Kentucky. [Illustration: SIMON GIRTY.] Kenton was engaged in all the Indian expeditions up to Wayne's decisive campaign, in 1794, and was very serviceable as a spy. Few borderers had passed through so many hardships, and won so bright a reputation. He lived to a very old age, and saw the country, in which he had fought and suffered, formed into the busy and populous state of Ohio. In his latter days, he was very poor, and, but for the kindness of some distinguished friends, would have wanted for the necessaries of life. GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE. In natural genius for military command, few men of the west have equalled George Rogers Clarke. The conception and execution of the famous expedition against Kaskaskia and Vincennes displayed many of those qualities for which the best generals of the world have been eulogized, and would have done honor to a Clive. Clarke was born in Albermarle county, Virginia, in September, 1753. Like Washington, he engaged, at an early age, in the business of land surveying, and was fond of several branches of mathematics. On the breaking out of Dunmore's war, Clarke took command of a company, and fought bravely at the battle of Point Pleasant, being engaged in the only active operation of the right wing of the Virginians against the Indians. Peace was concluded soon after, by Lord Dunmore, and Clarke, whose gallant bearing had been noticed, was offered a commission in the royal service. But this he refused, as he apprehended that his native country would soon be at war with Great Britain. [Illustration: GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE.] Early in 1775, Clarke visited Kentucky as the favorite scene of adventure, and penetrated to Harrodsburgh. His talents were immediately appreciated by the Kentuckians, and he was placed in command of all the irregular troops in that wild region. In 1776, the young commander exerted himself with extraordinary ability to secure a political organization and the means of defence to Kentucky, and was so successful as to win the title of the founder of the commonwealth.[A] In partisan service against the Indians, Clarke was active and efficient; but his bold and comprehensive mind looked to checking savage inroads at their sources. He saw at a glance, that the red men were stimulated to outrages by the British garrisons of Detroit, Vincennes and Kaskaskia, and was satisfied that to put an end to them, those posts must be captured. Having sent two spies to reconnoitre Kaskaskia and Vincennes, and gained considerable intelligence of the situation of the enemy, the enterprising commander sought aid from the government of Virginia to enable him to carry out his designs. After some delay, money, supplies, and a few companies of troops were obtained. Clarke then proceeded to Corn Island, opposite the present city of Louisville. Here the objects of the expedition were disclosed. Some of the men murmured, and others attempted to desert; but the energy of Colonel Clarke secured obedience and even enthusiasm. The little band soon commenced its march through a wild and difficult country, and on the 4th of July, 1778, reached a spot within a few miles of the town of Kaskaskia. Clarke made his arrangements for a surprise with great skill and soon after dark, the town was captured without shedding a drop of blood. The inhabitants were at first terror-stricken and expected to be massacred, but they were soon convinced of their mistake by the bearing and representations of the Virginia commander. Cahokia was captured shortly afterwards, without difficulty. Clarke's situation was now extremely critical, and he duly appreciated the fact. Vincennes was still in front, so garrisoned, that it seemed madness to attempt its capture by direct attack. But a bold offensive movement could alone render the conquests which had been made, permanent and advantageous. A French priest, named Gibault, secured the favor of the inhabitants of Vincennes for the American interest, and the Indians of the neighborhood were conciliated by the able management of Colonel Clarke, who knew how to win the favor of the men better than any other borderer; but on the 29th of January, 1779, intelligence was received at Kaskaskia, where Clarke was then posted, that Governor Hamilton had taken possession of Vincennes, and meditated the re-capture of the other posts, preparatory to assailing the whole frontier, as far as Fort Pitt. [Illustration: BATTLE OF POINT PLEASANT.] Clarke determined to act upon the offensive immediately, as his only salvation. Mounting a galley with two four-pounders and four swivels, and manning it with forty-six men, he dispatched it up the Wabash, to the White River, and on the 7th of February, 1779, marched from Kaskaskia at the head of only one hundred and seventy men, over the drowned lands of the Wabash, against the British post. The march of Arnold by way of the Kennebec to Canada can alone be placed as a parallel with this difficult expedition. The indomitable spirit of Clarke sustained the band through the most incredible fatigues. On the 28th the expedition approached the town, still undiscovered. The American commander then issued a proclamation, intended to produce an impression that his force was large and confident of success, and invested the fort. So vigorously was the siege prosecuted that the garrison was reduced to straits, and Governor Hamilton compelled to capitulate. (24th of February, 1779.) This was a brilliant achievement and reflected the highest honor upon Colonel Clarke and his gallant band. Detroit was now in full view, and Clarke was confident he could capture it if he had but five hundred men; but he could not obtain that number, till the chances of success were annihilated, and thus his glorious expedition terminated. The object of the enterprise, however, which was the checking of Indian depredations, was accomplished. Clarke afterwards engaged in other military enterprises and held high civil offices in Kentucky; but at the capture of Vincennes his fame reached its greatest brilliancy, and posterity will not willingly let it die. ----- [A] Butler. BENJAMIN LOGAN. The real heroic spirit, which delights in braving the greatest dangers in the cause of humanity, was embodied in Benjamin Logan, one of the first settlers in Kentucky. This distinguished borderer was born in Augusta county, Virginia. At an early age he displayed the noble impulses of his heart; for upon the death of his father, when the laws of Virginia allowed him, as the eldest son, the whole property of the intestate, he sold the farm and distributed the money among his brothers and sisters, reserving a portion for his mother. At the age of twenty-one, Logan removed to the banks of the Holston, where he purchased a farm, and married. He served in Dunmore's war. In 1775, he removed to Kentucky, and soon became distinguished among the hardy frontiersmen for firmness, prudence, and humanity. In the following year he returned for his family, and brought them to a small settlement called Logan's Fort, not far from Harrodsburgh. [Illustration: LOGAN JOURNEYING INTO KENTUCKY.] On the morning of the 20th of May, 1777, the women were milking the cows at the gate of the little fort, and some of the garrison attending them, when a party of Indians appeared and fired at them. One man was shot dead, and two more wounded, one of them mortally. The whole party instantly ran into the fort, and closed the gate. The enemy quickly showed themselves at the edge of the canebrake, within rifle-shot of the gate, and seemed numerous and determined. A spectacle was now presented to the garrison which awakened interest and compassion. A man, named Harrison, had been severely wounded, and still lay near the spot where he had fallen. The poor fellow strove to crawl towards the fort, and succeeded in reaching a cluster of bushes, which, however, were too thin to shelter his person from the enemy. His wife and children in the fort were in deep distress at his situation. The case was one to try the hearts of men. The numbers of the garrison were so small, that it was thought folly to sacrifice any more lives in striving to save one seemingly far spent. Logan endeavored to persuade some of the men to accompany him in a sally; but the danger was so appalling that only one man, John Martin, could be induced to make the attempt. The gate was opened, and the two sallied forth, Logan leading the way. They had advanced about five steps, when Harrison made a vigorous attempt to rise, and Martin, supposing him able to help himself, sprang back within the gate. Harrison fell at full-length upon the grass. Logan paused a moment after the retreat of Martin, then sprang forward to the spot where Harrison lay, seized the wounded man in his arms, and in spite of a tremendous shower of balls poured from every side, reached the fort without receiving a scratch, though the gate and picketing near him were riddled and his clothes pierced in several places. Soon afterwards, the heroic Logan again performed an act of self-devotion. The fort was vigorously assailed, and although the little garrison made a brave defence, their destruction seemed imminent, on account of the scarcity of ammunition. Holston was the nearest point where supplies could be obtained. But who would brave so many dangers in the attempt to procure it? No one but Logan. After encouraging his men to hope for his speedy return, he crawled through the Indian encampment on a dark night, proceeded by by-paths, which no white man had then trodden, reached Holston, obtained a supply of powder and lead, returned by the same almost inaccessible paths, and got safe within the walls of the fort. The garrison was inspired with fresh courage, and in a few days, the appearance of Colonel Bowman, with a body of troops, compelled the savages to retire. Logan led several expeditions into the Indian country, and won a high renown as one of the boldest and most successful of Kentucky's heroes. When the Indian depredations were, in a great measure, checked, he devoted himself to civil affairs, and exerted considerable influence upon the politics of the country. Throughout his career, he was beloved and respected as a fearless, honest, and intelligent man. SAMUEL BRADY. Captain Samuel Brady was the Daniel Boone of Western Pennsylvania. As brave as a lion, as swift as a deer, and as cautious as a panther, he gave the Indians reason to tremble at the mention of his name. As the captain of the rangers he was the favorite of General Brodhead, the commander of the Pennsylvania forces, and regarded by the frontier inhabitants as their eye and arm. The father and brother of Captain Brady being killed by the Indians, it is said that our hero vowed to revenge their murder, and never be at peace with the Indians of any tribe. Many instances of such dreadful vows, made in moments of bitter anguish, occur in the history of our border, and, when we consider the circumstances, we can scarcely wonder at the number, though, as Christians, we should condemn such bloody resolutions. [Illustration: GENERAL BRODHEAD.] Many of Brady's exploits are upon record; and they are entitled to our admiration for their singular daring and ingenuity. One of the most remarkable is known in border history as Brady's Leap. The energetic Brodhead, by an expedition into the Indian country, had delivered such destructive blows that the savages were quieted for a time. The general kept spies out, however, for the purpose of guarding against sudden attacks on the settlements. One of the scouting parties, under the command of Captain Brady, had the French creek country assigned as their field of duty. The captain reached the waters of Slippery Rock, without seeing any signs of Indians. Here, however, he came on a trail, in the evening, which he followed till dark, without overtaking the enemy. The next morning the pursuit was renewed, and Brady overtook the Indians while they were at their morning meal. Unfortunately, another party of savages was in his rear, and when he fired upon those in front, he was in turn fired upon from behind. He was now between two fires, and greatly outnumbered. Two of his men fell, his tomahawk was shot from his side, and the enemy shouted for the expected triumph. There was no chance of successful defence in the position of the rangers, and they were compelled to break and flee. Brady ran towards the creek. The Indians pursued, certain of making him captive, on account of the direction he had taken. To increase their speed, they threw away their guns, and pressed forward with raised tomahawk. Brady saw his only chance of escape, which was to leap the creek, afterwards ascertained to be twenty-two feet wide and twenty deep. Determined never to fall alive into the hands of the Indians, he made a mighty effort, sprang across the abyss of waters and stood rifle in hand upon the opposite bank. As quick as lightning, he proceeded to load his rifle. A large Indian, who had been foremost in pursuit, came to the opposite bank, and after magnanimously doing justice to the captain by exclaiming "Blady make good jump!" made a rapid retreat. Brady next went to the place appointed as a rendezvous for his party, and finding there three of his men, commenced his homeward march, about half defeated. Three Indians had been killed while at their breakfast. The savages did not return that season, to do any injury to the whites, and early in the fall, moved off to join the British, who had to keep them during the winter, their corn having been destroyed by General Brodhead. Brady survived all his perils and hardships and lived to see the Indians completely humbled before those whites on whom they had committed so many outrages. [Illustration: MASSACRE OF MRS. WHETZEL AND HER CHILDREN.] LEWIS WHETZEL. The Whetzel family is remembered in the west for the courage, resolution, and skill in border warfare displayed by four of its members. Their names were Martin, Lewis, Jacob, and John. Of these, Lewis won the highest renown, and it is doubtful whether Boone, Brady, or Kenton equaled him in boldness of enterprise. In the hottest part of the Indian war, old Mr. Whetzel, who was a German, built his cabin some distance from the fort at Wheeling. One day, during the absence of the two oldest sons, Martin and John, a numerous party of Indians surrounded the house, killed, tomahawked and scalped old Mr. Whetzel, his wife, and the small children, and carried off Lewis, who was then about thirteen years old, and Jacob who was about eleven. Before the young captives had been carried far, Lewis contrived their escape. When these two boys grew to be men, they took a solemn oath never to make peace with the Indians as long as they had strength to wield a tomahawk or sight to draw a bead, and they kept their oath. The appearance of Lewis Whetzel was enough to strike terror into common men. He was about five feet ten inches high, having broad shoulders, a full breast, muscular limbs, a dark skin, somewhat pitted by the small pox, hair which, when combed out, reached to the calves of his legs, and black eyes, whose excited and vindictive glance would curdle the blood. He excelled in all exercises of strength and activity, could load his rifle while running with almost the swiftness of a deer, and was so habituated to constant action, that an imprisonment of three days, as ordered by General Harmar, was nearly fatal to him. He had the most thorough self-reliance as his long, solitary and perilous expeditions into the Indian country prove. [Illustration: INDIAN CHIEF.] In the year of 1782, Lewis Whetzel went with Thomas Mills, who had been in the campaign, to get a horse, which he had left near the place where St. Clairsville now stands. At the Indian Spring, two miles above St. Clairsville, on the Wheeling road, they were met by about forty Indians, who were in pursuit of the stragglers from the campaign. The Indians and the white men discovered each other about the same time. Lewis fired first, and killed an Indian; the fire from the Indians wounded Mr. Mills, and he was soon overtaken and killed. Four of the Indians then singled out, dropped their guns, and pursued Whetzel. Whetzel loaded his rifle as he ran. After running about half a mile, one of the Indians having got within eight or ten steps of him, Whetzel wheeled round and shot him down, ran on, and loaded as before. After going about three-quarters of a mile further, a second Indian came so close to him, that when he turned to fire, the Indian caught the muzzle of his gun, and as he expressed it, he and the Indian had a severe wring for it; he succeeded, however, in bringing the gun to the Indian's breast, and killed him on the spot. By this time, he, as well as the Indians, were pretty well tired; the pursuit was continued by the remaining two Indians. Whetzel, as before, loaded his gun, and stopped several times during the chase. When he did so the Indians treed themselves. After going something more than a mile, Whetzel took advantage of a little open piece of ground, over which the Indians were passing, a short distance behind him, to make a sudden stop for the purpose of shooting the foremost, who got behind a little sapling, which was too small to cover his body. Whetzel shot, and broke his thigh; the wound, in the issue, proved fatal. The last of the Indians then gave a little yell, and said, "No catch dat man--gun always loaded," and gave up the chase; glad, no doubt, to get off with his life. Another of this daring warrior's exploits is worthy of a place beside the most remarkable achievements of individual valor. In the year 1787, a party of Indians crossed the Ohio, killed a family, and scalped with impunity. This murder spread great alarm through the sparse settlements and revenge was not only resolved upon, but a handsome reward was offered for scalps. Major McMahan, who often led the borderers in their hardy expeditions, soon raised a company of twenty men, among whom was Lewis Whetzel. They crossed the Ohio and pursued the Indian trail until they came to the Muskingum river. There the spies discovered a large party of Indians encamped. Major McMahan fell back a short distance, and held a conference when a hasty retreat was resolved upon as the most prudent course, Lewis Whetzel refused to take part in the council, or join in the retreat. He said he came out to hunt Indians; they were now found and he would either lose his own scalp or take that of a "red skin." All arguments were thrown away upon this iron-willed man; he never submitted to the advice or control of others. His friends were compelled to leave him a solitary being surrounded by vigilant enemies. [Illustration: LEWIS WHETZEL'S SINGULAR ESCAPE.] As soon as the major's party had retired beyond the reach of danger, Whetzel shouldered his rifle, and marched off into a different part of the country, hoping that fortune would place a lone Indian in his way. He prowled through the woods like a panther, eager for prey, until the next evening, when he discovered a smoke curling up among the bushes. Creeping softly to the fire, he found two blankets and a small copper kettle, and concluded that it was the camp of two Indians. He concealed himself in the thick brush, in such a position that he could see the motions of the enemy. About sunset the two Indians came in, cooked and ate their supper, and then sat by the fire engaged in conversation. About nine o'clock one of them arose, shouldered his rifle, took a chunk of fire in his hand, and left the camp, doubtless in search of a deer-lick. The absence of this Indian was a source of vexation and disappointment to Whetzel, who had been so sure of his prey. He waited until near break of day, and still the expected one did not return. The concealed warrior could delay no longer. He walked cautiously to the camp, found his victim asleep, and drawing a knife buried it in the red man's heart. He then secured the scalp, and set off for home, where he arrived only one day after his companions. For the scalp, he claimed and received the reward. Here is another of Lewis Whetzel's remarkable exploits. Returning home from a hunt, north of the Ohio, he was walking along in that reckless manner, which is a consequence of fatigue, when his quick eye suddenly caught sight of an Indian in the act of raising his gun to fire. Both sprung like lightning to the woodman's forts, large trees, and there they stood for an hour, each afraid of the other. This quiet mode of warfare did not suit the restless Whetzel, and he set his invention to work to terminate it. Placing his bear-skin cap on the end of his ramrod, he protruded it slightly and cautiously as if he was putting his head to reconnoitre, and yet was hesitating in the venture. The simple savage was completely deceived. As soon as he saw the cap, he fired and it fell. Whetzel then sprang forward to the astonished red man, and with a shot from the unerring rifle brought him to the ground quite dead. The triumphant ranger then pursued his march homeward. But it was in a deliberate attack upon a party of four Indians that our hero displayed the climax of daring and resolution. While on a fall hunt, on the Muskingum, he came upon a camp of four savages, and with but little hesitation resolved to attempt their destruction. He concealed himself till midnight, and then stole cautiously upon the sleepers. As quick as thought, he cleft the skull of one of them. A second met the same fate, and as a third attempted to rise, confused by the horrid yells, which Whetzel gave with his blows, the tomahawk stretched him in death. The fourth Indian darted into the darkness of the wood and escaped, although Whetzel pursued him for some distance. Returning to camp, the ranger scalped his victims and then left for home. When asked on his return, "What luck?" he replied, "Not much. I treed four Indians, and one got away." Where shall we look for deeds of equal daring and hardihood? Martin, Jacob, and John Whetzel were bold warriors; and in the course of the Indian war, they secured many scalps; but they never obtained the reputation possessed by their brother, Lewis. All must condemn cruelty wherever displayed, but it is equally our duty to render just admiration to courage, daring, and indomitable energy, qualities in which the Whetzel brothers have rarely if ever been excelled. [Illustration: LEWIS WHETZEL'S STRATAGEM.] General Clark, the companion of Lewis in the celebrated tour across the Rocky Mountains, having heard much of Lewis Whetzel, in Kentucky, determined to secure his services for the exploring expedition. After considerable hesitation, Whetzel consented to go, and accompanied the party during the first three months' travel, but then declined going any further, and returned home. Shortly after this, he left again on a flat-boat, and never returned. He visited a relation, named Sikes, living about twenty miles in the interior, from Natchez, and there made his home, until the summer of 1808, when he died, leaving a fame for valor and skill in border warfare, which will not be allowed to perish. CAFFREE, M'CLURE, AND DAVIS. About 1784, horse-stealing was as common as hunting to the whites and Indians of the west. Thefts and reprisals were almost constantly made. Some southern Indians having stolen horses from Lincoln county, Kentucky, three young men, named Caffree, M'Clure, and Davis, set out in pursuit of them. Coming in sight of an Indian town, near the Tennessee river, they met three red men. The two parties made signs of peace, shook hands, and agreed to travel together. Both were suspicious, however, and at length, from various indications, the whites became satisfied of the treacherous intentions of the Indians, and resolved to anticipate then. Caffree being a very powerful man, proposed that he himself should seize one Indian, while Davis and M'Clure should shoot the other two. Caffree sprang boldly upon the nearest Indian, grasped his throat firmly, hurled him to the ground, and drawing a cord from his pocket attempted to tie him. At the same instant, Davis and M'Clure attempted to perform their respective parts. M'Clure killed his man, but Davis's gun missed fire. All three, _i. e._ the two white men, and the Indian at whom Davis had flashed, immediately took trees, and prepared for a skirmish, while Caffree remained upon the ground with the captured Indian--both exposed to the fire of the others. In a few seconds, the savage at whom Davis had flashed, shot Caffree as he lay upon the ground and gave him a mortal wound--and was instantly shot in turn by M'Clure who had reloaded his gun. Caffree becoming very weak, called upon Davis to come and assist him in tying the Indian, and directly afterwards expired. As Davis was running up to the assistance of his friend--the Indian released himself, killed his captor, sprung to his feet, and seizing Caffree's rifle, presented it menacingly at Davis, whose gun was not in order for service, and who ran off into the forest, closely pursued by the Indian. M'Clure hastily reloaded his gun and taking the rifle which Davis had dropped, followed them for some distance into the forest, making all signals which had been concerted between them in case of separation. All, however, was vain--he saw nothing more of Davis, nor could he ever afterwards learn his fate. As he never returned to Kentucky, however, he probably perished. [Illustration: A SOUTHERN INDIAN.] M'Clure, finding himself alone in the enemy's country, and surrounded by dead bodies, thought it prudent to abandon the object of the expedition and return to Kentucky. He accordingly retraced his steps, still bearing Davis' rifle in addition to his own. He had scarcely marched a mile, before he saw advancing from the opposite direction, an Indian warrior, riding a horse with a bell around its neck, and accompanied by a boy on foot. Dropping one of the rifles, which might have created suspicion, M'Clure advanced with an air of confidence, extending his hand and making other signs of peace. The opposite party appeared frankly to receive his overtures, and dismounting, seated himself upon a log, and drawing out his pipe, gave a few puffs himself, and then handed it to M'Clure. In a few minutes another bell was heard, at the distance of half a mile, and a second party of Indians appeared upon horseback. The Indian with M'Clure now coolly informed him by signs that when the horseman arrived, he (M'Clure) was to be bound and carried off as a prisoner with his feet tied under the horse's belly. In order to explain it more fully, the Indian got astride of the log, and locked his legs together underneath it. M'Clure, internally thanking the fellow for his excess of candor, determined to disappoint him, and while his enemy was busily engaged in riding the log, and mimicking the actions of a prisoner, he very quietly blew his brains out, and ran off into the woods. The Indian boy instantly mounted the belled horse, and rode off in an opposite direction. M'Clure was fiercely pursued by several small Indian dogs, that frequently ran between his legs and threw him down. After falling five or six times, his eyes became full of dust and he was totally blind. Despairing of escape, he doggedly lay upon his face, expecting every instant to feel the edge of the tomahawk. To his astonishment, however, no enemy appeared, and even the Indian dogs after tugging at him for a few minutes, and completely stripping him of his breeches, left him to continue his journey unmolested. Finding every thing quiet, in a few moments he arose, and taking up his gun continued his march to Kentucky. [Illustration: CAFFREE KILLED BY THE INDIAN.] CHARLES JOHNSTON. In March, 1790 a boat, containing four men and two women, passing down the Ohio, was induced by some renegade whites to approach the shore, near the mouth of the Sciota, and then attacked by a large party of Indians. A Mr. John May and one of the women were shot dead, and the others then surrendered. The chief of the band was an old warrior, named Chickatommo, and under his command were a number of renowned red men. When the prisoners were distributed, a young man named Charles Johnson, was given to a young Shawnee chief who is represented to have been a noble character. His name was Messhawa, and he had just reached the age of manhood. His person was tall and seemingly rather fitted for action than strength. His bearing was stately, and his countenance expressive of a noble disposition. He possessed great influence among those of his own tribe, which he exerted on the side of humanity. On the march, Messhawa repeatedly saved Johnson from the tortures which the other savages delighted to inflict, and the young captive saw some displays of generous exertion on the part of the chief which are worthy of a place in border history. [Illustration: MESSHAWA.] The warriors painted themselves in the most frightful colors, and performed a war dance, with the usual accompaniments. A stake, painted in alternate stripes of black and vermilion, was fixed in the ground, and the dancers moved in rapid but measured evolutions around it. They recounted, with great energy, the wrongs they had received from the whites.--Their lands had been taken from them--their corn cut up--their villages burnt--their friends slaughtered--every injury which they had received was dwelt upon, until their passions had become inflamed beyond control. Suddenly, Chickatommo darted from the circle of dancers, and with eyes flashing fire, ran up to the spot where Johnston was sitting, calmly contemplating the spectacle before him. When within reach he struck him a furious blow with his fist, and was preparing to repeat it, when Johnston seized him by the arms, and hastily demanded the cause of such unprovoked violence. Chickatommo, grinding his teeth with rage, shouted "Sit down, sit down!" Johnston obeyed, and the Indian, perceiving the two children within ten steps of him, snatched up a tomahawk, and advanced upon them with a quick step, and a determined look. The terrified little creatures instantly arose from the log on which they were sitting, and fled into the woods, uttering the most piercing screams, while their pursuer rapidly gained upon them with uplifted tomahawk. The girl, being the youngest, was soon overtaken, and would have been tomahawked, had not Messhawa bounded like a deer to her relief. He arrived barely in time to arrest the uplifted tomahawk of Chickatommo, after which, he seized him by the collar and hurled him violently backward to the distance of several paces. Snatching up the child in his arms, he then ran after the brother, intending to secure him likewise from the fury of his companion, but the boy, misconstruing his intention, continued his flight with such rapidity, and doubled several times with such address, that the chase was prolonged to the distance of several hundred yards. At length Messhawa succeeded in taking him. The boy, thinking himself lost, uttered a wild cry, which was echoed by his sister, but both were instantly calmed. Messhawa took them in his arms, spoke to them kindly, and soon convinced them that they had nothing to fear from him. He quickly reappeared, leading them gently by the hand, and soothing them in the Indian language, until they both clung to him closely for protection. No other incident disturbed the progress of the ceremonies, nor did Chickatommo appear to resent the violent interference of Messhawa. [Illustration: CHICKATOMMO.] After undergoing many hardships, Johnston was taken to Sandusky, where he was ransomed by a French trader. Messhawa took leave of his young captive with many expressions of esteem and friendship. This noble chief was in the battle of the Fallen Timber and afterwards became a devoted follower of the great Tecumseh--thus proving that while he was as humane as a civilized man, he was patriotic and high-spirited enough to resent the wrongs of his people. He was killed at the battle of the Thames, where the power of the Shawnees was for ever crushed. JOSEPH LOGSTON. Big Joe Logston was a noted character in the early history of the west. He was born and reared among the Alleghany mountains, near the source of the north branch of the Potomac, some twenty or thirty miles from any settlement. He was tall, muscular, excelled in all the athletic sports of the border, and was a first-rate shot. Soon after Joe arrived at years of discretion, his parents died, and he went out to the wilds of Kentucky. There, Indian incursions compelled him to take refuge in a fort. This pent up life was not at all to Joe's taste. He soon became very restless, and every day insisted on going out with others to hunt up cattle. At length no one would accompany him, and he resolved to go out alone. He rode the greater part of the day without finding any cattle, and then concluded to return to the fort. As he was riding along, eating some grapes, with which he had filled his hat, he heard the reports of the two rifles; one ball passed through the paps of his breast, which were very prominent, and the other struck the horse behind the saddle, causing the beast to sink in its tracks. [Illustration: INDIANS AMBUSHED FOR JOE LOGSTON.] Joe was on his feet in an instant and might have taken to his heels with the chances of escape greatly in his favor. But to him flight was never agreeable. The moment the guns were fired, an Indian sprang forward with an uplifted tomahawk; but as Joe raised his rifle, the savage jumped behind two saplings, and kept springing from one to the other to cover his body. The other Indian was soon discovered behind a tree loading his gun. When in the act of pushing down his bullet, he exposed his hips and Joe fired a load into him. The first Indian then sprang forward and threw his tomahawk at the head of the white warrior, who dodged it. Joe then clubbed his gun and made at the savage, thinking to knock him down. In striking, he missed, and the gun now reduced to the naked barrel, flew out of his hands. The two men then sprang at each other with no other weapons than those of nature. A desperate scuffle ensued. Joe could throw the Indian down, but could not hold him there. At length, however, by repeated heavy blows, he succeeded in keeping him down, and tried to choke him with the left hand while he kept the right free for contingencies. Directly, Joe saw the savage trying to draw a knife from its sheath, and waiting till it was about half way out, he grasped it quickly and sank it up to the handle in the breast of his foe, who groaned and expired. Springing to his feet, Joe saw the Indian he had crippled, propped against a log, trying to raise his gun to fire, but falling forward, every time he made the attempt. The borderer, having enough of fighting for one day, and not caring to be killed by a crippled Indian, made for the fort, where he arrived about nightfall. He was blood and dirt from crown to toe, and without horse, hat, or gun. The next morning a party went to Joe's battle-ground. On looking round, they found a trail, as if something had been dragged away, and at a little distance they came upon the big Indian, covered up with leaves. About a hundred yards farther, they found the Indian Joe had crippled, lying on his back, with his own knife sticking up to the hilt in his body, just below the breast bone, evidently to show that he had killed himself. Some years after this fight, Big Joe Logston lost his life in a contest with a gang of outlaws. He was one of those characters who were necessary to the settlement of the west, but who would not have been highly esteemed in civilized society. [Illustration: INDIAN IN AMBUSH] JESSE HUGHES. Jesse Hughes was born and reared in Clarksburgh, Harrison county, Virginia, on the head-waters of the Monongahela. He was a light-built, active man, and from his constant practice became one of the best hunters and Indian fighters on the frontier. Having a perfect knowledge of all the artifices of the Indians, he was quick to devise expedients to frustrate them. Of this, the following exploit is an illustration. At a time of great danger from Indian incursions, when the citizens in the neighborhood where in a fort at Clarksburgh, Hughes one morning observed a lad very hurriedly engaged in fixing his gun. "Jim," said he, "what are you doing that for?" "I am going to shoot a turkey that I hear gobbling on the hill side," replied Jim. "I hear no turkey," said Hughes. "Listen," said Jim. "There, didn't you hear it? Listen again!" "Well," said Hughes, after hearing it repeated, "I'll go and kill it." "No you won't. It's my turkey. I heard it first," said Jim. "Well," said Hughes, "but you know I am the best marksman; and besides, I don't want the turkey, you may have it." The lad then agreed that Hughes should go and kill it for him. Hughes went out of the fort on the side that was farthest from the supposed turkey, and running along the river, went up a ravine and came in on the rear, where, as he expected, he saw an Indian, sitting on a chestnut stump, surrounded by sprouts, gobbling and watching to see if any one would come from the fort to kill the turkey. Hughes crept up and shot him dead. The successful ranger then took off the scalp, and went into the fort, where Jim was waiting for the prize. "There, now," said Jim, "you have let the turkey go. I would have killed it if I had gone." "No," said Hughes, "I didn't let it go," and he threw down the scalp. "There, take your turkey, Jim; I don't want it." The lad nearly fainted, as he thought of the death he had so narrowly escaped, owing to the keen perception and good management of Mr. Hughes. The sagacity of our border hero was fully proved upon another occasion. About 1790, the Indians visited Clarksburgh, in the night, and contrived to steal a few horses, with which they made a hasty retreat. About daylight the next morning, a party of twenty-five or thirty men, among whom was Jesse Hughes, started in pursuit. They found a trail just outside of the settlement, and from the signs, supposed that the marauding party consisted of eight or ten Indians. A council was held to determine how the pursuit should be continued. Mr. Hughes was opposed to following the trail. He said he could pilot the party to the spot where the Indians would cross the Ohio, by a nearer way than the enemy could go, and thus render success certain. But the captain of the party insisted on following the trail. Mr. Hughes then pointed out the dangers of such a course. Suddenly, the captain, with unreasonable obstinacy, called aloud to those who were brave to follow him and let the cowards go home. Hughes knew the captain's remark was intended for him, but smothered his indignation and went on with the party. They had not pursued very far when the trail went down a drain, where the ridge on one side was very steep, with a ledge of rocks for a considerable distance. On the top of the cliff, two Indians lay in ambush, and when the company got opposite to them, they made a noise, which caused the whites to stop; that instant two of the company were mortally wounded, and before the rangers could get round to the top of the cliff, the Indians made their escape with ease. This was as Hughes had predicted. All then agreed that the plan rejected by the captain was the best, and urged Hughes to lead them to the Ohio river. This he consented to do, though fearful that the Indians would cross before he could reach the point. Leaving some of the company to take care of the wounded men, the party started, and arrived at the Ohio the next day, about an hour after the Indians had crossed. The water was yet muddy in the horses' trails, and the rafts that the red men had used were floating down the opposite shore. The company was now unanimous for returning home. Hughes said he wanted to find out who the cowards were. He said that if any of them would go with him, he would cross the river, and scalp some of the Indians. Not one could be found to accompany the daring ranger, who thus had full satisfaction for the captain's insult. He said he would go by himself, and take a scalp, or leave his own with the savages. The company started for home, and Hughes went up the river three or four miles, then made a raft, crossed the river, and camped for the night. The next day, he found the Indian trail, pursued it very cautiously, and about ten miles from the Ohio, came upon the camp. There was but one Indian in it; the rest were all out hunting. The red man was seated, singing, and playing on some bones, made into a rude musical instrument, when Hughes crept up and shot him. The ranger then took the scalp, and hastened home in triumph, to tell his adventures to his less daring companions. [Illustration: FORT HENRY.] SIEGE OF FORT HENRY. The siege of Fort Henry, at the mouth of Wheeling creek, in the year 1777, is one of the most memorable events in Indian warfare--remarkable for the indomitable bravery displayed by the garrison in general, and for some thrilling attendant incidents. The fort stood immediately on the left bank of the Ohio river, about a quarter of a mile above Wheeling creek, and at much less distance from an eminence which rises abruptly from the bottom land. The space inclosed was about three quarters of an acre. In shape the fort was a parallelogram, having a block-house at each corner with lines of pickets eight feet high between. Within the inclosures was a store-house, barrack-rooms, garrison-well, and a number of cabins for the use of families. The principal entrance was a gateway on the eastern side of the fort. Much of the adjacent land was cleared and cultivated, and near the base of the hill stood some twenty-five or thirty cabins, which form the rude beginning of the present city of Wheeling. The fort is said to have been planned by General George Rogers Clarke; and was constructed by Ebenezer Zane and John Caldwell. When first erected, it was called Fort Fincastle but the name was afterwards changed in compliment to Patrick Henry the renowned orator and patriotic governor of Virginia. At the time of the commencement of the siege, the garrison of Fort Henry numbered only forty-two men, some of whom were enfeebled by age while others were mere boys. All, however, were excellent marksmen, and most of them, skilled in border warfare. Colonel David Shepherd, was a brave and resolute officer in whom the borderers had full confidence. The store-house was well-supplied with small arms, particularly muskets, but sadly deficient in ammunition. In the early part of September, 1777, it was ascertained that a large Indian army was concentrating on the Sandusky river, under the command of the bold, active, and skilful renegade, Simon Girty. Colonel Shepherd had many trusty and efficient scouts on the watch; but Girty deceived them all and actually brought his whole force of between four and five hundred Indians before Fort Henry before his real object was discovered. [Illustration: PATRICK HENRY.] On the 26th, an alarm being given all the inhabitants in the vicinity repaired to the fort for safety. At break of day, on the 27th, Colonel Shepherd, wishing to dispatch an express to the nearest settlements for aid, sent a white man and a negro to bring in some horses. While these men were passing through the cornfield south of the fort, they encountered a party of six Indians, one of whom raised his gun and brought the white man to the ground. The negro fled and reached the fort without receiving any injury. As soon as he related his story, Colonel Shepherd dispatched Captain Mason, with fourteen men, to dislodge the Indians from the cornfield. Mason marched almost to the creek without finding any Indians, and was about to return, when he was furiously assailed in front, flank and rear by the whole of Girty's army. Of course, the little band was thrown into confusion, but the brave captain rallied his men, and taking the lead, hewed a passage through the savage host. In the struggle, more than half of the party were slain, and the gallant Mason severely wounded. An Indian fired at the captain at the distance of five paces and wounded, but did not disable him. Turning about, he hurled his gun, felled the savage to the earth, and then succeeded in hiding himself in a pile of fallen timbers, where he was compelled to remain to the end of the siege. Only two of his men survived the fight, and they owed their safety to the heaps of logs and brush which abounded in the cornfield. As soon as the perilous situation of Captain Mason became known at the fort, Captain Ogle was sent out with twelve men, to cover his retreat. This party fell into an ambuscade and two-thirds of the number were slain upon the spot. Captain Ogle found a place of concealment, where he was obliged to remain until the end of the siege. Sergeant Jacob Ogle, though mortally wounded, managed to escape, with two soldiers into the woods. The Indian army now advanced to the assault, with terrific yells. A few shots from the garrison, however, compelled them to halt. Girty then changed the order of attack. Parties of Indians were placed in such of the village-houses as commanded a view of the block-houses. A strong party occupied the yard of Ebenezer Zane, about fifty yards from the fort, using a paling fence as a cover, while the main force was posted under cover on the edge of a cornfield to act as occasion might require. Girty then appeared at the window of a cabin, with a white flag in his hand, and demanded the surrender of the fort in the name of his Britanic majesty. At this time, the garrison numbered only twelve men and two boys. Yet the gallant Colonel Shepherd promptly replied to the summons, that the fort should never be surrendered to the renegade. Girty renewed his proposition, but before he could finish his harangue, a thoughtless youth fired at the speaker and brought the conference to an abrupt termination. Girty disappeared, and in about fifteen minutes, the Indians opened a heavy fire upon the fort, and continued it without much intermission for the space of six hours. The fire of the little garrison, however, was much more destructive than that of the assailants. About one o'clock, the Indians ceased firing and fell back against the base of the hill. [Illustration: THE ALARM AT FORT HENRY.] The colonel resolved to take advantage of the intermission to send for a keg of powder, which was known to be in the house of Ebenezer Zane, about sixty yards from the fort. Several young men promptly volunteered for this dangerous service; but Shepherd could only spare one, and the young men could not determine who that should be. At this critical moment, a young lady, sister of Ebenezer Zane, came forward, and asked that she might be permitted to execute the service; and so earnestly did she argue for the proposition, that permission was reluctantly granted. The gate was opened, and the heroic girl passed out. The opening of the gate arrested the attention of several Indians who were straggling through the village, but they permitted Miss Zane to pass without molestation. When she reappeared with the powder in her arms, the Indians, suspecting the character of her burden, fired a volley at her, but she reached the fort in safety. Let the name of Elizabeth Zane be remembered among the heroic of her sex. About half-past two o'clock, the savages again advanced and renewed their fire. An impetuous attack was made upon the south side of the fort, but the garrison poured upon the assailants a destructive fire from the two lower block-houses. At the same time, a party of eighteen or twenty Indians, armed with rails and billets of wood, rushed out of Zane's yard and made an attempt to force open the gate of the fort. Five or six of the number were shot down, and then the attempt was abandoned. The Indians then opened a fire upon the fort from all sides, except that next the river, which afforded no shelter to besiegers. On the north and east the battle raged fiercely. As night came on the fire of the enemy slackened. Soon after dark, a party of savages advanced within sixty yards of the fort, bringing a hollow maple log which they had loaded to the muzzle and intended to use it as a cannon. The match was applied and the wooden piece bursted, killing or wounding several of those who stood near it. The disappointed party then dispersed. Late in the evening, Francis Duke, son-in-law of Colonel Shepherd, arriving from the Forks of Wheeling, was shot down before he could reach the fort. About four o'clock next morning, Colonel Swearingen, with fourteen men, arrived from Cross Creek, and was fortunate enough to fight his way into the fort without losing a single man. This reinforcement was cheering to the wearied garrison. More relief was at hand. About daybreak, Major Samuel M'Culloch, with forty mounted men from Short Creek, arrived. The gate was thrown open, and the men, though closely beset by the enemy, entered the fort. But Major M'Culloch was not so fortunate. The Indians crowded round and separated him from the party. After several ineffectual attempts to force his way to the gate, he turned and galloped off in the direction of Wheeling Hill. [Illustration: DARING FEAT OF ELIZABETH ZANE.] When he was hemmed in by the Indians before the fort, they might have taken his life without difficulty, but they had weighty reasons for desiring to take him alive. From the very commencement of the war, his reputation as an Indian hunter was as great as that of any white man on the north-western border. He had participated in so many rencontres that almost every warrior possessed a knowledge of his person. Among the Indians his name was a word of terror; they cherished against him feelings of the most phrenzied hatred, and there was not a Mingo or Wyandotte chief before Fort Henry who would not have given the lives of twenty of his warriors to secure to himself the living body of Major M'Culloch. When, therefore, the man whom they had long marked out as the first object of their vengeance, appeared in their midst, they made almost superhuman efforts to acquire possession of his person. The fleetness of M'Culloch's well-trained steed was scarcely greater than that of his enemies, who, with flying strides, moved on in pursuit. At length the hunter reached the top of the hill, and, turning to the left, darted along the ridge with the intention of making the best of his way to Shor' creek. A ride of a few hundred yards in that direction brought him suddenly in contact with a party of Indians who were returning to their camp from a marauding excursion to Mason's Bottom, on the eastern side of the hill. This party being too formidable in numbers to encounter single-handed, the major turned his horse about and rode over his own track, in the hope of discovering some other avenue to escape. A few paces only of his countermarch had been made, when he found himself confronted by his original pursuers, who had, by this time, gained the top of the ridge, and a third party was discovered pressing up the hill directly on his right. He was now completely hemmed in on three sides, and the fourth was almost a perpendicular precipice of one hundred and fifty feet descent, with Wheeling creek at its base. The imminence of his danger allowed him but little time to reflect upon his situation. In an instant he decided upon his course. Supporting his rifle in his left hand and carefully adjusting his reins with the other, he urged his horse to the brink of the bluff, and then made the leap which decided his fate. In the next moment the noble steed, still bearing his intrepid rider in safety, was at the foot of the precipice. M'Culloch immediately dashed across the creek, and was soon beyond reach of the Indians. After the escape of the major, the Indians concentrated at the foot of the hill, and soon after set fire to all the houses and fences outside of the fort, and killed about three hundred cattle. They then raised the siege and retired. The whole loss sustained by the whites during this remarkable siege, was twenty-six men killed and four or five wounded. The loss of the enemy was from sixty to one hundred men. As they removed their dead, exact information on the subject could not be obtained. The gallant Colonel Shepherd deserved the thanks of the frontier settlers for his conduct on this occasion, and Governor Henry appointed him county lieutenant as a token of his esteem. A number of females, who were in the fort, undismayed by the dreadful strife, employed themselves in running bullets and performing various little services; and thus excited much enthusiasm among the men. Perhaps, a more heroic band was never gathered together in garrison than that which defended Fort Henry, and it would be unjust to mention any one as particularly distinguished. We have named the commander only because of his position. [Illustration: TREMENDOUS LEAP OF MAJOR M'CULLOCH.] SIMON GIRTY. During the long warfare maintained between the pioneers of the west and the Indians, the latter were greatly assisted by some renegade white men. Of these, Simon Girty was the most noted and influential. He led several important expeditions against the settlements of Virginia and Kentucky, displayed much courage, energy, and conduct, and was the object of bitter hatred on the frontier. Recent investigations into the stirring events of his career have shown that however bad he might have been, much injustice has been done his memory by border historians. Simon Girty was born and reared in Western Pennsylvania, near the Virginia line. His parents are said to have been very dissipated, and this, perhaps, had some influence in disgusting him with life in the settlements. Becoming skilled in woodcraft, he served with young Simon Kenton, as a scout upon the frontiers. He joined the Virginia army in Dunmore's wars, and, it is said, showed considerable ambition to become distinguished as a soldier. He was disappointed, and so far from gaining promotion, was, for a trifling offence, publicly disgraced, it is said, through the influence of Colonel Gibson. The proud spirit of Girty could not brook such a blow. With a burning thirst for revenge, he fled from the settlements, and took refuge among the Wyandottes. The talents of the renegade were of the kind and of the degree to secure influence among the red men. He excelled the majority of them in council and field, and neither forgave a foe, nor forgot a friend. He was successful in many expeditions after plunder and scalps, and spared none because they were of his own race. He was cruel as many of the borderers were cruel. Becoming an Indian, he had an Indian's hatred of the whites. The borderers seldom showed a red man mercy, and they could not expect any better treatment in return. The exertions of Girty to save his friend, Simon Kenton, from a horrible death, have been noticed in another place. That he did not make such exertions more frequently on the side of humanity is scarcely a matter of wonder--inasmuch as he could not have done so consistently with a due regard to his own safety. After he had become a renegade, the borderers would not permit a return; and as he was forced to reside among the Indians, he was right in securing their favor. Besides saving Kenton, he posted his brother, James Girty, upon the banks of the Ohio, to warn passengers in boats not to be lured to the shore by the arts of the Indians, or of the white men in their service. This was a pure act of humanity. The conduct of Girty on another memorable occasion, the burning of Colonel William Crawford, was more suspicious. [Illustration: COLONEL CRAWFORD AND HIS FRIENDS, PRISONERS.] In the early part of the year 1782, the incursions of the Indians became so harassing and destructive to the inhabitants of Western Pennsylvania, that an expedition against the Wyandotte towns was concerted, and the command given to Colonel Crawford. On the 22d of May, the army, consisting of four hundred and fifty men, commenced its march, and proceeded due west as far as the Moravian towns, where some of the volunteers deserted. The main body, however, marched on, with unabated spirit. The Indians, discovering the advance of the invaders gathered a considerable force, and took up a strong position, determined to fight. Crawford moved forward in order of battle, and on the afternoon of the 6th of June, encountered the enemy. The conflict continued fiercely until night, when the Indians drew off, and Crawford's men slept on the field. In the morning, the battle was renewed, but at a greater distance, and, during the day, neither party suffered much. The delay, however, was fatal to Crawford; for the Indians received large reinforcements. As soon as it was dark, a council of war was held, and it was resolved to retreat as rapidly as possible. By nine o'clock, all the necessary arrangements had been made, and the retreat began in good order. After an advance of about a hundred yards, a firing was heard in the rear, and the troops, seized with a panic, broke and fled in confusion, each man trying to save himself. The Indians came on rapidly in pursuit and plied the tomahawk and scalping-knife without mercy. Colonel Crawford and Dr. Knight were captured, at a distance from the main body--which was soon dispersed in every direction. On the morning of the 10th of June, Crawford, Knight, and nine other prisoners, were conducted to the old town of Sandusky. The main body of the Indians halted within eight miles of the village; but as Colonel Crawford expressed great anxiety to speak with Simon Girty, who was then at Sandusky, he was permitted to go under the care of the Indians. On the morning of the 11th of June, the colonel was brought back from Sandusky on purpose to march into town with the other prisoners. To Knight's inquiry as to whether he had seen Girty, he replied in the affirmative, and added, that the renegade had promised to use his influence for the safety of the prisoners, though as the Indians were much exasperated by the recent outrages of the whites at Guadenhutten upon the unresisting Moravian red men, he was fearful that all pleading would be in vain. Soon afterwards, Captain Pipe, the great chief of the Delawares, appeared. This distinguished warrior had a prepossessing appearance and bland manners, and his language to the prisoners was kind. His purposes, however, were bloody and revengeful. With his own hands he painted every prisoner black! As they were conducted towards the town, the captives observed the bodies of four of their friends, tomahawked and scalped. This was regarded as a sad presage. In a short time, they overtook the five prisoners who remained alive. They were seated on the ground, and surrounded by a crowd of Indian squaws and boys, who taunted and menaced them. Crawford and Knight were compelled to sit down apart from the rest, and immediately afterwards the doctor was given to a Shawnee warrior, to be conducted to their town. The boys and squaws then fell upon the other prisoners, and tomahawked them in a moment. Crawford was then driven towards the village, Girty accompanying the party on horseback. Presently, a large fire was seen, around which were more than thirty warriors, and about double that number of boys and squaws. As soon as the colonel arrived, he was stripped naked, and compelled to sit on the ground. The squaws and boys then fell upon him, and beat him severely with their fists and sticks. In a few minutes, a large stake was fixed in the ground, and piles of hickory poles were spread around it. Colonel Crawford's hands were then tied behind his back; a strong rope was produced, one end of which was fastened to the ligature between his wrists, and the other tied to the bottom of the stake. The rope was long enough to permit him to walk round the stake several times and then return. Fire was then applied to the hickory poles, which lay in piles at the distance of six or seven yards from the stake. The colonel observing these terrible preparations, called to Girty, who sat on horseback, at the distance of a few yards from the fire, and asked if the Indians were going to burn him. Girty replied in the affirmative. The colonel heard the intelligence with firmness, merely observing that he would bear it with fortitude. When the hickory poles had been burnt asunder in the middle, Captain Pipe arose and addressed the crowd, in a tone of great energy, and with animated gestures, pointing frequently to the colonel, who regarded him with an appearance of unruffled composure. As soon as he had ended, a loud whoop burst from the assembled throng, and they all rushed at once upon the unfortunate Crawford. For several seconds, the crowd was so great around him, that Knight could not see what they were doing; but in a short time, they had dispersed sufficiently to give him a view of the colonel. His ears had been cut off, and the blood was streaming down each side of his face. A terrible scene of torture now commenced. The warriors shot charges of powder into his naked body, commencing with the calves of his legs, and continuing to his neck. The boys snatched the burning hickory poles and applied them to his flesh. As fast as he ran around the stake, to avoid one party of tormentors, he was promptly met at every turn by others, with burning poles, red hot irons, and rifles loaded with powder only; so that in a few minutes nearly one hundred charges of powder had been shot into his body, which had become black and blistered in a dreadful manner. The squaws would take up a quantity of coals and hot ashes, and throw them upon his body, so that in a few minutes he had nothing but fire to walk upon. [Illustration: CAPTAIN PIPE.] In the extremity of his agony, the unhappy colonel called aloud upon Girty, in tones which rang through Knight's brain with maddening effect: "Girty! Girty!! shoot me through the heart!! Quick! quick!! Do not refuse me!!" "Don't you see I have no gun, colonel!!" replied the renegade, bursting into a loud laugh, and then turning to an Indian beside him, he uttered some brutal jests upon the naked and miserable appearance of the prisoner. While this awful scene was being acted, Girty rode up to the spot where Dr. Knight stood, and told him that he had now had a foretaste of what was in reserve for him at the Shawnee towns. He swore that he need not expect to escape death, but should suffer it in all the extremity of torture. Knight, whose mind was deeply agitated at the sight of the fearful scene before him, took no notice of Girty, but preserved an impenetrable silence. Girty, after contemplating the colonel's sufferings for a few moments, turned again to Knight, and indulged in a bitter invective against a certain Colonel Gibson, from whom, he said, he had received deep injury; and dwelt upon the delight with which he would see him undergo such tortures as those which Crawford was then suffering. He observed, in a taunting tone, that most of the prisoners had said, that the white people would not injure him, if the chance of war was to throw him into their power; but that for his own part, he should be loath to try the experiment. "I think, (added he with a laugh,) that they would roast me alive, with more pleasure than those red fellows are now broiling the colonel! What is your opinion, doctor? Do you think they would be glad to see me?" Still Knight made no answer, and in a few minutes Girty rejoined the Indians. The terrible scene had now lasted more than two hours, and Crawford had become much exhausted. He walked slowly around the stake, spoke in a low tone, and earnestly besought God to look with compassion upon him, and pardon his sins. His nerves had lost much of their sensibility, and he no longer shrunk from the firebrands with which they incessantly touched him. At length he sunk in a fainting fit upon his face, and lay motionless. Instantly an Indian sprung upon his back, knelt lightly upon one knee, made a circular incision with his knife upon the crown of his head, and clapping the knife between his teeth, tore the scalp off with both hands. Scarcely had this been done, when a withered hag approached with a board full of burning embers, and poured them upon the crown of his head, now laid bare to the bone. The colonel groaned deeply, arose, and again walked slowly around the stake! But why continue a description so horrible? Nature at length could endure no more, and at a late hour in the night, he was released by death from the hands of his tormentors.[B] Whether Girty really took pleasure in the torture of Colonel Crawford, or was forced by circumstances to seem to enjoy it is a question which historians have generally been in too much haste to determine. It is well known that at the time of Crawford's expedition the Indians were very much exasperated by the cold-blooded slaughter of the Moravian red men at Guadenhutten--an atrocity without a parallel in border warfare, and to have seemed merciful to the whites for a single moment would have been fatal to Girty. Indeed, it is said, that, when he spoke of ransoming the colonel, Captain Pipe threatened him with death at the stake. Let justice be rendered even to the worst of criminals. Dr. Knight, made bold or desperate by the torture he had witnessed, effected his escape from the Shawnee warrior to whose care he was committed, and after much suffering, reached the settlements. From him the greater portion of the account of Crawford's death is derived, and corrected by the statements of Indians present on the occasion. Simon Girty never forsook the Indians among whom he had made his home; but his influence gradually diminished. Some accounts say that he perished in the battle of the Thames; while others assert that he lived to extreme old age in Canada, where his descendants are now highly respected citizens. ----- [B] M'Clurg. JOSHUA FLEEHART. Extraordinary strength and activity, with the most daring courage and a thorough knowledge of life in the woods, won for Joshua Fleehart a high reputation among the first settler's of Western Virginia and Ohio. When the Ohio Company founded its settlement at Marietta, in April, 1778, Fleehart was employed as a scout and a hunter. In this service he had no superior north of the Ohio. At periods of the greatest danger, when the Indians were known to be much incensed against the whites, he would start from the settlement with no companion but his dog, and ranging within about twenty miles of an Indian town, would build his cabin and trap and hunt during nearly the whole season. On one occasion this reckless contempt of danger almost cost the hunter his life. [Illustration: JOSHUA FLEEHART.] Having became tired of the sameness of garrison life, and panting for that freedom among the woods and hills to which he had always been accustomed, late in the fall of 1795, he took his canoe, rifle, traps, and blanket, with no one to accompany him, leaving even his faithful dog in the garrison with his family. As he was going into a dangerous neighborhood, he was fearful lest the voice of his dog might betray him. With a daring and intrepidity which few men possess, he pushed his canoe up the Sciota river a distance of fifteen or twenty miles, into the Indian country, amidst their best hunting-grounds for the bear and the beaver, where no white man had dared to venture. These two were the main object of his pursuit, and the hills of Brush creek were said to abound in bear, and the small streams that fell into the Sciota were well suited to the haunts of the beaver. The spot chosen for his winter's residence was within twenty-five or thirty miles of the Indian town of Chillicothe, but as they seldom go far to hunt in the winter, he had little to fear from their interruption. For ten or twelve weeks he trapped and hunted in this solitary region unmolested; luxuriating on the roasted tails of the beaver, and drinking the oil of the bear, an article of diet which is considered by the children of the forest as giving health to the body, with strength and activity to the limbs. His success had equalled his most sanguine expectations, and the winter passed away so quietly and so pleasantly, that he was hardly aware of its progress. About the middle of February, he began to make up the peltry he had captured into packages, and to load his canoe with the proceeds of his winter's hunt, which for safety had been secreted in the willows, a few miles below the little bark hut in which he had lived. The day before that which he had fixed on for his departure, as he was returning to his camp, just at evening, Fleehart's acute ear caught the report of a rifle in the direction of the Indian towns, but at so remote a distance, that none but a backwoodsman could have distinguished the sound. This hastened his preparations for decamping. Nevertheless he slept quietly, but rose the following morning before the dawn; cooked and ate his last meal in the little hut to which he had become quite attached. [Illustration: FLEEHART SHOOTING THE INDIAN.] The sun had just risen, while he was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, examining the priming and lock of his gun, casually casting a look up the river bank, he saw an Indian slowly approaching with his eyes intently fixed on the ground, carefully inspecting the track of his moccasins, left in the soft earth as he returned to his hut the evening before. He instantly cocked his gun, stepped behind a tree, and waited till the Indian came within the sure range of his shot. He then fired and the Indian fell. Rushing from the cover on his prostrate foe, he was about to apply the scalping knife; but seeing the shining silver broaches, and broad bands on his arms, he fell to cutting them loose, and tucking them into the bosom of his hunting shirt. While busily occupied in securing the spoils, the sharp crack of a rifle and the passage of the ball through the bullet pouch at his side, caused him to look up, when he saw three Indians within a hundred yards of him. They being too numerous for him to encounter, he seized his rifle and took to flight. The other two, as he ran, fired at him without effect. The chase was continued for several miles by two of the Indians, who were the swiftest runners. He often stopped and "treed," hoping to get a shot and kill or disable one of them, and then overcome the other at his leisure. His pursuers also "treed," and by flanking to the right and left, forced him to uncover or stand the chance of a shot. He finally concluded to leave the level grounds, on which the contest had thus far been held, and take to the high hills which lie back of the bottoms. His strong, muscular limbs here gave him the advantage, as he could ascend the steep hill sides more rapidly than his pursuers. The Indians, seeing they could not overtake him, as a last effort stopped and fired. One of the balls cut away the handle of his hunting-knife, jerking it so violently against his side, that for a moment he thought he was wounded. He immediately returned the fire, and, with a yell of vexation, they gave up the chase. Fleehart made a circuit among the hills, and just at dark came in to the river, near where the canoe lay hid. Springing lightly on board, he paddled down stream. Being greatly fatigued with the efforts of the day, he lay down in the canoe, and when he awoke in the morning the boat was just entering the Ohio river. Crossing over to the southern shore, he, in a few days, pushed his canoe up to Farmer's Castle, without further adventure, where he showed the rich packages of peltry, as the proceeds of his winter's hunt, and displayed the brilliant silver ornaments, as trophies of his victory, to the envy and admiration of his less venturous companions.[C] ----- [C] Hildreth's Pioneer History. [Illustration: A MOUNTED RANGER.] INDIAN FIGHT ON THE LITTLE MUSKINGUM. In the latter part of September, 1789, an alarm being given that Indians had been seen in the Campus Martius, on the Ohio, a party consisting of five or six rangers, ten volunteer citizens, and twelve regular soldiers was collected for pursuit. The men went up in canoes to the mouth of Duck creek, where they left their water craft. The more experienced rangers soon fell upon the trail, which they traced across the wide bottoms on to the Little Muskingum. At a point about half a mile below where Conner's mill now stands, the Indians forded the creek. In a hollow, between the hills, about a mile east of the creek, they discovered the smoke of their camp fire. The rangers now divided the volunteers into two flanking parties, with one of the spies at the head of each, and three of their number to act in front. By the time the flankers had come in range of the camp, the Indians discovered their pursuers, by the noise of the soldiers who lagged behind, and were not so cautious in their movement. They instantly fled up the run on which they were encamped. Two of their number leaving the main body, ascended the point of a hill, with a ravine on the right and left of it. [Illustration: AN INDIAN BRAVE.] The rangers now began to fire, while the Indians, each one taking his tree, returned the shot. One of the two Indians on the spur of the ridge was wounded through the hips, by one of the spies on the right, who pushed on manfully to gain the flanks of the enemy. The men in front came on more slowly, and as they began to ascend the point of the ridge, Ned Henderson, who was posted on high ground, cried out "Kerr! Kerr! there is an Indian behind that white oak, and he will kill some of you." Kerr instantly sprung behind a large tree, and Peter Anderson, who was near him, behind a hickory, too small to cover more than half his body, while John Wiser jumped down into the ravine. At that instant the Indian fired at Anderson, and as John looked over the edge of the bank to learn the effect of the shot, he saw Peter wiping the dust of the hickory bark out of his eyes. The ball grazed the tree, just opposite his nose, and glancing off did him no serious harm, but filling his eyes with the dust, and cutting his nose with the splinters. At the same time Henderson, with others, fired at the Indian, and he fell with several balls through his body. The brave fellow who was killed lost his life in a noble effort to aid his friend, who had been wounded through the hips, and could not spring up on to the little bench, or break in the ridge, where he was standing. While occupied in this labor of love, the rangers on his flanks had so far advanced, that the shelter of the friendly tree could no longer secure him from their shots, as it had done while his enemies were more in front of him. The wounded Indian escaped for the present, although it is probable he died soon after. The other five Indians, there being seven in the party, seeing that their enemies outnumbered them so greatly, after firing a few times, made a circuit to the right and came up in the rear of the soldiers, who were occupying themselves with the contents of the kettle of hog meat and potatoes, which the Indians in their hurry had left boiling over the fire. The first notice they had of their danger was the report of their rifles. It made a huge uproar among the musketeers, who taking to flight, ran in great alarm for protection to the rangers. As it happened the Indians were too far off to do much harm, and no one was injured but one poor fellow, who was shot through the seat of his trowsers, just grazing the skin. He tumbled into the brook by the side of the camp, screaming at the top of his voice, "I am kill'd, I am kill'd," greatly to the amusement of the rangers, who were soon at his side, and dragging him out of the water, searched in vain for the mortal wound. The dead Indian was scalped, and his rifle and blanket taken as the legitimate plunder of a conquered foe. The other five retreated out of reach of the rangers, after their feat of frightening the soldiers. They returned to the garrison, well pleased that none of their men were killed, but much vexed with the soldiers, whose indiscretion had prevented their destroying the whole of the Indians, had they encircled them as first arranged by the leaders of the party. It served as a warning to the Indians not to approach too near the Yankee garrison, as their rangers were brave men, whose eyes and ears were always open.[D] ----- [D] Hildreth's Pioneer History. [Illustration: THE DEFIANCE.] ESCAPE OF RETURN J. MEIGS. During the continuance of the Indian wars, from 1790 to 1795, it was customary for the inmates of all the garrisons to cultivate considerable fields of Indian corn and other vegetables near the walls of their defences. Although hazardous in the extreme, it was preferable to starvation. For a part of that time no provisions could be obtained from the older settlements above, on the Monongahela and Ohio; sometimes from a scarcity amongst themselves, and always at great hazard from Indians, who watched the river for the capture of boats. Another reason was the want of money; many of the settlers having expended a large share of their funds in the journey on, and for the purchase of lands, while others had not a single dollar; so that necessity compelled them to plant their fields. The war having commenced so soon after their arrival, and at a time when not expected, as a formal treaty was made with them at Marietta, in January, 1789, which by the way was only a piece of Indian diplomacy, they never intended to abide by it longer than suited their convenience, and no stores being laid up for a siege, they were taken entirely unprepared. So desperate were their circumstances at one period, that serious thoughts of abandoning the country were entertained by many of the leading men. Under these circumstances R. J. Meigs, then a young lawyer, was forced to lay aside the gown, and assume the use of both the sword and plough. It is true that but little ploughing was done, as much of the corn was then raised by planting the virgin soil with a hoe, amongst the stumps and logs of the clearing, after burning off the brush and light stuff. In this way large crops were invariably produced; so that nearly all the implements needed were the axe and the hoe. It so happened that Mr. Meigs, whose residence was in Campus Martius, the garrison on the east side of the Muskingum river, had planted a field of corn on the west side of that stream in the vicinity of Fort Harmar. To reach this field the river was to be crossed near his residence in a canoe, and the space between the landing and his crop, a distance of about half a mile, to be passed by an obscure path through a thick wood. [Illustration: AN INDIAN WARRIOR.] Early in June, 1792, Mr. Meigs, having completed the labor of the day a little before night, set out on his return home in company with Joseph Symonds and a colored boy, which he had brought with him as a servant from Connecticut. Immediately on leaving the field they entered the forest through which they had to pass before reaching the canoe. Symonds and the boy were unarmed; Mr. Meigs carried a small shot-gun, which he had taken with him for the purpose of shooting a turkey, which at that day abounded to an extent that would hardly be credited at this time. Flocks of several hundred were not uncommon, and of a size and fatness that would excite the admiration of an epicure of any period of the world, even of Apicius himself. Meeting, however, with no turkies, he had discharged his gun at a large snake which crossed his path. They had now arrived within a few rods of the landing, when two Indians, who had been for some time watching their movements and heard the discharge of the gun, sprang into the path behind them, fired and shot Symonds through the shoulder. He being an excellent swimmer, rushed down the bank and into the Muskingum river; where, turning on his back, he was enabled to support himself on the surface until he floated down near Fort Harmar, where he was taken up by a canoe. His wound, although a dangerous one, was healed, and he was alive twenty years afterwards. The black boy followed Symonds into the river as far as he could wade, but being no swimmer, was unable to get out of reach of the Indian who pursued them, and was seized and dragged on shore. The Indian who had captured him was desirous of making him a prisoner, which he so obstinately refused, and made so much resistance that he finally tomahawked and scalped him near the edge of the water. To this alternative he was in a manner compelled, rather than lose both prisoner and scalp, as the rangers and men at Campus Martius had commenced firing at him from the opposite shore. The first shot was fired by a spirited black man in the service of Commodore Abraham Whipple, who was employed near the river at the time. From some accident, it appears that only one of the Indians was armed with a rifle, while the other had a tomahawk and knife. After Symonds was shot, Mr. Meigs immediately faced about in order to retreat to Fort Harmar. The savage armed with the rifle, had placed himself in the path, intending to cut off his escape, but had no time to reload before his intended victim clubbed his gun and rushed upon his antagonist. As he passed, Mr. Meigs aimed a blow at his head, which the Indian returned with his rifle. From the rapidity of the movement, neither of them were seriously injured, although it staggered both considerably, yet neither fell to the ground. Instantly recovering from the shock, he pursued his course to the fort with the Indian close at his heels. Mr. Meigs was in the vigor of early manhood, and had, by frequent practice in the race, become a very swift runner. His foeman was also very fleet, and amongst the most active of their warriors, as none but such were sent into the settlements on marauding excursions. The race continued for sixty or eighty rods with little advantage on either side, when Mr. Meigs gradually increased his distance ahead, and leaping across a deep run that traversed the path, the Indian stopped on the brink, threw his tomahawk, and gave up the pursuit with one of those fierce yells which rage and disappointment both served to sharpen. It was distinctly heard at both the forts. About sixteen years since, an Indian tomahawk was ploughed up near this spot, and was most probably the one thrown at Mr. Meigs; as the rescue and pursuit from Fort Harmar was so immediate upon hearing the alarm, that he had no time to recover it. With the scalp of the poor black boy, the Indians ascended the abrupt side of the hill which overlooked the garrison, and shouting defiance to their foes, escaped in the forest. The excitement was very great at the garrison, and taught the inmates a useful lesson; that of being better armed and more on their guard when they went out on agricultural pursuits. Had Mr. Meigs tried any other expedient than that of facing his enemy and rushing instantly upon him, he must have lost his life, as the Indian was well aware of his gun being unloaded. On his right was the river, on his left a very high hill; beyond him the pathless forest, and between him and the fort his Indian foe. To his sudden and unexpected attack, to his dauntless and intrepid manner, and to his activity, he undoubtedly owed his life. ESTILL'S DEFEAT. One of the most remarkable pioneer fights, in the early history of the west, was that waged by Captain James Estill, and seventeen of his associates, on the 22d of March, 1782, with a party of Wyandotte Indians, twenty-five in number. Seventy-one years almost have elapsed since; yet one of the actors in that sanguinary struggle, Rev. Joseph Proctor, of Estill county, Kentucky, survived to the 2d of December, 1844, dying in the full enjoyment of his faculties at the age of ninety. His wife, the partner of his early privations and toils, and nearly as old as himself, deceased six months previously. On the 19th of March 1782, Indian rafts, without any one on them, were seen floating down the Kentucky river, past Boonesborough. Intelligence of this fact was immediately dispatched by Colonel Logan to Captain Estill, at his station fifteen miles from Boonesborough, and near the present site of Richmond, Kentucky, together with a force of fifteen men, who were directed to march from Lincoln county to Estill's assistance, instructing Captain Estill, if the Indians had not appeared there, to scour the country with a reconnoitring party, as it could not be known at what point the attack would be made. [Illustration: SLAUGHTER OF MISS INNES.] Estill lost not a moment in collecting a force to go in search of the savages, not doubting, from his knowledge of the Indian character, that they designed an immediate blow at his or some of the neighboring stations. From his own and the nearest stations, he raised twenty-five men. Whilst Estill and his men were on this excursion, the Indians suddenly appeared around his station at the dawn of day, on the 20th of March, killed and scalped Miss Innes, and took Munk, a slave of Captain Estill, captive. The Indians immediately and hastily retreated, in consequence of a highly exaggerated account which Munk gave them of the strength of the station, and number of fighting men in it. No sooner had the Indians commenced their retreat, than the women in the fort (the men being all absent except one on the sick list,) dispatched two boys, the late General Samuel South and Peter Hacket, to take the trail of Captain Estill and his men, and, overtaking them, give information of what had occurred at the fort. The boys succeeded in coming up with Captain Estill early on the morning of the 21st, between the mouths of Drowning creek and Red river. After a short search, Captain Estill's party struck the trail of the retreating Indians. It was resolved at once to make pursuit, and no time was lost in doing so. Five men of the party, however, who had families in the fort, feeling uneasy for their safety, and unwilling to trust their defence to the few who remained there, returned to the fort, leaving Captain Estill's party thirty-five in number. These pressed the pursuit of the retreating Indians, as rapidly as possible, but night coming on they encamped near the Little Mountain, at present the site of Mount Sterling. [Illustration: CAPTAIN ESTILL.] Early next morning they put forward, being obliged to leave ten of the men behind, whose horses were too jaded to travel further. They had not proceeded far until they discovered by fresh tracks of the Indians, that they were not far distant. They then marched in four lines until about an hour before sunset, when they discovered six of the savages helping themselves to rations from the body of a buffalo which they had killed. The company was ordered to dismount. With the usual impetuosity of Kentuckians, some of the party fired without regarding orders, and the Indians fled. One of the party, a Mr. David Cook, who acted as ensign, exceedingly ardent and active, had proceeded in advance of the company, and seeing an Indian halt, raised his gun and fired. At the same moment another Indian crossed on the opposite side, and they were both leveled with the same shot. This occurring in view of the whole company, inspired them all with a high degree of confidence. In the meantime, the main body of Indians had heard the alarm and returned, and the two hostile parties exactly matched in point of numbers, having twenty-five on each side, and were now face to face. The ground was highly favorable to the Indian mode of warfare; but Captain Estill and his men, without a moment's hesitation, boldly and fearlessly commenced an attack upon them, and the latter as boldly and fearlessly (for they were picked warriors) engaged in the bloody combat. It is, however, disgraceful to relate, that, at the very onset of the action, Lieutenant Miller, of Captain Estill's party, with six men under his command, "ingloriously fled" from the field, thereby placing in jeopardy the whole of their comrades, and causing the death of many brave soldiers. Hence, Estill's party numbered eighteen, and the Wyandottes twenty-five. The flank becoming thus unprotected, Captain Estill directed Cook with three men to occupy Miller's station, and repel the attack in that quarter to which this base act of cowardice exposed the whole party. The ensign with his party were taking the position assigned, when one of them discovered an Indian and shot him, and the three retreated to a little eminence whence they thought greater execution could be effected with less danger to themselves, but Cook continued to advance without noticing the absence of his party until he had discharged his gun with effect, when he immediately retreated, but after running some distance to a large tree, for the purpose of shelter in firing, he unfortunately got entangled in the tops of fallen timber, and halting for a moment, received a ball which struck him just below the shoulder blade, and came out below his collar bone. In the meantime, on the main field of battle, at the distance of fifty yards, the fight raged with great fury, lasting one hour and three-quarters. On either side wounds and death were inflicted, neither party advancing or retreating. "Every man to his man, and every man to his tree." Captain Estill at this period was covered with blood from a wound received early in the action; nine of his brave companions lay dead upon the field; and four others were so disabled by their wounds, as to be unable to continue the fight. Captain Estill's fighting men were now reduced to four. Among this number was Joseph Proctor. Captain Estill, the brave leader of this Spartan band, was now brought into a personal conflict with a powerful and active Wyandotte warrior. The conflict was for a time fierce and desperate, and keenly and anxiously watched by Proctor, with his finger on the trigger of his unerring rifle. Such, however, was the struggle between these fierce and powerful warriors, that Proctor could not shoot without greatly endangering the safety of his captain. Estill had had his arm broken the preceding summer in an engagement with the Indians; and, in the conflict with the warrior on this occasion, that arm gave way, and in an instant his savage foe buried his knife in Captain Estill's breast; but in the very same moment, the brave Proctor sent a ball from his rifle to the Wyandotte's heart. The survivors then drew off as by mutual consent.--Thus ended this memorable battle. It wanted nothing but the circumstance of numbers to make it the most memorable in ancient or modern times. The loss of the Indians, in killed and wounded, notwithstanding the disparity of numbers after the shameful retreat of Miller, was even greater than that of Captain Estill. It was afterwards ascertained by prisoners who were recaptured from the Wyandotte, that seventeen of the Indians had been killed, and two severely wounded. This battle was fought on the same day, with the disastrous battle of the Blue Licks, March 22d, 1782. There is a tradition derived from the Wyandotte towns, after the peace, that but one of the warriors engaged in this battle ever returned to his nation. It is certain that the chief who led on the Wyandottes with so much desperation, fell in the action. Throughout this bloody engagement the coolness and bravery of Proctor were unsurpassed. But his conduct after the battle has always, with those acquainted with it, elicited the warmest commendation. He brought off the field of battle, and most of the way to the station, a distance of forty miles, on his back, his badly wounded friend, the late brave Colonel William Irvine, so long and so favorably known in Kentucky. A PIONEER MOTHER. The mothers of the west deserve as wide a fame as their fearless husbands and brothers. In no situation were courage and resolution so much required in women as in the western wilderness, during the Indian wars, and even the celebrated heroines of European history seem to us ordinary in comparison. In the fall of 1779, Samuel Daviess, who resided in Bedford county, Virginia, moved with his family to Kentucky, and lived for a time, at Whitley's station, in Lincoln. After residing for some time in the station, he removed for a time to a place called Gilmer's Lick, some six or seven miles distant from said station, where he built a cabin, cleared some land, which he put in corn next season, not apprehending any danger from the Indians, although he was considered a frontier settler. But this imaginary state of security did not last long; for one morning in August, 1782, having stepped a few paces from his door, he was suddenly surprised by an Indian appearing between him and the door, with tomahawk uplifted, almost within striking distance. In this unexpected condition, and being entirely unarmed, his first thought was, that by running round the house, he could enter the door in safety, but to his surprise, in attempting to effect this object, as he approached the door he found the house full of Indians. Being closely pursued by the Indian first mentioned, he made his way into the cornfield, where he concealed himself with much difficulty, until the pursuing Indian had returned to the house. [Illustration: SCALPING.] Unable as he was to render any relief to his family, there being five Indians, he ran with the utmost speed to the station of his brother, a distance of five miles. As he approached the station, his undressed condition told the tale of his distresses, before he was able to tell it himself. Almost breathless, and with a faltering voice, he could only say, his wife and children were in the hands of the Indians. Scarcely was the communication made when he obtained a spare gun, and the five men in the station, well armed, followed him to his residence. When they arrived at the house, the Indians, as well as the family were found to be gone, and no evidence appeared that any of the family had been killed. A search was made to find the direction the Indians had taken; but owing to the dryness of the ground, and the adroit manner in which they had departed, no discovery could be made. In this study and perplexity, the party being all good woodsmen, took that direction in pursuit of the Indians, which they thought it most probable they would take. After going a few miles, their attention was arrested by the howling of a dog, which afterwards turned out to be a house-dog that had followed the family, and which the Indians had undertaken to kill, so as to avoid detection, which might happen from his occasionally barking. In attempting to kill the dog, he was only wounded, which produced the howling that was heard. The noise thus heard, satisfied them that they were near the Indians, and enabled them to rush forward with the utmost impetuosity. Two of the Indians being in the rear as spies, discovering the approach of the party, ran forward to where the Indians were with the family--one of them knocked down the oldest boy, about eleven years old, and while in the act of scalping him, was fired at, but without effect. Mrs. Daviess, seeing the agitation and alarm of the Indians, saved herself and sucking child, by jumping into a sink hole. The Indians did not stand to make fight, but fled in the most precipitate manner. In that way the family was rescued by nine o'clock in the morning, without the loss of a single life, and without any injury but that above mentioned. So soon as the boy had risen on his feet, the first words he spoke were, "Curse that Indian, he has got my scalp!" After the family had been rescued, Mrs. Daviess gave the following account of how the Indians had acted. [Illustration: GOING INTO CAPTIVITY.] A few minutes after her husband had opened the door and stepped out of the house, four Indians rushed in, whilst the fifth, as she afterwards learned, was in pursuit of her husband. Herself and children were in bed when the Indians entered the house. One of the Indians immediately made signs, by which she understood him to inquire how far it was to the next house. With an unusual presence of mind, knowing how important it would be to make the distance as far as possible, she raised both her hands, first counting the fingers of one hand, then of the other--making a distance of eight miles. The Indian then signed to her that she must rise; she immediately got up, and as soon as she could dress herself, commenced showing the Indians one article of clothing after another, which pleased them very much; and in that way, delayed them at the house nearly two hours. In the meantime, the Indian who had been in pursuit of her husband, returned with his hands stained with poke berries, which he held up, and with some violent gestures, and waving of his tomahawk, attempted to induce the belief, that the stain on his hands was the blood of her husband, and that he had killed him. She was enabled at once to discover the deception, and instead of producing any alarm on her part, she was satisfied that her husband had escaped uninjured. After the savages had plundered the house of everything that they could conveniently carry off with them, they started, taking Mrs. Daviess and her children--seven in number, as prisoners along with them. Some of the children were too young to travel as fast as the Indians wished, and discovering, as she believed, their intention to kill such of them as could not conveniently travel, she made the two oldest boys carry them on their backs. The Indians, in starting from the house, were very careful to leave no signs of the direction which they had taken, not even permitting the children to break a twig or weed, as they passed along. They had not gone far, before an Indian drew a knife and cut off a few inches of Mrs. Daviess' dress, so that she would not be interrupted in travelling. Mrs. Daviess was a woman of cool, deliberate courage, and accustomed to handle the gun so that she could shoot well, as many of the women were in the habit of doing in those days. She had contemplated, as a last resort, that if not rescued in the course of the day, when night came and the Indians had fallen asleep, she would rescue herself and children by killing as many of the Indians as she could--thinking that in a night attack as many of them as remained, would most probably run off. Such an attempt would now seem a species of madness; but to those who were acquainted with Mrs. Daviess, little doubt was entertained, that if the attempt had been made, it would have proved successful. The boy who had been scalped, was greatly disfigured, as the hair never after grew upon that part of the head. He often wished for an opportunity to avenge himself upon the Indians for the injury he had received. Unfortunately for himself, ten years afterwards, the Indians came to the neighborhood of his father and stole a number of horses. Himself and a party of men went in pursuit of them, and after following them for some days, the Indians finding that they were likely to be overtaken, placed themselves in ambush, and when their pursuers came up, killed young Daviess and one other man; so that he ultimately fell into their hands when about twenty-one years old. The next year after the father died; his death being caused, as it was supposed, by the extraordinary efforts he made to release his family from the Indians. We cannot close this account, without noticing an act of courage displayed by Mrs. Daviess, calculated to exhibit her character in its true point of view. Kentucky, in its early days, like most new countries, was occasionally troubled with men of abandoned character, who lived by stealing the property of others, and after committing their depredations, retired to their hiding places, thereby eluding the operation of the law. One of these marauders, a man of desperate character, who had committed extensive thefts from Mr. Daviess, as well as from his neighbors, was pursued by Daviess and a party whose property he had taken, in order to bring him to justice. While the party were in pursuit, the suspected individual, not knowing any one was pursuing him, came to the house of Daviess, armed with his gun and tomahawk--no person being at home but Mrs. Daviess and her children. After he had stepped in the house, Mrs. Daviess asked him if he would drink something--and having set a bottle of whiskey upon the table, requested him to help himself. The fellow not suspecting any danger, set his gun up by the door, and while drinking, Mrs. Daviess picked up his gun, and placing herself in the door, had the gun cocked and levelled upon him by the time he turned around, and in a peremptory manner, ordered him to take a seat, or she would shoot him. Struck with terror and alarm, he asked what he had done. She told him, he had stolen her husband's property, and that she intended to take care of him herself. In that condition, she held him a prisoner, until the party of men returned and took him into their possession. [Illustration: THE SQUATTER'S WIFE.] THE SQUATTER'S WIFE AND DAUGHTER. On the Illinois river, near two hundred miles from its junction with the Mississippi, there lived in 1812, an old pioneer, known in those days as "Old Parker the squatter." His family consisted of a wife and three children, the oldest a boy of nineteen, a girl of seventeen, and the youngest a boy of fourteen. At the time of which we write, Parker and his oldest boy had gone in company with three Indians on a hunt, expecting to be absent some five or six days.--The third day after the departure, one of the Indians returned to Parker's house, came in and sat himself down by the fire, lit his pipe and commenced smoking in silence. Mrs. Parker thought nothing of this, as it was no uncommon thing for one or sometimes more of a party of Indians to return abruptly from a hunt, at some sign they might consider ominous of bad luck, and in such instances were not very communicative. But at last the Indian broke silence with "ugh, old Parker die." This exclamation immediately drew Mrs. Parker's attention, who directly enquired of the Indian, what's the matter with Parker? The Indian responded Parker sick, tree fell on him, you go, he die. Mrs. Parker then asked the Indian if Parker had sent for her, and where he was? The replies of the Indian somewhat aroused her suspicions. She, however, came to the conclusion to send her son with the Indian to see what was the matter. The boy and Indian started. That night passed, and the next day too, and neither the boy or Indian returned. This confirmed Mrs. Parker in her opinion that there was foul play on the part of the Indians. So she and her daughter went to work and barricaded the door and windows in the best way they could. The youngest boy's rifle was the only one left, he not having taken it with him when he went to hunt after his father. The old lady took the rifle, the daughter the axe, and thus armed they determined to watch through the night; and defend themselves if necessary. They had not long to wait after night fall, for shortly after that some one commenced knocking at the door, crying out "Mother! mother!" but Mrs. Parker thought the voice was not exactly like that of her son--in order to ascertain the fact, she said "Jake, where are the Indians?" The reply which was "um gone," satisfied her on that point. She then said, as if speaking to her son, "Put your ear to the latch-hole of the door I want to tell you something before I open the door." The head was placed at the latch-hole, and the old lady fired through the same spot and killed an Indian. She stepped back from the door instantly, and it was well she did so, for quicker than I have penned the last two words two rifle bullets came crashing through the door. The old lady then said to her daughter, "Thank God there are but two, I must have killed the one at the door--they must be the three who went on the hunt with your father. If we can only kill or cripple another of them, we will be safe; now we must both be still after they fire again, and they will then break the door down, and I may be able to shoot another one; but if I miss them when getting in, you must use the axe."--The daughter equally courageous with her mother assured her she would. Soon after this conversation two more rifle bullets came crashing through the window. A death-like stillness ensued for about five minutes, when two more balls in quick succession were fired through the door, then followed a tremendous punching with a log, the door gave way, and with a fiendish yell an Indian was about to spring in, when the unerring rifle fired by the old lady stretched his lifeless body across the thresh-hold of the door. The remaining, or more properly the surviving Indian fired at random and ran, doing no injury. "Now" said the old heroine to her undaunted daughter "we must leave." Accordingly with the rifle and the axe, they went to the river, took the canoe, and without a mouthful of provision except one wild duck and two black birds which the mother shot, and which were eaten raw, did these two courageous hearts in six days arrive among the old French settlers at St. Louis. A party of about a dozen men crossed over into Illinois--and after an unsuccessful search returned without finding either Parker or his boys. They were never found. There are yet some of the old settlers in the neighborhood of Peoria who still point out the spot where "old Parker the squatter" lived. [Illustration: ATTACK ON CAPTAIN HUBBELL'S BOAT.] CAPTAIN WILLIAM HUBBELL. In the year 1791, when the Indians were very troublesome on the banks of the Ohio, Captain William Hubbell, Mr. Daniel Light, Mr. William Plascut, Mrs. Plascut and eight children embarked in a flat-bottomed boat to proceed down the Ohio. On their progress down the river, and soon after passing Pittsburgh, they saw evident traces of Indians along the banks, and there is every reason to believe that a boat which they overtook, and which, through carelessness, was suffered to run aground on an island, became a prey to these merciless savages. Though Captain Hubbell and his party stopped some time for it in a lower part of the river, it did not arrive, and has never to their knowledge been heard of since. Before they reached the mouth of the Great Kenhawa, they had by several successive additions, increased their number to twenty, consisting of nine men, three women, and eight children. The men, besides those mentioned above, were one John Stoner, an Irishman and a Dutchman, whose names are not recollected, Messrs. Ray and Tucker, and a Mr. Kilpatrick, whose two daughters also were of the party. Information received at Galliopolis confirmed the expectation, which appearance previously raised, of a serious conflict with a large body of Indians; and as Captain Hubbell had been regularly appointed commander of the boat, every possible preparation was made for a formidable and successful resistance of the anticipated attack. The nine men were divided into three watches for the night, which were alternately to continue awake, and be on the look out for two hours at a time. The arms on board, which consisted principally of old muskets, much out of order, were collected, loaded, and put in the best possible condition for service. About sunset on that day, the 23d of March, 1792, the party overtook a fleet of six boats descending the river in company, and intended to continue with them, but as their passengers seemed to be more disposed to dancing than fighting, and as soon after dark, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Captain Hubbell, they commenced fiddling and dancing instead of preparing their arms, and taking the necessary rest preparatory to battle, it was wisely considered more hazardous to be in such company, than to be alone. It was therefore determined to proceed rapidly forward by the aid of the oars, and leave those thoughtless fellow-travellers behind. One of the boats, however, belonging to the fleet, commanded by a Captain Greathouse, adopted the same plan, and for a while kept up with Captain Hubbell, but all its crew at length falling asleep, that boat also ceased to be propelled by the oars, and Captain Hubbell and his party proceeded steadily forward alone. Early in the night a canoe was dimly seen floating down the river, in which were probably Indians reconnoitering, and other evident indications were observed of the neighborhood and hostile intentions of a formidable party of savages. It was now agreed, that should the attack, as was probable, be deferred till morning, every man should be up before the dawn, in order to make as great a show as possible of numbers and of strength; and that, whenever the action should take place, the women and children should lie down on the cabin floor, and be protected as well as they could by the trunks and other baggage, which might be placed around them. In this perilous situation they continued during the night, and the captain, who had not slept more than one hour since he left Pittsburgh, was too deeply impressed with the imminent danger which surrounded him to obtain any rest at that time. [Illustration: A SIOUX CHIEF.] Just as daylight began to appear in the east, and before the men were up and at their posts, agreeably to arrangement, a voice at some distance below them, in a plaintive tone, repeatedly solicited them to come on shore, as there were some white persons who wished to obtain a passage in their boat. This the captain very naturally and correctly concluded to be an Indian artifice, and its only effect was to rouse the men, and place every one on his guard. The voice of entreaty was soon changed into the language of indignation and insult, and the sound of distant paddles announced the approach of the savage foe. At length three Indian canoes were seen through the mist of the morning rapidly advancing. With the utmost coolness the captain and his companions prepared to receive them. The chairs, tables, and other incumbrances were thrown into the river, in order to clear the deck for action. Every man took his position, and was ordered not to fire till the savages had approached so near, that, (to use the words of Captain Hubbell,) "the flash from the guns might singe their eye-brows;" and a special caution was given, that the men should fire successively, so that there might be no interval. On the arrival of the canoes, they were found to contain about twenty-five or thirty Indians each. As soon as they had approached within the reach of musket-shot, a general fire was given from one of them, which wounded Mr. Tucker through the hip so severely that his leg hung only by the flesh, and shot Mr. Light just below his ribs. The three canoes placed themselves at the bow, stern, and on the right side of the boat, so that they had an opportunity of raking in every direction. The fire now commenced from the boat, and had a powerful effect in checking the confidence and fury of the Indians. The captain after firing his own gun, took up that of one of the wounded men, raised it to his shoulder, and was about to discharge it, when a ball came and took away the lock; he coolly turned round, seized a brand of fire from the kettle which served for a caboose, and applying it to the pan, discharged the piece with effect. A very regular and constant fire was now kept up on both sides. The captain was just in the act of raising his gun a third time, when a ball passed through his right arm, and for a moment disabled him. Scarcely had he recovered from the shock, and re-acquired the use of his hand, which had been suddenly drawn up by the wound, when he observed the Indians in one of the canoes just about to board the boat in its bow, where the horses were placed belonging to the party. So near had they approached, that some of them had actually seized with their hands the side of the boat. Severely wounded as he was, he caught up a pair of horsemen's pistols and rushed forward to repel the attempt at boarding. On his approach the Indians fell back, and he discharged a pistol with effect at the foremost man. After firing the second pistol, he found himself without arms, and was compelled to retreat; but stepping back on a pile of small wood which had been prepared for burning in the kettle, the thought struck him, that it might be made use of in repelling the foe, and he continued for some time to strike them with it so forcibly and actively, that they were unable to enter the boat, and at length he wounded one of them so severely that with a yell they suddenly gave way. All the canoes then discontinued the contest, and directed their course to Captain Greathouse's boat, which was in sight. Here a striking contrast was exhibited to the firmness and intrepidity which had been displayed. Instead of resisting the attack, the people on board of this boat retired to the cabin in dismay. The Indians entered it without opposition, and rowed it to the shore, where they killed the captain and a lad of about fourteen years of age. The women they placed in the centre of their canoes, and manning them with fresh hands, again pursued Captain Hubbell and party. A melancholy alternative now presented itself to these brave but almost desponding men, either to fall a prey to the savages themselves, or to run the risk of shooting the women, who had been placed in the canoes in the hope of deriving protection from their presence. But "self preservation is the first law of nature," and the captain very justly remarked, there would not be much humanity in preserving their lives at such a sacrifice, merely that they might become victims of savage cruelty at some subsequent period. There were now but four men left on board of Captain Hubbell's boat, capable of defending it, and the captain himself was severely wounded in two places. The second attack, however, was resisted with almost incredible firmness and vigor. Whenever the Indians would rise to fire, their opponents would frequently give them the first shot, which in almost every instance would prove fatal. Notwithstanding the disparity of numbers, and the exhausted condition of the defenders of the boat, the Indians at length appeared to despair of success, and the canoes successively retired to the shore. Just as the last one was departing, Captain Hubbell called to the Indian, who was standing in the stern, and on his turning round, discharged his piece at him. When the smoke, which for a moment obstructed the vision, was dissipated, he was seen lying on his back, and appeared to be severely, perhaps mortally wounded. Unfortunately the boat now drifted near to the shore, where the Indians were collected, and a large concourse, probably between four and five hundred, were seen rushing down on the bank. Ray and Plascut, the only men remaining unhurt, were placed at the oars, and as the boat was not more than twenty yards from the shore, it was deemed prudent for all to lie down in as safe a position as possible, and attempt to push forward with the utmost practicable rapidity. While they continued in this situation, nine balls were shot into one oar, and ten into the other, without wounding the rowers, who were hidden from view, and protected by the side of the boat and the blankets in its stern. During this dreadful exposure to the fire of the savages, which continued about twenty minutes, Mr. Kilpatrick observed a particular Indian, whom he thought a favorable mark for his rifle, and, notwithstanding the solemn warning of Captain Hubbell, rose to shoot him, he immediately received a ball in his mouth, which passed out at the back part of his head, and was almost at the same moment shot through the heart. He fell among the horses that about the same time were killed, and presented to his afflicted daughters and fellow-travellers, who were witnesses of the awful occurrence, a spectacle of horror which we need not further attempt to describe. The boat was now providentially and suddenly carried out into the middle of the stream, and taken by the current beyond the reach of the enemy's balls. Our little band reduced as they were in numbers, wounded, afflicted, and almost exhausted by fatigue, were still unsubdued in spirit, and being assembled in all their strength, men, women, and children, with an appearance of triumph gave three hearty cheers, calling to the Indians to come on again, if they were fond of the sport. Thus ended this awful conflict, in which out of nine men, two only escaped unhurt. Tucker and Kilpatrick were killed on the spot, Stoner was mortally wounded, and died on his arrival at Limestone, and all the rest, excepting Ray and Plascut were severely wounded. The women and children were all uninjured, excepting a little son of Mr. Plascut, who, after the battle was over, came to the captain, and with great coolness requested him to take a ball out of his head. On examination, it appeared that a bullet which had passed through the side of the boat, had penetrated the forehead of this little hero, and remained under the skin. The captain took it out, and the youth, observing "that is not all," raised his arm, and exhibited a piece of bone at the point of his elbow, which had been shot off, and hung only by the skin. His mother exclaimed, "why did you not tell me of this?" "Because," he coolly replied, "the captain directed us to be silent during the action, and I thought you would be likely to make a noise if I told you." The boat made the best of its way down the river, and reached Limestone that night. From that time forth no boat was assailed by Indians on the Ohio. [Illustration: CORNSTALK.] MURDER OF CORNSTALK AND HIS SON. Cornstalk, the commander of the Indians in the battle of Point Pleasant, was possessed of a noble heart as well as a genius for war and negotiation. He was ever anxious to maintain an honorable place with the whites and they returned his friendly inclination by putting him to death. A Captain Arbuckle commanded the garrison of the fort, erected at Point Pleasant, after the battle fought by General Lewis with the Indians at that place, in October, 1774. In the succeeding year, when the revolutionary war had commenced, the agents of Great Britain exerted themselves to excite the Indians to hostility against the United States. The mass of Shawnees entertained a strong animosity against the Americans. But, two of their chiefs, Cornstalk and Redhawk, not participating in that animosity visited the garrison at the Point, where Arbuckle continued to command. Cornstalk represented his unwillingness to take a part in the war, on the British side: but stated, that his nation, except himself and his tribe, were determined on war with us, and he supposed, that he and his people would be compelled to go with the stream. On this intimation, Arbuckle resolved to detain the two chiefs, and a third Shawnees, who came with them to the fort, as hostages, under the expectation of preventing thereby any hostile efforts of the nation. On the day before these unfortunate Indians fell victims to the fury of the garrison, Elenipsico, the son of Cornstalk, repaired to Point Pleasant for the purpose of visiting his father, and on the next day, two men belonging to the garrison, whose names were Hamilton and Gillmore, crossed the Kenhawa, intending to hunt in the woods beyond it.--On their return from hunting, some Indians who had come to view the position at the Point, concealed themselves in the weeds near the mouth of the Kenhawa, and killed Gillmore while endeavoring to pass them. Colonel Stewart and Captain Arbuckle were standing on the opposite bank of the river, at that time and were surprised that a gun had been fired so near the fort, in violation of orders which had been issued inhibiting such an act. Hamilton ran down the bank, and cried out that Gillmore was killed. Captain Hall commanded the company to which Gillmore belonged. His men leaped into a canoe, and hastened to the relief of Hamilton. They brought the body of Gillmore weltering in blood, and the head scalped, across the river. The canoe had scarcely reached the shore, when Hall's men cried out "Let us kill the Indians in the fort." Captain Hall placed himself in front of his soldiers, and they ascended the river's bank, pale with rage, and carrying their loaded fire locks in their hands. Colonel Stewart and Captain Arbuckle exerted themselves in vain, to dissuade these men, exasperated to madness by the spectacle of Gillmore's corpse, from the cruel deed which they contemplated. They cocked their guns, threatening those gentlemen with instant death, if they did not desist, and rushed into the fort. The interpreter's wife, who had been a captive among the Indians, and felt an affection for them, ran to their cabin and informed them that Hall's soldiers were advancing with the intention of taking their lives, because they believed that the Indians who killed Gillmore, had come with Cornstalk's son the preceding day. This the young man solemnly denied, and averred that he knew nothing of them. His father, perceiving that Elenipsico was in great agitation, encouraged him and advised him not to fear. "If the great Spirit," said he, "has sent you here to be killed, you ought to die like a man!" As the soldiers approached the door, Cornstalk rose to meet them, and received seven or eight balls which instantly terminated his existence. His son was shot dead in the seat which he occupied. The Red Hawk made an attempt to climb the chimney, but fell by the fire of some of Hall's men. The other Indian, says Colonel Stewart, "was shamefully mangled, and I grieved to see him so long dying." This atrocious deed so exasperated the Shawnees that they immediately took up arms upon the side of the British, expressing their resolution to spare no American who should fall into their hands, and never to lay down arms while there was the remotest chance of successful hostility. Many a family in Virginia and Kentucky had reason to lament the slaughter of the noble Cornstalk and his son. THE MASSACRE OF CHICAGO. On the site of the present city of Chicago, a fort was erected in 1803. Feeling secure under this protection, several families built cabins and began to cultivate the ground in the vicinity. The large and powerful tribe of Pottawatomies occupied the neighboring country. When the war of 1812 broke out, the fort at Chicago was garrisoned by about fifty men, under the command of Captain Heald, and as it was so remote from the other American posts, General Hull determined that it should be abandoned. The following account of the subsequent disastrous events is abridged from Brown's History of Illinois. On the 7th of August, 1812, in the afternoon, Winnemeg, or Catfish, a friendly Indian of the Pottawatomie tribe, arrived at Chicago, and brought dispatches from General Hull, containing the first, and, at that time, the only intelligence of the declaration of war. General Hull's letter announced the capture of Mackinaw, and directed Captain Heald "to evacuate the fort at Chicago, if practicable, and, in that event, to distribute all the United States property contained in the fort, and the United States factory or agency, among the Indians in the neighborhood and repair to Fort Wayne." Winnemeg having delivered his dispatches to Captain Heald, and stated that he was acquainted with the purport of the communication he had brought, urged upon Captain Heald the policy of remaining in the fort, being supplied, as they were, with ammunition and provisions for a considerable time. In case, however, Captain Heald thought proper to evacuate the place, he urged upon him the propriety of doing so immediately, before the Pottawatomies (through whose country they must pass, and who were as yet ignorant of the object of his mission) could collect a force sufficient to oppose them. This advice though given in great earnestness, was not sufficiently regarded by Captain Heald; who observed, that he should evacuate the fort, but having received orders to distribute the public property among the Indians, he did not feel justified in leaving it until he had collected the Pottawatomies in its vicinity, and made an equitable distribution among them. Winnemeg then suggested the expediency of marching out and leaving every thing standing; "while the Indians," said he, "are dividing the spoils, the troops will be able to retreat without molestation." This advice was also unheeded, and an order for evacuating the fort was read next morning on parade. Captain Heald, in issuing it, had neglected to consult his junior officers, as it would have been natural for him to do in such an emergency, and as he probably would have done had there not been some coolness between him and Ensign Ronan. [Illustration: CAPTAIN HEALD IN COUNCIL WITH THE POTTAWATAMIES.] The lieutenant and ensign, after the promulgation of this order, waited on Captain Heald to learn his intentions; and being apprized; for the first time, of the course he intended to pursue, they remonstrated against it. Heald, however, deemed it advisable to assemble the Indians and distribute the public property among them, and ask of them an escort thither, with the promise of a considerable sum of money to be paid on their safe arrival; adding, that he had perfect confidence in the friendly professions of the Indians, from whom, as well as from the soldiers, the capture of Mackinaw had studiously been concealed. From this time forward, the junior officers stood aloof from their commander, and, considering his project as little short of madness, conversed as little upon the subject as possible. Dissatisfaction, however, soon filled the camp; the soldiers began to murmur, and insubordination assumed a threatening aspect. The savages, in the mean time became more and more troublesome; entered the fort occasionally, in defiance of the sentinels, and even made their way without ceremony into the quarters of its commanding officer. On one occasion an Indian, taking up a rifle fired it in the parlor of Captain Heald; some were of opinion that this was intended as the signal for an attack. The old chiefs at this time passed back and forth among the assembled groups, apparently agitated; and the squaws seemed much excited, as though some terrible calamity was impending. No further manifestations, however, of ill-feeling were exhibited, and the day passed without bloodshed. So infatuated at this time was Captain Heald, that he supposed he had wrought a favorable impression upon the savages, and that the little garrison could now march forth in safety. The Indians from the adjacent villages having at length arrived, a council was held on the 12th of August. It was attended, however, only by Captain Heald on the part of the military; the other officers refused to attend, having previously learned that a massacre was intended. This fact was communicated to Captain Heald; he insisted, however, on their going, and they resolutely persisted in their refusal. When Captain Heald left the fort, they repaired to the block-house, which overlooked the ground where the council was in session, and opening the portholes, pointed their cannon in its direction. This circumstance and their absence, it is supposed, saved the whites from massacre. [Illustration: BATTLE BETWEEN MOUNTED TROOPS AND THE INDIANS.] Captain Heald informed the Indians in council, that he would next day distribute among them all the goods in the United States factory, together with the ammunition and provisions with which the garrison was supplied; and desired of them an escort to Fort Wayne, promising them a reward on their arrival thither, in addition to the presents they were about to receive. The savages assented, with professions of friendship, to all he proposed, and promised all he required. The council was no sooner dismissed, than several observing the tone of feeling which prevailed, and anticipating from it no good to the garrison, waited on Captain Heald in order to open his eyes, if possible, to their condition. The impolicy of furnishing the Indians with arms and ammunition to be used against themselves, struck Captain Heald with so much force, that he resolved, without consulting his officers, to destroy all not required for immediate use. On August 13th, the goods in the factory store were distributed among the Indians, who had collected near the fort; and in the evening the ammunition, and also the liquor, belonging to the garrison, were carried, the former into the sally-port and thrown into the well, and the latter through the south gate, as silently as possible, to the river bank, where the heads of the barrels were knocked in, and their contents discharged into the stream. The Indians, however, suspecting the game, approached as near as possible and witnessed the whole scene. The spare muskets were broken up and thrown into the well, together with bags of shot, flints, and gun-screws, and other things; all, however, of but little value. On the 14th, the despondency of the garrison was for a while dispelled by the arrival of Captain Wells and fifteen friendly Miamies. Having heard at Fort Wayne of the error to evacuate Chicago, and knowing the hostile intentions of the Pottawatomies, he hastened thither in order to save, if possible, the little garrison from its doom. Having, on his arrival, learned that the ammunition had been destroyed, and the provisions distributed among the Indians, he saw there was no alternative. Preparations were therefore made for marching on the morrow. In the afternoon a second council was held with the Indians, at which they expressed their resentment at the destruction of the ammunition and liquor in the severest terms. Notwithstanding the precautions which had been observed, the knocking in of the heads of the whisky-barrels had been heard by the Indians, and the river next morning tasted, as some of them expressed it, "like strong grog." Murmurs and threats were everywhere heard; and nothing, apparently, was wanting but an opportunity for some public manifestation of their resentment. The morning of the 15th dawned as usual; the sun rose with uncommon splendor, and Lake Michigan "was a sheet of burnished gold." Early in the day a message was received in the American camp from To-pee-na-bee, a chief of the St. Joseph's band, informing them that mischief was brewing among the Pottawatomies, who had promised them protection. [Illustration: TO-PEE-NA-BEE.] About nine o'clock, the troops left the fort with martial music, and in military array. Captain Wells, at the head of the Miamies, led the van, his face blackened after the manner of the Indians. The garrison, with loaded arms, followed, and the wagons with the baggage, the women and children, the sick and the lame, closed the rear. The Pottawatomies, about five hundred in number, who had promised to escort them in safety to Fort Wayne leaving a little space, afterward followed. The party in advance took the beach road. They had no sooner arrived at the sand-hills which separate the prairie from the beach, about a mile and a half from the fort, when the Pottawatomies, instead of continuing in rear of the Americans, left the beach and took to the prairie; the sand-hills of course intervened, and presented a barrier between the Pottawatomies and the American and Miami line of march. This divergence had scarcely been effected, when Captain Wells, who, with the Miamies was considerably in advance, rode back and exclaimed, "They are about to attack us; form instantly and charge upon them." The word had scarcely been uttered, before a volley of musketry from behind the sand-hills was poured in upon them. The troops were brought immediately into a line and charged upon the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy, fell as they ascended. The battle at once became general. The Miamies fled in the outset; their chief rode up to the Pottawatomies, charged them with duplicity, and, brandishing his tomahawk, said, "he would be the first to head a party of Americans, and return to punish them for their treachery." He then turned his horse and galloped off in pursuit of his companions, who were then scouring across the prairie, and nothing was seen or heard of them more. The American troops behaved gallantly; though few in number, they sold their lives as dearly as possible. They felt, however, as if their time had come, and sought to forget all that was dear on earth. While the battle was raging, the surgeon, Doctor Voorhes, who was badly wounded, and whose horse had been shot from under him, approaching Mrs. Helm, the wife of Lieutenant Helm, (who was in the action, participating in all its vicissitudes,) observed, "Do you think," said he, "they will take our lives? I am badly wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we can purchase safety by offering a large reward. Do you think," continued he, "there is any chance?" "Doctor Voorhes," replied Mrs. Helm, "let us not waste the few moments which yet remain in idle or ill-founded hopes. Our fate is inevitable; we must soon appear at the bar of God; let us make such preparations as are yet in our power." "Oh," said he, "I cannot die; I am unfit to die! If I had a short time to prepare! Death! oh, how awful!" At this moment, Ensign Ronan was fighting at a little distance with a tall and portly Indian; the former, mortally wounded, was nearly down, and struggling desperately upon one knee. Mrs. Helm, pointing her finger, and directing the attention of Doctor Voorhes thither, observed, "Look," said she, "at that young man; he dies like a soldier." "Yes," said Doctor Voorhes, "but he has no terrors of the future; he is an unbeliever." [Illustration: THE MASSACRE.] A young savage immediately raised his tomahawk to strike Mrs. Helm. She sprang instantly aside, and the blow intended for her head fell upon her shoulder; she thereupon seized him around his neck, and while exerting all her efforts to get possession of his scalping-knife, was seized by another Indian and dragged forcibly from his grasp. The latter bore her, struggling and resisting, toward the lake. Notwithstanding, however, the rapidity with which she was hurried along, she recognized, as she passed, the remains of the unfortunate surgeon stretched lifeless on the prairie. She was plunged immediately into the water and held there, notwithstanding her resistance, with a forcible hand. She shortly, however, perceived that the intention of her captor was not to drown her, as he held her in a position to keep her head above the water. Thus reassured, she looked at him attentively, and, in spite of his disguise, recognized the "white man's friend." It was Black Partridge. When the firing had ceased, her preserver bore her from the water and conducted her up the sand-bank. It was a beautiful day in August. The heat, however, of the sun was oppressive; and, walking through the sand, exposed to its burning rays, in her drenched condition--weary, and exhausted by efforts beyond her strength--anxious beyond measure to learn the fate of her friends, and alarmed for her own, her situation was one of agony. The troops having fought with desperation till two-thirds of their number were slain, the remainder twenty-seven in all, borne down by an overwhelming force, and exhausted by efforts hitherto unequalled, at length surrendered. They stipulated, however, for their own safety and for the safety of their remaining women and children. The wounded prisoners, however, in the hurry of the moment, were unfortunately omitted, or rather not particularly mentioned and were therefore regarded by the Indians as having been excluded. One of the soldiers' wives, having frequently been told that prisoners taken by the Indians were subjected to tortures worse than death, had from the first expressed a resolution never to be taken; and when a party of savages approached to make her their prisoner, she fought with desperation; and, though assured of kind treatment and protection, refused to surrender, and was literally cut in pieces and her mangled remains left on the field. After the surrender, one of the baggage wagons, containing twelve children, was assailed by a single savage and the whole number were massacred. All, without distinction of age or sex, fell at once beneath his murderous tomahawk. Captain Wells, who had as yet escaped unharmed, saw from a distance the whole of this murderous scene; and being apprized of the stipulation, and seeing it thus violated, exclaimed aloud, so as to be heard by the Pottawatomies around him, whose prisoner he then was, "If this be your game, I will kill too!" and turning his horse's head, instantly started for the Pottawatomie camp, where the squaws and Indian children had been left ere the battle began. He had no sooner started, than several Indians followed in his rear and discharged their rifles at him as he galloped across the prairie. He laid himself flat on the neck of his horse, and was apparently out of their reach, when the ball of one of his pursuers took effect, killing his horse and wounding him severely. He was again a prisoner; as the savages came up, Winnemeg and Wa-ban-see, two of their number, and both his friends, used all their endeavors in order to save him; they had disengaged him already from his horse, and were supporting him along, when Pee-so-tum, a Pottawatomie Indian, drawing his scalping-knife, stabbed him in the back, and thus inflicted a mortal wound. After struggling for a moment he fell, and breathed his last in the arms of his friends, a victim for those he had sought to save--a sacrifice to his own rash intentions. [Illustration: WINNEMEG, OR THE CATFISH.] The battle having ended, and the prisoners being secured, the latter were conducted to the Pottawatomie camp near the fort. Here the wife of Wau-bee-nee-mah, an Illinois chief, perceiving the exhausted condition of Mrs. Helm, took a kettle, and dipping up some water from the stream which flowed sluggishly by them, threw into it some maple sugar, and, stirring it up with her hand, gave her to drink. "It was," says Mrs. Helm, "the most delicious draught I had ever taken, and her kindness of manner, amid so much atrocity, touched my heart." Her attention, however, was soon directed to other objects. The fort, after the troops had marched out, became a scene of plunder. The cattle were shot down as they ran at large, and lay dead, or were dying around her. It called up afresh a remark of Ensign Ronan's, made before; "Such," said he, "is to be our fate--to be shot down like brutes." The wounded prisoners, we have already remarked, were not included in the stipulation made on the battle-field, as the _Indians understood it_. On reaching, therefore, the Pottawatomie camp, a scene followed which beggars description. A wounded soldier, lying on the ground, was violently assaulted by an old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends or excited by the murderous scenes around her--who, seizing a pitchfork, attacked the wretched victim, now helpless, and exposed to the burning rays of the sun, his wounds already aggravated by its heat, and he writhing in torture. During the succeeding night, five other wounded prisoners were tomahawked. Those unwounded remained in the wigwams of their captors. The work of plunder being now completed, the fort next day was set on fire. A fair and equal distribution of all the finery belonging to the garrison had apparently been made, and shawls and ribands and feathers were scattered about the camp in great profusion. After suffering many hardships, Mrs. Helm, Mrs. Heald, and the surviving male prisoners were ransomed and sent back to their friends. A few of them, however, were not set at liberty until after the battle of the Thames. THE TWO FRIENDS. In August, 1786, Mr. Francis Downing, then a lad, was living in a fort, where subsequently some iron works were erected by Mr. Jacob Myers, which are now known by the name of Slate Creek works. About the 16th, a young man belonging to the fort, called upon Downing, and requested his assistance in hunting for a horse which had strayed away on the preceding evening. Downing readily complied, and the two friends traversed the woods in every direction, until at length, towards evening, they found themselves in a wild valley, at a distance of six or seven miles from the fort. Here Downing became alarmed and repeatedly assured his elder companion, (whose name was Yates,) that he heard sticks cracking behind them, and was confident that Indians were dogging them. Yates, being an experienced hunter, and from habit grown indifferent to the dangers of the woods, diverted himself freely at the expense of his young companion, often inquiring, at what price he rated his scalp, and offering to ensure it for sixpence. Downing, however, was not so easily satisfied. He observed, that in whatever direction they turned, the same ominous sounds continued to haunt them, and as Yates still treated his fears with the most perfect indifference, he determined to take his measures upon his own responsibility. Gradually slackening his pace, he permitted Yates to advance twenty or thirty steps in front of him, and immediately after descending a gentle hill, he suddenly sprung aside and hid himself in a thick cluster of whortleberry bushes. Yates, who at that time was performing some woodland ditty to the full extent of his lungs, was too much pleased with his own voice, to attend either to Downing or the Indians, and was quickly out of sight. Scarcely had he disappeared, when Downing, to his unspeakable terror, beheld two savages put aside the stalks of a canebrake, and looked out cautiously in the direction which Yates had taken. Fearful that they had seen him step aside, he determined to fire upon them, and trust to his heels for safety, but so unsteady was his hand, that in raising his gun to his shoulder, she went off before he had taken aim. He lost no time in following her example, and after having run fifty yards, he met Yates, who, alarmed at the report, was hastily retracing his steps. It was not necessary to inquire what was the matter. The enemy were in full view, pressing forward with great rapidity, and "devil take the hindmost," was the order of the day. Yates would not outstrip Downing, but ran by his side, although in so doing, he risked both of their lives. The Indians were well acquainted with the country, and soon took a path that diverged from the one which the whites followed, at one point and rejoined it at another, bearing the same relation to it that the string does to the bow. The two paths were at no point distant from each other more than one hundred yards, so that Yates and Downing could easily see the enemy gaining rapidly upon them. They reached the point of re-union first, however, and quickly came to a deep gully which it was necessary to recross, or retrace their steps. Yates cleared it without difficulty, but Downing being, much exhausted, fell short, falling with his breast against the opposite brink, rebounded with violence, and fell at full length on the bottom. The Indians crossed the ditch a few yards below him, and, eager for the capture of Yates, continued the pursuit, without appearing to notice Downing. The latter who at first had given himself up for lost, quickly recovered his strength, and began to walk slowly along the ditch, fearing to leave it lest the enemy should see him. As he advanced, however, the ditch became more shallow, until at length it ceased to protect him at all. Looking around cautiously, he saw one of the Indians returning apparently in quest of him. Unfortunately, he had neglected to reload his gun, while in the ditch, and as the Indian instantly advanced upon him, he had no resource but flight. Throwing away his gun, which was now useless, he plied his legs manfully, in ascending a long ridge which stretched before him, but the Indian gained upon him so rapidly, that he lost all hope of escape. Coming at length to a large poplar which had been blown up by the roots, he ran along the body of the tree upon one side while the Indian followed it upon the other, doubtless expecting to intercept him at the root. It happened that a large she bear was sucking her cubs in a bed which she had made at the root of the tree, and as the Indian reached that point, she instantly sprung upon him, and a prodigious uproar took place. The Indian yelled, and stabbed with his knife, the bear growled and saluted him with one of her most endearing "hugs;"--while Downing, fervently wishing her success, ran off through the woods, without waiting to see the event of the struggle. Downing reached the fort in safety, and found Yates reposing after a hot chase, having eluded his pursuers, and gained the fort two hours before him. On the next morning, they collected a party and returned to the poplar tree, but no traces either of the Indian or bear were to be found. They both probably escaped with their lives, although not without injury. [Illustration: DOWNING ALARMED AT THE NOISE OF THE INDIANS.] [Illustration: THE DESERTER ACTING AS A GUIDE.] DESERTION OF A YOUNG WHITE MAN, FROM A PARTY OF INDIANS. In the year 1787, the following incident occurred in Bourbon county Kentucky. One morning, about sun rise, a young man of wild and savage appearance, suddenly arose from a cluster of bushes in front of a cabin, and hailed the house in a barbarous dialect, which seemed neither exactly Indian nor English, but a collection of shreds and patches from which the graces of both were carefully excluded. His skin had evidently once been white--although now grievously tanned by constant exposure to the weather. His dress in every respect was that of an Indian, as were his gestures, tones and equipments, and his age could not be supposed to exceed twenty years. He talked volubly, but uncouthly, placed his hand upon his breast, gestured vehemently, and seemed very earnestly bent upon communicating something. He was invited to enter the cabin, and the neighbors quickly collected around him. He appeared involuntarily to shrink from contact with them--his eyes rolled rapidly around with a distrustful expression from one to the other, and his whole manner was that of a wild animal, just caught, and shrinking from the touch of its captors.--As several present understood the Indian tongue, they at length gathered the following circumstances as accurately as they could be translated, out of a language which seemed to be an "omnium gatherum" of all that was mongrel, uncouth and barbarous. He said that he had been taken by the Indians, when a child, but could neither recollect his name, nor the country of his birth.--That he had been adopted by an Indian warrior, who brought him up with his other sons, without making the slightest difference between them, and that under his father's roof, he had lived happily until within the last month. A few weeks before that time, his father, accompanied by himself and a younger brother, had hunted for some time upon the waters of the Miami, about forty miles from the spot where Cincinnati now stands, and after all their meat, skins, &c., had been properly secured, the old man determined to gratify his children by taking them upon a war expedition to Kentucky. They accordingly built a bark canoe, in which they crossed the Ohio, near the mouth of Licking, and having buried it, so as to secure it from the action of the sun, they advanced into the country and encamped at the distance of fifteen miles from the river. Here their father was alarmed by hearing an owl cry in a peculiar tone, which he declared boded death or captivity to themselves, if they continued their expedition--and announced his intention of returning without delay to the river. Both of his sons vehemently opposed this resolution, and at length prevailed upon the old man to disregard the owl's warning, and conduct them, as he had promised, against the frontiers of Kentucky. The party then composed themselves to sleep, but were quickly awakened by the father, who had again been warned in a dream that death awaited them in Kentucky, and again besought his children to release him from his promise and lose no time in returning home. Again they prevailed upon him to disregard the warning, and persevere in the march. He consented to gratify them, but declared he would not remain a moment longer in the camp which they now occupied, and accordingly they left it immediately, and marched on through the night, directing their course towards Bourbon county. In the evening they approached a house, that which he hailed and in which he was now speaking. Suddenly the desire of rejoining his people occupied his mind so strongly as to exclude every other idea, and seizing the first favorable opportunity, he had concealed himself in the bushes, and neglected to reply to all the signals which had been concerted for the purpose of collecting their party when scattered. This account appeared so extraordinary, and the young man's appearance was so wild and suspicious, that many of the neighbors suspected him of treachery, and thought that he should be arrested as a spy. Others opposed this resolution and gave full credit to his narrative. In order to satisfy themselves, however, they insisted upon his immediately conducting them to the spot where the canoe had been buried. To this the young man objected most vehemently, declaring that although he had deserted his father and brother, yet he would not betray them. These feelings were too delicate to meet with much sympathy from the rude borderers who surrounded him, and he was given to understand that nothing short of conducting them to the point of embarkation, would be accepted as an evidence of his sincerity.--With obvious reluctance he at length complied. From twenty to thirty men were quickly assembled, mounted upon good horses, and under the guidance of the deserter, they moved rapidly towards the mouth of Licking. On the road the young man informed them that he would first conduct them to the spot, where they had encamped when the scream of the owl alarmed his father, and where an iron kettle had been concealed in a hollow tree. He was probably induced to do this from the hope of delaying the pursuit so long as to afford his friends an opportunity of crossing the river in safety. But if such was his intention, no measure could have been more unfortunate. [Illustration: THE SURPRISE.] The whites approached the encampment in deep silence, and quickly perceived two Indians, an old man and a boy, seated by the fire and busily engaged in cooking some venison.--The deserter became much agitated at the sight of them, and so earnestly implored his countrymen not to kill them, that it was agreed to surround the encampment, and endeavor to secure them as prisoners. This was accordingly attempted, but so desperate was the resistance of the Indians, and so determined were their efforts to escape, that the whites were compelled to fire upon them, and the old man fell mortally wounded, while the boy, by an incredible display of address and activity, was enabled to escape. The deserter beheld his father fall, and throwing himself from his horse, he ran up to the spot where the old man lay bleeding, but still sensible, and falling upon his body, besought his forgiveness for being the unwilling cause of his death, and wept bitterly. His father evidently recognized him, and gave him his hand, but almost instantly afterwards expired. The white men now called upon him to conduct them at a gallop to the spot where the canoe was buried, expecting to reach it before the Indian boy and intercept him. The deserter in vain implored them to compassionate his feelings. He urged that he had already sufficiently demonstrated the truth of his former assertions, at the expense of his father's life, and earnestly entreated them to permit his younger brother to escape. His companions, however, were inexorable. Nothing but the blood of the young Indian would satisfy them, and the deserter was again compelled to act in the capacity of a guide. Within two hours they reached the designated spot. The canoe was still there, and no track could be seen upon the sand, so that it was evident that their victim had not yet arrived. Hastily dismounting, they tied their horses and concealed themselves within close rifle shot of the canoe. Within ten minutes after their arrival the Indian appeared in sight, walking swiftly towards them. He went straight to the spot where the canoe had been buried, and was in the act of digging it up, when he received a dozen balls through his body, and leaping high into the air fell dead upon the sand. He was scalped and buried where he fell, without having seen his brother, and probably without having known the treachery by which he and his father had lost their lives. The deserter remained but a short time in Bourbon, and never regained his tranquillity of mind. He shortly afterwards disappeared, but whether to seek his relations in Virginia or Pennsylvania, or whether disgusted by the ferocity of the whites, he returned to the Indians, has never yet been known. He was never heard of afterwards. [Illustration: MORGAN AND THE INDIAN.] MORGAN'S TRIUMPH. In 1779, a Mr. Morgan, of Prickett's Fort, West Virginia, was surprised in the woods by two Indians, who immediately gave chase. Being old and somewhat infirm, he faltered in the race, and was obliged to take refuge behind a tree; the Indians did the same, but one of them exposing his body, was shot by Morgan, and, after falling, stabbed himself. Morgan again fled; but his surviving antagonist gained rapidly upon him, and at length raised his gun to fire. Morgan adroitly stepped aside, and the ball passed him. Then each rushed to closer combat. Morgan, while striking with his gun, received the Indian's tomahawk, which cut off a finger, and knocked the gun from his grasp. Being an expert wrestler, he closed, and threw his antagonist; but he was speedily overturned, when the Indian, uttering the customary yell of triumph, began feeling for his knife. Its hilt was entangled in a woman's apron, which the savage had tied round his waist; and this apparent trivial circumstance saved the prostrate hunter. During the search, Morgan had seized his antagonist's fingers with his teeth, a position in which he used all becoming exertions to keep them. Meanwhile he assisted in the search for the knife. The Indian at length seized it, but so far towards the blade, that Morgan caught hold of the upper portion of the handle, and drew it through his adversary's hand, inflicting a deep wound. Both sprang erect, Morgan still holding on to the Indian's fingers, and having his body within his grasp. He had therefore all the advantage, and while his foe was struggling to disengage himself, he plunged the knife to the hilt in his body. The daring hunter returned to the fort in triumph. [Illustration: VIEW OF WYOMING.] [Illustration: COLONEL ZEBULON BUTLER.] MASSACRE OF WYOMING. The following account of the battle and massacre is taken from an interesting history of Wyoming, written by Isaac Chapman, Esq., late of Wilkesbarre. Judge Chapman lived upon the spot, and could hardly fail to have collected ample materials, and to give a correct narrative of the events which transpired there during the Revolutionary war. The inhabitants had collected in Forty Fort--the principal fort in the valley. The number of men was three hundred and sixty-eight. On the morning of the 3d of July, 1778, the officers of the garrison of Forty Fort held a council to determine on the propriety of marching from the fort, and attacking the enemy wherever found. The debates in this council of war are said to have been conducted with much warmth and animation. The ultimate determination was one on which depended the lives of the garrison and safety of the settlement. On one side it was contended that their enemies were daily increasing in numbers; that they would plunder the settlement of all kinds of property, and would accumulate the means of carrying on the war, while they themselves would become weaker; that the harvest would soon be ripe, and would be gathered or destroyed by their enemies, and all their means of sustenance during the succeeding winter would fail; that probably all their messengers were killed, and as there had been more than sufficient time, and no assistance arrived, they would probably receive none, and consequently now was the proper time to make an attack. On the other side it was argued, that probably some or all the messengers may have arrived at head-quarters, but that the absence of the commander-in-chief may have produced delay; that one or two weeks more may bring the desired assistance, and that to attack the enemy, superior as they were in number, out of the limits of their own fort, would produce almost certain destruction to the settlements and themselves, and captivity, and slavery, perhaps torture, to their wives and children. [Illustration: THE MASSACRE OF WYOMING.] While these debates were progressing, five men belonging to Wyoming, but who at that time held commissions in the continental army, arrived at the fort; they had received information that a force from Niagara had marched to destroy the settlements on the Susquehanna, and being unable to bring with them any reinforcement, they resigned their appointments, and hastened immediately to the protection of their families. They had heard nothing of the messengers, neither could they give any certain information as to the probability of relief. The prospect of receiving assistance became now extremely uncertain. The advocates for the attack prevailed in the council, and at dawn of day, on the morning of the 3d of July, the garrison left the fort, and began their march up the river, under the command of Colonel Zebulon Butler. Having proceeded about two miles, the troops halted for the purpose of detaching a reconnoitering party, to ascertain the situation of the enemy. The scout found the enemy in possession of Fort Wintermoot, and occupying huts immediately around it, carousing in supposed security; but on their return to the advancing column, they met two strolling Indians, by whom they were fired upon, and upon whom they immediately returned the fire without effect. The settlers hastened their march for the attack, but the Indians had given the alarm, and the advancing troops found the enemy already formed in order of battle a small distance from their fort, with their right flank covered by a swamp, and their left resting upon the bank of a river. The settlers immediately displayed their column and formed in corresponding order, but as the enemy was much superior in numbers, their line was much more extensive. Pine woods and bushes covered the battle-ground, in consequence of which, the movements of the troops could not be so quickly discovered, nor so well ascertained. Colonel Zebulon Butler had command of the right, and was opposed by Colonel John Butler at the head of the British troops on the left, Colonel Nathan Denison commanded the left, opposed by Brant at the head of his Indians on the enemy's right. The battle commenced at about forty rods distant, and continued about fifteen minutes through the woods and brush without much execution. At this time, Brant with his Indians having penetrated the swamp, turned the left flank of the settler's line, and with a terrible war-whoop and savage yell, made a desperate charge upon the troops composing that wing, which fell very fast, and were immediately cut to pieces with the tomahawk. Colonel Denison having ascertained that the savages were gaining the rear of the left, gave orders for that wing _to fall back_. At the same time, Colonel John Butler, finding that the line of settlers did not extend so far towards the river as his own, doubled that end of his line which was protected by a thick growth of brushwood, and having brought a party of his British regulars to act in column upon that wing, threw Colonel Zebulon Butler's into some confusion. The orders of Colonel Denison for his troops to fall back, having been understood by many to mean a retreat, the troops began to retire in much disorder. The savages considered this a flight, and commencing a most hideous yell, rushed forward with their rifles and tomahawks, and cut the retiring line to pieces. In this situation it was found impossible to rally and form the troops, and the rout became general throughout the line. The settlers fled in every direction, and were instantly followed by the savages, who killed or took prisoners whoever came within their reach. Some succeeded in reaching the river, and escaped by swimming across; others fled to the mountains, and the savages, too much occupied with plunder, gave up the pursuit. When the first intelligence was received in the village of Wilkesbarre that the battle was lost, the women fled with their children to the mountains on their way to the settlements on the Delaware, where many of them at length arrived after suffering extreme hardships. Many of the men who escaped the battle, together with their women and children, who were unable to travel on foot, took refuge in Wyoming fort, and on the following day (July 4th,) Butler and Brant, at the head of their combined forces, appeared before the fort, and demanded its surrender. The garrison being without any efficient means of defence, surrendered the fort on articles of capitulation, by which the settlers, upon giving up their fortifications, prisoners, and military stores, were to remain in the country unmolested, provided they did not again take up arms. In this battle about three hundred of the settlers were killed or missing, from a great part of whom no intelligence was ever afterward received. The conditions of the capitulation were entirely disregarded by the British and savage forces, and after the fort was delivered up, all kinds of barbarities were committed by them. The village of Wilkesbarre, consisting of twenty-three houses, was burnt; men and their wives were separated from each other, and carried into captivity: their property was plundered, and the settlement laid waste. The remainder of the inhabitants were driven from the valley, and compelled to proceed on foot sixty miles through the great swamp, almost without food or clothing. A number perished in the journey, principally women and children; some died of their wounds; others wandered from the path in search of food, and were lost, and those who survived called the wilderness through which they had passed, "the shades of death!" a name which it has since retained. [Illustration: THE BLOCK-HOUSE.] HEROIC WOMEN OF THE WEST. The following incidents are taken from a letter addressed by Captain Nathaniel Hart, of Woodford county, Kentucky, to Governor Morehead: DEAR SIR.--Connected with your address delivered at the celebration of the first settlement of Kentucky, at Boonesborough, the circumstances attending the escape and defence of Mrs. Woods, about the year 1784-5, near the Crab Orchard, in Lincoln county, may not be without interest. I have a distinct recollection of them. Mr. Woods, her husband, was absent from home, and early in the morning, being a short distance from her cabin, she discovered several Indians advancing towards it. She reached it before all but one, who was so far ahead of the others, that before she could close and fasten the door, he entered. Instantly he was seized by a lame negro man of the family, and after a short scuffle, they both fell--the negro underneath. But he held the Indian so fast, that he was unable to use either his scalping knife or tomahawk, when he called upon his young mistress to take the axe from under the bed, and dispatch him by a blow upon the head. She immediately attempted it: but the first attempt was a failure She repeated the blow and killed him. The other Indians were at the door endeavoring to force it open with their tomahawks. The negro rose, and proposed to Mrs. Woods to let in another, and they would soon dispose of the whole of them in the same way. The cabin was but a short distance from a station, the occupants of which, having discovered the perilous situation of the family, fired on the Indians, and killed another, when the remainder made their escape. [Illustration: MRS. DUREE OVER THE DEAD BODY OF HER HUSBAND.] This incident is not more extaordinary than one that happened, in the fall or winter of 1781-2, to some families belonging to our own fort at the White Oak Spring. My father settled this fort in 1779. It was situated about a mile above Boonesborough and in the same bottom of the river. It was composed principally of families from York county, Pennsylvania--orderly, respectable people, and the men good soldiers. But they were unaccustomed to Indian warfare, and the consequence was, that of some ten or twelve men, all were killed but two or three. During this period, Peter Duree, the elder, the principal man of the connection, determined to settle a new fort between Estill's station and the mouth of Muddy Creek, directly on the trace between the Cherokee and Shawnese towns. Having erected a cabin, his son-in-law, John Bullock and his family, and his son Peter Duree, his wife and two children, removed to it, taking a pair of hand mill stones with them. They remained for two or three days shut up in their cabin, but their corn meal being exhausted, they were compelled to venture out to cut a hollow tree in order to adjust their hand mill. They were attacked by Indians--Bullock, after running a short distance, fell. Duree reached the cabin, and threw himself upon the bed. Mrs. Bullock ran to the door to ascertain the fate of her husband--received a shot in the breast, and fell across the door sill. Mrs. Duree, not knowing whether her husband had been shot or had fainted, caught her by the feet, pulled her into the house and barred the door. She grasped a rifle and told her husband, she would help him to fight. He replied that he had been wounded and was dying. She then presented the gun through several port holes in quick succession--then calmly sat by her husband and closed his eyes in death. You would conclude that the scene ought to end here--but after waiting several hours, and seeing nothing more of the Indians, she sallied out in desperation to make her way to the White Oak Spring, with her infant in her arms, and a son, three or four years of age, following her. Afraid to pursue the trace, she entered the woods, and after running till she was nearly exhausted she came at length to the trace. She determined to follow it at all hazards, and having advanced a few miles further, she met the elder Mr. Duree, with his wife, and youngest son, with their baggage, on their way to the new station. The melancholy tidings induced them, of course, to return. They led their horses into an adjoining canebrake, unloaded them, and regained the White Oak Spring fort before daylight. It is impossible at this day to make a just impression of the sufferings of the pioneers about the period spoken of. The White Oak Spring fort in 1782, with perhaps one hundred souls in it, was reduced in August to three fighting white men--and I can say with truth, that for two or three weeks, my mother's family never unclothed themselves to sleep, nor were all of them, within the time, at their meals together, nor was any household business attempted. Food was prepared, and placed where those who chose could eat. It was the period when Bryant's station was besieged and for many days before and after that gloomy event, we were in constant expectation of being made prisoners. We made application to Colonel Logan for a guard, and obtained one, but not until the danger was measurably over. It then consisted of two men only. Colonel Logan did everything in his power, as county lieutenant, to sustain the different forts--but it was not a very easy matter to order a married man from a fort where his family was to defend some other--when his own was in imminent danger. I went with my mother in January, 1783, to Logan's station, to prove my father's will. He had fallen in the preceding July. Twenty armed men were of the party. Twenty-three widows were in attendance upon the court, to obtain letters of administration on the estates of their husbands, who had been killed during the past year. My mother went to Colonel Logan's, who received and treated her like a sister. [Illustration: GENERAL ST. CLAIR.] INDIAN STRATEGEM FOILED. The Chippewas are a numerous people inhabiting the country north of Lake Superior, and about the source of the Mississippi. They are divided into several tribes, and are distinguished by the number of blue or black lines tattooed on their cheeks and foreheads. Travellers have always described them as "the most peaceable tribe of Indians known in North America." They are not remarkable for their activity as hunters, and this no doubt is owing to the ease with which they can procure both game and fish. [Illustration: THE SENTINEL.] In their pursuit of deer, they sometimes drive them into the small lakes, and then spear them from their canoes; or shoot them with the bow and arrow, after having driven them into inclosures constructed for the purpose. Snares made of deer sinews, too, are frequently used for catching large and small game: and as these occupations are not beyond the strength of the old men and boys, they take a share in these toils, which among most of the tribes are left exclusively to the squaws. In person the Chippewas are not remarkable; they are generally robust, their complexion swarthy, their features broad, and their hair straight and black, which is the case in most of the Indian tribes. But they have not that piercing eye, which so generally animates the Indian countenance. The aspect of the women is more agreeable than that of the men; they wear their hair of a great length, and pay much attention to its arrangement, greasing it with considerable taste. They appear to be more attentive to the comforts of dress, and less anxious about its exterior than of their red brethren. Deer and fawn skins, dressed with the hair on, so skilfully that they are perfectly supple, compose their shirt or coat, which is girt round the waist with a belt, and reaches half way down the thigh. Their moccasins and leggins are generally sewn together, and the latter meet the belt to which they are fastened. A ruff or tippet surrounds the neck, and the skin of the deer's head is formed into a curious sort of cap. A robe of several deer skins sewn together is throw over the whole; this dress is sometimes worn single, but in winter it is always made double, the hair forming both the lining and the outside. Thus attired, a Chippewa will lay himself down on the snow and repose in comfort; and if in his wanderings across the numerous lakes with which his country abounds, he should fall short of provisions, he has only to cut a hole in the ice, when he seldom fails of taking a blackfish, or a bass, which he broils over his little wood fire with as much skill as a French cook. At the time of the French and Indian wars, the American army was encamped on the Plains of Chippewa. Colonel St. Clair, the commander, was a brave and meritorious officer, but his bravery sometimes amounted to rashness, and his enemies have accused him of indiscretion. In the present instance perhaps he may have merited the accusation, for the plain on which he had encamped was bordered by a dense forest, from which the Indian scouts could easily pick off his sentinels without in the least exposing themselves to danger. [Illustration: CHIPPEWA INDIANS FISHING ON THE ICE.] Five nights had passed, and every night the sentinel, who stood at a lonely out-post in the vicinity of the forest, had been shot; and these repeated disasters struck such dread among the remaining soldiers, that no one would come forward to offer to take the post, and the commander, knowing it was only throwing men's lives away, let it stand for a few nights unoccupied. At length, a rifleman of the Virginian corps, volunteered his services for this dangerous duty; he laughed at the fears of his companions, and told them he meant to return safe and drink his commander's health in the morning. The guard marched up soon after, and he shouldered his rifle and fell. He arrived at the place which had been so fatal to his comrades, and bidding his fellow soldiers "good night," assumed the duties of his post. The night was dark, thick clouds overspread the firmament, and hardly a star could be seen by the sentinel as he paced his lonely walk. All was silent except the gradually retreating footsteps of the guard; he marched onwards, then stopped and listened till he thought he heard the joyful sound of "All's well"--then all was still, and he sat down on a fallen tree and began to muse. Presently a low rustling among the bushes caught his ear; he gazed intently towards the spot whence the sound seemed to proceed, but he could see nothing save the impenetrable gloom of the forest. The sound grew nearer, and a well-known grunt informed him of the approach of a bear. The animal passed the soldier slowly, and then quietly sought the thicket to the left. At this moment the moon shone out bright through the parting clouds, and the wary soldier perceived the ornamented moccasin of a savage on what an instant before he believed to be a bear! He could have shot him in a moment, but he knew not how many other animals might be at hand; he therefore refrained, and having perfect knowledge of Indian subtilty, he quickly took off his hat and coat, hung them on a branch of a fallen tree, grasped his rifle, and silently crept towards the thicket. He had barely reached it, when an arrow, whizzing past his head, told him of the danger he had so narrowly escaped. He looked carefully round him, and on a little spot of cleared land he counted twelve Indians, some sitting, some lying full length on the thickly strewn leaves of the forest. Believing that they had already shot the sentinel, and little thinking there was any one within hearing, they were quite off their guard, and conversed aloud about their plans for the morrow. It appeared that a council of twelve chiefs was now held, in which they gravely deliberated on the most effectual means of annoying the enemy. It was decided that the next evening forty of their warriors should be in readiness at the hour when the sentinel should be left by his comrades, and that when they had retired a few paces, an arrow should silence him for ever, and they would then rush on and massacre the guard. This being concluded, they rose, and drawing the numerous folds of their ample robes closer round them, they marched off in Indian file through the gloomy forest, seeking some more distant spot, where the smoke of their nightly fire would not be observed by the white men. The sentinel rose from his hiding-place and returned to his post, and taking down his hat, found that an arrow had passed clean through it. He then wrapt himself in his watch-coat, and returned immediately to the camp; and without any delay demanded to speak to the commander, saying that he had something important to communicate. [Illustration: GENERAL MORGAN.] He was admitted, and when he had told all that he had seen and heard, the Colonel bestowed on him the commission of lieutenant of the Virginia corps, which had been made vacant by the death of one of his comrades a few nights back, and ordered him to be ready with a picket guard, to march an hour earlier than usual to the fatal out-post, there to place a hat and coat on the branches, and then lie in ambush for the intruders. The following evening, according to the orders given by Colonel St. Clair, a detachment of forty riflemen, with Lieutenant Morgan at their head, marched from the camp at half past seven in the evening towards the appointed spot, and having arranged the hat and coat so as to have the appearance of a soldier standing on guard, they stole silently away and hid themselves among the bushes. Here they lay for almost an hour before any signs of approaching Indians were heard. The night was cold and still, and the rising moon shone forth in all her beauty. The men were becoming impatient of their uncomfortable situation, for their clothes were not so well adapted to a bed of snow as the deer-skin robes of the hardy Chippewas. "Silence!" whispered Lieutenant Morgan--"I hear the rustling of the leaves." Presently a bear of the same description as had been seen the night before, passed near the ambush; it crept to the edge of the plain--reconnoitred--saw the sentinel at his post--retired towards the forest a few paces, and then, suddenly rising on his feet, let fly an arrow which brought the sham sentinel to the ground. So impatient were the Virginians to avenge the death of their comrades that they could scarcely wait till the lieutenant gave the word of command to fire--then they rose in a body, and before the Chippewas had time to draw their arrows or seize their tomahawks, more than half their number lay dead upon the plain. The rest fled to the forest, but the riflemen fired again, and killed or wounded several more of the enemy. They then returned in triumph to relate their exploits in the camp. Ten chiefs fell that night, and their fall was, undoubtedly, one principal cause of the French and Indian wars with the English. Lieutenant Morgan rose to be a captain, and at the termination of the war returned home, and lived on his own farm till the breaking out of the American war. And then, at the head of a corps of Virginia rifleman, appeared our hero, the brave and gallant Colonel Morgan, better known by the title of general, which he soon acquired by his courage and ability. [Illustration: BLACKBIRD.] BLACKBIRD. Among the first tribes of the Great Oregon Territory, which established friendly intercourse with the United States traders, were the Omahas. The boast of these Indians was a chief named Blackbird, who was a steadfast friend of the white men and the terror of the neighboring hostile tribes. Such were his skill, courage, and success in war, that friends and foes regarded him as enchanted. He delighted in trials of strength or agility, in which he always came off victorious. In addition to these qualities, he possessed a secret which rendered him more than human in the eyes of his barbarous followers. This was an acquaintance with the properties of arsenic, which he had obtained from a white trader. Whenever he was displeased with an Indian, he prophesied his death before a certain day, and the sure accomplishment of the prophecy rendered Blackbird an object of terror and reverence. On one occasion, the Poncas made an incursion into Blackbird's territory, and carried away a number of women and horses. He immediately collected his warriors and pursued them. The Poncas sheltered themselves behind a rude embankment, but their persevering enemy, gaining a good position, poured upon them a well-directed fire, which did fearful execution. The Ponca chief dispatched a herald, with the calumet, but he was immediately shot; a second herald experienced the same treatment. The chieftain's daughter, a young maiden of much personal beauty, then appeared before the stern foe, dressed with exquisite taste, and bearing the calumet. Blackbird's heart softened, he accepted the sacred emblem, and concluded a peace with his enemy. The pledge given and received was the beautiful Ponca maiden, as wife to the fierce chieftain of Omaha. For the first time the heart of Blackbird felt the genial influence of love. He loved the young creature who had saved her tribe, with all the ardor of untutored nature. But he was still a savage, and sometimes ungovernable bursts of rage would transport him beyond all bounds of affection or decency. In one of these, his beloved wife unwittingly offended him. He instantly drew his knife and laid her dead with a single blow. The dreadful deed calmed him in a moment. For a little while he looked at the beautiful corpse in stupid grief, and then, with his head wrapped in his robe, he sat down beside it. He ate no food, spake no word for three days. The remonstrances of his people were received with silence, and no one dared to uncover his face. At length one of them brought in a small child, and placed the foot of the unhappy warrior on its neck. Blackbird was moved by the significant appeal and throwing aside his robe, he arose and delivered an oration. The Omaha tribe were greatly thinned by small-pox, and to this loathsome disease their great chieftain fell a victim. His dying request was bold and fanciful. Near the source of the Missouri is a high solitary rock, round which the river winds in a nearly circular direction, and which commands a view of the adjacent country for many miles around. There Blackbird had often sat to watch for the canoes of the white traders, and there it was his dying request to be buried. He was to be mounted upon his horse, completely armed, so as to overlook his lands, and watch for the coming boat of the white men. His orders were obeyed; and on that same high promontory, over the tomb of the Indian warrior was raised his national banner, capped with the scalps which he had taken in battle. Of course the Indians regard the rock with superstitious reverence, and have their own stories of the scenes which occasionally take place on and around it. A DESPERATE ADVENTURE. While encamped on the 24th of April, at a spring near the Spanish Trail, we were surprised by the sudden appearance amongst us of two Mexicans; a man and a boy. The name of the man was Andreas Fuentas, and that of the boy, a handsome lad of eleven years old, Pablo Hernandez. With a cavalcade of about thirty horses, they had come out from Puebla de los Angelos, near the Pacific; had lost half their animals, stolen by the Indians, and now sought my camp for aid. Carson and Godey, two of my men, volunteered to pursue them, with the Mexican; and, well mounted, the three set off on the trail. In the evening, Fuentas returned, his horse having failed; but Carson and Godey had continued the pursuit. [Illustration: KIT. CARSON.] In the afternoon of the next day, a war-whoop was heard, such as Indians make when returning from a victorious enterprise; and soon Carson and Godey appeared driving before them a band of horses, recognised by Fuentas to be a part of those they had lost. Two bloody scalps, dangling from the end of Godey's gun, announced that they had overtaken the Indians as well as the horses. They had continued the pursuit alone after Fuentas left them, and towards nightfall entered the mountains into which the trail led. After sunset, the moon gave light until late in the night, when it entered a narrow defile, and was difficult to follow. Here they lay from midnight till morning. At daylight they resumed the pursuit, and at sunrise discovered the horses; and immediately dismounting and tying up their own, they crept cautiously to a rising ground which intervened, from the crest of which they perceived the encampment of four lodges close by. They proceeded quietly, and got within thirty or forty yards of their object, when a movement among the horses discovered them to the Indians. Giving the war shout, they instantly charged into the camp, regardless of the numbers which the four lodges might contain. The Indians received them with a flight of arrows, shot from their long bows, one of which passed through Godey's shirt collar, barely missing the neck. Our men fired their rifles upon a steady aim, and rushed in. Two Indians were stretched upon the ground, fatally pierced with bullets; the rest fled, except a lad, who was captured. The scalps of the fallen were instantly stripped off, but in the process, one of them, who had two balls through his body, sprung to his feet, the blood streaming from his skinned head, and uttered a hideous howl. The frightful spectacle appalled the stout hearts of our men; but they did what humanity required, and quickly terminated the agony of the gory savage. They were now masters of the camp, which was a pretty little recess in the mountain, with a fine spring, and apparently safe from all invasion. Great preparation had been made for feasting a large party, for it was a very proper place for a rendezvous, and for the celebration of such orgies as robbers of the desert would delight in. Several of the horses had been killed, skinned, and cut up--for the Indians living in the mountains, and only coming into the plains to rob and murder, make no other use of horses than to eat them. Large earthen vessels were on the fire, boiling and stewing the horse beef, and several baskets containing fifty or sixty pair of moccasins, indicated the presence or expectation of a large party. They released the boy who had given strong evidence of the stoicism, or something else of the savage character, by commencing his breakfast upon a horse's head as soon as he found he was not to be killed, but only tied as a prisoner. [Illustration: AN INDIAN CAMP.] Their object accomplished, our men gathered up all the surviving horses, fifteen in number, returned upon their trail, and rejoined us at our camp in the afternoon of the same day. They had rode about one hundred miles in the pursuit and return, and all in about thirty hours. The time, place, object and numbers considered, this expedition of Carson and Godey may be considered among the boldest and most disinterested which the annals of western adventure, so full of daring deeds, can present. Two men in a savage wilderness, pursue day and night an unknown body of Indians into the defiles of an unknown mountain--attack them on sight without counting numbers--and defeat them in an instant--and for what?--to punish the robbers of the desert, and revenge the wrongs of Mexicans whom they did not know. I repeat it was Carson and Godey who did this--the former an American, born, in Booneslick county, Missouri; the latter a Frenchman, born in St. Louis--and both trained to western enterprise from early life. ADVENTURE OF TWO SCOUTS. As early as the year 1790, the block-house and stockade, above the mouth of the Hockhocking river, was a frontier post for the hardy pioneer of that portion of the state from the Hockhocking to the Sciota, and from the Ohio river to the northern lakes. Then nature wore her undisturbed livery of dark and thick forests, interspersed with green and flowery prairies. Then the axe of the woodman had not been heard in the wilderness, nor the plough of the husbandmen marred the beauty of the green prairies. Among the rich and luxuriant valleys, that of the Hockhocking was pre-eminent for nature's richest gifts--and the portico of it whereon Lancaster now stands, was marked as the most luxuriant and picturesque, and became the seat of an Indian village, at a period so early, that the "memory of man runneth not parallel thereto." On the green sward of the prairie was held many a rude gambol of the Indians; and here, too, was many an assemblage of the warriors of one of the most powerful tribes, taking counsel for a "war-path," upon some weak or defenceless post. [Illustration: THE BLOCK-HOUSE.] Upon one of these stirring occasions, intelligence reached the little garrison above the mouth of the Hockhocking, that the Indians were gathering in force somewhere up the valley, for the purpose of striking a terrible and fatal blow on one of the few and scattered defences of the whites. A council was held by the garrison, and scouts were sent up the Hockhocking, in order to ascertain the strength of the foe, and the probable point of attack. In the month of October, and on one of the balmiest days of our Indian summer, two men could have been seen emerging out of the thick plumb and hazel bushes skirting the prairie, and stealthily climbing the eastern declivity of that most remarkable promontory, now known as Mount Pleasant, whose western summit gives a commanding view to the eye of what is doing on the prairie. This eminence was gained by our two adventurers and hardy scouts, and from this point they carefully observed the movements taking place on the prairie. Every day brought an accession of warriors to those already assembled, and every day the scouts witnessed from their eyrie, the horse-racing, leaping, running and throwing the deadly tomahawk by the warriors. The old sachems looking on with indifference--the squaws, for the most part, engaged in their usual drudgeries, and the papooses manifesting all the noisy and wayward joy of childhood. The arrival of any new party of savages was hailed by the terrible war-whoop, which striking the mural face of Mount Pleasant, was driven back into the various indentations of the surrounding hills, producing reverberation on reverberation, and echo on echo, till it seemed as if ten thousand fiends were gathered in their orgies. Such yells might well strike terror into the bosoms of those unaccustomed to them. To our scouts these were but martial music strains which waked their watchfulness, and strung their iron frames. From their early youth had they been always on the frontier, and therefore well practised in all the subtlety, craft, and cunning, as well as knowing the ferocity and bloodthirsty perseverance of the savage. They were therefore not likely to be circumvented by the cunning of their foes; and without a desperate struggle, would not fall victims to the scalping-knife. On several occasions, small parties of warriors left the prairies and ascended the Mount; at which times the scouts would hide in the fissures of the rocks, or lying by the side of some long prostrate tree, cover themselves with the sear and yellow leaf, and again leave their hiding places when their uninvited visitors had disappeared. [Illustration: A SHAWANESE WARRIOR.] For food they depended on jerked venison, and cold corn bread, with which their knapsacks had been well stored. Fire they dared not kindle, and the report of one of their rifles would bring upon them the entire force of the Indians. For drink they depended on some rain water, which still stood in excavations of the rocks, but in a few days this store was exhausted, and M'Clelland and White must abandon their enterprise or find a new supply. To accomplish this most hazardous affair, M'Clelland being the elder, resolved to make the attempt--with his trusty rifle in his grasp, and two canteens strung across his shoulders, he cautiously descended to the prairie, and skirting the hills on the north as much as possible within the hazel thickets, he struck a course for the Hockhocking river. He reached its margin, and turning an abrupt point of a hill, he found a beautiful fountain of limpid water, now known as the Cold Spring, within a few feet of the river. He filled his canteens and returned in safety to his watchful companion. It was now determined to have a fresh supply of water every day, and this duty was to be performed alternately. On one of these occasions, after White had filled his canteens, he sat a few moments, watching the limpid element, as it came gurgling out of the bosom of the earth--the light sound of footsteps caught his practised ear, and upon turning round, he saw two squaws within a few feet of him; these upon turning the jet of the hill had thus suddenly came upon him. The elder squaw gave one of those far-reaching whoops peculiar to the Indians. White at once comprehended his perilous situation--for if the alarm should reach the camp, he and his companion must inevitably perish. Self-preservation impelled him to inflict a noiseless death upon the squaws, and in such a manner as to leave no trace behind. Ever rapid in thought, and prompt in action, he sprang upon his victims with a rapidity and power of a panther, and grasping the throat of each, with one bound he sprang into the river, and rapidly thrust the head of the elder woman under the water, and making stronger efforts to submerge the younger, who, however, powerfully resisted. During the short struggle, the younger female addressed him in his own language, though almost in inarticulate sounds. Releasing his hold, she informed him, that, ten years before, she had been made a prisoner, on Grave Creek flats, and that the Indians, in her presence, butchered her mother and two sisters; and that an only brother had been captured with her, who succeeded on the second night in making his escape; but what had become of him she knew not. During the narrative, White, unobserved by the girl, had let go his grasp on the elder squaw, whose body soon floated where it would not, probably soon be found. He now directed the girl hastily to follow him, and with his usual energy and speed, pushed for the Mount. They had scarcely gone two hundred yards from the spring, before the alarm cry was heard some quarter of a mile down the stream. It was supposed that some warriors returning from a hunt, struck the Hockhocking just as the body of the drowned squaw floated past. White and the girl succeeded in reaching the Mount, where M'Clelland had been no indifferent spectator to the sudden commotion among the Indians, as the prairie warriors were seen to strike off in every direction, and before White and the girl had arrived, a party of some twenty warriors had already gained the eastern acclivity of the Mount, and were cautiously ascending, carefully keeping under cover. Soon the two scouts saw the swarthy faces of the foe, as they glided from tree to tree, and rock to rock, until the whole base of the Mount was surrounded, and all hopes of escape were cut off. [Illustration: A SHAWANESE CHIEF.] In this peril nothing was left, other than to sell their lives as dearly as possible; this they resolved to do, and advised the girl to escape to the Indians, and tell them she had been a captive to the scouts. She said, "No! Death, and that in presence of my people, is to me a thousand times sweeter than captivity--furnish me with a rifle, and I will show you that I can fight as well as die. This spot I leave not! here my bones shall lie bleaching with yours! and should either of you escape, you will carry the tidings of my death to my remaining relatives." Remonstrance proved fruitless; the two scouts matured their plans for a vigorous defence--opposing craft to craft, expedient to expedient, and an unerring fire of the deadly rifle. The attack now commenced in front, where, from the narrow backbone of the Mount, the savages had to advance in single file, but where they could avail themselves of the rock and trees. In advancing the warrior must be momentarily exposed, and two bare inches of his swarthy form was target enough for the unerring rifle of the scouts. After bravely maintaining the fight in front, and keeping the enemy in check, they discovered a new danger threatening them. The wary foe now made every preparation to attack them in flank, which could be most successfully and fatally done by reaching an insulated rock lying in one of the ravines on the southern hill side. This rock once gained by the Indians, they could bring the scouts under point blank shot of the rifle; and without the possibility of escape. Our brave scouts saw the hopelessness of their situation, which nothing could avert but brave companions and an unerring shot--them they had not. But the brave never despair. With this certain fate resting upon them, they had continued as calm, and as calculating, and as unwearied as the strongest desire of vengeance on a treacherous foe could produce. Soon M'Clelland saw a tall and swarthy figure preparing to spring from a cover so near the fatal rock, that a single bound must reach it, and all hope be destroyed. He felt that all depended on one advantageous shot, although but one inch of the warrior's body was exposed, and that at a distance of one hundred yards--he resolved to risk all--coolly he raised his rifle to his eyes, carefully shading the sight with his hand, he drew a bead so sure, that he felt conscious it would do--he touched the hair trigger with his finger--the hammer came down, but in place of striking fire, it crushed his flint into a hundred fragments! Although he felt that the savage must reach the fatal rock before he could adjust another flint, he proceeded to the task with the utmost composure, casting many a furtive glance towards the fearful point. Suddenly he saw the warrior stretching every muscle for the leap--and with the agility of a deer he made the spring--instead of reaching the rock he sprung ten feet in the air, and giving one terrific yell he fell upon the earth, and his dark corpse rolled fifty feet down the hill. He had evidently received a death shot from some unknown hand. A hundred voices from below re-echoed the terrible shout, and it was evident that they had lost a favorite warrior, as well as been foiled for a time in their most important movement. A very few moments proved that the advantage so mysteriously gained would be of short duration; for already the scouts caught a momentary glimpse of a swarthy warrior, cautiously advancing towards the cover so recently occupied by a fellow companion. Now, too, the attack in front was resumed with increased fury, so as to require the incessant fire of both scouts, to prevent the Indians from gaining the eminence--and in a short time M'Clelland saw the wary warrior turning a somerset, his corpse rolled down towards his companion: again a mysterious agent had interposed in their behalf. This second sacrifice cast dismay into the ranks of the assailants; and just as the sun was disappearing behind the western hills, the foe withdrew a short distance, for the purpose of devising new modes of attack. The respite came most seasonably to the scouts, who had bravely kept their position, and boldly maintained the unequal fight from the middle of the day. [Illustration: THE SCOUT.] Now, for the first time, was the girl missing, and the scouts supposed through terror she had escaped to her former captors, or that she had been killed during the fight. They were not long left to doubt, for in a few moments the girl was seen emerging from behind a rock and coming to them with a rifle in her hand. During the heat of the fight she saw a warrior fall, who had advanced some fifty yards before the main body in front. She at once resolved to possess herself of his rifle, and crouching in undergrowth she crept to the spot, and succeeded in her enterprise, being all the time exposed to the cross fire of the defenders and assailants--her practised eye had early noticed the fatal rock, and hers was the mysterious hand by which the two warriors had fallen--the last being the most wary, untiring, and bloodthirsty brave of the Shawnese tribe. He it was, who ten years previous had scalped the family of the girl, and been her captor. In the west, dark clouds were now gathering, and in an hour the whole heavens were shrouded in them; this darkness greatly embarrassed the scouts in their contemplated night retreat, for they might readily lose their way, or accidentally fall on the enemy--this being highly probable, if not inevitable. An hour's consultation decided their plans, and it was agreed that the girl, from her intimate knowledge of their localities, should lead the advance a few steps. Another advantage might be gained by this arrangement, for in case they should fall in with some out-post, the girl's knowledge of the Indian tongue, would, perhaps, enable her to deceive the sentinel: and so the sequel proved, for scarcely had they descended one hundred feet, when a low "whist" from the girl, warned them of present danger. [Illustration: THE RETURNED CAPTIVE.] The scouts sunk silently to the earth, where, by previous agreement, they were to remain till another signal was given them by the girl,--whose absence for more than a quarter of an hour now began to excite the most serious apprehensions. At length, she again appeared, and told them that she had succeeded in removing two sentinels who were directly in their route to a point some hundred feet distant. The descent was noiselessly resumed--the level gained, and the scouts followed their intrepid pioneer for half a mile in the most profound silence, when the barking of a small dog, within a few feet, apprised them of a new danger. The almost simultaneous click of the scouts' rifles was heard by the girl, who rapidly approached them, and stated that they were now in the midst of the Indian wigwams, and their lives depended on the most profound silence, and implicitly following her footsteps. A moment afterwards, the girl was accosted by a squaw, from an opening in the wigwam. She replied in the Indian language, and without stopping pressed forward. In a short time she stopped and assured the scouts that the village was cleared and that they were now in safety. She knew that every pass leading out of the prairie was safely guarded by Indians, and at once resolved to adopt the bold adventure of passing through the very centre of their village as the least hazardous. The result proved the correctness of her judgment. They now kept a course for the Ohio, being guided by the Hockhocking river--and after three days' march and suffering, the party arrived at the block-house in safety. Their escape from the Indians, prevented the contemplated attack; and the rescued girl proved to be the sister of the intrepid Neil Washburn, celebrated in Indian warfare as the renowned scout to Captain Kenton's bloody Kentuckians. [Illustration: THE YOUNG HERO CROSSING THE RIVER.] A YOUNG HERO OF THE WEST. To show of what material the boys were made, in the great heroic age of the west, we give the following, which we find in a recent communication from Major Nye, of Ohio. The scene of adventure was within the present limits of Wood county, Virginia. I have heard from Mr. Guthrie and others, that at Bellville a man had a son, quite a youth, say twelve or fourteen years of age, who had been used to firing his father's gun, as most boys did in those days. He heard, he supposed, turkeys on or near the bank of the Ohio, opposite that place, and asked his father to let him take his gun and kill one. His father knowing that the Indians often decoyed people by such noises, refused, saying it was probably an Indian. When he had gone to work, the boy took the gun and paddled his canoe over the river, but had the precaution to land some distance from where he had heard the turkey all the morning, probably from fear of scaring the game, and perhaps a little afraid of Indians. The banks were steep, and the boy cautiously advanced to where he could see without being seen. Watching awhile for his game, he happened to see an Indian cautiously looking over a log, to notice where the boy had landed. The lad fixed his gun at rest, watching the place where he had seen the Indian's head, and when it appeared again, fired, and the Indian disappeared. The boy dropped the gun and ran for his canoe, which he paddled over the river as soon as possible. When he reached home, he said, "Mother, I have killed an Indian!" and the mother replied, "No, you have not." "Yes, I have," said the boy. The father coming in, he made the same report to him, and received the same reply; but he constantly affirmed it was even so; and, as the gun was left, a party took the boy over the river to find it, and show the place where he shot the Indian, and behold, his words were found verified. The ball had entered the head, where the boy had affirmed he shot, between the eye and ear. THE END. 
851	----	NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY AND RESTORATION OF MRS. MARY ROWLANDSON By Mrs. Mary Rowlandson The sovereignty and goodness of GOD, together with the faithfulness of his promises displayed, being a narrative of the captivity and restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, commended by her, to all that desires to know the Lord's doings to, and dealings with her. Especially to her dear children and relations. The second Addition [sic] Corrected and amended. Written by her own hand for her private use, and now made public at the earnest desire of some friends, and for the benefit of the afflicted. Deut. 32.39. See now that I, even I am he, and there is no god with me, I kill and I make alive, I wound and I heal, neither is there any can deliver out of my hand. On the tenth of February 1675, came the Indians with great numbers upon Lancaster: their first coming was about sunrising; hearing the noise of some guns, we looked out; several houses were burning, and the smoke ascending to heaven. There were five persons taken in one house; the father, and the mother and a sucking child, they knocked on the head; the other two they took and carried away alive. There were two others, who being out of their garrison upon some occasion were set upon; one was knocked on the head, the other escaped; another there was who running along was shot and wounded, and fell down; he begged of them his life, promising them money (as they told me) but they would not hearken to him but knocked him in head, and stripped him naked, and split open his bowels. Another, seeing many of the Indians about his barn, ventured and went out, but was quickly shot down. There were three others belonging to the same garrison who were killed; the Indians getting up upon the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon them over their fortification. Thus these murderous wretches went on, burning, and destroying before them. At length they came and beset our own house, and quickly it was the dolefulest day that ever mine eyes saw. The house stood upon the edge of a hill; some of the Indians got behind the hill, others into the barn, and others behind anything that could shelter them; from all which places they shot against the house, so that the bullets seemed to fly like hail; and quickly they wounded one man among us, then another, and then a third. About two hours (according to my observation, in that amazing time) they had been about the house before they prevailed to fire it (which they did with flax and hemp, which they brought out of the barn, and there being no defense about the house, only two flankers at two opposite corners and one of them not finished); they fired it once and one ventured out and quenched it, but they quickly fired it again, and that took. Now is the dreadful hour come, that I have often heard of (in time of war, as it was the case of others), but now mine eyes see it. Some in our house were fighting for their lives, others wallowing in their blood, the house on fire over our heads, and the bloody heathen ready to knock us on the head, if we stirred out. Now might we hear mothers and children crying out for themselves, and one another, "Lord, what shall we do?" Then I took my children (and one of my sisters', hers) to go forth and leave the house: but as soon as we came to the door and appeared, the Indians shot so thick that the bullets rattled against the house, as if one had taken an handful of stones and threw them, so that we were fain to give back. We had six stout dogs belonging to our garrison, but none of them would stir, though another time, if any Indian had come to the door, they were ready to fly upon him and tear him down. The Lord hereby would make us the more acknowledge His hand, and to see that our help is always in Him. But out we must go, the fire increasing, and coming along behind us, roaring, and the Indians gaping before us with their guns, spears, and hatchets to devour us. No sooner were we out of the house, but my brother-in-law (being before wounded, in defending the house, in or near the throat) fell down dead, whereat the Indians scornfully shouted, and hallowed, and were presently upon him, stripping off his clothes, the bullets flying thick, one went through my side, and the same (as would seem) through the bowels and hand of my dear child in my arms. One of my elder sisters' children, named William, had then his leg broken, which the Indians perceiving, they knocked him on [his] head. Thus were we butchered by those merciless heathen, standing amazed, with the blood running down to our heels. My eldest sister being yet in the house, and seeing those woeful sights, the infidels hauling mothers one way, and children another, and some wallowing in their blood: and her elder son telling her that her son William was dead, and myself was wounded, she said, "And Lord, let me die with them," which was no sooner said, but she was struck with a bullet, and fell down dead over the threshold. I hope she is reaping the fruit of her good labors, being faithful to the service of God in her place. In her younger years she lay under much trouble upon spiritual accounts, till it pleased God to make that precious scripture take hold of her heart, "And he said unto me, my Grace is sufficient for thee" (2 Corinthians 12.9). More than twenty years after, I have heard her tell how sweet and comfortable that place was to her. But to return: the Indians laid hold of us, pulling me one way, and the children another, and said, "Come go along with us"; I told them they would kill me: they answered, if I were willing to go along with them, they would not hurt me. Oh the doleful sight that now was to behold at this house! "Come, behold the works of the Lord, what desolations he has made in the earth." Of thirty-seven persons who were in this one house, none escaped either present death, or a bitter captivity, save only one, who might say as he, "And I only am escaped alone to tell the News" (Job 1.15). There were twelve killed, some shot, some stabbed with their spears, some knocked down with their hatchets. When we are in prosperity, Oh the little that we think of such dreadful sights, and to see our dear friends, and relations lie bleeding out their heart-blood upon the ground. There was one who was chopped into the head with a hatchet, and stripped naked, and yet was crawling up and down. It is a solemn sight to see so many Christians lying in their blood, some here, and some there, like a company of sheep torn by wolves, all of them stripped naked by a company of hell-hounds, roaring, singing, ranting, and insulting, as if they would have torn our very hearts out; yet the Lord by His almighty power preserved a number of us from death, for there were twenty-four of us taken alive and carried captive. I had often before this said that if the Indians should come, I should choose rather to be killed by them than taken alive, but when it came to the trial my mind changed; their glittering weapons so daunted my spirit, that I chose rather to go along with those (as I may say) ravenous beasts, than that moment to end my days; and that I may the better declare what happened to me during that grievous captivity, I shall particularly speak of the several removes we had up and down the wilderness. THE FIRST REMOVE Now away we must go with those barbarous creatures, with our bodies wounded and bleeding, and our hearts no less than our bodies. About a mile we went that night, up upon a hill within sight of the town, where they intended to lodge. There was hard by a vacant house (deserted by the English before, for fear of the Indians). I asked them whether I might not lodge in the house that night, to which they answered, "What, will you love English men still?" This was the dolefulest night that ever my eyes saw. Oh the roaring, and singing and dancing, and yelling of those black creatures in the night, which made the place a lively resemblance of hell. And as miserable was the waste that was there made of horses, cattle, sheep, swine, calves, lambs, roasting pigs, and fowl (which they had plundered in the town), some roasting, some lying and burning, and some boiling to feed our merciless enemies; who were joyful enough, though we were disconsolate. To add to the dolefulness of the former day, and the dismalness of the present night, my thoughts ran upon my losses and sad bereaved condition. All was gone, my husband gone (at least separated from me, he being in the Bay; and to add to my grief, the Indians told me they would kill him as he came homeward), my children gone, my relations and friends gone, our house and home and all our comforts--within door and without--all was gone (except my life), and I knew not but the next moment that might go too. There remained nothing to me but one poor wounded babe, and it seemed at present worse than death that it was in such a pitiful condition, bespeaking compassion, and I had no refreshing for it, nor suitable things to revive it. Little do many think what is the savageness and brutishness of this barbarous enemy, Ay, even those that seem to profess more than others among them, when the English have fallen into their hands. Those seven that were killed at Lancaster the summer before upon a Sabbath day, and the one that was afterward killed upon a weekday, were slain and mangled in a barbarous manner, by one-eyed John, and Marlborough's Praying Indians, which Capt. Mosely brought to Boston, as the Indians told me. THE SECOND REMOVE But now, the next morning, I must turn my back upon the town, and travel with them into the vast and desolate wilderness, I knew not whither. It is not my tongue, or pen, can express the sorrows of my heart, and bitterness of my spirit that I had at this departure: but God was with me in a wonderful manner, carrying me along, and bearing up my spirit, that it did not quite fail. One of the Indians carried my poor wounded babe upon a horse; it went moaning all along, "I shall die, I shall die." I went on foot after it, with sorrow that cannot be expressed. At length I took it off the horse, and carried it in my arms till my strength failed, and I fell down with it. Then they set me upon a horse with my wounded child in my lap, and there being no furniture upon the horse's back, as we were going down a steep hill we both fell over the horse's head, at which they, like inhumane creatures, laughed, and rejoiced to see it, though I thought we should there have ended our days, as overcome with so many difficulties. But the Lord renewed my strength still, and carried me along, that I might see more of His power; yea, so much that I could never have thought of, had I not experienced it. After this it quickly began to snow, and when night came on, they stopped, and now down I must sit in the snow, by a little fire, and a few boughs behind me, with my sick child in my lap; and calling much for water, being now (through the wound) fallen into a violent fever. My own wound also growing so stiff that I could scarce sit down or rise up; yet so it must be, that I must sit all this cold winter night upon the cold snowy ground, with my sick child in my arms, looking that every hour would be the last of its life; and having no Christian friend near me, either to comfort or help me. Oh, I may see the wonderful power of God, that my Spirit did not utterly sink under my affliction: still the Lord upheld me with His gracious and merciful spirit, and we were both alive to see the light of the next morning. THE THIRD REMOVE The morning being come, they prepared to go on their way. One of the Indians got up upon a horse, and they set me up behind him, with my poor sick babe in my lap. A very wearisome and tedious day I had of it; what with my own wound, and my child's being so exceeding sick, and in a lamentable condition with her wound. It may be easily judged what a poor feeble condition we were in, there being not the least crumb of refreshing that came within either of our mouths from Wednesday night to Saturday night, except only a little cold water. This day in the afternoon, about an hour by sun, we came to the place where they intended, viz. an Indian town, called Wenimesset, northward of Quabaug. When we were come, Oh the number of pagans (now merciless enemies) that there came about me, that I may say as David, "I had fainted, unless I had believed, etc" (Psalm 27.13). The next day was the Sabbath. I then remembered how careless I had been of God's holy time; how many Sabbaths I had lost and misspent, and how evilly I had walked in God's sight; which lay so close unto my spirit, that it was easy for me to see how righteous it was with God to cut off the thread of my life and cast me out of His presence forever. Yet the Lord still showed mercy to me, and upheld me; and as He wounded me with one hand, so he healed me with the other. This day there came to me one Robert Pepper (a man belonging to Roxbury) who was taken in Captain Beers's fight, and had been now a considerable time with the Indians; and up with them almost as far as Albany, to see King Philip, as he told me, and was now very lately come into these parts. Hearing, I say, that I was in this Indian town, he obtained leave to come and see me. He told me he himself was wounded in the leg at Captain Beer's fight; and was not able some time to go, but as they carried him, and as he took oaken leaves and laid to his wound, and through the blessing of God he was able to travel again. Then I took oaken leaves and laid to my side, and with the blessing of God it cured me also; yet before the cure was wrought, I may say, as it is in Psalm 38.5-6 "My wounds stink and are corrupt, I am troubled, I am bowed down greatly, I go mourning all the day long." I sat much alone with a poor wounded child in my lap, which moaned night and day, having nothing to revive the body, or cheer the spirits of her, but instead of that, sometimes one Indian would come and tell me one hour that "your master will knock your child in the head," and then a second, and then a third, "your master will quickly knock your child in the head." This was the comfort I had from them, miserable comforters are ye all, as he said. Thus nine days I sat upon my knees, with my babe in my lap, till my flesh was raw again; my child being even ready to depart this sorrowful world, they bade me carry it out to another wigwam (I suppose because they would not be troubled with such spectacles) whither I went with a very heavy heart, and down I sat with the picture of death in my lap. About two hours in the night, my sweet babe like a lamb departed this life on Feb. 18, 1675. It being about six years, and five months old. It was nine days from the first wounding, in this miserable condition, without any refreshing of one nature or other, except a little cold water. I cannot but take notice how at another time I could not bear to be in the room where any dead person was, but now the case is changed; I must and could lie down by my dead babe, side by side all the night after. I have thought since of the wonderful goodness of God to me in preserving me in the use of my reason and senses in that distressed time, that I did not use wicked and violent means to end my own miserable life. In the morning, when they understood that my child was dead they sent for me home to my master's wigwam (by my master in this writing, must be understood Quinnapin, who was a Sagamore, and married King Philip's wife's sister; not that he first took me, but I was sold to him by another Narragansett Indian, who took me when first I came out of the garrison). I went to take up my dead child in my arms to carry it with me, but they bid me let it alone; there was no resisting, but go I must and leave it. When I had been at my master's wigwam, I took the first opportunity I could get to go look after my dead child. When I came I asked them what they had done with it; then they told me it was upon the hill. Then they went and showed me where it was, where I saw the ground was newly digged, and there they told me they had buried it. There I left that child in the wilderness, and must commit it, and myself also in this wilderness condition, to Him who is above all. God having taken away this dear child, I went to see my daughter Mary, who was at this same Indian town, at a wigwam not very far off, though we had little liberty or opportunity to see one another. She was about ten years old, and taken from the door at first by a Praying Ind. and afterward sold for a gun. When I came in sight, she would fall aweeping; at which they were provoked, and would not let me come near her, but bade me be gone; which was a heart-cutting word to me. I had one child dead, another in the wilderness, I knew not where, the third they would not let me come near to: "Me (as he said) have ye bereaved of my Children, Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin also, all these things are against me." I could not sit still in this condition, but kept walking from one place to another. And as I was going along, my heart was even overwhelmed with the thoughts of my condition, and that I should have children, and a nation which I knew not, ruled over them. Whereupon I earnestly entreated the Lord, that He would consider my low estate, and show me a token for good, and if it were His blessed will, some sign and hope of some relief. And indeed quickly the Lord answered, in some measure, my poor prayers; for as I was going up and down mourning and lamenting my condition, my son came to me, and asked me how I did. I had not seen him before, since the destruction of the town, and I knew not where he was, till I was informed by himself, that he was amongst a smaller parcel of Indians, whose place was about six miles off. With tears in his eyes, he asked me whether his sister Sarah was dead; and told me he had seen his sister Mary; and prayed me, that I would not be troubled in reference to himself. The occasion of his coming to see me at this time, was this: there was, as I said, about six miles from us, a small plantation of Indians, where it seems he had been during his captivity; and at this time, there were some forces of the Ind. gathered out of our company, and some also from them (among whom was my son's master) to go to assault and burn Medfield. In this time of the absence of his master, his dame brought him to see me. I took this to be some gracious answer to my earnest and unfeigned desire. The next day, viz. to this, the Indians returned from Medfield, all the company, for those that belonged to the other small company, came through the town that now we were at. But before they came to us, Oh! the outrageous roaring and hooping that there was. They began their din about a mile before they came to us. By their noise and hooping they signified how many they had destroyed (which was at that time twenty-three). Those that were with us at home were gathered together as soon as they heard the hooping, and every time that the other went over their number, these at home gave a shout, that the very earth rung again. And thus they continued till those that had been upon the expedition were come up to the Sagamore's wigwam; and then, Oh, the hideous insulting and triumphing that there was over some Englishmen's scalps that they had taken (as their manner is) and brought with them. I cannot but take notice of the wonderful mercy of God to me in those afflictions, in sending me a Bible. One of the Indians that came from Medfield fight, had brought some plunder, came to me, and asked me, if I would have a Bible, he had got one in his basket. I was glad of it, and asked him, whether he thought the Indians would let me read? He answered, yes. So I took the Bible, and in that melancholy time, it came into my mind to read first the 28th chapter of Deuteronomy, which I did, and when I had read it, my dark heart wrought on this manner: that there was no mercy for me, that the blessings were gone, and the curses come in their room, and that I had lost my opportunity. But the Lord helped me still to go on reading till I came to Chap. 30, the seven first verses, where I found, there was mercy promised again, if we would return to Him by repentance; and though we were scattered from one end of the earth to the other, yet the Lord would gather us together, and turn all those curses upon our enemies. I do not desire to live to forget this Scripture, and what comfort it was to me. Now the Ind. began to talk of removing from this place, some one way, and some another. There were now besides myself nine English captives in this place (all of them children, except one woman). I got an opportunity to go and take my leave of them. They being to go one way, and I another, I asked them whether they were earnest with God for deliverance. They told me they did as they were able, and it was some comfort to me, that the Lord stirred up children to look to Him. The woman, viz. goodwife Joslin, told me she should never see me again, and that she could find in her heart to run away. I wished her not to run away by any means, for we were near thirty miles from any English town, and she very big with child, and had but one week to reckon, and another child in her arms, two years old, and bad rivers there were to go over, and we were feeble, with our poor and coarse entertainment. I had my Bible with me, I pulled it out, and asked her whether she would read. We opened the Bible and lighted on Psalm 27, in which Psalm we especially took notice of that, ver. ult., "Wait on the Lord, Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine Heart, wait I say on the Lord." THE FOURTH REMOVE And now I must part with that little company I had. Here I parted from my daughter Mary (whom I never saw again till I saw her in Dorchester, returned from captivity), and from four little cousins and neighbors, some of which I never saw afterward: the Lord only knows the end of them. Amongst them also was that poor woman before mentioned, who came to a sad end, as some of the company told me in my travel: she having much grief upon her spirit about her miserable condition, being so near her time, she would be often asking the Indians to let her go home; they not being willing to that, and yet vexed with her importunity, gathered a great company together about her and stripped her naked, and set her in the midst of them, and when they had sung and danced about her (in their hellish manner) as long as they pleased they knocked her on head, and the child in her arms with her. When they had done that they made a fire and put them both into it, and told the other children that were with them that if they attempted to go home, they would serve them in like manner. The children said she did not shed one tear, but prayed all the while. But to return to my own journey, we traveled about half a day or little more, and came to a desolate place in the wilderness, where there were no wigwams or inhabitants before; we came about the middle of the afternoon to this place, cold and wet, and snowy, and hungry, and weary, and no refreshing for man but the cold ground to sit on, and our poor Indian cheer. Heart-aching thoughts here I had about my poor children, who were scattered up and down among the wild beasts of the forest. My head was light and dizzy (either through hunger or hard lodging, or trouble or all together), my knees feeble, my body raw by sitting double night and day, that I cannot express to man the affliction that lay upon my spirit, but the Lord helped me at that time to express it to Himself. I opened my Bible to read, and the Lord brought that precious Scripture to me. "Thus saith the Lord, refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, and they shall come again from the land of the enemy" (Jeremiah 31.16). This was a sweet cordial to me when I was ready to faint; many and many a time have I sat down and wept sweetly over this Scripture. At this place we continued about four days. THE FIFTH REMOVE The occasion (as I thought) of their moving at this time was the English army, it being near and following them. For they went as if they had gone for their lives, for some considerable way, and then they made a stop, and chose some of their stoutest men, and sent them back to hold the English army in play whilst the rest escaped. And then, like Jehu, they marched on furiously, with their old and with their young: some carried their old decrepit mothers, some carried one, and some another. Four of them carried a great Indian upon a bier; but going through a thick wood with him, they were hindered, and could make no haste, whereupon they took him upon their backs, and carried him, one at a time, till they came to Banquaug river. Upon a Friday, a little after noon, we came to this river. When all the company was come up, and were gathered together, I thought to count the number of them, but they were so many, and being somewhat in motion, it was beyond my skill. In this travel, because of my wound, I was somewhat favored in my load; I carried only my knitting work and two quarts of parched meal. Being very faint I asked my mistress to give me one spoonful of the meal, but she would not give me a taste. They quickly fell to cutting dry trees, to make rafts to carry them over the river: and soon my turn came to go over. By the advantage of some brush which they had laid upon the raft to sit upon, I did not wet my foot (which many of themselves at the other end were mid-leg deep) which cannot but be acknowledged as a favor of God to my weakened body, it being a very cold time. I was not before acquainted with such kind of doings or dangers. "When thou passeth through the waters I will be with thee, and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee" (Isaiah 43.2). A certain number of us got over the river that night, but it was the night after the Sabbath before all the company was got over. On the Saturday they boiled an old horse's leg which they had got, and so we drank of the broth, as soon as they thought it was ready, and when it was almost all gone, they filled it up again. The first week of my being among them I hardly ate any thing; the second week I found my stomach grow very faint for want of something; and yet it was very hard to get down their filthy trash; but the third week, though I could think how formerly my stomach would turn against this or that, and I could starve and die before I could eat such things, yet they were sweet and savory to my taste. I was at this time knitting a pair of white cotton stockings for my mistress; and had not yet wrought upon a Sabbath day. When the Sabbath came they bade me go to work. I told them it was the Sabbath day, and desired them to let me rest, and told them I would do as much more tomorrow; to which they answered me they would break my face. And here I cannot but take notice of the strange providence of God in preserving the heathen. They were many hundreds, old and young, some sick, and some lame; many had papooses at their backs. The greatest number at this time with us were squaws, and they traveled with all they had, bag and baggage, and yet they got over this river aforesaid; and on Monday they set their wigwams on fire, and away they went. On that very day came the English army after them to this river, and saw the smoke of their wigwams, and yet this river put a stop to them. God did not give them courage or activity to go over after us. We were not ready for so great a mercy as victory and deliverance. If we had been God would have found out a way for the English to have passed this river, as well as for the Indians with their squaws and children, and all their luggage. "Oh that my people had hearkened to me, and Israel had walked in my ways, I should soon have subdued their enemies, and turned my hand against their adversaries" (Psalm 81.13-14). THE SIXTH REMOVE On Monday (as I said) they set their wigwams on fire and went away. It was a cold morning, and before us there was a great brook with ice on it; some waded through it, up to the knees and higher, but others went till they came to a beaver dam, and I amongst them, where through the good providence of God, I did not wet my foot. I went along that day mourning and lamenting, leaving farther my own country, and traveling into a vast and howling wilderness, and I understood something of Lot's wife's temptation, when she looked back. We came that day to a great swamp, by the side of which we took up our lodging that night. When I came to the brow of the hill, that looked toward the swamp, I thought we had been come to a great Indian town (though there were none but our own company). The Indians were as thick as the trees: it seemed as if there had been a thousand hatchets going at once. If one looked before one there was nothing but Indians, and behind one, nothing but Indians, and so on either hand, I myself in the midst, and no Christian soul near me, and yet how hath the Lord preserved me in safety? Oh the experience that I have had of the goodness of God, to me and mine! THE SEVENTH REMOVE After a restless and hungry night there, we had a wearisome time of it the next day. The swamp by which we lay was, as it were, a deep dungeon, and an exceeding high and steep hill before it. Before I got to the top of the hill, I thought my heart and legs, and all would have broken, and failed me. What, through faintness and soreness of body, it was a grievous day of travel to me. As we went along, I saw a place where English cattle had been. That was comfort to me, such as it was. Quickly after that we came to an English path, which so took with me, that I thought I could have freely lyen down and died. That day, a little after noon, we came to Squakeag, where the Indians quickly spread themselves over the deserted English fields, gleaning what they could find. Some picked up ears of wheat that were crickled down; some found ears of Indian corn; some found ground nuts, and others sheaves of wheat that were frozen together in the shock, and went to threshing of them out. Myself got two ears of Indian corn, and whilst I did but turn my back, one of them was stolen from me, which much troubled me. There came an Indian to them at that time with a basket of horse liver. I asked him to give me a piece. "What," says he, "can you eat horse liver?" I told him, I would try, if he would give a piece, which he did, and I laid it on the coals to roast. But before it was half ready they got half of it away from me, so that I was fain to take the rest and eat it as it was, with the blood about my mouth, and yet a savory bit it was to me: "For to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet." A solemn sight methought it was, to see fields of wheat and Indian corn forsaken and spoiled and the remainders of them to be food for our merciless enemies. That night we had a mess of wheat for our supper. THE EIGHTH REMOVE On the morrow morning we must go over the river, i.e. Connecticut, to meet with King Philip. Two canoes full they had carried over; the next turn I myself was to go. But as my foot was upon the canoe to step in there was a sudden outcry among them, and I must step back, and instead of going over the river, I must go four or five miles up the river farther northward. Some of the Indians ran one way, and some another. The cause of this rout was, as I thought, their espying some English scouts, who were thereabout. In this travel up the river about noon the company made a stop, and sat down; some to eat, and others to rest them. As I sat amongst them, musing of things past, my son Joseph unexpectedly came to me. We asked of each other's welfare, bemoaning our doleful condition, and the change that had come upon us. We had husband and father, and children, and sisters, and friends, and relations, and house, and home, and many comforts of this life: but now we may say, as Job, "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return: the Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord." I asked him whether he would read. He told me he earnestly desired it, I gave him my Bible, and he lighted upon that comfortable Scripture "I shall not die but live, and declare the works of the Lord: the Lord hath chastened me sore yet he hath not given me over to death" (Psalm 118.17-18). "Look here, mother," says he, "did you read this?" And here I may take occasion to mention one principal ground of my setting forth these lines: even as the psalmist says, to declare the works of the Lord, and His wonderful power in carrying us along, preserving us in the wilderness, while under the enemy's hand, and returning of us in safety again. And His goodness in bringing to my hand so many comfortable and suitable scriptures in my distress. But to return, we traveled on till night; and in the morning, we must go over the river to Philip's crew. When I was in the canoe I could not but be amazed at the numerous crew of pagans that were on the bank on the other side. When I came ashore, they gathered all about me, I sitting alone in the midst. I observed they asked one another questions, and laughed, and rejoiced over their gains and victories. Then my heart began to fail: and I fell aweeping, which was the first time to my remembrance, that I wept before them. Although I had met with so much affliction, and my heart was many times ready to break, yet could I not shed one tear in their sight; but rather had been all this while in a maze, and like one astonished. But now I may say as Psalm 137.1, "By the Rivers of Babylon, there we sate down: yea, we wept when we remembered Zion." There one of them asked me why I wept. I could hardly tell what to say: Yet I answered, they would kill me. "No," said he, "none will hurt you." Then came one of them and gave me two spoonfuls of meal to comfort me, and another gave me half a pint of peas; which was more worth than many bushels at another time. Then I went to see King Philip. He bade me come in and sit down, and asked me whether I would smoke it (a usual compliment nowadays amongst saints and sinners) but this no way suited me. For though I had formerly used tobacco, yet I had left it ever since I was first taken. It seems to be a bait the devil lays to make men lose their precious time. I remember with shame how formerly, when I had taken two or three pipes, I was presently ready for another, such a bewitching thing it is. But I thank God, He has now given me power over it; surely there are many who may be better employed than to lie sucking a stinking tobacco-pipe. Now the Indians gather their forces to go against Northampton. Over night one went about yelling and hooting to give notice of the design. Whereupon they fell to boiling of ground nuts, and parching of corn (as many as had it) for their provision; and in the morning away they went. During my abode in this place, Philip spake to me to make a shirt for his boy, which I did, for which he gave me a shilling. I offered the money to my master, but he bade me keep it; and with it I bought a piece of horse flesh. Afterwards he asked me to make a cap for his boy, for which he invited me to dinner. I went, and he gave me a pancake, about as big as two fingers. It was made of parched wheat, beaten, and fried in bear's grease, but I thought I never tasted pleasanter meat in my life. There was a squaw who spake to me to make a shirt for her sannup, for which she gave me a piece of bear. Another asked me to knit a pair of stockings, for which she gave me a quart of peas. I boiled my peas and bear together, and invited my master and mistress to dinner; but the proud gossip, because I served them both in one dish, would eat nothing, except one bit that he gave her upon the point of his knife. Hearing that my son was come to this place, I went to see him, and found him lying flat upon the ground. I asked him how he could sleep so? He answered me that he was not asleep, but at prayer; and lay so, that they might not observe what he was doing. I pray God he may remember these things now he is returned in safety. At this place (the sun now getting higher) what with the beams and heat of the sun, and the smoke of the wigwams, I thought I should have been blind. I could scarce discern one wigwam from another. There was here one Mary Thurston of Medfield, who seeing how it was with me, lent me a hat to wear; but as soon as I was gone, the squaw (who owned that Mary Thurston) came running after me, and got it away again. Here was the squaw that gave me one spoonful of meal. I put it in my pocket to keep it safe. Yet notwithstanding, somebody stole it, but put five Indian corns in the room of it; which corns were the greatest provisions I had in my travel for one day. The Indians returning from Northampton, brought with them some horses, and sheep, and other things which they had taken; I desired them that they would carry me to Albany upon one of those horses, and sell me for powder: for so they had sometimes discoursed. I was utterly hopeless of getting home on foot, the way that I came. I could hardly bear to think of the many weary steps I had taken, to come to this place. THE NINTH REMOVE But instead of going either to Albany or homeward, we must go five miles up the river, and then go over it. Here we abode a while. Here lived a sorry Indian, who spoke to me to make him a shirt. When I had done it, he would pay me nothing. But he living by the riverside, where I often went to fetch water, I would often be putting of him in mind, and calling for my pay: At last he told me if I would make another shirt, for a papoose not yet born, he would give me a knife, which he did when I had done it. I carried the knife in, and my master asked me to give it him, and I was not a little glad that I had anything that they would accept of, and be pleased with. When we were at this place, my master's maid came home; she had been gone three weeks into the Narragansett country to fetch corn, where they had stored up some in the ground. She brought home about a peck and half of corn. This was about the time that their great captain, Naananto, was killed in the Narragansett country. My son being now about a mile from me, I asked liberty to go and see him; they bade me go, and away I went; but quickly lost myself, traveling over hills and through swamps, and could not find the way to him. And I cannot but admire at the wonderful power and goodness of God to me, in that, though I was gone from home, and met with all sorts of Indians, and those I had no knowledge of, and there being no Christian soul near me; yet not one of them offered the least imaginable miscarriage to me. I turned homeward again, and met with my master. He showed me the way to my son. When I came to him I found him not well: and withall he had a boil on his side, which much troubled him. We bemoaned one another a while, as the Lord helped us, and then I returned again. When I was returned, I found myself as unsatisfied as I was before. I went up and down mourning and lamenting; and my spirit was ready to sink with the thoughts of my poor children. My son was ill, and I could not but think of his mournful looks, and no Christian friend was near him, to do any office of love for him, either for soul or body. And my poor girl, I knew not where she was, nor whether she was sick, or well, or alive, or dead. I repaired under these thoughts to my Bible (my great comfort in that time) and that Scripture came to my hand, "Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee" (Psalm 55.22). But I was fain to go and look after something to satisfy my hunger, and going among the wigwams, I went into one and there found a squaw who showed herself very kind to me, and gave me a piece of bear. I put it into my pocket, and came home, but could not find an opportunity to broil it, for fear they would get it from me, and there it lay all that day and night in my stinking pocket. In the morning I went to the same squaw, who had a kettle of ground nuts boiling. I asked her to let me boil my piece of bear in her kettle, which she did, and gave me some ground nuts to eat with it: and I cannot but think how pleasant it was to me. I have sometime seen bear baked very handsomely among the English, and some like it, but the thought that it was bear made me tremble. But now that was savory to me that one would think was enough to turn the stomach of a brute creature. One bitter cold day I could find no room to sit down before the fire. I went out, and could not tell what to do, but I went in to another wigwam, where they were also sitting round the fire, but the squaw laid a skin for me, and bid me sit down, and gave me some ground nuts, and bade me come again; and told me they would buy me, if they were able, and yet these were strangers to me that I never saw before. THE TENTH REMOVE That day a small part of the company removed about three-quarters of a mile, intending further the next day. When they came to the place where they intended to lodge, and had pitched their wigwams, being hungry, I went again back to the place we were before at, to get something to eat, being encouraged by the squaw's kindness, who bade me come again. When I was there, there came an Indian to look after me, who when he had found me, kicked me all along. I went home and found venison roasting that night, but they would not give me one bit of it. Sometimes I met with favor, and sometimes with nothing but frowns. THE ELEVENTH REMOVE The next day in the morning they took their travel, intending a day's journey up the river. I took my load at my back, and quickly we came to wade over the river; and passed over tiresome and wearisome hills. One hill was so steep that I was fain to creep up upon my knees, and to hold by the twigs and bushes to keep myself from falling backward. My head also was so light that I usually reeled as I went; but I hope all these wearisome steps that I have taken, are but a forewarning to me of the heavenly rest: "I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are right, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me" (Psalm 119.75). THE TWELFTH REMOVE It was upon a Sabbath-day-morning, that they prepared for their travel. This morning I asked my master whether he would sell me to my husband. He answered me "Nux," which did much rejoice my spirit. My mistress, before we went, was gone to the burial of a papoose, and returning, she found me sitting and reading in my Bible; she snatched it hastily out of my hand, and threw it out of doors. I ran out and catched it up, and put it into my pocket, and never let her see it afterward. Then they packed up their things to be gone, and gave me my load. I complained it was too heavy, whereupon she gave me a slap in the face, and bade me go; I lifted up my heart to God, hoping the redemption was not far off; and the rather because their insolency grew worse and worse. But the thoughts of my going homeward (for so we bent our course) much cheered my spirit, and made my burden seem light, and almost nothing at all. But (to my amazement and great perplexity) the scale was soon turned; for when we had gone a little way, on a sudden my mistress gives out; she would go no further, but turn back again, and said I must go back again with her, and she called her sannup, and would have had him gone back also, but he would not, but said he would go on, and come to us again in three days. My spirit was, upon this, I confess, very impatient, and almost outrageous. I thought I could as well have died as went back; I cannot declare the trouble that I was in about it; but yet back again I must go. As soon as I had the opportunity, I took my Bible to read, and that quieting Scripture came to my hand, "Be still, and know that I am God" (Psalm 46.10). Which stilled my spirit for the present. But a sore time of trial, I concluded, I had to go through, my master being gone, who seemed to me the best friend that I had of an Indian, both in cold and hunger, and quickly so it proved. Down I sat, with my heart as full as it could hold, and yet so hungry that I could not sit neither; but going out to see what I could find, and walking among the trees, I found six acorns, and two chestnuts, which were some refreshment to me. Towards night I gathered some sticks for my own comfort, that I might not lie a-cold; but when we came to lie down they bade me to go out, and lie somewhere else, for they had company (they said) come in more than their own. I told them, I could not tell where to go, they bade me go look; I told them, if I went to another wigwam they would be angry, and send me home again. Then one of the company drew his sword, and told me he would run me through if I did not go presently. Then was I fain to stoop to this rude fellow, and to go out in the night, I knew not whither. Mine eyes have seen that fellow afterwards walking up and down Boston, under the appearance of a Friend Indian, and several others of the like cut. I went to one wigwam, and they told me they had no room. Then I went to another, and they said the same; at last an old Indian bade me to come to him, and his squaw gave me some ground nuts; she gave me also something to lay under my head, and a good fire we had; and through the good providence of God, I had a comfortable lodging that night. In the morning, another Indian bade me come at night, and he would give me six ground nuts, which I did. We were at this place and time about two miles from [the] Connecticut river. We went in the morning to gather ground nuts, to the river, and went back again that night. I went with a good load at my back (for they when they went, though but a little way, would carry all their trumpery with them). I told them the skin was off my back, but I had no other comforting answer from them than this: that it would be no matter if my head were off too. THE THIRTEENTH REMOVE Instead of going toward the Bay, which was that I desired, I must go with them five or six miles down the river into a mighty thicket of brush; where we abode almost a fortnight. Here one asked me to make a shirt for her papoose, for which she gave me a mess of broth, which was thickened with meal made of the bark of a tree, and to make it the better, she had put into it about a handful of peas, and a few roasted ground nuts. I had not seen my son a pretty while, and here was an Indian of whom I made inquiry after him, and asked him when he saw him. He answered me that such a time his master roasted him, and that himself did eat a piece of him, as big as his two fingers, and that he was very good meat. But the Lord upheld my Spirit, under this discouragement; and I considered their horrible addictedness to lying, and that there is not one of them that makes the least conscience of speaking of truth. In this place, on a cold night, as I lay by the fire, I removed a stick that kept the heat from me. A squaw moved it down again, at which I looked up, and she threw a handful of ashes in mine eyes. I thought I should have been quite blinded, and have never seen more, but lying down, the water run out of my eyes, and carried the dirt with it, that by the morning I recovered my sight again. Yet upon this, and the like occasions, I hope it is not too much to say with Job, "Have pity upon me, O ye my Friends, for the Hand of the Lord has touched me." And here I cannot but remember how many times sitting in their wigwams, and musing on things past, I should suddenly leap up and run out, as if I had been at home, forgetting where I was, and what my condition was; but when I was without, and saw nothing but wilderness, and woods, and a company of barbarous heathens, my mind quickly returned to me, which made me think of that, spoken concerning Sampson, who said, "I will go out and shake myself as at other times, but he wist not that the Lord was departed from him." About this time I began to think that all my hopes of restoration would come to nothing. I thought of the English army, and hoped for their coming, and being taken by them, but that failed. I hoped to be carried to Albany, as the Indians had discoursed before, but that failed also. I thought of being sold to my husband, as my master spake, but instead of that, my master himself was gone, and I left behind, so that my spirit was now quite ready to sink. I asked them to let me go out and pick up some sticks, that I might get alone, and pour out my heart unto the Lord. Then also I took my Bible to read, but I found no comfort here neither, which many times I was wont to find. So easy a thing it is with God to dry up the streams of Scripture comfort from us. Yet I can say, that in all my sorrows and afflictions, God did not leave me to have my impatience work towards Himself, as if His ways were unrighteous. But I knew that He laid upon me less than I deserved. Afterward, before this doleful time ended with me, I was turning the leaves of my Bible, and the Lord brought to me some Scriptures, which did a little revive me, as that [in] Isaiah 55.8: "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord." And also that [in] Psalm 37.5: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass." About this time they came yelping from Hadley, where they had killed three Englishmen, and brought one captive with them, viz. Thomas Read. They all gathered about the poor man, asking him many questions. I desired also to go and see him; and when I came, he was crying bitterly, supposing they would quickly kill him. Whereupon I asked one of them, whether they intended to kill him; he answered me, they would not. He being a little cheered with that, I asked him about the welfare of my husband. He told me he saw him such a time in the Bay, and he was well, but very melancholy. By which I certainly understood (though I suspected it before) that whatsoever the Indians told me respecting him was vanity and lies. Some of them told me he was dead, and they had killed him; some said he was married again, and that the Governor wished him to marry; and told him he should have his choice, and that all persuaded I was dead. So like were these barbarous creatures to him who was a liar from the beginning. As I was sitting once in the wigwam here, Philip's maid came in with the child in her arms, and asked me to give her a piece of my apron, to make a flap for it. I told her I would not. Then my mistress bade me give it, but still I said no. The maid told me if I would not give her a piece, she would tear a piece off it. I told her I would tear her coat then. With that my mistress rises up, and take up a stick big enough to have killed me, and struck at me with it. But I stepped out, and she struck the stick into the mat of the wigwam. But while she was pulling of it out I ran to the maid and gave her all my apron, and so that storm went over. Hearing that my son was come to this place, I went to see him, and told him his father was well, but melancholy. He told me he was as much grieved for his father as for himself. I wondered at his speech, for I thought I had enough upon my spirit in reference to myself, to make me mindless of my husband and everyone else; they being safe among their friends. He told me also, that awhile before, his master (together with other Indians) were going to the French for powder; but by the way the Mohawks met with them, and killed four of their company, which made the rest turn back again, for it might have been worse with him, had he been sold to the French, than it proved to be in his remaining with the Indians. I went to see an English youth in this place, one John Gilbert of Springfield. I found him lying without doors, upon the ground. I asked him how he did? He told me he was very sick of a flux, with eating so much blood. They had turned him out of the wigwam, and with him an Indian papoose, almost dead (whose parents had been killed), in a bitter cold day, without fire or clothes. The young man himself had nothing on but his shirt and waistcoat. This sight was enough to melt a heart of flint. There they lay quivering in the cold, the youth round like a dog, the papoose stretched out with his eyes and nose and mouth full of dirt, and yet alive, and groaning. I advised John to go and get to some fire. He told me he could not stand, but I persuaded him still, lest he should lie there and die. And with much ado I got him to a fire, and went myself home. As soon as I was got home his master's daughter came after me, to know what I had done with the Englishman. I told her I had got him to a fire in such a place. Now had I need to pray Paul's Prayer "That we may be delivered from unreasonable and wicked men" (2 Thessalonians 3.2). For her satisfaction I went along with her, and brought her to him; but before I got home again it was noised about that I was running away and getting the English youth, along with me; that as soon as I came in they began to rant and domineer, asking me where I had been, and what I had been doing? and saying they would knock him on the head. I told them I had been seeing the English youth, and that I would not run away. They told me I lied, and taking up a hatchet, they came to me, and said they would knock me down if I stirred out again, and so confined me to the wigwam. Now may I say with David, "I am in a great strait" (2 Samuel 24.14). If I keep in, I must die with hunger, and if I go out, I must be knocked in head. This distressed condition held that day, and half the next. And then the Lord remembered me, whose mercies are great. Then came an Indian to me with a pair of stockings that were too big for him, and he would have me ravel them out, and knit them fit for him. I showed myself willing, and bid him ask my mistress if I might go along with him a little way; she said yes, I might, but I was not a little refreshed with that news, that I had my liberty again. Then I went along with him, and he gave me some roasted ground nuts, which did again revive my feeble stomach. Being got out of her sight, I had time and liberty again to look into my Bible; which was my guide by day, and my pillow by night. Now that comfortable Scripture presented itself to me, "For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee" (Isaiah 54.7). Thus the Lord carried me along from one time to another, and made good to me this precious promise, and many others. Then my son came to see me, and I asked his master to let him stay awhile with me, that I might comb his head, and look over him, for he was almost overcome with lice. He told me, when I had done, that he was very hungry, but I had nothing to relieve him, but bid him go into the wigwams as he went along, and see if he could get any thing among them. Which he did, and it seems tarried a little too long; for his master was angry with him, and beat him, and then sold him. Then he came running to tell me he had a new master, and that he had given him some ground nuts already. Then I went along with him to his new master who told me he loved him, and he should not want. So his master carried him away, and I never saw him afterward, till I saw him at Piscataqua in Portsmouth. That night they bade me go out of the wigwam again. My mistress's papoose was sick, and it died that night, and there was one benefit in it--that there was more room. I went to a wigwam, and they bade me come in, and gave me a skin to lie upon, and a mess of venison and ground nuts, which was a choice dish among them. On the morrow they buried the papoose, and afterward, both morning and evening, there came a company to mourn and howl with her; though I confess I could not much condole with them. Many sorrowful days I had in this place, often getting alone. "Like a crane, or a swallow, so did I chatter; I did mourn as a dove, mine eyes ail with looking upward. Oh, Lord, I am oppressed; undertake for me" (Isaiah 38.14). I could tell the Lord, as Hezekiah, "Remember now O Lord, I beseech thee, how I have walked before thee in truth." Now had I time to examine all my ways: my conscience did not accuse me of unrighteousness toward one or other; yet I saw how in my walk with God, I had been a careless creature. As David said, "Against thee, thee only have I sinned": and I might say with the poor publican, "God be merciful unto me a sinner." On the Sabbath days, I could look upon the sun and think how people were going to the house of God, to have their souls refreshed; and then home, and their bodies also; but I was destitute of both; and might say as the poor prodigal, "He would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat, and no man gave unto him" (Luke 15.16). For I must say with him, "Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight." I remembered how on the night before and after the Sabbath, when my family was about me, and relations and neighbors with us, we could pray and sing, and then refresh our bodies with the good creatures of God; and then have a comfortable bed to lie down on; but instead of all this, I had only a little swill for the body and then, like a swine, must lie down on the ground. I cannot express to man the sorrow that lay upon my spirit; the Lord knows it. Yet that comfortable Scripture would often come to mind, "For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee." THE FOURTEENTH REMOVE Now must we pack up and be gone from this thicket, bending our course toward the Baytowns; I having nothing to eat by the way this day, but a few crumbs of cake, that an Indian gave my girl the same day we were taken. She gave it me, and I put it in my pocket; there it lay, till it was so moldy (for want of good baking) that one could not tell what it was made of; it fell all to crumbs, and grew so dry and hard, that it was like little flints; and this refreshed me many times, when I was ready to faint. It was in my thoughts when I put it into my mouth, that if ever I returned, I would tell the world what a blessing the Lord gave to such mean food. As we went along they killed a deer, with a young one in her, they gave me a piece of the fawn, and it was so young and tender, that one might eat the bones as well as the flesh, and yet I thought it very good. When night came on we sat down; it rained, but they quickly got up a bark wigwam, where I lay dry that night. I looked out in the morning, and many of them had lain in the rain all night, I saw by their reeking. Thus the Lord dealt mercifully with me many times, and I fared better than many of them. In the morning they took the blood of the deer, and put it into the paunch, and so boiled it. I could eat nothing of that, though they ate it sweetly. And yet they were so nice in other things, that when I had fetched water, and had put the dish I dipped the water with into the kettle of water which I brought, they would say they would knock me down; for they said, it was a sluttish trick. THE FIFTEENTH REMOVE We went on our travel. I having got one handful of ground nuts, for my support that day, they gave me my load, and I went on cheerfully (with the thoughts of going homeward), having my burden more on my back than my spirit. We came to Banquang river again that day, near which we abode a few days. Sometimes one of them would give me a pipe, another a little tobacco, another a little salt: which I would change for a little victuals. I cannot but think what a wolvish appetite persons have in a starving condition; for many times when they gave me that which was hot, I was so greedy, that I should burn my mouth, that it would trouble me hours after, and yet I should quickly do the same again. And after I was thoroughly hungry, I was never again satisfied. For though sometimes it fell out, that I got enough, and did eat till I could eat no more, yet I was as unsatisfied as I was when I began. And now could I see that Scripture verified (there being many Scriptures which we do not take notice of, or understand till we are afflicted) "Thou shalt eat and not be satisfied" (Micah 6.14). Now might I see more than ever before, the miseries that sin hath brought upon us. Many times I should be ready to run against the heathen, but the Scripture would quiet me again, "Shall there be evil in a City and the Lord hath not done it?" (Amos 3.6). The Lord help me to make a right improvement of His word, and that I might learn that great lesson: "He hath showed thee (Oh Man) what is good, and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God? Hear ye the rod, and who hath appointed it" (Micah 6.8-9). THE SIXTEENTH REMOVAL We began this remove with wading over Banquang river: the water was up to the knees, and the stream very swift, and so cold that I thought it would have cut me in sunder. I was so weak and feeble, that I reeled as I went along, and thought there I must end my days at last, after my bearing and getting through so many difficulties. The Indians stood laughing to see me staggering along; but in my distress the Lord gave me experience of the truth, and goodness of that promise, "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee" (Isaiah 43.2). Then I sat down to put on my stockings and shoes, with the tears running down mine eyes, and sorrowful thoughts in my heart, but I got up to go along with them. Quickly there came up to us an Indian, who informed them that I must go to Wachusett to my master, for there was a letter come from the council to the Sagamores, about redeeming the captives, and that there would be another in fourteen days, and that I must be there ready. My heart was so heavy before that I could scarce speak or go in the path; and yet now so light, that I could run. My strength seemed to come again, and recruit my feeble knees, and aching heart. Yet it pleased them to go but one mile that night, and there we stayed two days. In that time came a company of Indians to us, near thirty, all on horseback. My heart skipped within me, thinking they had been Englishmen at the first sight of them, for they were dressed in English apparel, with hats, white neckcloths, and sashes about their waists; and ribbons upon their shoulders; but when they came near, there was a vast difference between the lovely faces of Christians, and foul looks of those heathens, which much damped my spirit again. THE SEVENTEENTH REMOVE A comfortable remove it was to me, because of my hopes. They gave me a pack, and along we went cheerfully; but quickly my will proved more than my strength; having little or no refreshing, my strength failed me, and my spirits were almost quite gone. Now may I say with David "I am poor and needy, and my heart is wounded within me. I am gone like the shadow when it declineth: I am tossed up and down like the locust; my knees are weak through fasting, and my flesh faileth of fatness" (Psalm 119.22-24). At night we came to an Indian town, and the Indians sat down by a wigwam discoursing, but I was almost spent, and could scarce speak. I laid down my load, and went into the wigwam, and there sat an Indian boiling of horses feet (they being wont to eat the flesh first, and when the feet were old and dried, and they had nothing else, they would cut off the feet and use them). I asked him to give me a little of his broth, or water they were boiling in; he took a dish, and gave me one spoonful of samp, and bid me take as much of the broth as I would. Then I put some of the hot water to the samp, and drank it up, and my spirit came again. He gave me also a piece of the ruff or ridding of the small guts, and I broiled it on the coals; and now may I say with Jonathan, "See, I pray you, how mine eyes have been enlightened, because I tasted a little of this honey" (1 Samuel 14.29). Now is my spirit revived again; though means be never so inconsiderable, yet if the Lord bestow His blessing upon them, they shall refresh both soul and body. THE EIGHTEENTH REMOVE We took up our packs and along we went, but a wearisome day I had of it. As we went along I saw an Englishman stripped naked, and lying dead upon the ground, but knew not who it was. Then we came to another Indian town, where we stayed all night. In this town there were four English children, captives; and one of them my own sister's. I went to see how she did, and she was well, considering her captive condition. I would have tarried that night with her, but they that owned her would not suffer it. Then I went into another wigwam, where they were boiling corn and beans, which was a lovely sight to see, but I could not get a taste thereof. Then I went to another wigwam, where there were two of the English children; the squaw was boiling horses feet; then she cut me off a little piece, and gave one of the English children a piece also. Being very hungry I had quickly eat up mine, but the child could not bite it, it was so tough and sinewy, but lay sucking, gnawing, chewing and slabbering of it in the mouth and hand. Then I took it of the child, and eat it myself, and savory it was to my taste. Then I may say as Job 6.7, "The things that my soul refused to touch are as my sorrowful meat." Thus the Lord made that pleasant refreshing, which another time would have been an abomination. Then I went home to my mistress's wigwam; and they told me I disgraced my master with begging, and if I did so any more, they would knock me in the head. I told them, they had as good knock me in head as starve me to death. THE NINETEENTH REMOVE They said, when we went out, that we must travel to Wachusett this day. But a bitter weary day I had of it, traveling now three days together, without resting any day between. At last, after many weary steps, I saw Wachusett hills, but many miles off. Then we came to a great swamp, through which we traveled, up to the knees in mud and water, which was heavy going to one tired before. Being almost spent, I thought I should have sunk down at last, and never got out; but I may say, as in Psalm 94.18, "When my foot slipped, thy mercy, O Lord, held me up." Going along, having indeed my life, but little spirit, Philip, who was in the company, came up and took me by the hand, and said, two weeks more and you shall be mistress again. I asked him, if he spake true? He answered, "Yes, and quickly you shall come to your master again; who had been gone from us three weeks." After many weary steps we came to Wachusett, where he was: and glad I was to see him. He asked me, when I washed me? I told him not this month. Then he fetched me some water himself, and bid me wash, and gave me the glass to see how I looked; and bid his squaw give me something to eat. So she gave me a mess of beans and meat, and a little ground nut cake. I was wonderfully revived with this favor showed me: "He made them also to be pitied of all those that carried them captives" (Psalm 106.46). My master had three squaws, living sometimes with one, and sometimes with another one, this old squaw, at whose wigwam I was, and with whom my master had been those three weeks. Another was Wattimore [Weetamoo] with whom I had lived and served all this while. A severe and proud dame she was, bestowing every day in dressing herself neat as much time as any of the gentry of the land: powdering her hair, and painting her face, going with necklaces, with jewels in her ears, and bracelets upon her hands. When she had dressed herself, her work was to make girdles of wampum and beads. The third squaw was a younger one, by whom he had two papooses. By the time I was refreshed by the old squaw, with whom my master was, Weetamoo's maid came to call me home, at which I fell aweeping. Then the old squaw told me, to encourage me, that if I wanted victuals, I should come to her, and that I should lie there in her wigwam. Then I went with the maid, and quickly came again and lodged there. The squaw laid a mat under me, and a good rug over me; the first time I had any such kindness showed me. I understood that Weetamoo thought that if she should let me go and serve with the old squaw, she would be in danger to lose not only my service, but the redemption pay also. And I was not a little glad to hear this; being by it raised in my hopes, that in God's due time there would be an end of this sorrowful hour. Then came an Indian, and asked me to knit him three pair of stockings, for which I had a hat, and a silk handkerchief. Then another asked me to make her a shift, for which she gave me an apron. Then came Tom and Peter, with the second letter from the council, about the captives. Though they were Indians, I got them by the hand, and burst out into tears. My heart was so full that I could not speak to them; but recovering myself, I asked them how my husband did, and all my friends and acquaintance? They said, "They are all very well but melancholy." They brought me two biscuits, and a pound of tobacco. The tobacco I quickly gave away. When it was all gone, one asked me to give him a pipe of tobacco. I told him it was all gone. Then began he to rant and threaten. I told him when my husband came I would give him some. Hang him rogue (says he) I will knock out his brains, if he comes here. And then again, in the same breath they would say that if there should come an hundred without guns, they would do them no hurt. So unstable and like madmen they were. So that fearing the worst, I durst not send to my husband, though there were some thoughts of his coming to redeem and fetch me, not knowing what might follow. For there was little more trust to them than to the master they served. When the letter was come, the Sagamores met to consult about the captives, and called me to them to inquire how much my husband would give to redeem me. When I came I sat down among them, as I was wont to do, as their manner is. Then they bade me stand up, and said they were the General Court. They bid me speak what I thought he would give. Now knowing that all we had was destroyed by the Indians, I was in a great strait. I thought if I should speak of but a little it would be slighted, and hinder the matter; if of a great sum, I knew not where it would be procured. Yet at a venture I said "Twenty pounds," yet desired them to take less. But they would not hear of that, but sent that message to Boston, that for twenty pounds I should be redeemed. It was a Praying Indian that wrote their letter for them. There was another Praying Indian, who told me, that he had a brother, that would not eat horse; his conscience was so tender and scrupulous (though as large as hell, for the destruction of poor Christians). Then he said, he read that Scripture to him, "There was a famine in Samaria, and behold they besieged it, until an ass's head was sold for four-score pieces of silver, and the fourth part of a cab of dove's dung for five pieces of silver" (2 Kings 6.25). He expounded this place to his brother, and showed him that it was lawful to eat that in a famine which is not at another time. And now, says he, he will eat horse with any Indian of them all. There was another Praying Indian, who when he had done all the mischief that he could, betrayed his own father into the English hands, thereby to purchase his own life. Another Praying Indian was at Sudbury fight, though, as he deserved, he was afterward hanged for it. There was another Praying Indian, so wicked and cruel, as to wear a string about his neck, strung with Christians' fingers. Another Praying Indian, when they went to Sudbury fight, went with them, and his squaw also with him, with her papoose at her back. Before they went to that fight they got a company together to pow-wow. The manner was as followeth: there was one that kneeled upon a deerskin, with the company round him in a ring who kneeled, and striking upon the ground with their hands, and with sticks, and muttering or humming with their mouths. Besides him who kneeled in the ring, there also stood one with a gun in his hand. Then he on the deerskin made a speech, and all manifested assent to it; and so they did many times together. Then they bade him with the gun go out of the ring, which he did. But when he was out, they called him in again; but he seemed to make a stand; then they called the more earnestly, till he returned again. Then they all sang. Then they gave him two guns, in either hand one. And so he on the deerskin began again; and at the end of every sentence in his speaking, they all assented, humming or muttering with their mouths, and striking upon the ground with their hands. Then they bade him with the two guns go out of the ring again; which he did, a little way. Then they called him in again, but he made a stand. So they called him with greater earnestness; but he stood reeling and wavering as if he knew not whither he should stand or fall, or which way to go. Then they called him with exceeding great vehemency, all of them, one and another. After a little while he turned in, staggering as he went, with his arms stretched out, in either hand a gun. As soon as he came in they all sang and rejoiced exceedingly a while. And then he upon the deerskin, made another speech unto which they all assented in a rejoicing manner. And so they ended their business, and forthwith went to Sudbury fight. To my thinking they went without any scruple, but that they should prosper, and gain the victory. And they went out not so rejoicing, but they came home with as great a victory. For they said they had killed two captains and almost an hundred men. One Englishman they brought along with them: and he said, it was too true, for they had made sad work at Sudbury, as indeed it proved. Yet they came home without that rejoicing and triumphing over their victory which they were wont to show at other times; but rather like dogs (as they say) which have lost their ears. Yet I could not perceive that it was for their own loss of men. They said they had not lost above five or six; and I missed none, except in one wigwam. When they went, they acted as if the devil had told them that they should gain the victory; and now they acted as if the devil had told them they should have a fall. Whither it were so or no, I cannot tell, but so it proved, for quickly they began to fall, and so held on that summer, till they came to utter ruin. They came home on a Sabbath day, and the Powaw that kneeled upon the deer-skin came home (I may say, without abuse) as black as the devil. When my master came home, he came to me and bid me make a shirt for his papoose, of a holland-laced pillowbere. About that time there came an Indian to me and bid me come to his wigwam at night, and he would give me some pork and ground nuts. Which I did, and as I was eating, another Indian said to me, he seems to be your good friend, but he killed two Englishmen at Sudbury, and there lie their clothes behind you: I looked behind me, and there I saw bloody clothes, with bullet-holes in them. Yet the Lord suffered not this wretch to do me any hurt. Yea, instead of that, he many times refreshed me; five or six times did he and his squaw refresh my feeble carcass. If I went to their wigwam at any time, they would always give me something, and yet they were strangers that I never saw before. Another squaw gave me a piece of fresh pork, and a little salt with it, and lent me her pan to fry it in; and I cannot but remember what a sweet, pleasant and delightful relish that bit had to me, to this day. So little do we prize common mercies when we have them to the full. THE TWENTIETH REMOVE It was their usual manner to remove, when they had done any mischief, lest they should be found out; and so they did at this time. We went about three or four miles, and there they built a great wigwam, big enough to hold an hundred Indians, which they did in preparation to a great day of dancing. They would say now amongst themselves, that the governor would be so angry for his loss at Sudbury, that he would send no more about the captives, which made me grieve and tremble. My sister being not far from the place where we now were, and hearing that I was here, desired her master to let her come and see me, and he was willing to it, and would go with her; but she being ready before him, told him she would go before, and was come within a mile or two of the place. Then he overtook her, and began to rant as if he had been mad, and made her go back again in the rain; so that I never saw her till I saw her in Charlestown. But the Lord requited many of their ill doings, for this Indian her master, was hanged afterward at Boston. The Indians now began to come from all quarters, against their merry dancing day. Among some of them came one goodwife Kettle. I told her my heart was so heavy that it was ready to break. "So is mine too," said she, but yet said, "I hope we shall hear some good news shortly." I could hear how earnestly my sister desired to see me, and I as earnestly desired to see her; and yet neither of us could get an opportunity. My daughter was also now about a mile off, and I had not seen her in nine or ten weeks, as I had not seen my sister since our first taking. I earnestly desired them to let me go and see them: yea, I entreated, begged, and persuaded them, but to let me see my daughter; and yet so hard-hearted were they, that they would not suffer it. They made use of their tyrannical power whilst they had it; but through the Lord's wonderful mercy, their time was now but short. On a Sabbath day, the sun being about an hour high in the afternoon, came Mr. John Hoar (the council permitting him, and his own foreward spirit inclining him), together with the two forementioned Indians, Tom and Peter, with their third letter from the council. When they came near, I was abroad. Though I saw them not, they presently called me in, and bade me sit down and not stir. Then they catched up their guns, and away they ran, as if an enemy had been at hand, and the guns went off apace. I manifested some great trouble, and they asked me what was the matter? I told them I thought they had killed the Englishman (for they had in the meantime informed me that an Englishman was come). They said, no. They shot over his horse and under and before his horse, and they pushed him this way and that way, at their pleasure, showing what they could do. Then they let them come to their wigwams. I begged of them to let me see the Englishman, but they would not. But there was I fain to sit their pleasure. When they had talked their fill with him, they suffered me to go to him. We asked each other of our welfare, and how my husband did, and all my friends? He told me they were all well, and would be glad to see me. Amongst other things which my husband sent me, there came a pound of tobacco, which I sold for nine shillings in money; for many of the Indians for want of tobacco, smoked hemlock, and ground ivy. It was a great mistake in any, who thought I sent for tobacco; for through the favor of God, that desire was overcome. I now asked them whether I should go home with Mr. Hoar? They answered no, one and another of them, and it being night, we lay down with that answer. In the morning Mr. Hoar invited the Sagamores to dinner; but when we went to get it ready we found that they had stolen the greatest part of the provision Mr. Hoar had brought, out of his bags, in the night. And we may see the wonderful power of God, in that one passage, in that when there was such a great number of the Indians together, and so greedy of a little good food, and no English there but Mr. Hoar and myself, that there they did not knock us in the head, and take what we had, there being not only some provision, but also trading-cloth, a part of the twenty pounds agreed upon. But instead of doing us any mischief, they seemed to be ashamed of the fact, and said, it were some matchit Indian that did it. Oh, that we could believe that there is nothing too hard for God! God showed His power over the heathen in this, as He did over the hungry lions when Daniel was cast into the den. Mr. Hoar called them betime to dinner, but they ate very little, they being so busy in dressing themselves, and getting ready for their dance, which was carried on by eight of them, four men and four squaws. My master and mistress being two. He was dressed in his holland shirt, with great laces sewed at the tail of it; he had his silver buttons, his white stockings, his garters were hung round with shillings, and he had girdles of wampum upon his head and shoulders. She had a kersey coat, and covered with girdles of wampum from the loins upward. Her arms from her elbows to her hands were covered with bracelets; there were handfuls of necklaces about her neck, and several sorts of jewels in her ears. She had fine red stockings, and white shoes, her hair powdered and face painted red, that was always before black. And all the dancers were after the same manner. There were two others singing and knocking on a kettle for their music. They kept hopping up and down one after another, with a kettle of water in the midst, standing warm upon some embers, to drink of when they were dry. They held on till it was almost night, throwing out wampum to the standers by. At night I asked them again, if I should go home? They all as one said no, except my husband would come for me. When we were lain down, my master went out of the wigwam, and by and by sent in an Indian called James the Printer, who told Mr. Hoar, that my master would let me go home tomorrow, if he would let him have one pint of liquors. Then Mr. Hoar called his own Indians, Tom and Peter, and bid them go and see whether he would promise it before them three; and if he would, he should have it; which he did, and he had it. Then Philip smelling the business called me to him, and asked me what I would give him, to tell me some good news, and speak a good word for me. I told him I could not tell what to give him. I would [give him] anything I had, and asked him what he would have? He said two coats and twenty shillings in money, and half a bushel of seed corn, and some tobacco. I thanked him for his love; but I knew the good news as well as the crafty fox. My master after he had had his drink, quickly came ranting into the wigwam again, and called for Mr. Hoar, drinking to him, and saying, he was a good man, and then again he would say, "hang him rogue." Being almost drunk, he would drink to him, and yet presently say he should be hanged. Then he called for me. I trembled to hear him, yet I was fain to go to him, and he drank to me, showing no incivility. He was the first Indian I saw drunk all the while that I was amongst them. At last his squaw ran out, and he after her, round the wigwam, with his money jingling at his knees. But she escaped him. But having an old squaw he ran to her; and so through the Lord's mercy, we were no more troubled that night. Yet I had not a comfortable night's rest; for I think I can say, I did not sleep for three nights together. The night before the letter came from the council, I could not rest, I was so full of fears and troubles, God many times leaving us most in the dark, when deliverance is nearest. Yea, at this time I could not rest night nor day. The next night I was overjoyed, Mr. Hoar being come, and that with such good tidings. The third night I was even swallowed up with the thoughts of things, viz. that ever I should go home again; and that I must go, leaving my children behind me in the wilderness; so that sleep was now almost departed from mine eyes. On Tuesday morning they called their general court (as they call it) to consult and determine, whether I should go home or no. And they all as one man did seemingly consent to it, that I should go home; except Philip, who would not come among them. But before I go any further, I would take leave to mention a few remarkable passages of providence, which I took special notice of in my afflicted time. 1. Of the fair opportunity lost in the long march, a little after the fort fight, when our English army was so numerous, and in pursuit of the enemy, and so near as to take several and destroy them, and the enemy in such distress for food that our men might track them by their rooting in the earth for ground nuts, whilst they were flying for their lives. I say, that then our army should want provision, and be forced to leave their pursuit and return homeward; and the very next week the enemy came upon our town, like bears bereft of their whelps, or so many ravenous wolves, rending us and our lambs to death. But what shall I say? God seemed to leave his People to themselves, and order all things for His own holy ends. Shall there be evil in the City and the Lord hath not done it? They are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph, therefore shall they go captive, with the first that go captive. It is the Lord's doing, and it should be marvelous in our eyes. 2. I cannot but remember how the Indians derided the slowness, and dullness of the English army, in its setting out. For after the desolations at Lancaster and Medfield, as I went along with them, they asked me when I thought the English army would come after them? I told them I could not tell. "It may be they will come in May," said they. Thus did they scoff at us, as if the English would be a quarter of a year getting ready. 3. Which also I have hinted before, when the English army with new supplies were sent forth to pursue after the enemy, and they understanding it, fled before them till they came to Banquang river, where they forthwith went over safely; that that river should be impassable to the English. I can but admire to see the wonderful providence of God in preserving the heathen for further affliction to our poor country. They could go in great numbers over, but the English must stop. God had an over-ruling hand in all those things. 4. It was thought, if their corn were cut down, they would starve and die with hunger, and all their corn that could be found, was destroyed, and they driven from that little they had in store, into the woods in the midst of winter; and yet how to admiration did the Lord preserve them for His holy ends, and the destruction of many still amongst the English! strangely did the Lord provide for them; that I did not see (all the time I was among them) one man, woman, or child, die with hunger. Though many times they would eat that, that a hog or a dog would hardly touch; yet by that God strengthened them to be a scourge to His people. The chief and commonest food was ground nuts. They eat also nuts and acorns, artichokes, lilly roots, ground beans, and several other weeds and roots, that I know not. They would pick up old bones, and cut them to pieces at the joints, and if they were full of worms and maggots, they would scald them over the fire to make the vermine come out, and then boil them, and drink up the liquor, and then beat the great ends of them in a mortar, and so eat them. They would eat horse's guts, and ears, and all sorts of wild birds which they could catch; also bear, venison, beaver, tortoise, frogs, squirrels, dogs, skunks, rattlesnakes; yea, the very bark of trees; besides all sorts of creatures, and provision which they plundered from the English. I can but stand in admiration to see the wonderful power of God in providing for such a vast number of our enemies in the wilderness, where there was nothing to be seen, but from hand to mouth. Many times in a morning, the generality of them would eat up all they had, and yet have some further supply against they wanted. It is said, "Oh, that my People had hearkened to me, and Israel had walked in my ways, I should soon have subdued their Enemies, and turned my hand against their Adversaries" (Psalm 81.13-14). But now our perverse and evil carriages in the sight of the Lord, have so offended Him, that instead of turning His hand against them, the Lord feeds and nourishes them up to be a scourge to the whole land. 5. Another thing that I would observe is the strange providence of God, in turning things about when the Indians was at the highest, and the English at the lowest. I was with the enemy eleven weeks and five days, and not one week passed without the fury of the enemy, and some desolation by fire and sword upon one place or other. They mourned (with their black faces) for their own losses, yet triumphed and rejoiced in their inhumane, and many times devilish cruelty to the English. They would boast much of their victories; saying that in two hours time they had destroyed such a captain and his company at such a place; and boast how many towns they had destroyed, and then scoff, and say they had done them a good turn to send them to Heaven so soon. Again, they would say this summer that they would knock all the rogues in the head, or drive them into the sea, or make them fly the country; thinking surely, Agag-like, "The bitterness of Death is past." Now the heathen begins to think all is their own, and the poor Christians' hopes to fail (as to man) and now their eyes are more to God, and their hearts sigh heaven-ward; and to say in good earnest, "Help Lord, or we perish." When the Lord had brought His people to this, that they saw no help in anything but Himself; then He takes the quarrel into His own hand; and though they had made a pit, in their own imaginations, as deep as hell for the Christians that summer, yet the Lord hurled themselves into it. And the Lord had not so many ways before to preserve them, but now He hath as many to destroy them. But to return again to my going home, where we may see a remarkable change of providence. At first they were all against it, except my husband would come for me, but afterwards they assented to it, and seemed much to rejoice in it; some asked me to send them some bread, others some tobacco, others shaking me by the hand, offering me a hood and scarfe to ride in; not one moving hand or tongue against it. Thus hath the Lord answered my poor desire, and the many earnest requests of others put up unto God for me. In my travels an Indian came to me and told me, if I were willing, he and his squaw would run away, and go home along with me. I told him no: I was not willing to run away, but desired to wait God's time, that I might go home quietly, and without fear. And now God hath granted me my desire. O the wonderful power of God that I have seen, and the experience that I have had. I have been in the midst of those roaring lions, and savage bears, that feared neither God, nor man, nor the devil, by night and day, alone and in company, sleeping all sorts together, and yet not one of them ever offered me the least abuse of unchastity to me, in word or action. Though some are ready to say I speak it for my own credit; but I speak it in the presence of God, and to His Glory. God's power is as great now, and as sufficient to save, as when He preserved Daniel in the lion's den; or the three children in the fiery furnace. I may well say as his Psalm 107.12 "Oh give thanks unto the Lord for he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever." Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom He hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy, especially that I should come away in the midst of so many hundreds of enemies quietly and peaceably, and not a dog moving his tongue. So I took my leave of them, and in coming along my heart melted into tears, more than all the while I was with them, and I was almost swallowed up with the thoughts that ever I should go home again. About the sun going down, Mr. Hoar, and myself, and the two Indians came to Lancaster, and a solemn sight it was to me. There had I lived many comfortable years amongst my relations and neighbors, and now not one Christian to be seen, nor one house left standing. We went on to a farmhouse that was yet standing, where we lay all night, and a comfortable lodging we had, though nothing but straw to lie on. The Lord preserved us in safety that night, and raised us up again in the morning, and carried us along, that before noon, we came to Concord. Now was I full of joy, and yet not without sorrow; joy to see such a lovely sight, so many Christians together, and some of them my neighbors. There I met with my brother, and my brother-in-law, who asked me, if I knew where his wife was? Poor heart! he had helped to bury her, and knew it not. She being shot down by the house was partly burnt, so that those who were at Boston at the desolation of the town, and came back afterward, and buried the dead, did not know her. Yet I was not without sorrow, to think how many were looking and longing, and my own children amongst the rest, to enjoy that deliverance that I had now received, and I did not know whether ever I should see them again. Being recruited with food and raiment we went to Boston that day, where I met with my dear husband, but the thoughts of our dear children, one being dead, and the other we could not tell where, abated our comfort each to other. I was not before so much hemmed in with the merciless and cruel heathen, but now as much with pitiful, tender-hearted and compassionate Christians. In that poor, and distressed, and beggarly condition I was received in; I was kindly entertained in several houses. So much love I received from several (some of whom I knew, and others I knew not) that I am not capable to declare it. But the Lord knows them all by name. The Lord reward them sevenfold into their bosoms of His spirituals, for their temporals. The twenty pounds, the price of my redemption, was raised by some Boston gentlemen, and Mrs. Usher, whose bounty and religious charity, I would not forget to make mention of. Then Mr. Thomas Shepard of Charlestown received us into his house, where we continued eleven weeks; and a father and mother they were to us. And many more tender-hearted friends we met with in that place. We were now in the midst of love, yet not without much and frequent heaviness of heart for our poor children, and other relations, who were still in affliction. The week following, after my coming in, the governor and council sent forth to the Indians again; and that not without success; for they brought in my sister, and goodwife Kettle. Their not knowing where our children were was a sore trial to us still, and yet we were not without secret hopes that we should see them again. That which was dead lay heavier upon my spirit, than those which were alive and amongst the heathen: thinking how it suffered with its wounds, and I was no way able to relieve it; and how it was buried by the heathen in the wilderness from among all Christians. We were hurried up and down in our thoughts, sometime we should hear a report that they were gone this way, and sometimes that; and that they were come in, in this place or that. We kept inquiring and listening to hear concerning them, but no certain news as yet. About this time the council had ordered a day of public thanksgiving. Though I thought I had still cause of mourning, and being unsettled in our minds, we thought we would ride toward the eastward, to see if we could hear anything concerning our children. And as we were riding along (God is the wise disposer of all things) between Ipswich and Rowley we met with Mr. William Hubbard, who told us that our son Joseph was come in to Major Waldron's, and another with him, which was my sister's son. I asked him how he knew it? He said the major himself told him so. So along we went till we came to Newbury; and their minister being absent, they desired my husband to preach the thanksgiving for them; but he was not willing to stay there that night, but would go over to Salisbury, to hear further, and come again in the morning, which he did, and preached there that day. At night, when he had done, one came and told him that his daughter was come in at Providence. Here was mercy on both hands. Now hath God fulfilled that precious Scripture which was such a comfort to me in my distressed condition. When my heart was ready to sink into the earth (my children being gone, I could not tell whither) and my knees trembling under me, and I was walking through the valley of the shadow of death; then the Lord brought, and now has fulfilled that reviving word unto me: "Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy Work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall come again from the Land of the Enemy." Now we were between them, the one on the east, and the other on the west. Our son being nearest, we went to him first, to Portsmouth, where we met with him, and with the Major also, who told us he had done what he could, but could not redeem him under seven pounds, which the good people thereabouts were pleased to pay. The Lord reward the major, and all the rest, though unknown to me, for their labor of Love. My sister's son was redeemed for four pounds, which the council gave order for the payment of. Having now received one of our children, we hastened toward the other. Going back through Newbury my husband preached there on the Sabbath day; for which they rewarded him many fold. On Monday we came to Charlestown, where we heard that the governor of Rhode Island had sent over for our daughter, to take care of her, being now within his jurisdiction; which should not pass without our acknowledgments. But she being nearer Rehoboth than Rhode Island, Mr. Newman went over, and took care of her and brought her to his own house. And the goodness of God was admirable to us in our low estate, in that He raised up passionate friends on every side to us, when we had nothing to recompense any for their love. The Indians were now gone that way, that it was apprehended dangerous to go to her. But the carts which carried provision to the English army, being guarded, brought her with them to Dorchester, where we received her safe. Blessed be the Lord for it, for great is His power, and He can do whatsoever seemeth Him good. Her coming in was after this manner: she was traveling one day with the Indians, with her basket at her back; the company of Indians were got before her, and gone out of sight, all except one squaw; she followed the squaw till night, and then both of them lay down, having nothing over them but the heavens and under them but the earth. Thus she traveled three days together, not knowing whither she was going; having nothing to eat or drink but water, and green hirtle-berries. At last they came into Providence, where she was kindly entertained by several of that town. The Indians often said that I should never have her under twenty pounds. But now the Lord hath brought her in upon free-cost, and given her to me the second time. The Lord make us a blessing indeed, each to others. Now have I seen that Scripture also fulfilled, "If any of thine be driven out to the outmost parts of heaven, from thence will the Lord thy God gather thee, and from thence will he fetch thee. And the Lord thy God will put all these curses upon thine enemies, and on them which hate thee, which persecuted thee" (Deuteronomy 30.4-7). Thus hath the Lord brought me and mine out of that horrible pit, and hath set us in the midst of tender-hearted and compassionate Christians. It is the desire of my soul that we may walk worthy of the mercies received, and which we are receiving. Our family being now gathered together (those of us that were living), the South Church in Boston hired an house for us. Then we removed from Mr. Shepard's, those cordial friends, and went to Boston, where we continued about three-quarters of a year. Still the Lord went along with us, and provided graciously for us. I thought it somewhat strange to set up house-keeping with bare walls; but as Solomon says, "Money answers all things" and that we had through the benevolence of Christian friends, some in this town, and some in that, and others; and some from England; that in a little time we might look, and see the house furnished with love. The Lord hath been exceeding good to us in our low estate, in that when we had neither house nor home, nor other necessaries, the Lord so moved the hearts of these and those towards us, that we wanted neither food, nor raiment for ourselves or ours: "There is a Friend which sticketh closer than a Brother" (Proverbs 18.24). And how many such friends have we found, and now living amongst? And truly such a friend have we found him to be unto us, in whose house we lived, viz. Mr. James Whitcomb, a friend unto us near hand, and afar off. I can remember the time when I used to sleep quietly without workings in my thoughts, whole nights together, but now it is other ways with me. When all are fast about me, and no eye open, but His who ever waketh, my thoughts are upon things past, upon the awful dispensation of the Lord towards us, upon His wonderful power and might, in carrying of us through so many difficulties, in returning us in safety, and suffering none to hurt us. I remember in the night season, how the other day I was in the midst of thousands of enemies, and nothing but death before me. It is then hard work to persuade myself, that ever I should be satisfied with bread again. But now we are fed with the finest of the wheat, and, as I may say, with honey out of the rock. Instead of the husk, we have the fatted calf. The thoughts of these things in the particulars of them, and of the love and goodness of God towards us, make it true of me, what David said of himself, "I watered my Couch with my tears" (Psalm 6.6). Oh! the wonderful power of God that mine eyes have seen, affording matter enough for my thoughts to run in, that when others are sleeping mine eyes are weeping. I have seen the extreme vanity of this world: One hour I have been in health, and wealthy, wanting nothing. But the next hour in sickness and wounds, and death, having nothing but sorrow and affliction. Before I knew what affliction meant, I was ready sometimes to wish for it. When I lived in prosperity, having the comforts of the world about me, my relations by me, my heart cheerful, and taking little care for anything, and yet seeing many, whom I preferred before myself, under many trials and afflictions, in sickness, weakness, poverty, losses, crosses, and cares of the world, I should be sometimes jealous least I should have my portion in this life, and that Scripture would come to my mind, "For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every Son whom he receiveth" (Hebrews 12.6). But now I see the Lord had His time to scourge and chasten me. The portion of some is to have their afflictions by drops, now one drop and then another; but the dregs of the cup, the wine of astonishment, like a sweeping rain that leaveth no food, did the Lord prepare to be my portion. Affliction I wanted, and affliction I had, full measure (I thought), pressed down and running over. Yet I see, when God calls a person to anything, and through never so many difficulties, yet He is fully able to carry them through and make them see, and say they have been gainers thereby. And I hope I can say in some measure, as David did, "It is good for me that I have been afflicted." The Lord hath showed me the vanity of these outward things. That they are the vanity of vanities, and vexation of spirit, that they are but a shadow, a blast, a bubble, and things of no continuance. That we must rely on God Himself, and our whole dependance must be upon Him. If trouble from smaller matters begin to arise in me, I have something at hand to check myself with, and say, why am I troubled? It was but the other day that if I had had the world, I would have given it for my freedom, or to have been a servant to a Christian. I have learned to look beyond present and smaller troubles, and to be quieted under them. As Moses said, "Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord" (Exodus 14.13). Finis. 
909	----	THE ADVENTURES OF COL. DANIEL BOON CONTAINING A NARRATIVE OF THE WARS OF KENTUCKE From The Discovery and Settlement of Kentucke By John Filson Curiosity is natural to the soul of man, and interesting objects have a powerful influence on our affections. Let these influencing powers actuate, by the permission or disposal of Providence, from selfish or social views, yet in time the mysterious will of Heaven is unfolded, and we behold our conduct, from whatsoever motives excited, operating to answer the important designs of heaven. Thus we behold Kentucke, lately an howling wilderness, the habitation of savages and wild beasts, become a fruitful field; this region, so favourably distinguished by nature, now become the habitation of civilization, at a period unparalleled in history, in the midst of a raging war, and under all the disadvantages of emigration to a country so remote from the inhabited parts of the continent. Here, where the hand of violence shed the blood of the innocent; where the horrid yells of savages, and the groans of the distressed, sounded in our ears, we now hear the praises and adoration of our Creator; where wretched wigwams stood, the miserable abodes of savages, we behold the foundations of cities laid, that, in all probability, will rival the glory of the greatest upon earth. And we view Kentucke situated on the fertile banks of the great Ohio, rising from obscurity to shine with splendor, equal to any other of the stars of the American hemisphere. The settling of this region well deserves a place in history. Most of the memorable events I have myself been exercised in; and, for the satisfaction of the public, will briefly relate the circumstances of my adventures, and scenes of life, from my first movement to this country until this day. It was on the first of May, in the year 1769, that I resigned my domestic happiness for a time, and left my family and peaceable habitation on the Yadkin River, in North-Carolina, to wander through the wilderness of America, in quest of the country of Kentucke, in company with John Finley, John Stewart, Joseph Holden, James Monay, and William Cool. We proceeded successfully, and after a long and fatiguing journey through a mountainous wilderness, in a westward direction, on the seventh day of June following, we found ourselves on Red-River, where John Finley had formerly been trading with the Indians, and, from the top of an eminence, saw with pleasure the beautiful level of Kentucke. Here let me observe, that for some time we had experienced the most uncomfortable weather as a prelibation of our future sufferings. At this place we encamped, and made a shelter to defend us from the inclement season, and began to hunt and reconnoitre the country. We found every where abundance of wild beasts of all sorts, through this vast forest. The buffaloes were more frequent than I have seen cattle in the settlements, browzing on the leaves of the cane, or croping the herbage on those extensive plains, fearless, because ignorant, of the violence of man. Sometimes we saw hundreds in a drove, and the numbers about the salt springs were amazing. In this forest, the habitation of beasts of every kind natural to America, we practised hunting with great success until the twenty-second day of December following. This day John Stewart and I had a pleasing ramble, but fortune changed the scene in the close of it. We had passed through a great forest on which stood myriads of trees, some gay with blossoms, others rich with fruits. Nature was here a series of wonders, and a fund of delight. Here she displayed her ingenuity and industry in a variety of flowers and fruits, beautifully coloured, elegantly shaped, and charmingly flavoured; and we were diverted with innumerable animals presenting themselves perpetually to our view.--In the decline of the day, near Kentucke river, as we ascended the brow of a small hill, a number of Indians rushed out of a thick cane-brake upon us, and made us prisoners. The time of our sorrow was now arrived, and the scene fully opened. The Indians plundered us of what we had, and kept us in confinement seven days, treating us with common savage usage. During this time we discovered no uneasiness or desire to escape, which made them less suspicious of us; but in the dead of night, as we lay in a thick cane-brake by a large fire, when sleep had locked up their senses, my situation not disposing me for rest, I touched my companion and gently awoke him. We improved this favourable opportunity, and departed, leaving them to take their rest, and speedily directed our course towards our old camp, but found it plundered, and the company dispersed and gone home. About this time my brother, Squire Boon, with another adventurer, who came to explore the country shortly after us, was wandering through the forest, determined to find me, if possible, and accidentally found our camp. Notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances of our company, and our dangerous situation, as surrounded with hostile savages, our meeting so fortunately in the wilderness made us reciprocally sensible of the utmost satisfaction. So much does friendship triumph over misfortune, that sorrows and sufferings vanish at the meeting not only of real friends, but of the most distant acquaintances, and substitutes happiness in their room. Soon after this, my companion in captivity, John Stewart, was killed by the savages, and the man that came with my brother returned home by himself. We were then in a dangerous, helpless situation, exposed daily to perils and death amongst savages and wild beasts, not a white man in the country but ourselves. Thus situated, many hundred miles from our families in the howling wilderness, I believe few would have equally enjoyed the happiness we experienced. I often observed to my brother, You see now how little nature requires to be satisfied. Felicity, the companion of content, is rather found in our own breasts than in the enjoyment of external things; And I firmly believe it requires but a little philosophy to make a man happy in whatsoever state he is. This consists in a full resignation to the will of Providence; and a resigned soul finds pleasure in a path strewed with briars and thorns. We continued not in a state of indolence, but hunted every day, and prepared a little cottage to defend us from the Winter storms. We remained there undisturbed during the Winter; and on the first day of May, 1770, my brother returned home to the settlement by himself, for a new recruit of horses and ammunition, leaving me by myself, without bread, salt or sugar, without company of my fellow creatures, or even a horse or dog. I confess I never before was under greater necessity of exercising philosophy and fortitude. A few days I passed uncomfortably. The idea of a beloved wife and family, and their anxiety upon the account of my absence and exposed situation, made sensible impressions on my heart. A thousand dreadful apprehensions presented themselves to my view, and had undoubtedly disposed me to melancholy, if further indulged. One day I undertook a tour through the country, and the diversity and beauties of nature I met with in this charming season, expelled every gloomy and vexatious thought. Just at the close of day the gentle gales retired, and left the place to the disposal of a profound calm. Not a breeze shook the most tremulous leaf. I had gained the summit of a commanding ridge, and, looking round with astonishing delight, beheld the ample plains, the beauteous tracts below. On the other hand, I surveyed the famous river Ohio that rolled in silent dignity, marking the western boundary of Kentucke with inconceivable grandeur. At a vast distance I beheld the mountains lift their venerable brows, and penetrate the clouds. All things were still. I kindled a fire near a fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the loin of a buck, which a few hours before I had killed. The sullen shades of night soon overspread the whole hemisphere, and the earth seemed to gasp after the hovering moisture. My roving excursion this day had fatigued my body, and diverted my imagination. I laid me down to sleep, and I awoke not until the sun had chased away the night. I continued this tour, and in a few days explored a considerable part of the country, each day equally pleased as the first. I returned again to my old camp, which was not disturbed in my absence. I did not confine my lodging to it, but often reposed in thick cane-brakes, to avoid the savages, who, I believe, often visited my camp, but fortunately for me, in my absence. In this situation I was constantly exposed to danger, and death. How unhappy such a situation for a man tormented with fear, which is vain if no danger comes, and if it does, only augments the pain. It was my happiness to be destitute of this afflicting passion, with which I had the greatest reason to be affected. The prowling wolves diverted my nocturnal hours with perpetual howlings; and the various species of animals in this vast forest, in the daytime, were continually in my view. Thus I was surrounded with plenty in the midst of want. I was happy in the midst of dangers and inconveniences. In such a diversity it was impossible I should be disposed to melancholy. No populous city, with all the varieties of commerce and stately structures, could afford so much pleasure to my mind, as the beauties of nature I found here. Thus, through an uninterrupted scene of sylvan pleasures, I spent the time until the 27th day of July following, when my brother, to my great felicity, met me, according to appointment, at our old camp. Shortly after, we left this place, not thinking it safe to stay there longer, and proceeded to Cumberland river, reconnoitring that part of the country until March, 1771, and giving names to the different waters. Soon after, I returned home to my family with a determination to bring them as soon as possible to live in Kentucke, which I esteemed a second paradise, at the risk of my life and fortune. I returned safe to my old habitation, and found my family in happy circumstances. I sold my farm on the Yadkin, and what goods we could not carry with us; and on the twenty-fifth day of September, 1773, bade a farewel to our friends, and proceeded on our journey to Kentucke, in company with five families more, and forty men that joined us in Powel's Valley, which is one hundred and fifty miles from the now settled parts of Kentucke. This promising beginning was soon overcast with a cloud of adversity; for upon the tenth day of October, the rear of our company was attacked by a number of Indians, who killed six, and wounded one man. Of these my eldest son was one that fell in the action. Though we defended ourselves, and repulsed the enemy, yet this unhappy affair scattered our cattle, brought us into extreme difficulty, and so discouraged the whole company, that we retreated forty miles, to the settlement on Clench river. We had passed over two mountains, viz. Powel's and Walden's, and were approaching Cumberland mountain when this adverse fortune overtook us. These mountains are in the wilderness, as we pass from the old settlements in Virginia to Kentucke, are ranged in a S. west and N. east direction, are of a great length and breadth, and not far distant from each other. Over these, nature hath formed passes, that are less difficult than might be expected from a view of such huge piles. The aspect of these cliffs is so wild and horrid, that it is impossible to behold them without terror. The spectator is apt to imagine that nature had formerly suffered some violent convulsion; and that these are the dismembered remains of the dreadful shock; the ruins, not of Persepolis or Palmyra, but of the world! I remained with my family on Clench until the sixth of June, 1774, when I and one Michael Stoner were solicited by Governor Dunmore, of Virginia, to go to the Falls of the Ohio, to conduct into the settlement a number of surveyors that had been sent thither by him some months before; this country having about this time drawn the attention of many adventurers. We immediately complied with the Governor's request, and conducted in the surveyors, compleating a tour of eight hundred miles, through many difficulties, in sixty-two days. Soon after I returned home, I was ordered to take the command of three garrisons during the campaign, which Governor Dunmore carried on against the Shawanese Indians: After the conclusion of which, the Militia was discharged from each garrrison, and I being relieved from my post, was solicited by a number of North-Carolina gentlemen, that were about purchasing the lands lying on the S. side of Kentucke River, from the Cherokee Indians, to attend their treaty at Wataga, in March, 1775, to negotiate with them, and, mention the boundaries of the purchase. This I accepted, and at the request of the same gentlemen, undertook to mark out a road in the best passage from the settlement through the wilderness to Kentucke, with such assistance as I thought necessary to employ for such an important undertaking. I soon began this work, having collected a number of enterprising men, well armed. We proceeded with all possible expedition until we came within fifteen miles of where Boonsborough now stands, and where we were fired upon by a party of Indians that killed two, and wounded two of our number; yet, although surprised and taken at a disadvantage, we stood our ground. This was on the twentieth of March, 1775. Three days after, we were fired upon again, and had two men killed, and three wounded. Afterwards we proceeded on to Kentucke river without opposition; and on the first day of April began to erect the fort of Boonsborough at a salt lick, about sixty yards from the river, on the S. side. On the fourth day, the Indians killed one of our men.--We were busily employed in building this fort, until the fourteenth day of June following, without any farther opposition from the Indians; and having finished the works, I returned to my family, on Clench. In a short time, I proceeded to remove my family from Clench to this garrison; where we arrived safe without any other difficulties than such as are common to this passage, my wife and daughter being the first white women that ever stood on the banks of Kentucke river. On the twenty-fourth day of December following we had one man killed, and one wounded, by the Indians, who seemed determined to persecute us for erecting this fortification. On the fourteenth day of July, 1776, two of Col. Calaway's daughters, and one of mine, were taken prisoners near the fort. I immediately pursued the Indians, with only eight men, and on the sixteenth overtook them, killed two of the party, and recovered the girls. The same day on which this attempt was made, the Indians divided themselves into different parties, and attacked several forts, which were shortly before this time erected, doing a great deal of mischief. This was extremely distressing to the new settlers. The innocent husbandman was shot down, while busy cultivating the soil for his family's supply. Most of the cattle around the stations were destroyed. They continued their hostilities in this manner until the fifteenth of April, 1777, when they attacked Boonsborough with a party of above one hundred in number, killed one man, and wounded four--Their loss in this attack was not certainly known to us. On the fourth day of July following, a party of about two hundred Indians attacked Boonsborough, killed one man, and wounded two. They besieged us forty-eight hours; during which time seven of them were killed, and at last, finding themselves not likely to prevail, they raised the siege, and departed. The Indians had disposed their warriors in different parties at this time, and attacked the different garrisons to prevent their assisting each other, and did much injury to the distressed inhabitants. On the nineteenth day of this month, Col. Logan's fort was besieged by a party of about two hundred Indians. During this dreadful siege they did a great deal of mischief, distressed the garrison, in which were only fifteen men, killed two, and wounded one. The enemies loss was uncertain, from the common practice which the Indians have of carrying off their dead in time of battle. Col. Harrod's fort was then defended by only sixty-five men, and Boonsborough by twenty-two, there being no more forts or white men in the country, except at the Falls, a considerable distance from these, and all taken collectively, were but a handful to the numerous warriors that were every where dispersed through the country, intent upon doing all the mischief that savage barbarity could invent. Thus we passed through a scene of sufferings that exceeds description. On the twenty-fifth of this month a reinforcement of forty-five men arrived from North-Carolina, and about the twentieth of August following, Col. Bowman arrived with one hundred men from Virginia. Now we began to strengthen, and from hence, for the space of six weeks, we had skirmishes with Indians, in one quarter or other, almost every day. The savages now learned the superiority of the Long Knife, as they call the Virginians, by experience; being out-generalled in almost every battle. Our affairs began to wear a new aspect, and the enemy, not daring to venture on open war, practised secret mischief at times. On the first day of January, 1778, I went with a party of thirty men to the Blue Licks, on Licking River, to make salt for the different garrisons in the country. On the seventh day of February, as I was hunting, to procure meat for the company, I met with a party of one hundred and two Indians, and two Frenchmen, on their march against Boonsborough, that place being particularly the object of the enemy. They pursued, and took me; and brought me on the eighth day to the Licks, where twenty-seven of my party were, three of them having previously returned home with the salt. I knowing it was impossible for them to escape, capitulated with the enemy, and, at a distance in their view, gave notice to my men of their situation, with orders not to resist, but surrender themselves captives. The generous usage the Indians had promised before in my capitulation, was afterwards fully complied with, and we proceeded with them as prisoners to old Chelicothe, the principal Indian town, on Little Miami, where we arrived, after an uncomfortable journey, in very severe weather, on the eighteenth day of February, and received as good treatment as prisoners could expect from savages.--On the tenth day of March following, I, and ten of my men, were conducted by forty Indians to Detroit, where we arrived the thirtieth day, and were treated by Governor Hamilton, the British commander at that post, with great humanity. During our travels, the Indians entertained me well; and their affection for me was so great, that they utterly refused to leave me there with the others, although the Governor offered them one hundred pounds Sterling for me, on purpose to give me a parole to go home. Several English gentlemen there, being sensible of my adverse fortune, and touched with human sympathy, generously offered a friendly supply for my wants, which I refused, with many thanks for their kindness; adding, that I never expected it would be in my power to recompense such unmerited generosity. The Indians left my men in captivity with the British at Detroit, and on the tenth day of April brought me towards Old Chelicothe, where we arrived on the twenty-fifth day of the same month. This was a long and fatiguing march, through an exceeding fertile country, remarkable for fine springs and streams of water. At Chelicothe I spent my time as comfortably as I could expect; was adopted, accordin to their custom, into a family where I became a son, and had a great share in the affection of my new parents, brothers, sisters, and friends. I was exceedingly familiar and friendly with them, always appearing as chearful and satisfied as possible, and they put great confidence in me. I often went a hunting with them, and frequently gained their applause for my activity at our shooting-matches. I was careful not to exceed many of them in shooting; for no people are more envious than they in this sport. I could observe, in their countenances and gestures, the greatest expressions of joy when they exceeded me; and, when the reverse happened, of envy. The Shawanese king took great notice of me, and treated me with profound respect, and entire friendship, often entrusting me to hunt at my liberty. I frequently returned with the spoils of the woods, and as often presented some of what I had taken to him, expressive of duty to my sovereign. My food and lodging was, in common, with them, not so good indeed as I could desire, but necessity made every thing acceptable. I now began to meditate an escape, and carefully avoided their suspicions, continuing with them at Old Chelicothe until the first day of June following, and then was taken by them to the salt springs on Sciotha, and kept there, making salt, ten days. During this time I hunted some for them, and found the land, for a great extent about this river, to exceed the soil of Kentucke, if possible, and remarkably well watered. When I returned to Chelicothe, alarmed to see four hundred and fifty Indians, of their choicest warriors, painted and armed in a fearful manner, ready to march against Boonsborough, I determined to escape the first opportunity. On the sixteenth, before sun-rise, I departed in the most secret manner, and arrived at Boonsborough on the twentieth, after a journey of one hundred and sixty miles; during which, I had but one meal. I found our fortress in a bad state of defence, but we proceeded immediately to repair our flanks, strengthen our gates and posterns, and form double bastions, which we compleated in ten days. In this time we daily expected the arrival of the Indian army; and at length, one of my fellow prisoners, escaping from them, arrived, informing us that the enemy had an account of my departure, and postponed their expedition three weeks.--The Indians had spies out viewing our movements, and were greatly alarmed with our increase in number and fortifications. The Grand Councils of the nations were held frequently, and with more deliberation than usual. They evidently saw the approaching hour when the Long Knife would disposess them of their desirable habitations; and anxiously concerned for futurity, determined utterly to extirpate the whites out of Kentucke. We were not intimidated by their movements, but frequently gave them proofs of our courage. About the first of August, I made an incursion into the Indian country, with a party of nineteen men, in order to surprise a small town up Sciotha, called Paint-Creek-Town. We advanced within four miles thereof, where we met a party of thirty Indians, on their march against Boonsborough, intending to join the others from Chelicothe. A smart fight ensued betwixt us for some time: At length the savages gave way, and fled. We had no loss on our side: The enemy had one killed, and two wounded. We took from them three horses, and all their baggage; and being informed, by two of our number that went to their town, that the Indians had entirely evacuated it, we proceeded no further, and returned with all possible expedition to assist our garrison against the other party. We passed by them on the sixth day, and on the seventh, we arrived safe at Boonsborough. On the eighth, the Indian army arrived, being four hundred and forty-four in number, commanded by Capt. Duquesne, eleven other Frenchmen, and some of their own chiefs, and marched up within view of our fort, with British and French colours flying; and having sent a summons to me, in his Britannick Majesty's name, to surrender the fort, I requested two days consideration, which was granted. It was now a critical period with us.--We were a small number in the garrison.--A powerful army before our walls, whose appearance proclaimed inevitable death, fearfully painted, and marking their footsteps with desolation. Death was preferable to captivity; and if taken by storm, we must inevitably be devoted to destruction. In this situation we concluded to maintain our garrison, if possible. We immediately proceeded to collect what we could of our horses, and other cattle, and bring them through the posterns into the fort: And in the evening of the ninth, I returned answer, that we were determined to defend our fort while a man was living--Now, said I to their commander, who stood attentively hearing my sentiments, We laugh at all your formidable preparations: But thank you for giving us notice and time to provide for our defence. Your efforts will not prevail; for our gates shall for ever deny you admittance.--Whether this answer affected their courage, or not, I cannot tell; but, contrary to our expectations, they formed a scheme to deceive us, declaring it was their orders, from Governor Hamilton, to take us captives, and not to destroy us; but if nine of us would come out, and treat with them, they would immediatly withdraw their forces from our walls, and return home peaceably. This sounded grateful in our ears; and we agreed to the proposal. We held the treaty within sixty yards of the garrison, on purpose to divert them from a breach of honour, as we could not avoid suspicions of the savages. In this situation the articles were formally agreed to, and signed; and the Indians told us it was customary with them, on such occasions, for two Indians to shake hands with every white-man in the treaty, as an evidence of entire friendship. We agreed to this also, but were soon convinced their policy was to take us prisoners.--They immediately grappled us; but, although surrounded by hundreds of savages, we extricated ourselves from them, and escaped all safe into the garrison, except one that was wounded, through a heavy fire from their army. They immediately attacked us on every side, and a constant heavy fire ensued between us day and night for the space of nine days. In this time the enemy began to undermine our fort, which was situated sixty yards from Kentucke river. They began at the water-mark and proceeded in the bank some distance, which we understood by their making the water muddy with the clay; and we immediately proceeded to disappoint their design, by cutting a trench across their subterranean passage. The enemy discovering our counter-mine, by the clay we threw out of the fort, desisted from that stratagem: And experience now fully convincing them that neither their power nor policy could effect their purpose, on the twentieth day of August they raised the siege, and departed. During this dreadful siege, which threatened death in every form, we had two men killed, and four wounded, besides a number of cattle. We killed of the enemy thirty-seven, and wounded a great number. After they were gone, we picked up one hundred and twenty-five pounds weight of bullets, besides what stuck in the logs of our fort; which certainly is a great proof of their industry. Soon after this, I went into the settlement, and nothing worthy of a place in this account passed in my affairs for some time. During my absence from Kentucke, Col. Bowman carried on an expedition against the Shawanese, at Old Chelicothe, with one hundred and sixty men, in July, 1779. Here they arrived undiscovered, and a battle ensued, which lasted until ten o'clock, A. M. when Col. Bowman, finding he could not succeed at this time, retreated about thirty miles. The Indians, in the meantime, collecting all their forces, pursued and overtook him, when a smart fight continued near two hours, not to the advantage of Col. Bowman's party. Col. Harrod proposed to mount a number of horse, and furiously to rush upon the savages, who at this time fought with remarkable fury. This desperate step had a happy effect, broke their line of battle, and the savages fled on all sides. In these two battles we had nine killed, and one wounded. The enemy's loss uncertain, only two scalps being taken. On the twenty-second day of June, 1780, a large party of Indians and Canadians, about six hundred in number, commanded by Col. Bird, attacked Riddle's and Martin's stations, at the Forks of Licking River, with six pieces of artillery. They carried this expedition so secretly, that the unwary inhabitants did not discover them, until they fired upon the forts; and, not being prepared to oppose them, were obliged to surrender themselves miserable captives to barbarous savages, who immediately after tomahawked one man and two women, and loaded all the others with heavy baggage, forcing them along toward their towns, able or unable to march. Such as were weak and faint by the way, they tomahawked. The tender women, and helpless children, fell victims to their cruelty. This, and the savage treatment they received afterwards, is shocking to humanity, and too barbarous to relate. The hostile disposition of the savages, and their allies, caused General Clark, the commandant at the Falls of the Ohio, immediately to begin an expedition with his own regiment, and the armed force of the country, against Pecaway, the principal town of the Shawanese, on a branch of Great Miami, which he finished with great success, took seventeen scalps, and burnt the town to ashes, with the loss of seventeen men. About this time I returned to Kentucke with my family; and here, to avoid an enquiry into my conduct, the reader being before informed of my bringing my family to Kentucke, I am under the necessity of informing him that, during my captivity with the Indians, my wife, who despaired of ever seeing me again, expecting the Indians had put a period to my life, oppressed with the distresses of the country, and bereaved of me, her only happiness, had, before I returned, transported my family and goods, on horses, through the wilderness, amidst a multitude of dangers, to her father's house, in North-Carolina. Shortly after the troubles at Boonsborough, I went to them, and lived peaceably there until this time. The history of my going home, and returning with my family, forms a series of difficulties, an account of which would swell a volume, and being foreign to my purpose, I shall purposely omit them. I settled my family in Boonsborough once more; and shortly after, on the sixth day of October, 1780, I went in company with my brother to the Blue Licks; and, on our return home, we were fired upon by a party of Indians. They shot him, and pursued me, by the scent of their dog, three miles; but I killed the dog, and escaped. The winter soon came on, and was very severe, which confined the Indians to their wigwams. The severity of this Winter caused great difficulties in Kentucke. The enemy had destroyed most of the corn, the Summer before. This necessary article was scarce, and dear; and the inhabitants lived chiefly on the flesh of buffaloes. The circumstances of many were very lamentable: However, being a hardy race of people, and accustomed to difficulties and necessities, they were wonderfully supported through all their sufferings, until the ensuing Fall, when we received abundance from the fertile soil. Towards Spring, we were frequently harassed by Indians; and, in May, 1782, a party assaulted Ashton's station, killed one man, and took a Negro prisoner. Capt. Ashton, with twenty-five men, pursued, and overtook the savages, and a smart fight ensued, which lasted two hours; but they being superior in number, obliged Captain Ashton's party to retreat, with the loss of eight killed, and four mortally wounded; their brave commander himself being numbered among the dead. The Indians continued their hostilities; and, about the tenth of August following, two boys were taken from Major Hoy's station. This party was pursued by Capt. Holder and seventeen men, who were also defeated, with the loss of four men killed, and one wounded. Our affairs became more and more alarming. Several stations which had lately been erected in the country were continually infested with savages, stealing their horses and killing the men at every opportunity. In a field, near Lexington, an Indian shot a man, and running to scalp him, was himself shot from the fort, and fell dead upon his enemy. Every day we experienced recent mischiefs. The barbarous savage nations of Shawanese, Cherokees, Wyandots, Tawas, Delawares, and several others near Detroit, united in a war against us, and assembled their choicest warriors at old Chelicothe, to go on the expedition, in order to destroy us, and entirely depopulate the country. Their savage minds were inflamed to mischief by two abandoned men, Captains McKee and Girty. These led them to execute every diabolical scheme; and, on the fifteenth day of August, commanded a party of Indians and Canadians, of about five hundred in number, against Briant's station, five miles from Lexington. Without demanding a surrender, they furiously assaulted the garrison, which was happily prepared to oppose them; and, after they had expended much ammunition in vain, and killed the cattle round the fort, not being likely to make themselves masters of this place, they raised the siege, and departed in the morning of the third day after they came, with the loss of about thirty killed, and the number of wounded uncertain.--Of the garrison four were killed, and three wounded. On the eighteenth day Col. Todd, Col. Trigg, Major Harland, and myself, speedily collected one hundred and seventy-six men, well armed, and pursued the savages. They had marched beyond the Blue Licks to a remarkable bend of the main fork of Licking River, about forty-three miles from Lexington, as it is particularly represented in the map, where we overtook them on the nineteenth day. The savages observing us, gave way; and we, being ignorant of their numbers, passed the river. When the enemy saw our proceedings, having greatly the advantage of us in situation, they formed the line of battle, represented in the map, from one bend of Licking to the other, about a mile from the Blue Licks. An exceeding fierce battle immediately began, for about fifteen minutes, when we, being over-powered by numbers, were obliged to retreat, with the loss of sixty-seven men; seven of whom were taken prisoners. The brave and much lamented Colonels Todd and Trigg, Major Harland and my second son, were among the dead. We were informed that the Indians, numbering their dead, found they had four killed more than we; and therefore, four of the prisoners they had taken, were, by general consent, ordered to be killed, in a most barbarous manner, by the young warriors, in order to train them up to cruelty; and then they proceeded to their towns. On our retreat we were met by Col. Logan, hastening to join us, with a number of well armed men: This powerful assistance we unfortunately wanted in the battle; for, notwithstanding the enemy's superiority of numbers, they acknowledged that, if they had received one more fire from us, they should undoubtedly have given way. So valiantly did our small party fight, that, to the memory of those who unfortunately fell in the battle, enough of honour cannot be paid. Had Col. Logan and his party been with us, it is highly probable we should have given the savages a total defeat. I cannot reflect upon this dreadful scene, but sorrow fills my heart. A zeal for the defence of their country led these heroes to the scene of action, though with a few men to attack a powerful army of experienced warriors. When we gave way, they pursued us with the utmost eagerness, and in every quarter spread destruction. The river was difficult to cross, and many were killed in the flight, some just entering the river, some in the water, others after crossing in ascending the cliffs. Some escaped on horse-back, a few on foot; and, being dispersed every where, in a few hours, brought the melancholy news of this unfortunate battle to Lexington. Many widows were now made. The reader may guess what sorrow filled the hearts of the inhabitants, exceeding any thing that I am able to describe. Being reinforced, we returned to bury the dead, and found their bodies strewed every where, cut and mangled in a dreadful manner. This mournful scene exhibited a horror almost unparalleled: Some torn and eaten by wild beasts; those in the river eaten by fishes; all in such a putrified condition, that no one could be distinguished from another. As soon as General Clark, then at the Falls of the Ohio, who was ever our ready friend, and merits the love and gratitude of all his country-men, understood the circumstances of this unfortunate action, he ordered an expedition, with all possible haste, to pursue the savages, which was so expeditiously effected, that we overtook them within two miles of their towns, and probably might have obtained a great victory, had not two of their number met us about two hundred poles before we come up. These returned quick as lightening to their camp with the alarming news of a mighty army in view. The savages fled in the utmost disorder, evacuated their towns, and reluctantly left their territory to our mercy. We immediately took possession of Old Chelicothe without opposition, being deserted by its inhabitants. We continued our pursuit through five towns on the Miami rivers, Old Chelicothe, Pecaway, New Chelicothe, Will's Towns, and Chelicothe, burnt them all to ashes, entirely destroyed their corn, and other fruits, and every where spread a scene of desolation in the country. In this expedition we took seven prisoners and five scalps, with the loss of only four men, two of whom were accidentally killed by our own army. This campaign in some measure damped the spirits of the Indians, and made them sensible of our superiority. Their connections were dissolved, their armies scattered, and a future invasion put entirely out of their power; yet they continued to practise mischief secretly upon the inhabitants, in the exposed parts of the country. In October following, a party made an excursion into that district called the Crab Orchard, and one of them, being advanced some distance before the others, boldly entered the house of a poor defenceless family, in which was only a Negro man, a woman and her children, terrified with the apprehensions of immediate death. The savage, perceiving their defenceless situation, without offering violence to the family attempted to captivate the Negro, who, happily proved an over-match for him, threw him on the ground, and, in the struggle, the mother of the children drew an ax from a corner of the cottage, and cut his head off, while her little daughter shut the door. The savages instantly appeared, and applied their tomahawks to the door. An old rusty gun-barrel, without a lock, lay in a corner, which the mother put through a small crevice, and the savages, perceiving it, fled. In the mean time, the alarm spread through the neighbourhood; the armed men collected immediately, and pursued the ravagers into the wilderness. Thus Providence, by the means of this Negro, saved the whole of the poor family from destruction. From that time, until the happy return of peace between the United States and Great-Britain, the Indians did us no mischief. Finding the great king beyond the water disappointed in his expectations, and conscious of the importance of the Long Knife, and their own wretchedness, some of the nations immediately desired peace; to which, at present, they seem universally disposed, and are sending ambassadors to General Clark, at the Falls of the Ohio, with the minutes of their Councils, a specimen of which, in the minutes of the Piankashaw Council, is subjoined. To conclude, I can now say that I have verified the saying of an old Indian who signed Col. Henderson's deed. Taking me by the hand, at the delivery thereof, Brother, says he, we have given you a fine land, but I believe you will have much trouble in settling it.--My footsteps have often been marked with blood, and therefore I can truly subscribe to its original name. Two darling sons, and a brother, have I lost by savage hands, which have also taken from me forty valuable horses, and abundance of cattle. Many dark and sleepless nights have I been a companion for owls, separated from the chearful society of men, scorched by the Summer's sun, and pinched by the Winter's cold, an instrument ordained to settle the wilderness. But now the scene is changed: Peace crowns the sylvan shade. What thanks, what ardent and ceaseless thanks are due to that all-superintending Providence which has turned a cruel war into peace, brought order out of confusion, made the fierce savages placid, and turned away their hostile weapons from our country! May the same Almighty Goodness banish the accursed monster, war, from all lands, with her hated associates, rapine and insatiable ambition. Let peace, descending from her native heaven, bid her olives spring amidst the joyful nations; and plenty, in league with commerce, scatter blessings from her copious hand. This account of my adventures will inform the reader of the most remarkable events of this country.--I now live in peace and safety, enjoying the sweets of liberty, and the bounties of Providence, with my once fellow-sufferers, in this delightful country, which I have seen purchased with a vast expence of blood and treasure, delighting in the prospect of its being, in a short time, one of the most opulent and powerful states on the continent of North America; which, with the love and gratitude of my country-men, I esteem a sufficient reward for all my toil and dangers. Fayette county, Kentucke. DANIEL BOON 
41177	----	JOHN ERMINE OF THE YELLOWSTONE _THE BEST NEW BOOKS AT THE LEAST PRICES_ Each volume in the Macmillan Libraries sells for 50 cents, never more, wherever books are sold. THE MACMILLAN STANDARD LIBRARY ADDAMS--The Spirit of Youth and the City Streets. BAILEY--The Country Life Movement in the United States. BAILEY & HUNN--The Practical Garden Book. CAMPBELL--The New Theology. CLARK--The Care of a House. CONYNGTON--How to Help: A Manual of Practical Charity. COOLIDGE--The United States as a World Power. CROLY--The Promise of American Life. DEVINE--Misery and Its Causes. EARLE--Home Life in Colonial Days. ELY--Evolution of Industrial Society. ELY--Monopolies and Trusts. FRENCH--How to Grow Vegetables. GOODYEAR--Renaissance and Modern Art. HAPGOOD--Lincoln, Abraham, The Man of the People. HAULTAIN--The Mystery of Golf. HEARN--Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation. HILLIS--The Quest of Happiness. HILLQUIT--Socialism in Theory and Practice. HODGES--Everyman's Religion. 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THE BEST NEW BOOKS AT THE LEAST PRICES Each volume in the Macmillan Libraries sells for 50 cents, never more, wherever books are sold. TARBELL--History of Greek Art. VALENTINE--How to Keep Hens for Profit. VAN DYKE--The Gospel for a World of Sin. VAN DYKE--The Spirit of America. VEBLEN--The Theory of the Leisure Class. WELLS--New Worlds for Old. WHITE--The Old Order Changeth. THE MACMILLAN FICTION LIBRARY ALLEN--A Kentucky Cardinal. ALLEN--The Reign of Law. ATHERTON--Patience Sparhawk. CHILD--Jim Hands. CRAWFORD--The Heart of Rome. CRAWFORD--Fair Margaret: A Portrait. DAVIS--A Friend of Cæsar. DRUMMOND--The Justice of the King. ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN. GALE--Loves of Pelleas and Etarre. HERRICK--The Common Lot. LONDON--Adventure. LONDON--Burning Daylight. LOTI--Disenchanted. LUCAS--Mr. Ingleside. MASON--The Four Feathers. NORRIS--Mother. OXENHAM--The Long Road. PRYOR--The Colonel's Story. REMINGTON--Ermine of the Yellowstone. ROBERTS--Kings in Exile. ROBINS--The Convert. ROBINS--A Dark Lantern. WARD--David Grieve. WELLS--The Wheels of Chance. THE MACMILLAN JUVENILE LIBRARY ALTSHELER--The Horsemen of the Plains. BACON--While Caroline Was Growing. CARROLL--Alice's Adventures and Through the Looking Glass. DIX--A Little Captive Lad. GREENE--Pickett's Gap. LUCAS--Slow Coach. MABIE--Book of Christmas. MAJOR--The Bears of Blue River. MAJOR--Uncle Tom Andy Bill. NESBIT--The Railway Children. WHYTE--The Story Book Girls. WRIGHT--Dream Fox Story Book. WRIGHT--Aunt Jimmy's Will. [Illustration: JOHN ERMINE.] JOHN ERMINE OF THE YELLOWSTONE BY FREDERIC REMINGTON _ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR_ New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. 1913 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped November, 1902. Reprinted December, 1902; January, June, 1903; March, October, 1908; August, 1913. Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. VIRGINIA CITY 1 II. WHITE WEASEL 12 III. THE COMING OF THE GREAT SPIRIT 23 IV. CROOKED-BEAR 37 V. THE WHITE MEDICINE 51 VI. JOHN ERMINE 65 VII. TRANSFORMATION 77 VIII. PLAYING A MAN'S PART 86 IX. IN CAMP 101 X. A BRUSH WITH THE SIOUX 115 XI. THE TRUTH OF THE EYES 134 XII. KATHERINE 137 XIII. PLAYING WITH FIRE 150 XIV. IN LOVE 167 XV. BRINGING IN THE WOLF 178 XVI. A HUNT 198 XVII. A PROPOSAL 217 XVIII. MAN TO MAN 229 XIX. FLIGHT 247 XX. THE END OF ALL THINGS 262 ILLUSTRATIONS John Ermine _Frontispiece_ PAGE The Chairman 5 A Crow 15 "In the middle of the bunch sat Weasel" 31 "He called the boy to him and put his arm around him" 47 Wolf-Voice 84 "'Halt! Who goes there?'" 97 Captain Lewis 105 Major Ben Searles 117 "Bullets kicked up the dust" 127 Katherine 142 The Englishman 144 "'Will you please carry my parasol for me?'" 157 Shockley 182 "He bore the limp form to the sands" 209 "A tremendous bang roared around the room" 239 Ramon 254 JOHN ERMINE CHAPTER I VIRGINIA CITY One fine morning in the fall of '64 Alder Gulch rolled up its shirt sleeves and fell to the upheaving, sluicing, drifting, and cradling of the gravel. It did not feel exactly like old-fashioned everyday work to the muddy, case-hardened diggers. Each man knew that by evening he would see the level of dust rise higher in his long buckskin gold-bags. All this made for the day when he could retire to the green East and marry some beautiful girl--thereafter having nothing to do but eat pie and smoke fragrant cigars in a basking sunshine of no-work. Pie up at Kustar's bake-shop was now one dollar a pie, and a pipe full of molasses and slivers was the best to be had in the market. Life was hard at Alder in those days--it was practical; and when its denizens became sentimental, it took these unlovely forms, sad to relate. [Illustration] Notwithstanding the hundreds who toiled in the gulches, Virginia City itself held hurrying crowds,--Mormon freighters, pack trains, ponies, dirty men off the trails, wan pilgrims, Indians, Chinese, and almost everything else not angelic. Into this bustle rode Rocky Dan, who, after dealing faro all night at the "Happy Days" shebang, had gone for a horseback ride through the hills to brighten his eyes and loosen his nerves. Reining up before this place, he tied his pony where a horse-boy from the livery corral could find it. Striding into that unhallowed hall of Sheol, he sang out, "Say, fellers, I've just seen a thing out in the hills which near knocked me off'en my horse. You couldn't guess what it was nohow. I don't believe half what I see and nothin' what I read, but it's out thar in the hills, and you can go throw your eyes over it yourselves." "What? a new thing, Dan? No! No! Dan, you wouldn't come here with anything good and blurt it out," said the rude patrons of the "Happy Days" mahogany, vulturing about Rocky Dan, keen for anything new in the way of gravel. "I gamble it wa'n't a murder--that wouldn't knock you off'en your horse, jus' to see one--hey, Dan?" ventured another. "No, no," vouched Dan, laboring under an excitement ill becoming a faro-dealer. Recovering himself, he told the bartender to 'perform his function.' The "valley tan" having been disposed of, Dan added:-- "It was a boy!" "Boy--boy--a boy?" sighed the crowd, setting back their 'empties.' "A boy ain't exactly new, Dan," added one. "No, that's so," he continued, in his unprofessional perplexity, "but this was a white boy." "Well, that don't make him any newer," vociferated the crowd. "No, d---- it, but this was a white boy out in that Crow Injun camp, with yeller hair braided down the sides of his head, all the same Injun, and he had a bow and arrer, all the same Injun; and I said, 'Hello, little feller,' and he pulled his little bow on me, all the same Injun. D---- the little cuss, he was about to let go on me. I was too near them Injuns, anyhow, but I was on the best quarter horse in the country, as you know, and willin' to take my chance. Boys, he was white as Sandy McCalmont there, only he didn't have so many freckles." The company regarded the designated one, who promptly blushed, and they gathered the idea that the boy was a decided blonde. "Well, what do you make of it, anyhow, Dan?" "What do I make of it? Why, I make of it that them Injuns has lifted that kid from some outfit, and that we ought to go out and bring him in. He don't belong there, nohow, and that's sure." "That's so," sang the crowd as it surged into the street; "let's saddle up and go and get him. Saddle up! saddle up!" The story blew down the gulch on the seven winds. It appealed to the sympathies of all white men, and with double force to their hatred of the Indians. There was no man at Alder Gulch, even the owners of squaws,--and they were many,--who had not been given cause for this resentment. Business was suspended. Wagoners cut out and mounted team-horses; desperadoes, hardened roughs, trooped in with honest merchants and hardy miners as the strung-out cavalcade poured up the road to the plateau, where the band of Crows had pitched their tepees. "Klat-a-way! Klat-a-way!" shouted the men as they whipped and spurred up the steeps. The road narrowed near the top, and here the surging horsemen were stopped by a few men who stood in the middle waving and howling "Halt!" The crowd had no definite scheme of procedure at any time,--it was simply impelled forward by the ancient war-shout of _A rescue! A rescue!_ The blood of the mob had mounted high, but it drew restive rein before a big man who had forced his pony up on the steep hillside and was speaking in a loud, measured, and authoritative voice. The riders felt the desire for council; the ancient spirit of the witenagemote came over them. The American town meeting, bred in their bones and burned into their brains, made them listen to the big temporary chairman with the yellow lion's mane blowing about his head in the breeze. His horse did not want to stand still on the perilous hillside, but he held him there and opened. [Illustration: THE CHAIRMAN.] "Gentlemen, if this yar outfit goes a-chargin' into that bunch of Injuns, them Injuns aforesaid is sure goin' to shoot at us, and we are naturally goin' to shoot back at them. Then, gentlemen, there will be a fight, they will get a bunch of us, and we will wipe them out. Now, our esteemed friend yer, Mr. Chick-chick, savvies Injuns, as you know, he bein' somewhat their way hisself--allows that they will chill that poor little boy with a knife the first rattle out of the box. So, gentlemen, what good does it all do? Now, gentlemen, I allows if you all will keep down yer under the hill and back our play, Chick-chick and me will go into that camp and get the boy alive. If these Injuns rub us out, it's your move. All what agrees to this motion will signify it by gettin' down off'en their horses." Slowly man after man swung to the ground. Some did not so readily agree, but they were finally argued off their horses. Whereat the big chairman sang out: "The ayes have it. Come on, Mr. Chick-chick." These two rode up the hill and over the mesa, trotting along as they talked. "Now, Chick-chick, I don't know a heap about Injuns. The most that I have seen of them was over the sights of a rifle. How are we goin' at this? Do you _habla_ Crow lingo, Señor?" "No," replied that much mixed-blooded man, "I no _cumtux_ Crow, but I make the hand talk, and I can clean up a _ten-ass Chinook_; all you do is to do nothing,--you no shake hands, you say nothing, until we smoke the pipe, then you say 'How?' and shake hands all same white man. You hang on to your gun--suppose they try take it away--well, den, _icta-nica-ticki_, you shoot! Then we are dead." Having laid his plan of campaign before his brother in arms, no more was said. History does not relate what was thought about it. They arrived in due course among the tepees of a small band of Crows. There were not probably a hundred warriors present, but they were all armed, horsed, and under considerable excitement. These Crows were at war with all the other tribes of the northern plains, but maintained a truce with the white man. They had very naturally been warned of the unusual storm of horsemen bearing in their direction, and were apprehensive concerning it. They scowled at the chairman and Mr. Chick-chick, who was an Oregon product, as they drew up. The latter began his hand-language, which was answered at great length. He did not at once calm the situation, but was finally invited to smoke in the council lodge. The squaws were pulling down the tepees; roping, bundling, screaming, hustling ponies, children, and dogs about, unsettling the statesmen's nerves mightily as they passed the pipe. The big chairman began to fancy the Indians he had seen through the sights more than these he was regarding over the pipe of peace. Chick-chick gesticulated the proposition that the white papoose be brought into the tent, where he could be seen. The Indians demurred, saying there was no white boy--that all in the camp were Crows. A young warrior from outside broke into their presence, talking in a loud tone. An old chief looked out through the entrance-flap, across the yellow plains. Turning, he inquired what the white horsemen were doing outside. He was told that they wanted the white boy; that the two white chiefs among them would take the boy and go in peace, or that the others would come and take him in war. Also, Chick-chick intimated that he must _klat-a-way_. The Indians made it plain that he was not going to _klat-a-way_; but looking abroad, they became more alarmed and excited by the cordon of whites about them. "When the sun is so high," spoke Chick-chick, pointing, and using the sign language, "if we do not go forth with the boy, the white men will charge and kill all the Crows. One white boy is not worth that much." After more excitement and talk, a youngish woman came, bearing a child in her arms, which was bawling and tear-stained,--she vociferating wildly the time. Taking the unmusical youngster by the arm, the old chief stood him before Chick-chick. The boy was near nine years of age, the men judged, white beyond question, with long, golden hair braided, Indian fashion, down the sides of his head. He was neatly clothed in dressed buckskins, fringed and beaded, and not naked or half naked, as most Indian boys are in warm weather. It was not possible to tell what his face looked like in repose, for it was kneaded into grotesque lumps by his cries and wailing. "He is a Crow; his skin is white, but his heart is Absaroke. It makes us bleed to see him go; our women will mourn all this snow for him, but to save my band I give him to you. Take him. He is yours." Chick-chick lifted the child in his arms, where the small cause of all the turmoil struggled and pulled hair until he was forced to hold him out at arm's length. Mounting, they withdrew toward their friends. The council tepee fell in the dirt--a dozen squaws tugging at its voluminous folds. The small hostage was not many yards on his way toward his own kind before the Indian camp moved off toward the mountains, urging their horses with whip and lance. This movement was accelerated by a great discharging of white men's guns, who were supposed to be sacrificing the little white Crow to some unknown passions; whereas, they were merely celebrating the advent of the white child unharmed. He was indeed unharmed as to body, but his feelings had been torn to shreds. He added his small, shrill protesting yells to the general rejoicing. Chick-chick, or Chickens, as the miners often called him, had not entered the expedition because of his love for children, or the color of this one in particular; so, at the suggestion of the chairman, it was turned over to a benevolent saloon-keeper, who had nine notches in his gun, and a woman with whom he abided. "Gold Nugget," as he was promptly named by the diggers and freighters, was supposed to need a woman, as it was adjudged that only such a one could induce him to turn off the hot water and cease his yells. The cavalcade reached town, to find multitudes of dirt-begrimed men thronging the streets waiting for what sensation there was left in the affair. The infant had been overcome by his exertions and was silent. They sat him on the bar of his godfather's saloon, while the men shouldered their brawny way through the crowd to have a look at him--the lost white child in the Indian dress. Many drinks and pistol shots were offered up in his honor, and he having recovered somewhat, resumed his vocal protests. These plaints having silenced the crowd, it was suggested by one man who was able to restrain his enthusiasm, that the kid ought to be turned over to some woman before he roared his head off. Acting on this suggestion, the saloon-keeper's female friend was given charge. Taking him to her little house back of the saloon, the child found milk and bread and feminine caresses to calm him until he slept. It was publicly proclaimed by the nine-notch saloon-keeper that the first man who passed the door of the kid's domicile would be number ten to his gun. This pronunciamiento insured much needed repose to Gold Nugget during the night. In the morning he was partially recovered from fears and tears. The women patted his face, fed him to bursting, fingered the beautiful plaits of his yellow hair, and otherwise showed that they had not surrendered all their feminine sensibilities to their tumultuous lives. They spoke to him in pleading voices, and he gurgled up his words of reply in the unknown tongue. The saloon-keeper's theory that it would be a good thing to set him up on the bar some more in order to keep trade, was voted both inhuman and impracticable by the women. Later in the day a young man managed to get on the youngster's blind side, when by blandishments he beguiled him on to his pony in front of him. Thus he rode slowly through the streets, to the delight of the people, who responded to Gold Nugget's progress by volley and yell. This again frightened him, and he clung desperately to his new friend, who by waving his arm stilled the tempest of Virginia City's welcome, whereat the young man shouted, "Say--do you think this kid is runnin' for sheriff?" The Gulch voted the newcomer the greatest thing that ever happened; took him into partnership, speculated on his previous career, and drank his health. Above all they drank his health. Unitedly they drank to his weird past,--his interesting present, and to his future life and happiness, far into the night. It was good for business, said the saloon-keepers one to another. On one of the same mountain winds which had heralded his coming was borne down the Gulch next morning the tragic words, "The kid has gone!" "Gone?" said the miners; "gone whar?" Alder promptly dropped its pick, buckled on its artillery, and assembled before the nine-notch man. "Where has the kid gone?" it demanded. His woman stood beside the bar, wild-eyed and dishevelled. "I don't know, gentlemen--I don't have an idea. He was playing by the door of my shack last evening. I went in the house for a minute, and when I came out he was gone. I yelled, and men came, but we could not find him hide or hair." "If any man has got that kid away from me,--mind you this now,--he will see me through the smoke," spoke nine-notch, as he rolled his eye malevolently for a possible reply. Long search and inquiry failed to clear matters. The tracks around the house shed no new light. The men wound their way to their cabins up and down the Gulch, only answering inquiries by, "The kid is gone." CHAPTER II WHITE WEASEL For many days the Absaroke trotted and bumped along, ceaselessly beating their ponies' sides with their heels, and lashing with their elk-horn whips. With their packs and travoix they could not move fast, but they made up for this by long hours of industrious plodding. An Indian is never struck without striking back, and his counter always comes when not expected. They wanted to manoeuvre their women and children, so that many hills and broad valleys would lie between them and their vengeance when it should be taken. Through the deep cañons, among the dark pine trees, out across the bold table-lands, through the rivers of the mountains, wound the long cavalcade, making its way to the chosen valley of Crowland, where their warriors mustered in numbers to secure them from all thought of fear of the white men. [Illustration] The braves burned for vengeance on the white fools who dug in the Gulch they were leaving behind, but the yellow-eyed people were all brothers. To strike the slaves of the gravel-pits would be to make trouble with the river-men, who brought up the powder and guns in boats every green-grass. The tribal policy was against such a rupture. The Crows, or Sparrowhawks as they called themselves, were already encompassed by their enemies, and only able by the most desperate endeavors to hold their own hunting-grounds against the Blackfeet, Sioux, and Cheyennes. Theirs was the pick and choosing of the northern plains. Neither too hot nor too cold, well watered and thickly grassed on the plains, swarming with buffalo, while in the winter they could retire to the upper valleys of the Big Horn River, where they were shut in by the impassable snow-clad mountains from foreign horse thieves, and where the nutritious salt-weed kept their ponies in condition. Like all good lands, they could only be held by a strong and brave people, who were made to fight constantly for what they held. The powder and guns could only be had from the white traders, so they made a virtue of necessity and held their hand. Before many days the squaw Ba-cher-hish-a rode among the lodges with little White Weasel sitting behind her, dry-eyed and content. Alder had lost Gold Nugget, but the Indians had White Weasel--so things were mended. His foster-mother--the one from whom the chief had taken him--had stayed behind the retreating camp, stealing about unseen. She wore the wolfskin over her back, and in those days no one paid any attention to a wolf. In the dusk of evening she had lain near the shack where her boy was housed, and at the first opportunity she had seized him and fled. He did not cry out when her warning hiss struck native tones on his ear. Mounting her pony, she had gained the scouts, which lay back on the Indian trail. The hat-weavers (white men) should know White Weasel no more. The old men Nah-kee and Umbas-a-hoos sat smoking over their talk in the purple shade of a tepee. Idly noting the affairs of camp, their eyes fell on groups of small urchins, which were scampering about engaging each other in mimic war. They shot blunt-headed arrows, while other tots returned the fire from the vantage of lariated ponies or friendly tepees. They further observed that little White Weasel, by his activity, fierce impulse, and mental excellence, was admittedly leading one of these diminutive war-parties. He had stripped off his small buckskin shirt, and the milk-white skin glared in the sunlight; one little braid had become undone and flowed in golden curls about his shoulders. In childish screams he urged his group to charge the other, and running forth he scattered all before his insistent assault. "See, brother," spoke Nah-kee, "the little white Crow has been struck in the face by an arrow, but he does not stop." "Umph--he will make a warrior," replied the other, his features relaxing into something approaching kindliness. The two old men understood what they saw even if they had never heard of the "Gothic self-abandonment" which was the inheritance of White Weasel. "He may be a war-chief--he leads the boys even now, before he is big enough to climb up the fore leg of a pony to get on its back. The arrow in his face did not stop him. These white men cannot endure pain as we do; they bleat like a deer under the knife. Do you remember the one we built the fire on three grasses ago over by the Big Muddy when Eashdies split his head with a battle-axe to stop his noise? Brother, little White Weasel is a Crow." [Illustration: A CROW.] "It is so," pursued the other veteran; "these yellow-eyes are only fit to play badger in a gravel-pit or harness themselves to loaded boats, which pull powder and lead up the long river. They walk all one green-grass beside their long-horned buffalo, hauling their tepee wagons over the plains. If it were not for their medicine goods, we would drive them far away." "Yes, brother, they are good for us. If we did not have their powder and guns, the Cut-Throats [Sioux] and the Cut-Arms [Cheyennes] would soon put the Absaroke fires out. We must step carefully and keep our eyes open lest the whites again see White Weasel; and if these half-Indian men about camp talk to the traders about him, we will have the camp soldiers beat them with sticks. The white traders would take our powder away from us unless we gave him to them." "We could steal him again, brother." "Yes, if they did not send him down the long river in a boat. Then he would go so far toward the morning that we should never pass our eyes over him again on this side of the Spiritland. We need him to fill the place of some warrior who will be struck by the enemy." Seeing the squaw Ba-cher-hish-a passing, they called to her and said: "When there are any white men around the camps, paint the face of your little son White Weasel, and fill his hair with wood ashes. If you are careful to do this, the white men will not notice him; you will not have to part with him again." "What you say is true," spoke the squaw, "but I cannot put black ashes in his eyes." She departed, nevertheless, glorious with the new thought. Having fought each other with arrows until it no longer amused them, the foes of an idle hour ran away together down by the creek, where they disrobed by a process neatly described by the white men's drill regulations, which say a thing shall be done in "one time and two motions." White Weasel was more complicated than his fellows by reason of one shirt, which he promptly skinned off. "See the white Crow," gurgled a small savage, as every eye turned to our hero. "He always has the war-paint on his body. He is always painted like the big men when they go to strike the enemy--he is red all over. The war-paint is in his skin." "Now, let us be buffalo," spoke one, answered by others, "Yes, let us be buffalo." Accordingly, in true imitation of what to them was a familiar sight, they formed in line, White Weasel at the head as usual. Bending their bodies forward and swinging their heads, they followed down to the water, throwing themselves flat in the shallows. Now they were no longer buffalo, but merely small boys splashing about in the cool water, screaming incoherently and as nearly perfectly happy as nature ever intended human beings to be. After a few minutes of this, the humorist among them, the ultra-imaginative one, stood up pointing dramatically, and, simulating fear, yelled, "Here comes the bad water monster," whereat with shrill screams and much splashing the score of little imps ran ashore and sat down, grinning at their half-felt fear. The water monster was quite real to them. Who could say one might not appear and grab a laggard? After this they ran skipping along the river bank, quite naked, as purposeless as birds, until they met two old squaws dipping water from the creek to carry home. With hue and cry they gathered about them, darting like quick-motioned wolves around worn-out buffalo. "They are buffalo, and we are wolves," chorussed the infant band; "bite them! blind them! We are wolves! we will eat them!" They plucked at their garments and threw dirt over them in childish glee. The old women snarled at their persecutors and caught up sticks to defend themselves. It was beginning to look rather serious for the supposed buffalo, when a young warrior came riding down, his pony going silently in the soft dirt. Comprehending the situation, and being fairly among them, he dealt out a few well-considered cuts with his pony-whip, which changed the tune of those who had felt its contact. They all ran off, some holding on to their smarts--scattering away much as the wolves themselves might have done under such conditions. Indian boys are very much like white boys in every respect, except that they are subject to no restraint, and carry their mischievousness to all bounds. Their ideas of play being founded on the ways of things about them, they are warriors, wild animals, horses, and the hunters, and the hunted by turns. Bands of these little Crows scarcely past toddling ranged the camp, keeping dogs, ponies, and women in a constant state of unrest. Occasional justice was meted out to them with a pony-whip, but in proportions much less than their deserts. Being hungry, White Weasel plodded home to his mother's lodge, and finding a buffalo rib roasting near the fire he appropriated it. It was nearly as large as himself, and when he had satisfied his appetite, his face and hands were most appallingly greased. Seeing this, his mother wiped him off, but not as thoroughly as his condition called for, it must be admitted. Falling back on a buffalo robe, little Weasel soon fell into a deep slumber, during which a big dog belonging to the tent made play to complete the squaw's washing, by licking all the grease from his face and hands. In due course he arose refreshed and ready for more mischief. The first opportunity which presented itself was the big dog, which was sleeping outside. "He is a young pony; I will break him to bear a man," said Weasel to himself. Straightway he threw himself on the pup, grasping firmly with heel and hand. The dog rose suddenly with a yell, and nipped one of Weasel's legs quite hard enough to bring his horse-breaking to a finish with an answering yell. The dog made off, followed by hissing imprecations from Ba-cher-hish-a, who rubbed the little round leg and crooned away his tears. He was not long depressed by the incident. Now all small Indian boys have a regard for prairie-dog or marmot's flesh, which is akin to the white boy's taste for candy balls and cream paste. In order to satisfy it the small Indian must lie out on the prairie for an hour under the broiling sun, and make a sure shot in the bargain. The white boy has only to acquire five cents, yet in the majority of cases that too is attended by almost overwhelming difficulties. With three other boys White Weasel repaired to the adjoining dog-town, and having located from cover a fat old marmot whose hole was near the outskirts of the village, they each cut a tuft of grease-weed. Waiting until he had gone inside, they ran forward swiftly and threw themselves on the ground behind other dog mounds, putting up the grease-weed in front of themselves. With shrill chirping, all the marmots of this colony dived into their holes and gave the desert over to silence. After a long time marmots far away from them came out to protest against the intrusion. An old Indian warrior sitting on a near-by bluff, nursing morose thoughts, was almost charmed into good nature by the play of the infant hunters below him. He could remember when he had done this same thing--many, many grasses ago. More grasses than he could well remember. The sun had drawn a long shadow before the fat marmot showed his head above the level of his intrenchments--his fearful little black eyes set and his ears straining. Three other pairs of black eyes and one pair of blue ones snapped at him from behind the grease-weed. There followed a long wait, after which the marmot jumped up on the dirt rim which surrounded his hole, and there waited until his patience gave out. With a sharp bark and a wiggling of his tail he rolled out along the plain, a small ball of dusty fur. To the intent gaze of the nine-year-olds he was much more important than can be explained from this view-point. Having judged him sufficiently far from his base, the small hunters sprang to their knees, and drove their arrows with all the energy of soft young arms at the quarry. The marmot made a gallant race, but an unfortunate blunt-head caught him somewhere and bowled him over. Before he could recover, the boys were upon him, and his stage had passed. Carrying the game and followed by his companions, Weasel took it home to his foster-mother, who set to skinning it, crooning as she did in the repeated sing-song of her race:-- "My son is a little hunter, My son is a little hunter, Some day the buffalo will fear him, Some day the buffalo will fear him, Some day the buffalo will fear him," and so on throughout the Indian list until the marmot was ready for cooking. So ran the young life of the white Crow. While the sun shone, he chased over the country with his small fellows, shooting blunt arrows at anything living of which they were not afraid. No one corrected him; no one made him go to bed early; no one washed him but the near-by brook; no one bothered him with stories about good little boys; in fact, whether he was good or bad had never been indicated to him. He was as all Crow boys are--no better and no worse. He shared the affections of his foster-parents with several natural offspring, and shared in common, though the camp took a keen interest in so unusual a Crow. Being by nature bright and engaging, he foraged on every camp kettle, and made the men laugh as they lounged in the afternoon shade, by his absurd imitations of the war and scalp dances, which he served up seriously in his infant way. Any white man could see at a glance that White Weasel was evolved from a race which, however remote from him, got its yellow hair, fair skin, and blue eyes amid the fjords, forests, rocks, and ice-floes of the north of Europe. The fierce sun of lower latitudes had burned no ancestor of Weasel's; their skins had been protected against cold blasts by the hides of animals. Their yellow hair was the same as the Arctic bear's, and their eyes the color of new ice. Little Weasel's fortunes had taken him far afield. He was born white, but he had a Crow heart, so the tribesmen persuaded themselves. They did not understand the laws of heredity. They had never hunted those. CHAPTER III THE COMING OF THE GREAT SPIRIT With the years White Weasel spindled up into a youth whose legs quite naturally fitted around the barrel of a horse. He no longer had to climb up the fore leg of a camp-pony, but could spring on to those that ran in his father's herd and maintain his position there. Having observed this, one night his foster-father said to him: "You are old enough, my son, to be trusted with my ponies out in the hills. You must begin to study the ponies, or you will never be able to take or hold any of your own. Not to have horses is not to hunt buffalo or go to the enemy, and not to have a wife. Go, then, when the morning comes, with your brother, and watch my herd. See that they feed safely; see that by evening they come to the lodges. You are old enough now to wear the loin-cloth; you must begin to be a man. You will never find your shadow-self here among the noisy lodges; it will only come to you out in the quiet of the hills. The Bad Spirits always have their arms out to clutch you when you are asleep in the night; as you ride in the shadows; when you ford the waters,--they come in the wind, the rain, the snow; they point the bullet and the battle-axe to your breast, and they will warn the Sioux when you are coming after their ponies. But out in the hills the Sak-a-war-te[1] will send some bird or some little wolf to you as his friend; in some way he will talk to you and give a sign that will protect you from the Bad Gods. Do not eat food or drink water; pray to him, and he will come to you; if he does not, you will be lost. You will never see the Spiritland when your body lies flat on the ground and your shadow has gone." [1] Great Spirit of the Crows. After saying this, his father's pipe died out, the mother put no more dry sticks on the fire, the shapes along the lodge walls died away in the gloom, and left the youth awake with a new existence playing through his brain. He was to begin to be a man. Already he had done in play, about the camp, the things which the warriors did among the thundering buffalo herds; he had imitated the fierce nervous effort to take the enemy's life in battle and the wolfish quest after ponies. He had begun to take notice of the great difference between himself and the girls about the camp; he had a meaning which they did not; his lot was in the field. Before the sun rose he was one of the many noisy boys who ran about among the horses, trailing his lariat to throw over some pony which he knew. By a fortunate jerk he curled it about one's neck, the shy creature crouching under its embracing fold, knowing full well the awful strangle which followed opposition. With ears forward, the animal watched the naked youth, as he slowly approached him along the taut rope, saying softly; "Eh-ah-h-h--um-m-m-um-m-m--eh-h-h-h-h." Tying the rope on the horse's jaw, with a soft spring he fixed himself on its back, tucking his loin-cloth under him. Now he moved to the outskirts of the thronging horses, crying softly to them as he and his brother separated their father's stock from that of the neighbor herds. He had done this before, but he had never been responsible for the outcome. The faint rose of the morning cut the trotting herd into dull shadowy forms against the gray grass, and said as plain as any words could to White Weasel: "I, the sun, will make the grass yellow as a new brass kettle from the traders. I will make the hot air dance along the plains, and I will chase every cloud out of the sky. See me come," said the sun to White Weasel. "Come," thought the boy in reply, "I am a man." For all Indians talk intimately with all things in nature; everything has life; everything has to do with their own lives personally; and all nature can speak as well as any Crow. Zigzagging behind the herd, they left the smell of smoke, carrion, and other nameless evils of men behind them, until the bark of wolf-dogs dulled, and was lost to their ears. Daylight found the two boys sitting quietly, as they sped along beside the herd of many-colored ponies. To look at the white boy, with his vermilioned skin, and long, braided hair, one would expect to hear the craunch and grind of a procession of the war-cars of ancient Gaul coming over the nearest hill. He would have been the true part of any such sight. "Brother," spoke his companion, "we must never shut our eyes. The Cut-Arms are everywhere; they come out of the sky, they come out of the ground to take our horses. You must watch the birds floating in the air; they will speak to you about the bad Indians, when you learn their talk; you must watch the wolves and the buffalo, and, above all, the antelope. These any one can understand. We must not let the ponies go near the broken land or the trees. The ponies themselves are fools, yet, if you will watch them, you will see them turn slowly away from an enemy, and often looking back, pointing with their ears. It may be only a bear which they go away from; for the ponies are fools--they are afraid of everything. The grass has been eaten off here by these buffalo, and the ponies wander. I will ride to the high hill, while you, brother, bring the herd slowly. Watch me, brother; I may give the sign of danger." Saying which, the older boy loped gracefully on ahead. All day the herd grazed, or stood drooping, as the sun made its slow arc over the sky, while the boys sat on the ground in the shadows cast by their mounts, their eyes ceaselessly wandering. Many were the mysteries of horse-herding expounded by the one to the other. That the white Absaroke was hungry, it was explained, made no difference. Absarokes were often hungry out in the hills. The Dakotah were worse than the hunger, and to lose the ponies meant hunger in their father's lodge. This shadow-day herding was like good dreams; wait until the hail beat on the ponies' backs, and made them run before it; wait until the warriors fought about the camp, defending it; then it was hard work to hold them quietly. Even when the snow blew all ways at the same time, the Cut-Throats might come. White Weasel found a world of half-suspected things all coming to him at once, and gradually a realizing sense stole over him that the ponies and the eating and the land were very serious things, all put here for use and trouble to the Absaroke. As the days wore on, the birds and the wild animals talked to the boy, and he understood. When they plainly hovered, or ran wildly, he helped to gather up the ponies and start them toward the lodges. If the mounted scouts came scurrying along the land, with the white dust in a long trail behind them, he headed for the cottonwoods with the herd, galloping. At times the number of the ponies in his charge changed, as his father won or lost at the game of "hand"; but after the dried-meat moon his father had brought home many new ponies from the camps of the Cut-Arms toward the Morning. His father had often spoken praise of him beside the lodge-fire, and it made him feel good. He was beginning to be a man, and he was proud of it; he would be a warrior some day, and he would see that nothing hurtful happened to his father's horses. It was now the month of the cold moon.[2] The skies were leaden at times; the snow-laden winds swept down from the mountains, and in the morning Weasel's skin was blue and bloodless under his buffalo-robe when he started out for the hills, where the wind had swept the snow off from the weeds and grass. Never mind, the sun of the yellow grass had not cooked the ambition out of him, and he would fight off the arrows of the cold. [2] December. His brother, being older, had at last succumbed to his thirst for glory. He had gone with some other boys to try his fortune on other people's horses. Weasel was left alone with the herd. His father often helped him to take the ponies out to good grazing, and then left him. The Absaroke had been sore pressed by the Indians out on the plains, and had retired to the Chew-cârâ-âsh-Nitishic[3] country, where the salt-weed grew. Here they could be pushed no farther. Aided by the circling wall of mountain, their own courage, and their fat horses, they could maintain themselves. Their scouts lay far out, and the camp felt as much security as a wild people can ever feel. [3] Big Horn Basin. One day, as usual, Weasel had taken his ponies far away to fresh feed, that near the camps having been eaten off. The day was bright, but heavy, dense clouds drifted around the surrounding mountain-tops, and later they crawled slowly down their sides. Weasel noticed this as he sat shivering in his buffalo-robe; also he noticed far away other horse herds moving slowly toward the Arsha-Nitishic, along whose waters lay the camp of his people. He began to gather his ponies and rode circling about. They acted wildly--strung out and began to run. Glancing about, Weasel saw many big gray wolves loping along in unison with his charges. It was not strange that wolves were in the vicinity of Indians. The wolves, the ravens, and the Indians were brothers in blood, and all followed the buffalo herds together. A lame or loose pony or a crippled Indian often went the way of the wolves, and many wolves' hides passed over the trader's counter. Thus they always got along together, with the raven last at the feast. As Weasel turned his nervous eye about him, he knew that he had never seen so many wolves before. He had seen dozens and dozens, but not so many as these. They were coming in nearer to the horses--they were losing their fear. The horses were running--heads up, and blowing with loud snorts. Weasel's pony needed no whip; his dorsal action was swift and terrific. The wolves did not seem to pay particular attention to him--they rather minded the herd. They gathered in great numbers at the head of the drove. Weasel could have veered off and out of the chase. He thought of this, but his blue eyes opened bravely and he rode along. A young colt, having lost its mother, ran out of the line of horses, uttering whinnies. Instantly a dozen gray forms covered its body, which sank with a shriek, as Weasel flashed by. The leading ponies stopped suddenly and ran circling, turning their tails to the wolves, kicking and squealing viciously. The following ones closed up into the compact mass of horses, and Weasel rode, last of all, into the midst of them. What had been a line of rushing horses two arrow-flights long before, was now a closely packed mass of animals which could have been covered by a lariat. In the middle of the bunch sat Weasel, with his legs drawn up to avoid the crushing horses. It was all very strange; it had happened so quickly that he could not comprehend. He had never been told about this. Were they really wolves, or spirits sent by the Bad Gods to destroy the boy and his horses? [Illustration: "IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BUNCH SAT WEASEL."] All his waking hours had been spent with the ponies; he knew no other world; he had scarcely had any other thoughts. He was with them now, but instead of his protecting them they were protecting him. With their tails turned toward the circling mass of devil-animals, they struck and lashed when attacked. Nothing was heard but the snap of teeth, the stamp of hooves, the shrill squealing of horses, with an occasional thud followed by a yelp. The departing sun stole for a moment through a friendly rift in the clouds, encrimsoning the cold snow, and then departed, leaving the gray tragedy to the spirits of the night. The smoke eddied from the top of the lodges; a bright spark showed from time to time as some one lifted an entrance flap; the ponies huddled in the dense bush; the dogs came out and barked at the wilderness of never ending plain. All was warmth and light, friendship, and safety,--even the baying wolf-dogs were only defying the shades and distances out beyond for their own amusement; it was perfunctory. "Why does not my son come in with the ponies?" asked the foster-father of his squaw, but she could only answer, "Why?" Wrapping his robe about him, he walked to the edge of the camp and stood long squinting across the dusky land. He saw nothing to encourage him. Possibly the ponies had come in, but why not the boy? Oh! that was possible! That had happened! A long walk failed to locate the horses. Then he spoke to a chief, and soon all was excitement. "The little white Crow and his horses have not come in," was repeated in every lodge. "The Sioux! The Sioux!" spoke the echo. It was too dark for a search. "The Sioux" was the answer to every question, and no one hunted the Sioux by night. They might even now be on the outskirts. Swiftly the scouts made their way to the outposts. The warriors loaded their guns, and the women put out the fires. Every dog howled with all the energy of his emotional nature. There was no sleep for the Absaroke camp. It was seldom that an enemy got by the far-riding watchers of the Crow camps, but there was always a fear. It had happened. Ba-cher-hish-a sobbed and wailed all night in her lodge, while the foster-father walked outside, speculating endlessly with his friends. Long before day he was mounted, and with a small party far on the way to the herd-grounds which he had chosen the day before. As the plain began to unfold itself to their straining eyes, their quick ears ran ahead of them. A snarling, a horse-squealing, a curious medley of sounds, bore on them. Being old men, they knew. "It is the wolves," said they, almost in a chorus. Forward with a rush, a shrill yelling, and firing, swept the little party. The sun strove mightily to get over the mountains to help them. They now saw the solid mass of horses, with the wolves scurrying away on all sides. A faint answering human whoop came from the body of the beleaguered horse band. As the rescuers rode up, the ponies spread out from each other. Relieved from the pressure of the slimy fangs, the poor animals knew that men were better than wolves. Some of them were torn and bloody about the flanks; a few lay still on the snow with their tendons cut; but best of all which the Indians saw was little White Weasel sitting in the midst of the group. He allowed his robe to fall from his tight clutch. The men pushed their horses in among the disintegrating bunch. They saw that the boy's lips were without color, that his arms hung nerveless, but that his brave, deep eyes were open, and that they showed no emotion. He had passed the time of fear, and he had passed the time for hope, long hours ago. They lifted him from his horse, and laid him on the ground, covered with many robes, while willing hands kneaded his marbled flesh. A fire was built beside him, and the old men marvelled and talked. It was the time when the gray wolves changed their hunting-grounds. Many had seen it before. When they sought the lower country, many grasses ago, to get away from the snow, one had known them to eat a Crow who happened in their way; this when he was a boy. The wolves did not always act like this--not every snow. Sudden bad storms in the mountains had driven them out. The horse herds must be well looked after for a time, until the flood of wolves had passed down the valley. The tired ponies stood about on the plain with their heads down. They, too, had become exhausted by the all-night fight. The sun came back, warm and clear, to see a more cheerful scene than it had left. Little Weasel spoke weakly to his father: "The Great Spirit came to me in the night, father,--the cold wind whispered to me that White Weasel must always carry a hoof of the white stallion in his medicine-bag. 'It is the thing that will protect you,' said the wind. The white stallion lies over there--cut down behind. Kill him, and give me one of his rear hooves, father." Accordingly, the noble beast, the leader of the horses in battle, was relieved of what was, at best, useless suffering,--sacrificed to the gods of men, whom he dreaded less than the wolves,--and his wolf-smashing hoof did useful things for many years afterward. CHAPTER IV CROOKED-BEAR White Weasel's tough body soon recovered from the freezing night's battle between the animals. It had never been shielded from the elements, and was meat fed. The horses ate grass, because their stomachs were so formed, but he and the wolves ate meat. They had the canines. In justice to the wolves, it must be said that all three animals represented in the fight suffered in common; for if the boy had chilled veins, and the ponies torn flanks, many wolves were stiffened out on the prairie with broken ribs, smashed joints or jaws, to die of hunger. Nature brings no soup or warmth to the creature she finds helpless. [Illustration] The boy's spiritual nature had been exalted by the knowledge that the Good God had not only held him in His saving arms during the long, cold, snarling night, but He had guaranteed his continual protection and ultimate salvation. That is no small thing to any person, but to the wild man, ever in close communion with the passing of the flesh, to be on intimate terms with the something more than human is a solace that dwellers in the quiescent towns are deadened to. The boy was not taught physical fear, but he was taught to stand in abject awe of things his people did not understand, and, in consequence, he felt afraid in strange places and at inopportune times. One evening, as the family to which White Weasel belonged sat about the blaze of the split sticks in their lodge, Fire-Bear, the medicine-man, entered, and sat down to smoke his talk with the foster-father. Between the long puffs he said: "Crooked-Bear wants us to bring the white Absaroke to him. The hot winds have come down the valley, and the snow has gone, so we can go to the mountains the next sun. Will you go with me and take the boy? The Absaroke must do as the Crooked-Bear says, brother, or who knows what may happen to us? The old man of the mountain is strong." After blinking and smoking for a time the foster-father said: "The boy's and Crooked-Bear's skins are of the same color; they are both Sparrowhawks in their hearts. His heart may be heavy out there alone in the mountains--he may want us to leave the boy by his fire. Ba-cher-hish-a would mourn if this were done. I fear to go, brother, but must if he ask it. We will be ready when the morning comes." When the dark teeth of the eastern mountains bit into the gray of approaching day, the two old Indians and the boy were trotting along, one behind the other. The ponies slithered in the pools and little rivulets left by the melted snow, but again taking the slow, steady, mountainous, stiff-legged, swinging lope across the dry plain, they ate the flat miles up, as only those born on the desert know how to do. The boy had often heard of the great Crow medicine-man up in the mountains near where the tribe hovered. He seldom came to their lodges, but the Indians frequently visited him. Weasel had never seen him, for the boys of the camp were not permitted to go near the sacred places where the old man was found. He had requested this of the chiefs, and the Absaroke children drank the mystery and fear of him with their mothers' milk. He was one of the tribal institutions, a matter of course; and while his body was denied them, his advice controlled in the council-lodges. His were the words from God. Weasel was in the most tremendous frame of mind about this venture. He was divided between apprehension and acute curiosity. He had left his mother sobbing, and the drawn face of his father served only to tighten his nerves. Why should the great man want to see White Weasel, who was only a herd-boy? Was it because his hair and his eyes were not the color of other boys'? He was conscious of this difference. He knew the traders were often red and yellow like him, and not brown and black as the other people were. He did not understand the thing, however. No one had ever said he was anything else than an Absaroke; he did not feel otherwise. Approaching the mountains, the travellers found the snow again, and climbed more slowly along the game-trails. They had blinded their path by following up a brook which made its way down a coulée. No one left the road to Crooked-Bear's den open to the prowling enemy. That was always understood. Hours of slow winding took them high up on the mountains, the snow growing deeper and less trodden by wild animals, until they were among the pines. Making their way over fallen logs, around jagged boulders, and through dense thickets, they suddenly dropped into a small wooded valley, then up to the foot of the towering terraces of bare rock, checkered with snow, where nothing came in winter, not even the bighorns. Soon Weasel could smell fire, then dogs barked in the woods up in front. Fire-Bear called loudly in deep, harsh Indian tones, and was answered by a man. Going forward, they came first to the dogs,--huge, bold creatures,--bigger and different than any Weasel had ever seen. Then he made out the figure of a man, low in tone and softly massed against the snow, and beside him a cabin made of logs set against the rock wall. This was Crooked-Bear. Weasel's mind had ceased to act; only his blue eyes opened in perfect circles, seemed awake in him, and they were fixed on the man. The big dogs approached him without barking,--a bad sign with dogs. Weasel's mind did not concern itself with dogs. In response to strange words from the white medicine-man they drew away. Weasel sat on his pony while the older men dismounted and greeted Crooked-Bear. They did not shake hands--only "hat-wearers" did that. Why should an Indian warrior lose the use of his right hand for even an instant? His hand was only for his wife and children and his knife. In response to the motion of his father's hand, the boy slid off his pony. Taking him by the shoulder, the father drew him slowly toward Crooked-Bear until they were directly in each other's presence. Weasel's eyes could open no farther. His whole training was that of an Indian. He would not have betrayed his feelings under any circumstances; he was also a boy, and the occasion was to him so momentous that he was receiving impressions, not giving them. A great and abiding picture was fast etching itself on his brain; his spongelike child-mind drank up every drop of the weird situation. He had seen a few white men in his life. He had not forgotten Virginia City, though terror had robbed him of his powers of observation during that ordeal. He had seen the traders at the post; he had seen the few white or half-white men who lived with his people, but they were not like this one. The old man of the mountain[4] was crooked as his name implied. He also suggested a bear. He looked rude even to the Indians. It seemed that Nature had laid her hands on his shoulder and telescoped him together. He was humpbacked. His arms and legs were as other men's are, though his shortened body made his hands fall to his knees. [4] Old timers in Montana may remember a deformed man of wild mien and picturesque apparel who used to come into the mountain towns (there were none on the plains then) at rare intervals to do a little trading, with gold dust in payment. He would then depart for the Indian country, which was almost totally unknown to the mining people, and was often followed as far as white men dared to go. He was always a mystery. The Indians had driven the old trapping-men from the country, upon the approach of the white tide, and as yet the buffalo-hunter and cow-boy had not made their appearance. He was dressed in Indian buckskin, greased to a shine and bronzed by smoke. He leaned on a long breech-loading rifle, and carried a huge knife and revolver in his belt. His hat was made of wolfskin after the Indian fashion, from underneath which fell long brown hair, carefully combed, in profuse masses. Seen closely he was not old--merely past middle life. His strong features were weather-stained and care-hardened. They were sculptured with many an insistent dig by Nature, the great artist; she had gouged deep under the brows; she had been lavish in the treatment of the nose; she had cut the tiger lines fearlessly, but she had covered the mouth and lost the lower face in a bush of beard. More closely, the whole face was open, the eyes mild, and all about it was reposeful--sad resolution dominated by a dome of brain. Weasel warmed under the gaze of the kind face--the eyes said nothing but good; they did more than that: they compelled him to step forward toward the strange figure, who put his hand on Weasel's shoulder and led him tenderly in the direction of the cabin door. Weasel had lost his fear and regained the use of his mind. As the men stooped almost on hands and knees to enter the den of Crooked-Bear, they were greeted by the acrid smell of smouldering ashes, and probably by other odors native to their noses. Crooked-Bear stirred the ashes and laid split wood on them. It was pine which spat and broke out in a bright flame, painting the wild figures against the smoked logs and rock wall. It illumined a buffalo-covered bunk, piles of _parflèche_ full of dried meat, a saddle and pack panniers, cooking pots and pans on the hearth, all deeply sooted, a table and chair made with an axe, and in one corner some shelves, equally rude, piled with brown and dirty books. Many small knick-knacks intruded their useful presence as one looked with more care, but the whole was the den of a man of some remote century. The sabre-toothed tiger might snarl at the door but for the Sharp's rifle standing in the corner; that alone made time and distance. "Your ponies must starve to-night, brother," spoke Crooked-Bear. "Go put them in my house where the horses live in summer-time. It is cold up here in the mountains--we have even no cottonwoods for them to eat. The bear and the wolves will not spring on them, though the big cats are about." All this said the white man in the language of the Absaroke, though it may be said it sounded strange in Weasel's ear. When he spoke to the dogs, the boy could not understand at all. While the Indians looked after their ponies, the white man roasted meat and boiled coffee. On their return, seeing him cooking, Fire-Bear said: "Brother, you should have a squaw to do that. Why do you not take Be-Sha's daughter? She has the blood of the yellow-eyes in her. She would make your fire burn." "Tut, tut," he replied, "no woman would make my fire burn. My fire has gone out." With a low laugh, Crooked-Bear added, "No woman would stay long up here, brothers; she would soon run away." Fire-Bear said nothing, for he did not understand. He himself would follow and beat the woman and make her come back, but he did not say so. Having eaten, and passed the pipe, Fire-Bear asked the hermit how the winter was passing--how the dry meat was lasting--what fortune had he in hunting, and had any enemies beset him? He was assured his good friends, the Absaroke, had brought him enough dry meat, after the last fall hunt, to last him until he should no longer need it. The elk were below him, but plentiful, and his big dogs were able to haul enough up the hills on his sleds. He only feared for his tobacco, coffee, and ammunition; that had always to be husbanded, being difficult to get and far to carry. Further, he asked his friend, the Indian, to take some rawhides back to the women, to be dressed and made into clothes for his use. "Has my brother any more talking papers from the yellow-eyes? Do the white men mean to take the Sioux lands away from them? The Sioux asked the Absaroke last fall to help drive the white men out of the country, saying, 'If they take our lands to dig their badger-holes in, they will soon want yours.' The Absaroke would not help the Cut-Throats[5]; for they are dogs--they wag their tails before they bite," spoke Fire-Bear. [5] The Sioux. "Yes, brother," replied Crooked-Bear; "if you should, by aiding the Sioux, get rid of the white men, and even this you would not be able to do,--you would still have the Sioux, who are dogs, always ready to bite you. No, brother, have nothing to do with them, as I have counselled you. The Sak-a-war-te said this to me: 'Before the grass on the plains shoots, send a strong, fat-horse war-party to the enemy and strike hard. Sweep their ponies away--they will be full of sticks and bark, not able to carry their warriors that moon; tear their lodges down and put their fires out; make their warriors sit shivering in the plum bushes. That is the way for the Crows to have peace.' The Great Spirit has said to me: 'Tell the Absaroke that they can never run the buffalo on the plains in peace, until the Chis-chis-chash, the Dakotahs, and the Piegan dare not look them in the face. That, and that only, is the path.'" Far into the night the men talked of the tribal policy--it was diminutive statesmanship, commercial politics with buffalo meat for money. As Crooked-Bear sat on his hewn chair, he called the boy to him, put his arm around him, and stood him against his knee. The youth's head rose above the rugged face of the master of Indian mystery; he was in his first youth, his slender bones had lengthened suddenly in the last few years, and the muscles had tried hard to catch up with them. They had no time to do more than that, consequently Weasel was more beautiful than he would ever be again. The long lines of grace showed under the tight buckskins, and his face surveyed the old man with boyish wonder. Who can know what the elder thought of him in return? Doubtless he dreamed of the infinite possibilities of so fine a youth. He whose fire had gone out mused pleasantly as he long regarded the form in whom they were newly lighted. [Illustration: "HE CALLED THE BOY TO HIM AND PUT HIS ARM AROUND HIM."] Slowly he began to speak, using the Indian forms of speech, and supplementing them with the gestures which only Indians can command. "Brother, we have lived a long time. We have made the medicine strong for the Absaroke. We have taken the words of the Good Gods to the council-lodge when the tribe ran wildly and knew not which way to turn. We will follow soon the others who have gone to the Shadowland. The Absaroke will be left behind, and they must have wise men to guide them when we are gone. This young man will be one of those--I have seen that in my dreams. He must stay here with me in the lonely mountains, and I will teach him the great mystery of the white men, together with that of the people of his own tribe. He will visit his father's lodge whenever his heart is hungry. He owes it to himself and to his people to grow strong in the mystery, and then some day the tribe will lean on him. Shall he stay, brothers?" White Weasel, with arms dropped to his side, made no move. The flame from the hearth lighted one of his starlike eyes as it stood open, regardful of the strange old man. The Indians passed the pipe, and for a long time there was no sound save the snapping of the fire and the pines outside popping with the cold. At last Fire-Bear spoke: "We have had our ears open, brother. Your talk is good. The Sak-a-war-te demands this. The boy shall stay." Weasel's foster-father held his peace. His was the sacrifice, but the Great Spirit could not ask too much of him. In reply to another inquiry, he said that the boy should stay; then wrapping himself in his robe, he lay down before the fire to hide his weakness. "Will you stay with me?" asked the Wonder-Worker of the boy, stroking his yellow hair and pouring the benevolence of his fire-lighted face in a steady stream on the youth. "You have no ponies to herd, father. What shall I do?" he asked. "I have no ponies for you to herd, but I have many mysteries here," tapping the boy's forehead with his finger, "for you to gather up and feed on, and they are greater than ponies." "I will stay, father." CHAPTER V THE WHITE MEDICINE That the sun rose with customary precision made little difference to the sleepers in the mountain den. Little of its light crept down the hole against the rock wall, and none of it penetrated the warm buffalo-robes. The dogs, growing uneasy, walked about and scratched at the door; they had not been disturbed by last night's vigil. Waking, one by one, the men threw off the robes and went out; all but the boy, who lay quite still, his vitality engaged in feeding the growing bones and stretching muscles. Out by the stable Crooked-Bear said: "Take your ponies and that of the boy and ride away. They will starve here, and you must go before they weaken and are unable to carry you. A boy changes his mind very quickly, and he may not think in the sunlight what he did in the firelight. I will be kind to him. Tell Ba-cher-hish-a that her son will be a great chief in a few grasses." Silently, as only the cats and the wolves and the Indians conduct themselves, the men with the led horses lost themselves among the trees, leaving Crooked-Bear standing by his abode with the two great cross-bred mastiffs, on their hind legs, leaning on him and trying to lick his face. As they stood together, the dogs were taller than he, and all three of them about the same color. It was a fantastic scene; a few goblins, hoarse mystery birds, Indian devils, and what not beside, might have been added to the group and without adding to its strangeness. Weasel had found a most unearthly home; but as he awoke and lay looking about the cabin, it did not seem so awfully strange. Down through the ages--borne through hundreds of wombs--in some mysterious alcove of the boy's brain had survived something which did not make the long-haired white man working about the fire, the massive dogs, the skins of wild animals, the sooty interior, look so strange. As Weasel rose to a sitting posture on the bunk, the dogs got up also. "Down with you! Down with you, Eric! and you, Hope! You must not bother the boy," came the hermit's words of command. The dogs understood, and lay heavily down, but their eyes shone through heavy red settings as they regarded the boy with unarrested attention. "I am afraid of your dogs, father; they are as big as ponies. Will they eat me?" "No; do not be afraid. Before the sun goes over the mountains they will eat any one who would raise his hand against you. Come, put your hand on their heads. The Indians do not do this; but these are white dogs, and they will not bite any one who can put his hand on their heads," spoke Crooked-Bear in his labored way with the Indian tongue. He had never mastered all the clicks and clucks of it. The meat being done, it was put on the table, and White Weasel was persuaded to undertake his first development. The hermit knew that the mind never waits on a starved belly, so he explained to the boy that only dogs ate on the ground. That was not obvious to the youngster; but he sat in the chair and mauled his piece of meat, which was in a tin plate. He drank his coffee out of a tin cup, which he could see was full better than a hollow buffalo horn, besides having the extra blandishment of sugar in it. As the hermit, occupying an up-turned pack-saddle opposite, regarded the boy, he could see that Weasel had a full forehead--that it was not pinched like an Indian's; he understood the deep, wide-open eyes which were the color of new ice, and the straight, solemn nose appealed to him also. The face was formal even to the statuesque, which is an easy way of saying he was good-looking. The bearer of these messages from his ancestors to Crooked-Bear quite satisfied him. He knew that the baby Weasel had been forcibly made to enter a life from which he himself had in mature years voluntarily fled, and for which neither was intended. They had entered from opposite doors only, and he did not wish to go out again, but the boy might. He determined to show him the way to undo the latching. After breakfast began the slow second lesson of the white man's mystery. It was in the shape of some squaw's work, and again the boy thought unutterable protests. Crooked-Bear had killed an elk the day before, some considerable distance down the mountain, and taking his dogs with the sledges, they sallied down to get it. What with helping to push the heavy loads in aid of the dogs and his disgust of being on foot, at their noon home-coming White Weasel's interest began to flag. Crooked-Bear noticed this, and put even more sugar into the boy's coffee. He had a way of voicing half-uttered thoughts to himself, using his native tongue, also repeating these thoughts as though to reënforce them. "I must go slow--I must go slow, or the boy will balk. I must lead him with a silken thread; the rawhide will not do--it will not do." Meanwhile the growing youth passed naturally into oblivion on the bunk. "These Indians are an indolent people," the prophet continued. "They work only by fits and starts, but so am I indolent too. It befits our savage way of life," saying which, he put some coffee-berries into a sack and began pounding them with an axe. "I do not know--I do not remember to have been lazy; it does not matter now if I am. No one cares, and certainly I do not. I have tramped these mountains in all weathers; I have undergone all manner of hardships, yet they said I could not be a soldier in the armies down south. Of course not--of course not; a humpback could not be a soldier. He is fit only to swear at. Men would laugh at a crooked-back soldier. _She_ could see nothing but my back. Ah--ah--it is past now. Men and women are not here to see my back; the trees and the clouds, the mountains and my dogs, do not look at my spine. The Indians say my back was bent by my heavy thoughts. The boy there has a straight back, and I hope he may walk among men. I will see that he does; I will give him the happiness which was denied me, and it pleases me to think that I can do this. I will create a happiness which the vicissitudes of this strange life seem to have denied him, saying, 'Weasel, you are to be a starved and naked nomad of the plains.' No! no! boy; you are not to be a starved and naked nomad of the plains. I have in my life done no intentional evil, and also I have done no intentional good; now this problem of the boy has come to me--how it reaches out its roots for the nourishing things and how its branches spread for the storms!" Having accompanied these thoughts by the beating of the axe, the hermit arose, and stood gazing on the sleeping lad. "Oh, if I had only had your back!--oh! oh! oh! But if only you had had my opportunities and education--well, I am not a god; I am only a man; I will do what a man can." When the boy awoke, the hermit said, "My son, did you ever make a gun speak?" "No; my father's gun hangs with his mystery-bag on his reclining-mat, and a woman or child dare not lay their fingers on it." "Would you like to make a gun talk?" came gently, but Weasel could only murmur. The new and great things of life were coming fast to him. He would almost have given his life to shoot a gun; to own one was like the creation, and the few similar thoughts of men; it was beyond the stars. "Weasel," said the man, taking up a carbine, and calling him by name,--which is un-Indian,--"here is a gun; it loads in the middle; I give it to you; it is yours." With which he handed the weapon to the boy. After some hesitation Weasel took the gun, holding it stiffly in front of him, as an altar-boy might a sacred thing. He could say nothing, and soon sat down, still holding the firearm, regarding it for a long time. When he could finally believe he was not dreaming, when he comprehended that he really did own a gun, he passed into an unutterable peace, akin to nothing but a mother and her new-born child. His white father stepped majestically from the earth that Weasel knew into the rolling clouds of the unthought places. "To-morrow I will take my gun, and you will take your gun, and we will walk the hills together. Whatever we see, be it man or beast, your gun may speak first," proposed the prophet. "Yes, father, we will go out with the coming of the sun. My heart is as big as the mountains; only yesterday I was a herd-boy, now I own a gun. This brought it all to me," the boy said almost to himself, as he fumbled a small bag hanging at his neck. The bag contained the dried horse's hoof. Throwing back his long hair, the prophet fixed his face on his new intellectual garden. He saw the weeds, and he hardly dared to pull them, fearing to disturb the tender seeds which he had so lately planted. Carefully he plucked at them. "No, my son, that was not your medicine which brought the gun, but my medicine; the medicine of the white man brought it to you. The medicine of the white man brought the gun to you because the Great Spirit knew you were a white boy. The medicine of the white man is not carried in a buckskin bag; it is carried here." And the prophet laid his finger on his own rather imposing brow; he swept his hair away from it with a graceful gesture, and smiling on the youth, he waited to see whether the seed had come up with the bad weed. Weasel's hand left the bag, and followed down to the gun while he looked at his master. It might be so; no Indian boy whom he knew had ever had a gun. This firearm absorbed him, and the man felt it would continue to do so for some time to come; therefore he said no more. Bright and early was the start of the hunters in the morning. They left the dogs in the cabin, and with snow-shoes slung to their backs, followed down the sledge-trail toward the bare foothills, where the game was. In and out among the shadows of the pine trees passed the figures, vigorous with the mountain ozone, and both happy in their respective ways. On reaching a proper place, they adjusted the broad, oval rackets, and skirted along the timber-line, watching the hills below them, from which the wind had blown the snow. It was not difficult to find game in those days, before the coming of the white men bearing their long-range rifles. Far out on the plain their trained eyes saw the bands of antelope, and, nearer, herds of mule-deer working about in the ravines. "But," said the boy, "my first shot must be at an elk or a bighorn, father." "Come then, my son, we will go round this point of the hill, and on the sunny southern slope we will find the elk--great bands of them. You shall shoot one, and when you have done that, the herd-boy will be a hunter." As had been predicted, in due course of their walk they beheld bands of elk lying about or walking slowly, their yellow backs gleaming in the morning sun. The warm winds from the valleys were coming up toward the arctic mountain-tops and away from the elk. "Take off your snow-shoes, my son; they creak on the snow--the elk will hear them; we must go down this ravine, and when we are near enough, you will shoot." Under cover of the rocks and sparse pines they slowly made their well-considered way noiselessly, the boy's eyes blazing with the hunter's lust, and the old man watching him eagerly. From time to time the Weasel lifted his head above the rim-rock of the ravine to note the position of their approach, but the hermit's heedful eye bore only on his pupil. They had worked their way, after the hunter manner, a long distance downward, and hoped soon to be in a position for a safe shot. The cañon-like ravine which they were following narrowed suddenly; the snow lay in deep drifts against its sides, making it necessary for them to go slowly along the ledges of the rim-rock, the boy always first. As they were about to round the point where the coulée tightened, a big yellow form drifted like a wind-blown feather on to them; it suddenly appeared not twenty feet from their faces, and it was a mountain-lion. Both the men and the animal stopped, the men straightening up while the cougar crouched down. The cat bared its fangs, the boy raised his carbine; both were in search of game, but neither for what he had found. The gun reached its place; the coulée echoed with the heavy report, and through the enveloping smoke flew the great cat as though also impelled by gunpowder. The boy had not missed his mark, and the lion his only by a small margin. The steep snowdrift yielded under his frantic claws, carrying him many yards down the sides. "Load your gun and shoot him, Weasel; I shall not shoot," came the hermit's voice. The position of his long rifle belied his words, but the youth did not look behind. He fumbled for a cartridge, was slow in working the strange mechanism of the arm, but he was ready by the time the cat, much frustrated by the unresisting snow, had nearly reached him. Again the cañon chorussed to the rifle, and as the heavy black powder-smoke drifted off on the friendly wind, the boy saw that he had killed. All had happened too quickly for his brain if not for his arm. "Load your gun," came the voice of command in English. The tense situation made the new language strike Weasel's brain through his ear as his bullet had struck the monster. The sound of it was what conveyed the meaning, and the harsh bang of the words went home. An Indian would have had to gluck and cluck and glut for half a minute to make these three words plain. It would have sounded more like grace before meat than a command. Weasel again broke his rifle and shoved the brass shell home, never looking elsewhere than at the yellow spot of fur on the white snow below him, as its fierce electric nerves slowly softened its expiring motions into quiet. He had never had even a dream of victory such as had taken form before him. He had known old Indian hunters who rode on a lion's skin in the ceremonial days, and he knew what warriors in the tribe wore the grizzly bear-claw necklaces--every one knew those men. Could it be that he would ride on a lion's skin? Could it be that he would carry a gun which loaded in the middle? Yes, it could be if he only had a horse, but ponies were easier than guns or lions' skins in the Indian world. What a vista of power and glory opened in the boy's mind! What vanity of his could not yet be satisfied? The hermit glanced over the rim-rock and saw the elk in long lines trotting away; he could hear the joints cracking, but his cabin was full of meat. "Boy, this was a white man's medicine-hunt. Could any Indian do that for you?" But the boy heeded not; with a series of wolfish yells he slid down the snowy incline toward his fallen foe. The hermit followed, and drawing their knives, they raised the hide while the body was yet warm, taking head and tail and claws. Weasel was delirious with joy; he laughed and jabbered and ki-yied, while the pleased old man calculated that he had reduced the boy to a state of mind when it was safe to burden his wild young charge with something quite as serious for him as tigers' skins. He would make him begin his English. They made their way back to the snow-shoes--back to the sledge-road--up to the cabin--received a welcome from the dogs; but the coffee had less sugar than before. Economy was a watchword with him who trailed his necessities over the long journey from the traders on pack-ponies, and so the lion skin tacked on the wall was enough for the boy. Gradually the man brought English words into the play of conversation, and Weasel sought the key to the white medicine which had so exalted him. The nouns came first, and he soon began to piece them out with other parts of speech; his ear accustomed itself, and with it all came new and larger thoughts carefully strewn in his way by the prophet. They hunted together; did the little healthy work found in their simple manner of life which no longer seemed fitted for women only; and the grave old man at last saw the spark which he had lighted burst into flame. It was the warmth of human kindness which is the base of everything ennobling to man. One day when the buds of the leaves were beginning to show themselves, in response to nature's inviting smiles, the dogs barked furiously. The two dwellers of the cabin seized their rifles, ran out to places which had been selected by them for their strategic advantages in calm moments, and waited. Before long they heard challenges in the well-known Absaroke, which they answered. "Do not talk English to your people, my son; they will not understand," said the hermit; but what he feared was their suspicion of the transformation of the lad. The Absaroke, no more than the Dakotahs, understood or loved the white man; they merely tolerated him for tribal reasons. The prophet had ingratiated himself by fortunate circumstances and an abounding tact. The newcomers were a dozen chiefs of the tribe, the boy's Indian father among them. They drove a few led ponies belonging to Crooked-Bear, which they were returning after their wintering with the Absaroke herds. The quickly shooting mountain grasses would support them at this season. Long and seemingly interminable talks followed the pipe about the prophet's blazing hearth. He filled their minds with strong, sensible advice, reënforcing it by supposed inspired sources, until the tobacco which he had appropriated for such occasions gave out. It was a cheap and in fact the only way by which he could purchase immunity from violence--a safe wintering for his ponies and his fall supply of dried buffalo meat. His influence was boundless, and while he hoped quite as much as the Indians that the white men would never come to these parts during his lifetime, he also knew that they would. He heard reports that the miners were invading the Sioux territory from the south; he knew gold, and he knew white men, and he realized what the combination always produced. In this strait he saw that the efforts of the Sioux would be so taxed to oppose the progress that the Absaroke would profit by their preoccupation. His revelations always favored the alliance between the Absaroke and the yellow-eyes. No one can ever know how much this forgotten hermit of the Chew-cârâ-âsh-Nitishic did for his race in the days when the Indians of the northern plains made their last stand before the white men. The Indians from King Philip's time never understood the powers, resources, and numbers of the white people. Even the Crows in those days wavered before the boastful envoys of the neighbor tribes. The Indians had hunted out of the country the Metis, the Pea-Soups, or the French half-breeds, together with the white trappers, who had often contracted Indian marriages, and who had followed the fortunes of the early fur trade. At that time old frontiersmen like Norris, who had for years followed up and down the plains, and across the range, admitted that a strong party of seasoned trappers was not safe east of the Big Horn Mountains. The long palaver terminated with the Indians' promise to send out war-parties against the other tribes. The Weasel was not able to resist a very natural desire to go again to the camps, to visit his foster-mother, the boys of his childhood, and deeper yet to bear the gun and the lion's skin. The important men of the visiting party had come to regard White Weasel with some sort of veneration; he had that about him which was not quite understandable; he was supposed to be near the unknown Power. CHAPTER VI JOHN ERMINE For a few days after the departure of the boy the hermit felt depressed; he had added a human interest to his life, which previously had been satisfied by communion with nature alone. The bugs, the plants, the birds, the beasts, the dogs, the hunting, had sufficed. The seat on the rock wall above the cabin, where he mused, and where his eyes went forward over interminable miles of cloud-flecked plain and tier after tier of ragged mountain ranges, had satisfied him, while his mind wandered backward among the years before he became a hermit. But shortly the time arrived when he was compelled to make his semiannual trip with his pack-horses to the traders for his supplies of ammunition, of pots and pans, of tobacco, blankets, and food-stuffs, without which he could not exist. This journey was always tedious, hard, and dangerous; but he tried always to do it while the horses of the enemy out on the plains were thin and as yet unserviceable. With all the circumspection he was able to use, he had on several occasions nearly lost his life; but needs must, he could renounce everything on earth except his belly. However, this time he accomplished his journey, and aside from straying ponies, turning packs, with the other inevitables of desert life, he, safe and well provided, found his cabin again. The Indians had told him that White Weasel had gone with a war-party. That was nothing;--all men in the wild country were more or less at war all the time. "I hope the boy keeps that corn-silk on his head," soliloquized the hermit; "also I think it would be a good thing for the young savage if he is forced to leave other people's alone. A fresh scalp in that boy's hand will make an extra year's work for me. It cannot be helped--it cannot be helped; it is the law of nature, only that law operates badly out here. What does it matter, however? The women can correct the loss of a man more or less in the world." With the return of spring came the elk and bighorn. They walked into his park and blew their whistles as they smelled the odors from his hearth. The big gray bears came out of their winter caves and rumbled past his door. These were his greatest foes, constantly stampeding his ponies, even clawing at his heavy log horse-barn, where he always kept one horse to hunt the others with, and trying to circumvent his meat-arbor,--a device hung on a pole high up between two slender trees, which was operated up and down by a rawhide rope. Small black bears often put this out of action, but the dogs were usually able to chase these away. Not so with the silver-tips; for at times one of the playful brutes would come round to indulge himself in the sport of chasing Eric and Hope about the dooryard over their own preserves. They both had been slashed and hugged at intervals in their youth, and so took the big bears at their own estimate. The long, fifty-caliber rifle was called upon on such occasions, and thus far with success. One day, at the beginning of summer, the boy returned to the hermit's nest,--was barked at, challenged, and finally greeted. "Have you blinded your ponies' trail carefully, coming up from the valley? The enemy is abroad in the land these days," was asked and answered satisfactorily. The boy's features, which were rather grave in response to the seriousness of his life, were relaxed and beaming. There was an eagle feather in his hair, hanging down behind. He led the pony loaned by the prophet, which bore a bunch of buckskins, and was mounted on a fine animal, quite in the warrior class, with a new elk-horn saddle. His panther skin was rolled behind him. Dismounting, he carefully undid this, and from its folds drew forth a scalp--a braid of long hair, the skin stretched on a wooden ring and half covered down the plat with silver disks made of pounded silver dollars. "It was a Dakotah, father, and I put his fire out with the medicine gun you gave me. I have danced it with the warriors; I am a warrior now." The old man's worst fears had been realized, but after eating he had the story from White Weasel. "When I reached the village, my father's and mother's hearts grew big at the sight of my gun and lion's skin. My mother had made the buckskins you sent down by my father into clothes both for yourself and for myself." Here he presented the hermit with his new dress, made beautiful with yellow ochre and with long fringes at back and sleeves, and open at the front, as was the white man's custom. "Long-Horse," the boy continued, "was making up a party to go to the Dakotahs. I asked to be one of them, but he thought I was young. I said my medicine was strong and that my horse was fat. He said I was young to learn the war-path secret, but after smoking my talk he consented. I had only eight cartridges and one horse, all the other Indians having two apiece. Your old pack-pony is a war-horse now, father; he has carried a warrior," and the turquoise eyes gleamed brilliantly. "Long-Horse had a big band; we made the war-path medicine and travelled many sleeps with our backs to the sun. One morning our scouts found two men, an Absaroke and a white man, and brought them in. They belonged to the white warriors' camp, which was fighting the Dakotahs, who were all around them, and these men were going for help. Long-Horse moved toward this place guided by the men we had met. Before the sun was up, the Absaroke rode into the camp of the white soldiers, and they were glad to see us. They had the white cloth lodges and many wagons, but their horses had been taken by the Dakotahs and they had lost some soldiers. The white men had put their dead men in the ground. I saw where they had dug in the earth and left mounds such as the prairie-dog builds. The camp was on the low ground, and back of this were bluffs. When the sun gave light, we could see the Cut-Throats swarm on their hill as the ants do when you lift a stone. There were five Cut-Throats to one white soldier, and the white men could not go out to them. While the white men had no women, they had more wagons than I could count, loaded with sugar and coffee until the wheels cut the ground. I never knew there was so much coffee and sugar; where does it come from, father? The white men are rich, and there are so few of them that each has more than he wants. In a place of that kind the Absaroke would have run away, but the white men cannot run, and they think more of the coffee and sugar than they do of their own lives. It made my head weak when I saw the enemy; they rode swiftly; they were all warriors, for they all had the war-feathers in their hair. They had guns, and as they rode they made the gestures of women and snakes and dogs at us. They rode away from a spot which they pointed at, and then they pointed at us, saying we were buffalo that always ran away like this. Long-Horse and the white chief, a big man with short hair, made a long talk. The Absaroke gave their old travelling-ponies to the white warriors, who put their own saddles on them. These white soldiers mounted the ponies on the wrong side, and tired as the horses were, they jumped like rabbits under them. Though I was afraid of the enemy, I had to laugh, father. "When we were ready, we charged the enemy, and they fled before us; we followed them until they gained the rough hills. We fired at the Dakotahs, and they fired at us, they always working backward in the rough cañons, where we were afraid to follow on horseback because Long-Horse said they were trying to lead us into an ambuscade. All day we fought, although very few were killed. At night the white soldiers and many Absaroke rode swiftly back to the camp. Long-Horse with half of the Absaroke stopped in the strong woods high up on one side of a ravine, and I stayed with them. I had only four cartridges left. All night we lay there and allowed their scouts to go down the cañon without firing on them. In the early morning we heard the Dakotahs coming; they rode down the cut before our faces, not knowing we were there. When Long-Horse gave his war-whoop, we all fired, and jumping on our ponies charged into them. The ground was covered with dying horses and men. My heart grew big, father; everything before my eyes swam red, and I do not remember much except that I rode behind a big Dakotah and shot him in the back. He fell from his horse to the ground and tried to gain his feet, but I rode the pack-pony over him, knocking him down so that he lay still. I turned round and shot him again before he died, and then I took his hair. He had a beautiful head-dress of feathers, which I took, but I left his gun, for it was heavy and a poor one. I chased his pony, the fine war-horse which is out in the stable. The Dakotahs who were not killed had all run away, so I ran the dead man's pony back to camp, where with the help of other Indians I caught him. Long-Horse was killed, and a few Absaroke wounded, but we got many scalps, one of which is mine. "The white soldiers took me to their lodge and gave me coffee which was heavy with sugar. They spoke your language to me, but I could not understand much of it. A half-Indian man talked the Absaroke for me in their tongue, and when I said I was a Crow,--for that is what the white men call us,--they laughed until my heart grew bad. They asked me if there were any more Crows whose hair was the color of the dry grass, and then they continued to laugh. They said I must have been born on a frosty morning. I did not know what to say, but I saw their hearts warmed to me, and I did nothing. They gave me cartridges, blankets, sugar, and coffee, until the old pack-pony could carry no more. The big chief of the white men wanted me to stay with him, and promised to give me anything I wanted from the wagons. He talked long with the warriors, asking them to leave me with him, and the Absaroke said he could have me, but I did not want to stay. At one time I thought the white soldiers were going to make me stay, for they took me on their shoulders and carried me about the camp, laughing and yelling. I was afraid. Those men were bigger than Indians, and, father, their arms were as hard and strong as the gray bear's. They were always laughing; they roared like the buffalo bulls. "My color is the same as theirs, father; many of them had hair like mine, though they cut it short. I am a Crow, but I do not understand these things." Whereat the boy fell into a deep meditation. Cautiously the hermit approached. "Your heart warms to the white man, does it not, my son?" "Yes, all white men are good to me; they give me everything I want; they are rich, and their hearts are big. They do not know how to keep their horses; they are fools about them, and they mount from the wrong side. I never heard a white man speak to a horse in that camp. When they walk up to a pony, the pony does not know whether they come as a friend or an enemy. Some day I am going to Ashar-Ra,[6] where the white soldiers live. They told me that when I came they would load my pony down with gifts. But I must first learn to talk as you do, father." [6] Fort Ellis. Here, at last, was light to brighten the hopes of the hermit. The boy's ambition had been aroused. What if he had gone to war, and what if he did have the much-treasured scalp in his possession? He had only followed the hermit's advice to his tribe concerning war. Then, too, the old man had picked up newspapers at the traders' which told of the invasion of the Black Hills by the white miners. He knew this would provoke war with the Sioux, and it occurred to him that the best possible way to introduce White Weasel to his own people would be through contact with the army. He could go with them, and they might reclaim him. He could not possibly go through the industrial institutions, but he must speak English. There was plenty of time for that, since he could kill elk within a mile of his door with which to maintain himself. He would begin. "Yes, you must work hard with me now to speak as the white men do. You will soon be a man; you are no longer a boy. You are a white man, but you were brought up by the Absaroke, and you will go back to your own people some day. The more you see them, the better you will like them." "Why must I go to the white people, father? You do not go to them, and you are a white man." The hunchback hermit leaned with his head on his hands for a long time; he had not foreseen this. Finally, "You will go because they are your own people; you will join them when they fight the Sioux. You think there are not many of them. Weasel, I am not a liar, and I say there are more white men on the earth than there are buffalo. You are young, you are brave, and you are straight in the back; their hearts will warm toward you. You will grow to be a white chief and own many wagons of coffee and sugar. Some day, Weasel, you will want a white woman for a wife. You have never seen a white woman; they are not like these red squaws; they are as beautiful as the morning, and some day one of them will build a fire in your heart which nothing but death can put out. "From now on I shall no longer call you White Weasel, but will give you a white name which you must answer to. There shall be no Indian mystery about it, and you shall bear it all your life. I will call you,"--and here the hermit again relapsed into thought. "I will call you John Ermine; that is a good strong white name, and when you are asked what it is, do not say White Weasel,--say, 'My name is John Ermine.' Now say it!" And the young man ran the thing over his tongue like a treble drag on a snare-drum. "Now again, after me: 'My--name--is--John Ermine.'" And the prophet cut the words apart with his forefinger. John Ermine tried his name again and again, together with other simple expressions. The hermit ceased almost to address him in the Indian tongue. The broad forehead responded promptly to the strain put upon it. Before the snow came, the two had rarely to use the harsh language of the tribesmen. Gradually the pressure was increased, and besides words the hermit imposed ideas. These took root and grew in an alarming way after battling strenuously with those he had imbibed during his youth. "And why is your name Crooked-Bear, which is Indian, while you are white?" "My name is not Crooked-Bear except to the Indians; my name is Richard Livingston Merril, though I have not heard the sound of it in many snows and do not care to hear it in many more. You can call me 'Comrade'; that is my name when you speak." Sitting by their cabin door in the flecked sunlight which the pine trees distributed, the two waded carefully across the lines of some well-thumbed book, taking many perilous flying leaps over the difficult words, but going swiftly along where it was unseasoned Saxon. The prophet longed for a paper and pencil to accelerate the speed, but was forced to content himself with a sharp stick and the smoothed-out dirt before him. At times he sprinkled his sensitive plant with some simple arithmetic; again he lectured on the earth, the moon, and the stars. John Ermine did not leave a flat earth for a round one without a struggle, but the tutor ended up by carving a wooden ball which he balanced in his hand as he separated the sea from the land; he averred that he had known many men who had been entirely around it--which statement could not be disputed. White Weasel had heard the men speak about the talking-wire and fire-wagon, but he did not believe the tales. John Ermine had more faith, although it puzzled him sorely. Raptly he listened to the long accounts of the many marvels back in the States, and his little Sioux scalp took a new significance as he tried hard to comprehend ten thousand men dying in a single battle of the Great White Man's war. Ten thousand dead men was a severe strain on his credulity when Crooked-Bear imposed it upon him. The ships which fought on the water he did not attempt at all; they were not vivid enough for his contemplation. When were the white men coming to the Indian lands? "Before you have a mustache, John Ermine, they will come in numbers as great as the grasshoppers, but you will not care; you are a white man." Last but not least the prophet removed himself from his Indian pedestal in full sight of his ward. He was no prophet; he was only a man, and a poor specimen at that. Simply, and divested of much perplexity, he taught the Christian religion; told the story of Jesus, and had John Ermine repeat the Ten Commandments, which last the teacher could only marshal after many days of painful reflection, so vagrant are most men's memories as age creeps on. CHAPTER VII TRANSFORMATION Four years were passed by John Ermine in the cabin of the old man of the mountains, varied by visits to the Absaroke, which grew less frequent as he progressed along the white man's road, rude though the hermit's was. In the reflected light of the prophet he had a more than ordinary influence with the Indians. As his mind expanded, he began to comprehend their simplicity, and exactly why Crooked-Bear, who did not violate their prejudices, could lead them by better paths. The relationship of the two lonely men grew closer, and under the necessity of the case the hermit took Ermine to a mountain ravine some little distance from his camp. Here he operated a sluice, in connection with a placer, in a desultory way, by which he was able to hive up enough gold dust to fill his wants from the traders. He exacted a promise from the lad that come what would he must never, by word or action, reveal the existence of this place. The hermit wanted only enough to cover his wants during his lifetime, and if no one located the place, Ermine could use it as he saw fit in after years. It would always supply his needs, and when the white men came, as they surely would, the boy might develop the property, but all would be lost without absolute secrecy. Even the Indians did not know of the placer; they always explained to the traders, when questioned concerning the hermit's gold dust, that he made it himself; his medicine was strong, etc. This they believed, and no trader could get farther. Beyond the understanding that gold dust represented the few things necessary to their simple lives, John Ermine cared no more for it than did the blue jays or the Arctic hares. The thing did not interest him beyond a rather intense dislike of the work entailed. The hermit had often told him the story of himself and his gold. Years ago he had left the States, following the then gentle tide of adventurers who sought fortunes or found death in the unknown hills. He wanted forgetfulness, but his fellows craved gold. On one occasion he formed an alliance with a prospecting miner and an old trapper, relict of the fur-trading days, to go to a place in the Indian country, where the latter had in his wanderings discovered a placer. They outfitted in Lewiston, Idaho, and guided surely by the hunter, had reached the present scene of the hermit's domicile without accident. Finding their hopes realized, they built the log cabin against the rock wall. As he told it: "We found the quartz-float, and the miner followed it with a gold-pan. We were surprised to find we obtained colors almost from the first. We built the cabin, and put in our spare time in turning the water from the creek to one side of the gulch, so that we could get the sluice-boxes in place, and a proper flow for them, and, at the same time, work the gravel in the bottom of the creek without being inconvenienced by too great a flow of water. All this time we followed the trail to and from the cabin along the rock ledge, where no one but a goat would be apt to find it; and in every way we were careful not to attract wandering Indian hunters to ourselves. "The miner worked slowly up the creek to where the gold became richer, until it finally petered out. He was then at a loss to account for the disappearance of the metal. This set him to thinking that he must have been working below a ledge where the gold originated. He then began to prospect for the lode itself, which, after due disappointment and effort, we found. It is the ledge which I have shown you, Ermine. The thing was buried in _débris_, and a discoloration of iron stains had confused the miner. He told me that the quartz would go a hundred dollars to the ton, and would make us all rich some day. Of course we did nothing with that, being content, for the present, with the gravel. "We were high up on the range, away from any divides, and felt safe from wandering Indians. They could discover us only by chance, but by chance they did. One morning, when we had nearly completed the cabin, and were putting on the finishing touches, I was cooking at the fire when I heard a number of gunshots on the outside. I sprang to the half-opened door, and saw my two friends on the ground; one was dead, and the other was rolling about in agony on the pine-needles. A half-dozen Indians rushed out of the timber and soon finished their bloody work. I was so overcome, so unnerved, by the sudden and awful sight, that I could not move my hands or feet. Strangely enough, the Indians did not immediately advance on the cabin, fearing hostile shots. Since then I have found out that they knew by our tracks there were three of us. Taking positions behind trees, they waited. In the still air I could hear them talk to each other. I considered my situation hopeless, but very gradually regained my nerve. Knowing I could not defend the cabin, my mind acted quickly, as often a man's will when he is in such desperate straits. Often I had heard the trapper, who had lived among Indians a great deal during his career, tell of their superstition, their reverence for the unusual, and their tolerance toward such things. At this time I cannot analyze the thought that came to me, but being only half dressed, I tore off my clothes, and getting on all fours, which the unusual length of my arms made possible, I ran out of the cabin, making wild noises and grotesque gestures. My faculties were so shattered at that time that I cannot quite recall all that happened. The Indians did not fire at me, nor did they appear from behind the trees. Growing weary of these antics, and feeling it was best not to prolong the situation, I worked my way toward them. If before this I had been frightened, when I came near two or three of these savages, and could look at them, it was easily seen that they were out of their minds. They were prepared for a man, but not for me. Straightening up, I walked directly to one of them and glared into his eyes. If I looked as wild as I felt, I do not wonder at his amazement. He dropped his gun, and bawled out in his native tongue, which, of course, at that time I did not understand. I answered in a soft voice, which chimed in well with his harsh howling. Presently the others came and gathered round me. I spoke in a declamatory manner for a long time, and one of them addressed some broken English to me. That man was Half-Moon, whom you know; there is French blood in him, and he had been with the traders, where he had picked up barely enough English to make himself understood. "He asked me if I was a man, and I said, 'No, I was sent here by the Great Spirit.' I pointed to the sky, and then patted the earth, saying I lived in both places, and that when I had seen them kill white men I had come out of the ground to tell them that the Great Spirit was angry, and that they must not do it again. Oh, when I saw the weather clearing before me, I piled in my trumps; I remembered an actor named Forrest, whom you do not know, of course, but he had a way with him which I copied most accurately. "The upshot of it all was that I gained their confidence, and felt they would not molest me so long as I could retain it. It was impossible for me to get out of their country, for there was no place in the world that suited me better. All of my worldly possessions were here, and once over the shock of the encounter, I did not especially value my life. You know the rest; no Crow comes near me, or even into this particular locality, except for reasons of Church and State. They have been good to me, and I mean to return it in so far as I can by my superior understanding of the difficulties which beset the tribe. My crooked back served me its only good turn then." The Sioux and Cheyennes were pressed by the white tide from the south. It came curling in, roller after roller, despite the treaties with their government and in spite of the Indians who rode the country, hunting, shooting, burning, and harassing the invaders. The gold under their feet drew the huge, senseless, irresistible mass of white humanity upon them. It surged over the white soldiers who came to their aid; it flooded around the ends and crept between the crevices. Finally the reprisals of the Indians fused the white soldiers with the gold-hunters: it was war. Long columns of "pony soldiers" and "walk-a-heaps" and still longer lines of canvas-topped wagons trailed snakelike over the buffalo range. The redmen hovered and swooped and burned the dry grass ahead of them, but the fire-spitting ranks crawled hither and yon, pressing the Sioux into the country of the Crows, where great camps were formed to resist the soldiers. The poor Crows fled before them, going into the mountain valleys and inaccessible places to escape the war-ardor of the now thoroughly enraged enemy. These were lean years in the Absaroke lodges. Crooked-Bear and John Ermine dared cook their food only in the midday, fearing their smoke might be more readily seen in the quiet light of morning and evening. They trembled after every shot at game, not knowing to whose ears the sound might carry. Crows came sneaking into their camp, keen, scared, ghostlike creatures who brought news of the conflict. Bands of Crows had gone with the white men to ride the country in front of them. The white men could not make their own ponies run; they were as dull as buffalo; they travelled in herds, but when they moved forward, no Indians could stop them. One day, through the shimmering heat, came Wolf-Voice, one of the messengers, with the tale how the Sioux had made a "surround" of pony soldiers on the Ease-ka-poy-tot-chee-archa-cheer[7] and covered a hill with their bodies. But said this one: "Still the soldiers come crawling into the country from all sides. The Sioux and the buffalo run between them. I am going down the Yellowstone to help the white men. The soldiers make a scout rich." [7] Little Big Horn. Crooked-Bear spoke: "John Ermine, now it is time for you to play a man's part; you must go with Wolf-Voice to the soldiers. I would go myself but for my crooked back and the fact that I care nothing for either belligerents; their contentions mean nothing to me. My life is behind me, but yours is in front of you. Begin; go down the valley of the Yellowstone with Wolf-Voice; if the Sioux do not cut you off, you will find the soldiers. Enlist as a scout. I am sure they will take you." [Illustration: WOLF-VOICE.] The young man had felt that this hour would arrive, and now that it had come he experienced a particular elation. Early evening found him at the door of the cabin, mounted on one horse and leading his war-pony beside him. The good-by word was all; no demonstration on the part of either man to indicate feelings, although they both were conscious of the seriousness of the parting. The horses disappeared among the trees, and the hermit sat down before his hut, intent at the blank space left by the riders. The revolt of his strong, sensitive nature against his fellows had been so complete that he had almost found happiness in the lonely mountains. While always conscious of an overwhelming loss, he held it at bay by a misanthropic philosophy. This hour brought an acute emptiness to his heart, and the falling shadows of the night brooded with him. Had he completed his work, had he fulfilled his life, was he only to sit here with his pale, dead thoughts, while each day saw the fresh bones of free and splendid animals bleach on the hillsides that he might continue? He was not unusually morbid for a man of his tastes, but his thoughts on this evening were sour. "Bah! the boy may come back; he has the habits of an Indian; he knows how to glide through the country like a coyote. The Sioux will not catch him, and I must wait and hope to see my good work consummated. Nature served that boy almost as scurvy a trick as she did me, but I thwarted her, d---- her!" CHAPTER VIII PLAYING A MAN'S PART The two men rode silently, one behind the other, trailing their led ponies; the hoofs of their horses going out in sound on the pine-needles, anon cracking a dead branch as they stepped over fallen timber, or grunting under the strain of steep hillsides. Far across the wide valley the Shoshone range suddenly lost its forms and melted into blue-black against the little light left by the sun, which sank as a stone does in water. In swift pursuit of her warrior husband, came She of the night, soft and golden, painting everything with her quiet, restful colors, and softly soothing the fevers of day with her cooling lotions. [Illustration] Wolf-Voice and John Ermine emerged from the woods, dog-trotting along on their ponies after the fashion of Indian kind. Well they knew the deceptions of the pale light; while it illumined the way a few steps ahead, it melted into a protecting gloom within an arrow's-flight. An unfortunate meeting with the enemy would develop a horse-race where numbers counted for no more than the swiftest horse and the rider who quirted most freely over the coulée or dog-town. The winner of such races was generally the one who had the greatest interest at stake in the outcome,--the hunted, not the hunter. As the two riders expected, they traversed the plains without incident, forded the rivers, and two hours before sunrise were safely perched on the opposite range, high enough to look down on the eagles. These vast stretches of landscape rarely showed signs of human life. One unaccustomed to them would as soon expect to find man or horses walking the ocean's bed; their loneliness was akin to the antarctic seas. That was how it seemed, not how it was. The fierce savages who skulked through the cuts and seams made by erosion did not show themselves, but they were there and might appear at any moment; the desert brotherhood knew this, and well considered their footsteps. Seated on a rock pinnacle, amid brushwood, one man slept while the other watched. Long before nightfall they were again in motion. Around the camp, Indians are indolent, but on the war-path their exertions are ceaseless to the point of exhaustion. It was not possible to thread their way through the volcanic gashes of the mountains by night, but while light lasted they skirted along their slopes day after day, killing game with arrows which Wolf-Voice carried because of their silence and economy. These two figures, crawling, sliding, turning, and twisting through the sunlight on the rugged mountains, were grotesque but harmonious. America will never produce their like again. Her wheels will turn and her chimneys smoke, and the things she makes will be carried round the world in ships, but she never can make two figures which will bear even a remote resemblance to Wolf-Voice and John Ermine. The wheels and chimneys and the white men have crowded them off the earth. Buckskin and feathers may swirl in the tan-bark rings to the tune of Money Musk, but the meat-eaters who stole through the vast silences, hourly snatching their challenging war-locks from the hands of death, had a sensation about them which was independent of accessories. Their gaunt, hammer-headed, grass-bellied, cat-hammed, roach-backed ponies went with them when they took their departure; the ravens fly high above their intruding successors, and the wolves which sneaked at their friendly heels only lift their suspicious eyes above a rock on a far-off hill to follow the white man's movements. Neither of the two mentioned people realized that the purpose of the present errand was to aid in bringing about the change which meant their passing. Wolf-Voice had no family tree. It was enough that he arrived among the traders speaking Gros Ventre; but a man on a galloping horse could see that his father was no Gros Ventre; he blew into the Crow camp on some friendly wind, prepared to make his thoughts known in his mother tongue or to embellish it with Breed-French or Chinook; he had sought the camp of the white soldiers and added to his Absaroke sundry "God-damns" and other useful expressions needed in his business. He was a slim fellow with a massive head and a restless soul; a seeker after violence, with wicked little black eyes which glittered through two narrow slits and danced like drops of mercury. His dress was buckskin, cut in the red fashion; his black hat had succumbed to time and moisture, while a huge skinning-knife strapped across his stomach, together with a brass-mounted Henry rifle, indicated the danger zone one would pass before reaching his hair. At a distance John Ermine was not so different; but, closer, his yellow braids, strongly vermilioned skin, and open blue eyes stared hard and fast at your own, as emotionless as if furnished by a taxidermist. His coat was open at the front as the white men made them; he wore blanket breeches encased at the bottom in hard elkskin leggings bound at the knee. He also carried a fire-bag, the Spencer repeating carbine given him by his comrade, together with an elk-horn whip. In times past Ermine had owned a hat, but long having outlived the natural life of any hat, it had finally refused to abide with him. In lieu of this he had bound his head with a yellow handkerchief, beside which polished brass would have been a dead and lonely brown. His fine boyish figure swayed like a tule in the wind, to the motions of his pony. His mind was reposeful though he was going to war--going to see the white men of whom he had heard so much from his tutor; going to associate with the people who lost "ten thousand men" in a single battle and who did not regard it as wonderful. He had seen a few of these after the Long-Horse fight, but he was younger and did not understand. He understood now, however, and intended to drink his eyes and feast his mind to satiety on the people of whom he was one. As the sun westered, the two adventurers blinded their trail in the manner most convenient at the time; a thing not so difficult to do in the well-watered northwest as in the dry deserts of the south; besides which the buffalo-hunting, horse-using Indians were not the equals of the mountain foot brethren in following trails. After doing this they doubled and twisted back on their track. While the sun was yet bright they broiled their evening meat on a tiny fire of dry sticks. Blowing the tobacco smoke to the four corners of the earth, Wolf-Voice said: "We will be rich, brother, if the Sioux do not get a chance to dry our hair; the soldiers always make their scouts rich; there is plenty to eat in their wagons, and cartridges cost nothing. The soldiers always fight; they are like the gray bears,--they do not know any better,--and then is the time when we must watch close to get away before the Sioux have an advantage of them. They are fools and cannot run. They are tied to the ground. If you get a chance to carry the talking papers from one white chief to another, they pour the money into your blanket. I have never had a paper to carry, but I think they will give you one. If they do, brother, we will take the silver and get one of the white soldiers to buy us a bottle of whiskey from the sutler." And Wolf-Voice's malignant features relaxed into a peaceful state which made Ermine laugh outright. A bottle of whiskey and ten thousand dead men--quite a difference, thought Ermine. "That is it--that is it," continued the musing white man to himself; "he goes to war for a bottle of whiskey, and I go for ten thousand men." His unframed thoughts wrestled and twisted, lined and rounded, the idea of ten thousand men; yet the idea never took a form which satisfied him. Ten thousand buffalo--yes, he had calculated their mass; he had seen them. Ten thousand trees--that, too, he could arrange; he had blocked them out on the mountain-side. But there were many times ten thousand men who had not been killed; that he gave up altogether. Nothing had saved him but blind faith in his old comrade. Leaving the mountains again, they stalked over the moon-lit land more like ghosts than men, and by day they lay so low that the crawling ants were their companions. By the Elk[8] River Wolf-Voice pointed to a long, light streak which passed through the sage-brush: "Brother, that is the sign of the white men. The buffalo, when they pass once, do not make a deeper path than that, and, brother, what is that in the road which shows so bright?" [8] Indian for Yellowstone. Appropriating the gleaming thing, the Indian reached from his pony and picked it up, holding it close to his eyes for a moment before passing it to his companion. "What is that, brother?" Ermine examined it closely, turning it in the moonlight. "I do not know; it is a paper; I will keep it until daylight." A few steps ahead was found another glistening article, dropped by the passing soldiers. They knew what that was; it was the canteen, lost on the march, by a pony soldier. Wolf-Voice appropriated it. "We must not stay here; the trail is old, but the Sioux will be near the soldiers. They are between us and the white men; you may be sure of that, brother," said one; and the four ponies stumbled off through the sage-brush, melting into the night. They stopped for the day at the head of a rocky coulée, eating dried meat for fear of making a smoke. Ermine drew the paper from his pocket, laid it on the ground before him, and regarded it for a few moments; then he turned it round, seeing it was upside down by the writing on the bottom. "Bogardus," he read on the left-hand corner. The image on the card spread, opened, and flowered in Ermine's mind; it was a picture--that was plain now; it was a photograph such as he had heard Crooked-Bear tell about--an image from the sun. He had never seen one before. Wolf-Voice bent his beady eyes on the black and white thing, but it suggested nothing to him. Nature had not been black and white to his scarlet vision. The rude conventionalized lines painted on the buffalo-robes differentiated buffalo, ponies, and men, but this thing--"Humph!"--he lighted his pipe. Before the persistent gaze of Ermine the face of a young woman unravelled itself from a wonderful headgear and an unknown frock. The eyes looked into his with a long, steady, and hypnotic gaze. The gentle face of the image fascinated the lad; it stirred his imagination and added "a beautiful white woman" to his "ten-thousand-dead-men" quest. Wolf-Voice had to call him twice to take his watch, saying as he lay down, "Put the paper away, brother; it takes your eyes from the Sioux." The travellers could not make long journeys in the short summer nights through the open country, and exercise a proper vigilance at the same time. The moon rose later every night, thus cutting their time. Neither did they see any signs of human beings or know where to find the white men; but recourse to the trail along the river, from time to time, assured them that the wagons had continued down the stream. The trail was very old, and was full of Indian pony-tracks which had followed it. One day as they lay in a washout, Wolf-Voice pointed to columns of dust far to the south. Was it buffalo, Indians, or soldiers? The dust stayed all day in one place; it might be a buffalo-surround or big herds about camps, but this they were not able to determine. "We will go to the dust this sleep and we will ride the war-horses; the others which we have been riding are stiff and sore; we will leave them here and come after them if we can," spoke Ermine as he braided the tail of his favorite pony. When Wolf-Voice's attention was directed elsewhere, he took his medicine, the dried hoof of the white stallion, and rubbed it gently on his pony's heels. The prophet would not approve of this, he felt, but it could do no harm, since he also prayed God to make his pony run fast and not stumble, to blind the Sioux, stop their ears, and otherwise to cherish appropriately the poor life of John Ermine who believed in Him and now wanted His help. Slowly they made their way south through the gloom, trusting their range-bred ponies to pick out the footing. Hour after hour they stepped along, stopping at intervals to listen. Late at night as they made their way down a long ridge, they heard a horse whinny somewhere far down in one of the breaks of the land. Without a word they turned away from the noise. Later Wolf-Voice whispered: "Indians; the white men never let their horses loose in the night. That pony was alone, or we should have heard more sounds. He was calling his brothers. Now we must blind our trail; their scouts will find it in the morning." Accordingly they allowed their horses to feed slowly along, not attempting to guide them, and after a mile felt that any one who should follow those tracks would think that they were loose horses grazing. By the light of the late moon they made their way more quickly, but always stopping to separate the sounds of the night--the good sounds from the bad. They could see that they were coming to the river, and as they rose on a wave of the land, they saw a few faint sparks glitter far down the valley. "It is the white soldiers--the big fires of the white men, brother. We will go in when the sun comes up. If we should go near them now, they would fire at us. The white men shoot at anything which moves in the dark; a wolf is not safe near their camps when the sun has gone." Before the gray of morning they were safely ensconced under a bluff, waiting for the daylight and within a mile of the long line of Sibley tents. They heard the hungry mule chorus, the clank of chains, the monotonous calls of the sentries; and the camp slowly developed before their eyes like a photographic negative in a bath of chemicals; then John Ermine began to understand ten thousand men. Softly the metallic réveille drifted to their ears; it spread from one group of tents to another until the whole air danced with the delightful sound. The watchers on the sage-brush hillside were preoccupied with the movements of the soldiers. They listened to the trumpets and saw the men answer them by forming long lines. In a moment the lines broke into hurrying individuals, the fires began to send up the quiet morning smoke, while the mule chorus ceased. As though shot out of the ground by some hidden force, Wolf-Voice bounded up. "G---- d----! Mit-wit![9] Coo-ley!"[10] he yelled, and as responsive as a swallow which follows the swift flight of another in play, Ermine bounded on to his horse. One look behind told the story. The Sioux were coming. He saw the lightning play of the ponies' legs, heard the whips crack on their quarters, and was away like a flash, bearing hard on the soldier camp. Before many bounds he recovered from his surprise; it was not far, and his horse was answering the medicine. He had never run like this before. The Sioux had found and followed their trail and had nearly caught them napping. After their long journey they had almost been cut off during the last mile of it. Seeing that their prey had escaped, the Sioux swerved like hawks, pulling up on the hill. [9] Get up! [10] Run! Turning, Wolf-Voice and Ermine shouted back taunts at them, fired their guns at the group, and then leisurely loped toward the camps. While yet quite a way out, three white soldiers rose suddenly from a dry wash with their rifles: "Halt! Who goes there?" [Illustration: "'HALT! WHO GOES THERE?'"] The riders drew down to a walk, Wolf-Voice raising his hand in the peace sign, and saying, "We are your frens, we aire two Crow Enjun; don' shoot!" and continued to advance. The soldiers stood with their guns in readiness, while one answered: "Get off them ponies; lay your guns on the ground. I guess you are all right." And then, looking at Ermine with a laugh: "Is that blonde there a Crow? Guess them Sioux scared him white. I've often heard tell of a man's hair turning white in a single night." "Ach sure, Bill, and it don't tourn a mon's face red to be schared sthiff," observed another picket. The faintest suggestion of a smile stole over John Ermine as he comprehended. "No, soldiers, we are not afraid. Why can't you let two men go into the big camp; are all those soldiers afraid of two men?" And the pickets laughed at the quaint conjecture. Shortly an officer rode up on a horse and questioned Ermine. "Who are you?" "We are friends of the white people. Did you see that we are not friends of the Sioux?" "Yes; I saw those Indians chase you. Were they Sioux?" "We took that for granted." And again the corner of John Ermine's mouth relaxed. "Yes, of course, I admire your judgment; come with me," replied the officer, as he turned to ride back. The three ambled along together. "Who are you?" "I am a white man, and my comrade is an Indian." "What is your name?" "My name is John Ermine, and I want to be a scout. Will you take me?" "That is not my business; but I have no doubt the proper authority will be glad to put you on the pay-roll. You don't seem any more popular with the Sioux than we are." CHAPTER IX [Illustration] IN CAMP The three horsemen jogged into camp, and it can hardly be stated who was the more impressed by the sight--John Ermine as he passed through the crowds of soldiers, or the soldiers as they looked at the bare-backed rider with the yellow braids and the glaring handkerchief. They had left their impedimenta with the worn-out ponies back in the hills with little hope of recovering them. The gathering men who had seen the chase gave tokens of their approval by yelling _Ki-yis_ in imitation of the Indians. "Say, Yellow, you're no brevet"--"You wa'n't crazy to wait for them Sioux"--"The general will feed you on mince-pie"--"You'll be a sergeant in the rag-bag troop," and other expressions numerous and 'uncooked' fell on their ears. Ermine felt embarrassed with the attention of so many people centred on him, but his face was cut to stand such shocks. His swift glances about the thronging camp began to illumine the "ten-thousand-men" proposition; he saw lines of tents, wagons without end, but no women; he would have to postpone that feast. The officer leading stopped in front of a tent around which many officers and men were standing or coming and going. He spoke to one who wore a big hat and a split blond beard, a man less pretentious in his garb than any about him, but whose eye arrested Ermine by the commanding keenness. Dismounting, the officer, saluting, said: "General Crook, these two men were just chased into camp by Indians. They say they are Crows, or at least from the Crows, and they want to be made scouts." "What Indians chased you?" asked the general. "We do not know; we were waiting on the hill to come in here by daylight; they surprised us, and we did not stop to talk with them," replied John Ermine. "Where did you come from, my boy?" he continued. "I came from the Stinking Water country to help you fight the Sioux--myself and Wolf-Voice there," replied Ermine. Turning to that waif, the general said, "Who are you?" Patting his chest impressively, Wolf-Voice spoke: "Me? My mother she was Gro Ventre; I am a warrior; I spak de English; I was scout with Yellow Hair.[11] I am brav mans." [11] General Custer. "Umph--no doubt," softly hazarded the Gray Fox. "You were not with him when he died? I suppose you attended to that matter with proper thoroughness. Have you seen any Sioux signs?" "Yaas--day follar de wagon, dey aire leave dar pony-track all roun you." Once fastening his quizzical eyes on the white lad, the general asked, "Do you talk Crow?" "Yes." "Can you make the hand talk?" Ermine gave the sign for "Yes." "Have you ever been to school?" "No, sir." "Who taught you to speak English?" "My old comrade, Crooked-Bear," said Ermine. "Crooked-Bear--Crooked-Bear," mused the general. "Oh, I give it up," as he turned away. "You are not one of the Pike County breed, it seems--Crooked-Bear--Crooked-Bear. Take them to the scout camp, Ferguson." And the general retired to his tent, somewhat perplexed by the young man's make-up. The trio went on toward the scout camp, and as they passed a man on foot he inquired of Ferguson, "Where did you get that pair of aces?" "The Sioux dealt them to me this morning; will they fill your hand?" "Yes, sir--think they will." Then to John Ermine, "Do you savvy this country, pardner?" "Yes, sir; I have always lived in this country," spoke he, with a wave of his arm around the horizon which had the true Indian swing to it, an accomplishment only acquired by white men after long years of association with the tribes. All the signs and gestures made by Indians are distinctive with them and are very suggestive from their constant use of the sign language. The old chief of scouts recognized the significance of the motion on the instant, and knew that one who could make it very probably possessed the other qualifications for his corps. "What is your name?" "John Ermine, sir," came the answer. The "sir" had been an acquisition of the last few interviews. He had heard it from the mouth of Crooked-Bear on infrequent occasions, but his quick perceptions told him that it was useful in these canvas towns. "All right. Will you turn these men over to me for duty, Lieutenant Ferguson?" spoke the chief of scouts, who was a short infantry officer with a huge yellow mustache. "I will," replied Ferguson, as he turned his horse. "Go with Captain Lewis there; and good luck to you, Mr. Ermine." After answering certain questions by the chief of scouts, which were intended to prove their fitness for the job, the two late fugitives had the pleasure of knowing that Uncle Sam would open his wagons to them in return for their hair and blood when his representative should order the sacrifice. Wolf-Voice never allowed his mind to dwell on market values, and John Ermine felt that he could do what "ten thousand men" were willing to do in an emergency. [Illustration: CAPTAIN LEWIS.] Having done with these formalities, under the trained guidance of Wolf-Voice the two men speedily found their way to the scouts' mess, where they took a hearty toll of the government. About the cook fire squatted or sprawled the allies of the white troops. There were Crows and Indians from other tribes--together with half-breeds whose heraldic emblazonment ought to be a pretty squaw. A few white men came about from time to time, but they did not abide with the regular crew. New faces appeared as they came in from the hills to "cool coffee." John Ermine walked aimlessly around camp, all eyes and ears. No backwoods boy at a country fair ever had his faculties so over-fed and clogged as he. In turn the soldiers attempted to engage him in conversation as he passed about among them, but the hills had put a seal of silence on his lips; he had not yet found himself amid the bustle. Remarks which grated harshly came to his ears; the unkindness of them undermined the admiration for the white soldiers which the gentle treatment of the officers had instilled. "Ain't that yellow handkerchief great?"--"Sure he'd do well with a hand-organ on the Bowery."--"Is he a square shake or a make-up?"--and other loose usage of idle minds. "Say, Bill, come look at the sorrel Injun," sang one trooper to another who stood leaning on a wagon-wheel whittling a stick, to which that one replied: "You take my advice and let the sorrel Injun alone; that butcher knife on his belly is no ornament." By noon Ermine's mind had been so sloshed and hail-stoned with new ideas that his head was tired. They were coming so fast that he could not stow them, so he found his way back to the scout camp and lay down on a stray robe. The whole thing had not impressed him quite as he had anticipated; it had a raw quality, and he found he did not sift down into the white mass; he had a longing for the quiet of Crooked-Bear's cabin--in short, John Ermine was homesick. However, after a few hours' sleep, he became hungry, which shifted his preoccupation to a less morbid channel. The scouts talked excitedly of the enemy with whom they had skirmished out on the hills; they discussed the location of the Sioux camp, and speculated on the intention of the Gray Fox. Sunlight or firelight never in the ages played on a wilder group than this; not on the tribes of Asiatics who swarmed in front of Alexander; not in the deserts of Northern Africa: nor on the steppes of Asia, at any period, did sun or fire cut and color cruder men than these who were taking the long, long step between what we know men are and what we think they were. A soldier stepped briskly into the group, and touching Ermine on the shoulder, said, "The Captain wants to see you; come on." He followed to the tent designated, and was told to come in and sit down. The officer sat opposite, on a camp stool, and after regarding him kindly for a moment, said: "Your name is John Ermine and you are a white man. Where were you born?" "I do not know, Captain, where I was born, but I have lived all my life with the Crows." "Yes; but they did not teach you to speak English." "No; I have lived some years with my old comrade up in the mountains, and he taught me to speak English and to write it." "Who was your old comrade, as you call him? He must have been an educated man," queried the Captain, looking insistently into Ermine's eyes. "Captain, I cannot tell, any more than to say that he is an educated white man, who said he is dead, that his fires have burnt out, and he asked me not to speak about him; but you will understand." Captain Lewis did not understand, nor did he avert his perplexed gaze from Ermine. He was wondering about the boy's mind; had it become deranged? Clearly he saw that Ermine had been a captive; but this mystery of mind cultivation by one who was dead--had he struck a new scheme in psychical research? The Captain rolled a cigarette and scratched a match on the leg of his breeches. "My old companion told me I ought to come here and help fight the Sioux." "Have you ever been to war?" "Yes; I took a scalp from a Sioux warrior when I was a boy, and I wear the eagle feather upright," spoke Ermine in his usual low and measured voice. "Ho, ho! that is good. I see that you carry a Spencer carbine. I have not seen one lately; we do not use them now." "It is the best I have, Captain." The Captain took his cigarette from his mouth and bawled: "Jones! _Oh_ Jones, Jones!" Almost instantly a soldier stepped into the tent, touching his forehead in salute. "Go down and draw a carbine, fifty rounds, a saddle, blanket, and bridle." Jones disappeared. "Oh, Jones, Jones, and a shirt and hat." Then turning to Ermine, "Do you ever wear shoes?" "Only this kind I have on, sir." "Do you want some shoes?" "No; I think I am better off with these. I have tried on the heavy leather shoes, but they feel as though my feet were caught in a trap." "Ha, ha! a trap, hey--a good deal so; well, any time you want anything come to me. And now, my boy, may I give you a little advice?" "You may, sir; I shall be glad of it. I know I have much to learn," assented John Ermine. "Well, then, you are an odd-looking person even in this camp, and that is saying much, I can assure you. I will have a hat here in a moment which will displace that high-art headgear of yours, and may I ask if you will not take your hair out of those braids? It will be more becoming to you, will not be quite so Injuny, and I think it will not interfere with your usefulness." "Yes, sir, I will," quietly said the young man, who forthwith undid the plats with a celerity which comes to the owners of long hair. Having finished, he gave his head a toss; the golden tresses, released from their bindings, draped his face, falling down in heavy masses over his shoulders, and the Captain said slowly, "Well, I will be good God-d----d!" After having soothed his surprise by a repetition of this observation several times, the Captain added, "Say, you are a village beauty, Ermine, by Gad--I'd like a photograph of you." And that worthy continued to feast his eyes on the bewildering sight. It seemed almost as though he had created it. The orderly entered at this point, loaded down with quartermaster and ordnance stuff. His hat had found its way on to the back of his head during these exertions, and he came up all standing, but the discipline told. All he did as he gazed helplessly at Ermine was to whistle like a bull elk. Quickly recovering himself, "I have the stuff, sir,--but--but I'm afraid, sir, the hat won't fit." "All right, all right, Jones; it will do." And Jones took himself out into the darkness. To a passing comrade he 'unloaded': "Say, Steve, you savvy that blond Injun what was run in here this morning? Well, he's in the Captain's tent, and the Captain has got him to take his hair down, undo them braids, you see; and say, Steve, I am a son-of-a-gun if it ain't like a bushel of hay; say, it's a honey-cooler. You will fall dead when you see it." Meanwhile Ermine was put in possession of the much-coveted saddle and a new gun, one with a blue barrel without a rust-spot on it anywhere, inside or out. His feelings were only held in leash by a violent repression. The officer enjoyed the proceedings hugely as the young man slipped into the new shirt and tied the yellow handkerchief round his neck. The campaign hat was a failure, as Jones had feared. It floated idly on the fluffy golden tide, and was clearly going to spoil the Captain's art work; it was nothing short of comical. Frantically the officer snatched his own hat from his camp-chest, one of the broad rolling sombreros common on the plains in those days, but now seen no more; this he clapped on Ermine's head, gave it a downward tug together with a pronounced list to the nigh side. Then, standing back from his work, he ran his eyes critically for a moment: "Good! now you'll do!" Ermine's serious face found itself able to relax; the ripples broadened over it, his eyes closed, and his mouth opened ever so little, only escaping looking foolish by the fact that he had a reserve; he did not close or broaden too much. "Well, my boy," said the officer, as he began to put up his papers on the chest, "go down to camp now; the outfit moves to-morrow; you'll do in a free-for-all, by Gad." [Illustration: Music] When this greeted the easy ears of our hero, he found the loud bustle, so characteristic of the white soldier, more noisy than ever. Slowly the dancing refrain passed from regiment to regiment. The thing itself is dear to the tired soldier who dreads its meaning. It is always a merry beginning, it accords with the freshness of the morning; when associated with youth it never fails to cheer the weary dragging years of him who looks behind. The tents fluttered down; men ran about their work, munching crackers and hot bacon; they bundled and boxed and heaved things into the escort wagons. Teamsters bawled loudly--it is a concomitant with mule association; yet they were placid about their work of hooking up; their yells never interfered with their preoccupied professionalism. The soft prairie winds sighing through the dreaming teamster's horse-blankets fills his subconscious self with cracks, whistles, howls. "You blaze!"--"Oh, Brown!"--"D---- you, Brigham!"--, ----, ----, and other phrases which cannot be printed. That mules and teamsters have never received a proper public appreciation of their importance in war is one of the disheartening injustices of the world. Orderlies and mounted officers tore about; picturesque men who had been saved from the scrap-heap of departing races ranged aimlessly or smoked placidly; they had no packing to do, their baggage was carried in their belts. One of these was John Ermine, who stood by his pony, watching Captain Lewis; this busy man with his multitudinous duties had been picked out for a guiding star. Having presently completed all the details, the Captain mounted and rode away, followed by his motley company. The camp being cleared, the officer turned, and with a wave of his hand which covered the horizon in its sweep, yelled, "Go on now; get to the hell out of here!" In quick response the wolfish throng broke apart, loping away over the yellow landscape flaming out toward all points; the trained skirmishers trusted their instincts and their horses' heels. John Ermine rode slowly over a hill, and looking backward, saw the long, snakelike columns of horse and foot and wagons come crawling. It was the most impressive sight he had ever beheld, but he could not arrange any plan in his own mind whereby the command was going to fight the Sioux. All the Indians in his world could not and would not try to stem that advance: as well try to stop the falling of the snow or the swarms of grasshoppers. Again, there was no necessity, since the command could no more catch the Sioux than it could reach the sailing hawks or flapping ravens. Keeping his sharp eyes circling, Ermine mused along. Yes, he remembered what Crooked-Bear had said: "The white men never go back; they do not have to hunt buffalo in order to live; they are paid by the year, and one, two, even a lifetime of years make no difference to them. They would build log towns and scare away the buffalo. The Indians could not make a cartridge or gun," and other things which he had heard came into his mind. It was the awful stolidity of never ending time which appalled Ermine as he calculated his strategy--no single desperate endeavor would avail; to kill all those men behind him would do the Sioux no good whatever. In single battles the white men were accustomed to leave more men than that, dead, on the field. Still, think as he would, the matter was not clear to him. A mile away on his right he saw a friendly scout rise over a bluff; the horse and man made a dot on the dry yellow grass; that was the difference between the solid masses of dust-blown white men behind him and the Indian people; that sight gave him a proportion. If all these white men were dead, it would make no difference; if that Indian on the far-off hill was dead, he could never be replaced. John Ermine felt one thing above all this abstraction: it was a deep-seated respect for the Sioux personally. Except when a fellow-scout occasionally showed himself on a distant rise, or he looked behind at the dust-pall over the soldiers, there was nothing to be seen of the Sioux; that was another difference, and one which was in no wise reassuring to Ermine. The dry, deserted landscape was, however, an old comrade, and acted as a sedative after the flutter of the camps. The camp held dozy, full-bellied security, but these silences made his ears nervous for a rattle of shots and a pat-a, pat-a, pat-a, of rushing ponies. That is how the desert speaks. CHAPTER X A BRUSH WITH THE SIOUX The days saw the big serpents of men crawl on and on--hither and yon over the rolling land, saw them splash through the rivers, wind round the hills, and lie comfortably down at night. About them fluttered the Indian scouts like flies around a lamp,--hostiles and allies,--marking down each other's sign, dashing in and out, exchanging shots, but always keeping away from the coils of the serpents. [Illustration] Many men besides Captain Lewis held out their hands to Ermine, attracted as they were, first by his picturesque appearance, fine pony, and seat, and Lewis's enthusiasm; but later by his low-voiced simplicity and acute knowledge concerning the matters about them. They in turn unravelled many tangled skeins for Ermine; regiments began to unwind into companies, details, squads; the wagons assorted themselves, and it was not long before the young scout could tell a colonel from a cook's police at a glance. Numbers of these men had seen the ten thousand men die, had been with them when they died, had even, some of them, lain down with them sapped by their own wounds, though of course they had not died. One big man slapped Ermine on the back hard enough to make him cough, and said, "I'd rather take my chance at Cold Harbor than go poking round the hills alone as you do, my boy." And Ermine had to move away quickly to avoid another exclamation point, but such little appreciation warmed him. Also the solidarity of these fellowships took the more definite form of a Colt's revolver, a copy of Upton's tactics, a pocket Bible, a comb from a bald-headed man who respected the unities, together with trifles enough to litter up his saddle-bags. Old Major Ben Searles in particular used to centre his benevolent eyes on Ermine. He had a boy back in the States, and if he had gone to some other school than West Point might have been a superintendent of an orphan asylum as easily as the soldier which he was. Ermine's quaint questions gave him delicious little mental jolts. "Why is it, Uncle Ben," asked Ermine, "that all these men come out here to march, get killed, freeze, and starve? They don't have any wives, and I can't see what they have to protect except their eatables." "You see, Kid, they enlist to do what the government wants them to do, and the government wants them to make the Sioux stop killing white folks just now." "Yes, but they won't do it. Why don't the government mount them on buffalo ponies, make them eat dried meat, and run after the Sioux instead of taking the villages to war?" "Well, Ermine, I don't know why. I suppose that is what the Indians would like them to do, and I reckon that is the reason the soldiers don't do it. Soldiers calculate not to do what the enemy wants them to do. Don't you get discouraged; wait a year or two or three, my boy. Oh, we'll get there; we don't know how, but we always stand pat!" "Pat? pat? What do you mean by 'standing pat'? Never heard that word. What does it mean?" questioned the young man. [Illustration: MAJOR BEN SEARLES.] Old Searles laughed. "'Pat' is a word we use in a game of cards, and it means that when you think you are licked you guess you are not. It's a great word, Ermine." The huge column having crawled over the country as far as it was ordered, broke into divisions, some going down the river in steamboats and other parts through the hills to their far-off posts and cantonments. The Sioux scouts regarded this as a convenient solution of the awkward situation. Neither they nor the white men could do anything with that unwieldy gathering. Two infantry regiments stayed behind as a reminder to the Sioux that the game was not played out. To one of these Captain Lewis was attached, which good fortune gave Ermine continued employment. The soldiers began to build winter cantonments at the mouth of the Buffalo Tongue River, or, as the white men called it, "The Tongue," and to gather great quantities of stores which were hauled from Fort Benton. Here was something that the Sioux could attack; they jumped the trains savagely, burned the grass, cut in on the animals to stampede, and peppered up the men as they slept. Stores the troops must have; and though they met repulse at times, they "pounded" the trains through to the Tongue. It was the custom for wagon trains to go into camp early in the afternoon, which gave the stock a chance to graze while it was yet daylight; it also made it possible to guard them from sudden forays by Indians. On one of these occasions Ermine was with a train which made one of the halts as usual. The Indians had not interfered, and to kill time a few officers, among whom was Searles, started a game of poker. Ermine looked on over their shoulders, trying to comprehend. He had often played the Indian game of "hand," so that poker was merely a new slide between wealth and poverty. Seeing him, Captain Lewis sent him on some trivial errand. While he was gone, an agreement was made to have him come in, and then they were to "Skin him alive" just to see how he would stand it. It worked out beautifully. First they separated what little money he had from his clothes, the officers meanwhile sitting like owls and keeping their faces sober by dint of lip-biting; then the sombrero, which was stacked up as five dollars, found its way to Captain Lewis's head in place of a very bad campaign hat. Next came off the buckskin coat, which was followed by the revolver, and slowly, so that his suspicions might not be aroused, all his personal property, including the saddle and gun, which properly did not belong to him, was laid on the grass beside the victors. "This is going to be a cold winter, John," laughed one, "or else we'd let you in on that shirt." "Want to put that pony up for a hundred, Ermine?" asked another. "No; I'll keep the pony; he's medicine. I've often lost all I had with the plum stones. I guess I don't understand poker." And the young scout arose smiling. The officers laughed themselves into tears, jumped up, and brought comrades to see how they had trimmed John Ermine. Every one greatly enjoyed what they called Ermine's preparations for the winter. He had his government shirt, his blanket breeches, and moccasins left; he had not been so poor since he was a herd-boy, but he had known forms of poverty all his life, so it was not new. What he did not enjoy was his belittlement. The hard-working men in those dangerous, monotonous days were keen for any weakness; and when he heard their laughter he wanted a horse-bucket full of human blood to drown his thoughts. He was greatly disturbed, not so much on account of his losses, although they were everything, as he viewed them, as the ridicule in store for him at Tongue River. There is no greater stimulant to a hardy mind than poverty, and John Ermine's worked like a government-six in a mud-hole, far into the night. The trio of gamblers, who wore their spoils on their own persons, to the huge edification of the camp, arranged to prolong the torture until they should see the young hatless, coatless, unarmed scout on his bare-backed pony during the next march. At the following camp they were to play again, lose to him, and end the joke. Confidences were exchanged, and every one was as tickled as a cur with a new collar. One of the officers of the poker engagement rode a well-bred American horse of which he was very proud. He had raced it successfully and never declined an opportunity, of which fact Ermine was aware. It had slowly come to his mind that he had been foully dealt with, so about midnight he jumped up--he had a plan. By dint of daring, fortunate machination, and the coöperation of a quartermaster sergeant whom he took into his confidence, he watered the American horse, fed him with a heavy feed of very salt corn, and later watered him again. The horse had been on short rations and was a glutton. It was with the greatest difficulty that the noble animal managed his breakfast at all; but he was always willing at each opportunity to weaken the saline solution in his stomach. When the train pulled out, there was Ermine, bare-backed and ridiculous. He rode through the volley of jeers and approached the horse-racing officer, saying, "If you are a good gambler, come on; I will run my horse against yours, three arrow-flights and a pitch, horse against horse." The laughing stopped; here was a new idea--the quarter-bred blood horse, with his sleek bay quarters, against the scout's pony--a good enough animal, but thin and overworked. The officer halted and stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Hum--hum--yes; by Gad, if my horse can't take that runt into camp, he isn't good enough for me. I'll go you." A cheer went up from those assembled, and some hidden force carried the thrill down the train, which halted. Uncle Sam's business could wait. The distance was paced off on the level plain; the judges were set; the scouts and officers lined up. The American's horse's eyes fairly bulged with excitement; he broke into a dripping perspiration, but seemingly no one noticed this but Ermine. He knew that the load of water would choke him in twenty yards. The old war-pony was thin from overwork, but responsive as a dog to his bareback rider, and dangerous-looking to one used to see ponies which show worse in condition than out, by reason of the ungraceful architectural lines. The pistol spoke; the pony gained three jumps from the mark. The American made the best of a bad job, but Ermine was able to turn at the finish and back him over the judges' line. The officer nearly had apoplexy, as he pulled up. He threw himself off the horse and handed the reins to Ermine. The action of both challenge and race had been so rapid and so badly calculated on the officer's part that he lacked time to assimilate the idea that he was a fool. He tried to maintain a composure which was lacking, as every one could see. "If you will get all my clothes, saddle, and gun back from your comrades, I will give you your horse," said the scout. The spectators who knew about the poker game now sat howling hopelessly on their horses' backs. Searles and the others now came to their beaten friend's aid; they shed their plunder in front of Ermine's horse, produced the saddle and gun from a near-by escort wagon, laid them carefully down with the rest, and the victor granted peace. "Here is your horse," said Ermine, and he laughed. The occurrence had a serious side; the three officers were quick to appreciate that. Searles stood in front of the scout and made utterance: "I want to say before all these men that the poker game was not on the square--that we robbed you purposely for a joke, and that we intended to give your property back to you to-night; and I call on all these men to witness my remarks." "Yes, yes," came the chorus; "it was all a joke. Searles said he would give it back. Don't hold it out against him, Ermine," and other reassuring remarks. They recognized the young scout's magnanimity as a conqueror. The laughing ceased; the thing evidently had been carried too far. It would not sound well when told at Tongue River. The unfortunate horse-race had made proper restitution impossible. By this time John Ermine had his clothing and saddle arranged and was mounted. He spoke:-- "Well, if that is so, if it only was a joke, I suppose I ought to say that I sat up half of last night salting your horse. Look at him! He is blowing yet; he is as full of water as a drowned buffalo. I am glad it did not kill him; let us bury the axe." Major Searles and his fellows were unlike many jokers; they slowly readjusted after the shock and laughed with the others. The march was resumed, but the customary monotony of this slow pacing of interminable landscape was often abruptly broken by individuals ha-haing loudly, as the sequence of events took a new hold of their risibles; and Mr. John Ermine tightened in an ever increasing hold on their fancies. Major Searles, riding beside his horse-racing _confrère_, tried to cheer him. "Brace up, compadre; that boy has you buffaloed. We are all right; we are nothing but a bunch of monkeys. The only thing we forgot was that a fellow who has lived all his life with Injuns is likely to know how to gamble and race horses. He'll be wanting to juggle the bone[12] for us yet, and we are bound to go him." [12] Indian game of "hand." "You bet," came the reply; "he has got us staked out, and he can come along and do jig steps on our chest any time he feels like it. That is where we have to moisten our lips and look pleasant, too." An old wagon boss sauntered by on his mule with its mouth _à la crocodile_. "Ha, ha! reckon you fellers has had all the fun that's a-comin' to you. That boy had that last deck marked, bottomed, sanded, and pricked, with more up his sleeve and some in the back of his neck." John Ermine and Wolf-Voice, meanwhile, had gone well out in front of the train, loping this way and that about the course of advance, with eyes for everything. Presently they were seen to stop, turn, and come back, flying as fast and straight as the antelope runs. "How now, by Gad! here's smoke for us!" said Searles. No one laughed any more. Swift and noiseless as the birds came the scouts; nearer and nearer, until their flying horses' hair could be seen; then sounded the hoof-beats until they drew rein. Wolf-Voice's hair fairly stood up, and his fierce little eyes danced attendance; he talked all the languages he knew, and worked his free hand in most alarming sign signals to help his expression. "What's up, Ermine?" said the Major. "Well, Major, the ground out there is alive with fresh pony-tracks. I think you had better bunch up." The train was strung out, having passed a bad "draw." Turning, the Major shouted: "Close up in columns of fours! Deploy that escort out!" The order flew down the train; the whips cracked, and the straining mules trotted into position; the infantry guard ran out from the sides, shoving shells into the breech-blocks. Even while this was in motion, a torrent of Sioux poured over the bluffs, back of the flat, and came on. The soldiers dropped on to their knees in the sage-brush. The Major spurred to the particular point for which they were headed, followed by scouts and several mounted men. "Steady, men! hold your fire!" The men were aiming, and each had five cartridges in his teeth. In a sonorous roll came, "Steady--steady--steady!" And the gay stream of savagery bore on. "Fire!" Like a double drag on a drum which gradually dies, the rifles rattled down the extended line, all concentrated on the head of the flying column. The smoke played along the gray sage; there was a sharp clatter of breech-blocks, and an interval. "Ready! Fire!" and this repeated. The Major jogged to a wind-blown place and saw that the column had veered to its right but was not checked. Followed by his few mounted men, he rode along behind their line parallel with the head of the charge, but before the slow and steady fire the Indian line drew out. The train was caught in the circle, but the enemy had not the heart to ride over the deadly skirmish line. The close columns of wagons now turned off down toward the river, and, keeping their distances, the infantry followed it. Indian ponies lay kicking out on the dry plain, and here and there could be seen warriors who retired slowly from the racing Indians; they had been plugged. Bullets kicked up the dust, and one or two soldiers had to be helped along by their comrades. [Illustration: "BULLETS KICKED UP THE DUST."] The heated air shimmered over the land; but for the rattle and thud of gun and pony, the clank, snort, and whip-cracks among the wagons, the great, gray plains lay silent. No eye save that of a self-considering golden eagle looked on, and he sailed placidly far above. Ponies and mules strained and lathered, men sweated and grunted and banged to kill; nature lay naked and insensate. The Indians made a stand under the cut banks of the river, but were flanked out. The train drove slowly into a corral form, when the mules were unhooked. The guard began to rifle-pit among the wagons, and the Indians drew off to breathe their ponies. They had stopped the train, but the "walk-a-heap" soldiers were behind the wagons, which were full of "chuck," and water was at hand. Indians always dreaded the foot-soldiers, who could not run away, and who would not surrender, but worked their long rifles to the dying gasp; they were "heap bad medicine"; they were like wounded gray bears in a den of rocks--there was no reasonable method for their capture. Major Searles jumped from his horse, took off his hat, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "So far, so good! so far, so good! but not so very d---- far either," he mused. Towing his pony behind him, Wolf-Voice came up, legs bowed and wobbly, horseback fashion when afoot. Calling loudly, he said:-- "By Jeskris, Maje Searl, bout two-tree minit you bettar look out; dose Kul-tus-til-akum she mak de grass burn yu up, by Gar. Win' she waas come deese way." "Yes--yes, that's right. Here you, Ermine, and you, Lieutenant Smith, take what men you want and kill a wounded mule--drag his hide over the grass to windward; it is short and won't burn high. And, Lieutenant, give me all the men you can over here; they will try to come through the smoke." Saying which, the Major made his way to the ammunition wagons and had the mules hooked to them, intending to run these into the river in case the fire came through. In fighting Indians, the Major, who was an old hand, knew that one must act quickly, for they are rapid tacticians and their blows come fast. These preparations had no sooner been made than, true to Wolf-Voice's admonitions, the Indians came down, and, just out of rifle-range, started the fire down wind. Almost no air was stirring; the flames ran slowly through the short buffalo-grass, but weeds and sage made considerable smoke, which came toward the train. The dripping carcass of the mule was dragged in a ring round the windward side of the train; the smoke eddied over the wagons; the Indians could not be seen; every man's eyes and ears were strained and fingers twitched as they lay at an "aim" or "ready," among the wagon-wheels. The mules grew restive and sat back on their fastenings; but there, matters had been well attended to, for the side-lines and hobbles were leathered and laced. To the silent soldiers this was one of the times when a man lives four years in twenty minutes; nothing can be compared to it but the prolonged agony between your "Will you have me?" and her "yes" or "NO." As the fire came nearer, they heard its gentle crackle, crackle; their nerves all crackled in unison. It reached the bloody ring left by the poor mule--"would the d---- Injuns never come?" At the guard line the flames died and crackled no more. The smoke grew thinner, and at last they saw out through it; the Indians held themselves safely out of rifle-shot. "Hum," said Searles, as he stepped down from a wagon-wheel, "they didn't want any of this chicken pie." And then he did what he was never known to do under ordinary circumstances; and when he was through, the men cheered, and every mule-skinner who had heard him envied a man who could talk it off just like that. "Ah, Maje Searl," chimed in Wolf-Voice, "don' you been scare; dose Injuns no say goo'by yet, mabeso." And they did not say good-by. They dismounted and went behind the washes in the shallow river. They peppered and banged the men as they watered the stock, the perilous trip only being made behind a strong skirmish line with three men hit and a half-dozen mules. The soldiers ate a quiet supper and put out the fires before the sun went down. The Indians, with the declining light, crawled in on the train and pecked at the monster. "Pe-e-e-eing" went a bullet on a wagon-tire; "slap" went another on a wagon-box; "thud," as one buried in a grain-bag; "phud," and the ball made a mule grunt; but the echoing Springfields spit their 45's at the flashes. Searles sent for Ermine and Wolf-Voice, and sitting on the grass behind a barricade of grain-sacks, he began: "We are corralled, and I haven't escort enough to move. I can hold out till snow, but can't graze my stock. Some one has to go back for reënforcements. Will you go? It can be made on a good horse by morning." "Well, Major, I'll try it. I can go if I can get through with a fair start. The moon will come up later, and I must go now while there is a chance," said Ermine. "Will you go also, Mr. Wolf-Voice?" "Well, hit be good chance for geet keel. Yaes, I go, mebeso, feefty doaller," vouchsafed that worthy, after nicely balancing the chances. "What do you want for going, John Ermine?" asked the Major. "I don't want anything. I came to fight the Sioux. I do not go to war for fifty dollars." But it was too dark for the half-breed to see the contempt in Ermine's face, so he only shrugged his shoulders and contented himself with, "Oh, weel, mabeso dose soldier-man go for not so much. I do not." "All right, all right! I'll give you an order for fifty dollars. Here are the papers." And the Major handed one to each. "Now, don't lose them, whatever else you do." "Ma pony, she steef, no good. I was go on de foot." And Wolf-Voice proceeded to skin off his motley garments. In these desperate situations he believed in the exemplar of his name; its methods were less heroic but more sure. Ermine half stripped himself, and his horse wholly; bound up the tail, and in the gloom rubbed the old dried horse's hoof on his heels. It had, at least, never done any harm, and at times favored him. Sak-a-war-te and the God of the white men--he did not know whether they were one or two. Trusting his valuables to the care of the Major, he was let out of the corral after a good rattle of firing, into the darkness, away from the river. Only a few rifles ripped the night air in response to this, which he took to indicate that the better part of the Indians were along the river. He glided away, leading his pony, and the last the soldiers saw was the flash of a gun turned in an opposite direction from the wagon train. Neither Wolf-Voice or Ermine again appeared. The slow fight continued during the night and all the next day, but by evening the Indians disappeared. They had observed the approach of reënforcements, which came in during the following morning, led by Ermine. Wolf-Voice, who had been on foot, did not make the rapid time of his mounted partner, but had gone through and acquired the fifty dollars, which was the main object. CHAPTER XI THE TRUTH OF THE EYES The soldiers who had been in the wagon-train fight carried John Ermine's fame into cantonments, and Major Searles never grew tired of the pæan:-- "I do not go to war for fifty dollars, You can bet your boots that isn't not me lay. When I fight, it's only glory which I collars, Also to get me little beans and hay." But his more ardent admirers frowned on this doggerel, and reminded the songsters that no one of them would have made that courier's ride for a thousand acres of Monongahela rye in bottles. As for Wolf-Voice, they appreciated his attitude. "Business is business, and it takes money to buy marbles," said one to another. [Illustration] But on the completion of the rude huts at the mouth of the Tongue, and when the last wagon train had come through, there was an ominous preparation for more serious things. It was in the air. Every white soldier went loping about, doing everything from greasing a wagon to making his will. "Ah, sacre, John," quoth Wolf-Voice, "am much disturb; dese Masta-Shella[13] waas say dis big chief--what you call de Miles?--she medicin fighter; she very bad mans; she keep de soldiers' toes sore all de taime. She no give de dam de cole-moon, de yellow-grass moon; she hump de Sioux. Why for we mak to trouble our head? We have dose box, dose bag, dose barrel to heat, en de commissaire--wael 'nough grub las' our lifetaime; but de soldier say sure be a fight soon; dat Miles she begin for paw de groun'--it be sure sign. Wael, we mak' a skin dat las fight, hey, John?" [13] White men. Ermine in his turn conceived a new respect for the white soldiers. If their heels were heavy, so were their arms when it came to the final hug. While it was not apparent to him just how they were going to whip the Sioux and Cheyenne, it was very evident that the Indians could not whip the soldiers; and this was demonstrated directly when Colonel Miles, with his hardy infantry, charged over Sitting Bull's camp, and while outnumbered three to his one, scattered and drove the proud tribesmen and looted their tepees. Not satisfied with this, the grim soldier crawled over the snow all winter with his buffalo-coated men, defying the blizzards, kicking the sleeping warriors out of their blankets, killing and chasing them into the cold starvation of the hills. So persistent and relentless were the soldiers that they fought through the captured camps when the cold was so great that the men had to stop in the midst of battle to light fires, to warm their fingers, which were no longer able to work the breech-locks. Young soldiers cried in the ranks as they perished in the frigid atmosphere; but notwithstanding, they never stopped. The enemy could find no deep defile in the lonely mountains where they were safe; and entrench where they would among the rocks, the steady line charged over them, pouring bullets and shell. Ermine followed their fortunes and came to understand the dying of "the ten thousand men." These people went into battle with the intention of dying if not victorious. They never consulted their heels, no matter what the extremity. By the time of the green grass the warriors of the northern plains had either sought their agencies or fled to Canada. Through it all Ermine had marched and shot and frozen with the rest. He formed attachments for his comrades--that enthusiastic affection which men bring from the camp and battle-field, signed by suffering and sealed with blood. CHAPTER XII [Illustration] KATHERINE The snow had gone. The plains and boxlike bluff around the cantonments had turned to a rich velvet of green. The troops rested after the tremendous campaigns in the snow-laden, wind-swept hills, with the consciousness of work well done. The Indians who had been brought in during the winter were taking their first heart-breaking steps along the white man's road. The army teams broke the prairie, and they were planting the seed. The disappearance of the buffalo and the terrible white chief Bear-Coat,[14] who followed and fought them in the fiercest weather, had broken their spirits. The prophecies of the old beaver-men, which had always lain heavily on the Indian mind, had come true at last--the whites had come; they had tried to stop them and had failed. [14] General Miles. The soldiers' nerves tingled as they gathered round the landing. They cheered and laughed and joked, slapped and patted hysterically, and forgot the bilious officialism entirely. Far down the river could be seen the black funnel of smoke from the steamboat--their only connection with the world of the white men. It bore letters from home, luxuries for the mess-chest, and best of all, news of the wives and children who had been left behind when they went to war. Every one was in a tremor of expectancy except the Indians, who stood solemnly apart in their buffalo-robes, and John Ermine. The steamboat did not come from their part of the world, and brought nothing to them; still Ermine reflected the joyousness of those around him, and both he and the Indians knew a feast for their eyes awaited them. In due course the floating house--for she looked more like one than a boat--pushed her way to the landing, safe from her thousand miles of snags and sandbars. A cannon thudded and boomed. The soldiers cheered, and the people on the boat waved handkerchiefs when they did not use them to wipe happy tears away; officers who saw their beloved ones walked to and fro in caged impatience. When the gang-planks were run out, they swarmed aboard like Malay pirates. Such hugging and kissing as followed would have been scandalous on an ordinary occasion; lily-white faces were quite buried in sunburnt mustaches on mahogany-brown skins. The unmarried men all registered a vow to let no possible occasion to get married escape them, and little boys and girls were held aloft in brawny arms paternal. A riot of good spirits reigned. "For Heaven's sake, Mary, did you bring me my summer underwear?" "Oh, don't say you forgot a box of cigars, Mattie." "If you have any papers or novels, they will save me from becoming an idiot," and a shower of childish requests from their big boys greeted the women. In truth, it must be stated that at this period the fashion insisted upon a disfigurement of ladies which must leave a whole generation of noble dames forgotten by artists of all time. They loosened and tightened their forms at most inappropriate places; yet underneath this fierce distortion of that bane of woman, Dame Fashion, the men were yet able to remember there dwelt bodies as beautiful as any Greek ever saw or any attenuated Empire dandy fancied. "Three cheers for the first white women on the northern buffalo range!" "See that tent over there?" asked an officer of his 'Missis,' as he pointed toward camp; "well, that's our happy home; how does it strike you?" A bunch of "shave-tails" were marched ashore amid a storm of good-natured raillery from the "vets" and mighty glad to feel once again the grit under their brogans. Roustabouts hustled bags and boxes into the six-mule wagons. The engine blew off its exhaust in a frail attempt to drown the awful profanity of the second mate, while humanity boiled and bubbled round the great river-box. The Indians stood motionless, but their keen eyes missed no details of the strange medley. Ermine leaned on a wagon-tail, carefully paring a thin stick with a jack-knife. He was arrayed for a gala day in new soldier trousers, a yellow buckskin shirt beautifully beaded by the Indian method, a spotted white handkerchief around his neck, buckskin leggings on the lower leg above gay moccasins, a huge skinning-knife and revolver in his belt, and a silver watch chain. His golden hair was freshly combed, and his big rakish sombrero had an eagle feather fastened to the crown, dropping idly to one side, where the soft wind eddied it about. The John Ermine of the mountain den was a June-bug beside this butterfly, but no assortment of color can compete with a scarlet blanket when the clear western sun strikes on it; so in consequence Ermine was subdued by Wolf-Voice, who stood beside him thus arrayed. As the people gathered their bags and parcels, they came ashore in small groups, the women and children giving the wild Indians the heed which their picturesque appearance called for, much of this being in the form of little shivers up and down the spine. A true old wolf-headed buffalo Indian would make a Japanese dragon look like a plate of ice-cream, and the Old Boy himself would have to wave his tail, prick up his sharp ears, and display the best of his Satanic learning to stand the comparison. Major Searles passed on with the rest, beaming like a June morning, his arms full of woman's equipment--Mrs. Searles on one side and his daughter on the other. "Hello, Ermine." "How do, Major?" spoke the scout as he cast his whittling from him. "This is John Ermine, who saved my life last winter, my dear. This is Mrs. Searles, John." She bowed, but the scout shook hands with her. Miss Searles, upon presentation, gave Ermine a most chilling bow, if raising the chin and dropping the upper eyelids can be so described; and the man who pushed his pony fearlessly among the whirling savages recoiled before her batteries and stood irresolute. Wolf-Voice, who had not been indicated by the Major, now approached, his weird features lighted up with what was intended as pleasantry, but which instead was rather alarming. "How! how me heap glad to see you." And to Miss Searles, "How! how you heap look good." After which they passed on. "My, my, papa, did you ever see such beautiful hair as that man Ermine has?" said Katherine Searles. "It was a perfect dream." "Yes, good crop that--'nough to stuff a mattress with; looks better to-day than when it's full of alkali dust," replied the Major. "If the young man lost his hat, it would not be a calamity," observed the wife. "And, papa, who was that dreadful Indian in the red blanket?" [Illustration: KATHERINE.] "Oh, an old scoundrel named Wolf-Voice, but useful in his place. You must never feed him, Sarah, or he will descend on us like the plague of locusts. If he ever gets his teeth into one of our biscuits, I'll have to call out the squad to separate him from our mess-chest." A strange thought flashed through John Ermine's head--something more like the stroke of an axe than a thought, and it had deprived him of the power of speech. Standing motionless and inert, he watched the girl until she was out of sight. Then he walked away from the turmoil, up along the river-bank. Having gained a sufficient distance, he undid the front of his shirt and took out a buckskin bag, which hung depended from his neck. It contained his dried horse's hoof and the photograph of a girl, the one he had picked up in the moonlight on the trail used by the soldiers from Fort Ellis. He gazed at it for a time, and said softly, "They are the same, that girl and this shadow." And he stood scrutinizing it, the eyes looking straight into his as they had done so often before, until he was intimate with the image by a thousand vain imaginings. He put it back in his bag, buttoned his shirt, and stood in a brown study, with his hands behind his back, idly stirring the dust with the point of one moccasin. "It must have been--it must have been Sak-a-war-te who guided me in the moonlight to that little shadow paper there in the road--to that little spot in all this big country; in the night-time and just where we cut that long road; it means something--it must be." And he could get no farther with his thoughts as he walked to his quarters. Along the front of the officers' row he saw the bustle, and handshaking, laughter, and quick conversation. Captain Lewis came by with a tall young man in citizen's clothes, about whom there was a blacked, brushed, shaved appearance quite new on the Tongue. "I say, and who is that stunning chap?" said this one to Lewis, in Ermine's hearing. "One of my men. Oh, come here, Ermine. This is Mr. Sterling Harding, an Englishman come out to see this country and hunt. You may be able to tell him some things he wants to know." The two young men shook hands and stood irresolutely regarding each other. Which had the stranger thoughts concerning the other or the more curiosity cannot be stated, but they both felt the desire for better acquaintance. Two strangers on meeting always feel this--or indifference, and sometimes repulsion. The relations are established in a glance. [Illustration: THE ENGLISHMAN.] "Oh, I suppose, Mr. Ermine, you have shot in this country." "Yes, sir,"--Ermine had extended the "sir" beyond shoulder-straps to include clean shirts,--"I have shot most every kind of thing we have in this country except a woman." "Oh! ha! ha ha!" And Harding produced a cigar-case. "A woman? I suppose there hasn't been any to shoot until this boat came. Do you intend to try your hand on one? Will you have a cigar?" "No, sir; I only meant to say I had shot things. I suppose you mean have I hunted." "Yes, yes--exactly; hunted is what I mean." "Well then, Mr. Sterling Harding, I have never done anything else." "Mr. Harding, I will leave you with Ermine; I have some details to look after. You will come to our mess for luncheon at noon?" interjected Captain Lewis. "Yes, with pleasure, Captain." Whereat the chief of scouts took himself off. "I suppose, Mr. Ermine, that the war is quite over, and that one may feel free to go about here without being potted by the aborigines," said Harding. "The what? Never heard of them. I can go where I like without being killed, but I have to keep my eyes skinned." "Would you be willing to take me out? I should expect to incur the incidental risks of the enterprise," asked the Englishman, who had taken the incidental risks of tigers in India and sought "big heads" in many countries irrespective of dangers. "Why, yes; I guess Wolf-Voice and I could take you hunting easily enough if the Captain will let us go. We never know here what Bear-Coat is going to do next; it may be 'boots and saddles' any minute," replied the scout. "Oh, I imagine, since Madam has appeared, he may remain quiet and I really understand the Indians have quite fled the country," responded Harding. "Mabeso; you don't know about Indians, Mr. Harding. Indians are uncertain; they may come back again when their ponies fill up on the green grass." "Where would you propose to go, may I ask?" Ermine thought for a time, and asked, "Would you mind staying out all one moon, Mr. Harding?" "One moon? You mean thirty days. Yes, three moons, if necessary. My time is not precious. Where would you go?" "Back in the mountains--back on the Stinking Water; a long way from here, but a good place for the animals. It is where I come from, and I haven't been home in nearly a year. I should like to see my people," continued Ermine. "Anywhere will do; we will go to the Stinking Water, which I hope belies its name. You have relatives living there, I take it." "Not relatives; I have no relations anywhere on the earth, but I have friends," he replied. "When shall we start?" Ermine waved his hand a few times at the sky and said "So many," but it failed to record on the Englishman's mind. He was using the sign language. The scout noted this, and added, "Ten suns from now I will go if I can." "Very well; we will purchase ponies and other necessaries meanwhile, and will you aid me in the preparations, Mr. Ermine? How many ponies shall we require?" "Two apiece--one to ride and the other to pack," came the answer to the question. A great light dawned upon Harding's mind. To live a month with what one Indian pony could carry for bedding, clothes, cartridges, and food. His new friend failed, in his mind, to understand the requirements of an English gentleman on such quests. "But, Mr. Ermine, how should I transport my heads back to this point with only one pack-animal?" "Heads? heads? back here?" stumbled the light-horseman. "What heads?" "Why, the heads of such game as I might be so fortunate as to kill." "What do you want of their heads? We never take the heads. We give them to our little friends, the coyotes," queried Ermine. "Yes, yes, but I must have the heads to take back to England with me. I am afraid, Mr. Ermine, we shall have to be more liberal with our pack-train. However, we will go into the matter at greater length later." Sterling Harding wanted to refer to the Captain for further understanding of his new guide. He felt that Lewis could make the matter plain to Ermine by more direct methods than he knew how to employ. As the result of world-wide wanderings, he knew that the Captain would have to explain to Ermine that he was a crazy Englishman who was all right, but who must be humored. To Harding this idea was not new; he had played his blood-letting ardor against all the forms of outlandish ignorance. The savages of many lands had eaten the bodies of which the erratic Englishman wanted only the heads. So to Lewis went Harding. "I say, Captain, your Ermine there is an artless fellow. He is proposing to Indianize me, to take me out for a whole moon, as he calls it, with only one pack-pony to carry my belongings. Also he fails, I think, to comprehend that I want to bring back the heads of my game." "Ha! I will make that plain to him. You see, Mr. Harding, you are the first Englishman he ever encountered; fact is he is range bred, unbranded and wild. I have ridden him, but I use considerable discretion when I do it, or he would go up in the air on me," explained Lewis. "He is simple, but he is honest, faithful, and one of the very few white men who know this Indian country. Long ago there were a great many hunters and trappers in these parts; men who worked for the fur companies, but they have all been driven out of the country of late years by the Indians, and you will be lucky to get Ermine. There are plenty of the half-breeds left, but you cannot trust them. They might steal from you, they might abandon you, or they might kill you. Ermine will probably take you into the Crow country, for he is solid with those people. Why, half the time when I order Crow scouts to do something they must first go and make a talk with Ermine. He has some sort of a pull with them--God knows what. You may find it convenient to agree with him at times when you naturally would not; these fellows are independent and follow their fancies pretty much. They don't talk, and when they get an idea that they want to do anything, they proceed immediately to do it. Ermine has been with me nearly a year now, but I never know what minute I am to hear he has pulled out." Seeing Ermine some little distance away, the Captain sent an orderly after him. He came and leant with one hand on the tent-pole of the fly. "Ermine, I think you had better take one or two white packers and at least eight or ten animals with you when you go with Mr. Harding." "All right, sir, we can take as many packers as he likes, but no wagons." Having relieved the scout of his apprehensions concerning wagons, the bond was sealed with a cigar, and he departed, thinking of old Crooked-Bear's prediction that the white men would take him to their hearts. Underneath the happy stir of his faculties on this stimulating day there played a new emotion, indefinite, undefinable, a drifting, fluttering butterfly of a thought which never alighted anywhere. All day long it flitted, hovered, and made errant flights across his golden fancies--a glittering, variegated little puff of color. CHAPTER XIII PLAYING WITH FIRE On the following morning Harding hunted up John Ermine, and the two walked about together, the Englishman trying to fire the scout with his own passion for strange lands and new heads. To the wild plainsman the land was not new; hunting had its old everyday look, and the stuffed heads of game had no significance. His attention was constantly interrupted by the little flutter of color made more distinct by a vesper before the photograph. "Let us go and find your friend, Wolf-Voice," said Harding, which they did, and the newcomer was introduced. The Englishman threw kindly, wondering eyes over the fiercely suspicious face of the half-breed, whose evil orbs spitted back at him. "Ah, yees--you was go hunt. All-right; I weel mak' you run de buffalo, shoot dose elk, trap de castor, an you shall shake de han' wid de grizzly bear. How much money I geet--hey?" "Ah, you will get the customary wages, my friend, and if you give me an opportunity to shake hands with a grizzly, your reward will be forthcoming," replied the sportsman. "Very weel; keep yur heye skin on me, when you see me run lak hell--weel, place where I was run way from, dare ees mousier's grizzly bear, den you was go up shake han', hey?" Harding laughed and offered the man a cigar, which he handled with four fingers much as he might a tomahawk, having none of the delicate art native to the man of cigars or cigarettes. A match was proffered, and Wolf-Voice tried diligently to light the wrong end. The Englishman violently pulled Ermine away, while he nearly strangled with suppressed laughter. It was distinctly clear that Wolf-Voice must go with them. "Your friend Wolf-Voice seems to be quite an individual person." "Yes, the soldiers are always joshing him, but he doesn't mind. Sometimes they go too far. I have seen him draw that skinning-knife, and away they go like a flock of birds. Except when he gets loaded with soldier whiskey, he is all right. He is a good man away from camp," said Ermine. "He does not appear to be a thoroughbred Indian," observed Harding. "No, he's mixed; he's like that soup the company cooks make. He is not the best man in the world, but he is a better man in more places than I ever saw," said Ermine, in vindication. "Shall we go down to the Indian camp and try to buy some ponies, Ermine?" "No, I don't go near the Sioux; I am a kind of Crow. I have fought with them. They forgive the soldiers, but their hearts are bad when they look at me. I'll get Ramon to go with you when you buy the horses. Ramon was a small trader before the war, used to going about with a half-dozen pack-horses, but the Sioux ran him off the range. He has pack saddles and rawhide bags, which you can hire if you want to," was explained. "All right; take me to Ramon if you will." "I smoke," said Ermine as he led the way. Having seen that worthy depart on his trading mission with Harding in tow, Ermine felt relieved. Impulse drew him to the officers' row, where he strolled about with his hands in his cartridge-belt. Many passing by nodded to him or spoke pleasantly. Some of the newly arrived ladies even attempted conversation; but if the soldiers of a year ago were difficult for Ermine, the ladies were impossible. He liked them; their gentle faces, their graceful carriage, their evident interest in him, and their frank address called out all his appreciation. They were a revelation after the squaws, who had never suggested any of these possibilities. But they refused to come mentally near him, and he did not know the trail which led to them. He answered their questions, agreed with whatever they said, and battled with his diffidence until he made out to borrow a small boy from one mother, proposing to take him down to the scout camp and quartermaster's corral to view the Indians and mules. He had thought out the proposition that the Indians were just as strange to the white people as the white people were to them, consequently he saw a social opening. He would mix these people up so that they could stare at each other in mutual perplexity and bore one another with irrelevant remarks and questions. "Did Mr. Butcher-Knife miss Madam Butcher-Knife?" asked a somewhat elderly lady on one occasion, whereat the Indian squeezed out an abdominal grunt and sedately observed to "Hairy-Arm," in his own language, that "the fat lady could sit down comfortably," or words that would carry this thought. The scout who was acting as their leader upon this occasion emitted one loud "A-ha!" before he could check himself. The lady asked what had been said. Ermine did not violate a rule clearly laid down by Crooked-Bear, to the effect that lying was the sure sign of a man's worthlessness. He answered that they were merely speaking of something which he had not seen, thus satisfying his _protégé_. After a round or two of these visits this novelty was noised about the quarters, and Ermine found himself suddenly accosted. By his side was the original of his cherished photograph, accompanied by Lieutenant Butler of the cavalry, a tall young man whose body and movements had been made to conform to the West Point standards. "Miss Searles has been presented, I believe. She is desirous of visiting the scout camp. Would you kindly take us down?" John Ermine's soul drifted out through the top of his head in unseen vapors, but he managed to say that he would. He fell in beside the young woman, and they walked on together. To be so near the reality, the literal flesh and blood of what had been a long series of efflorescent dreams, quite stirred him. He gathered slowly, after each quick glance into the eyes which were not like those in the photograph; there they were set and did not resent his fancies; here they sparkled and talked and looked unutterable things at the helpless errant. Miss Searles had been to a finishing school in the East, and either the school was a very good one or the little miss exceedingly apt, but both more probably true. She had the delicate pearls and peach-bloom on her cheeks to which the Western sun and winds are such persistent enemies, and a dear little nose tipped heavenward, as careless as a cat hunting its grandmother. The rustle of her clothes mingled with little songs which the wind sang to the grass, a faint freshness of body with delicate spring-flower odors drifted to Ermine's active nostrils. But the eyes, the eyes, why did they not brood with him as in the picture? Why did they arch and laugh and tantalize? His earthly senses had fled; gone somewhere else and left a riot in his blood. He tripped and stumbled, fell down, and crawled over answers to her questions, and he wished Lieutenant Butler was farther away than a pony could run in a week. She stopped to raise her dress above the dusty road, and the scout overrode the alignment. "Mr. Ermine, will you please carry my parasol for me?" [Illustration: "'WILL YOU PLEASE CARRY MY PARASOL FOR ME?'"] The object in question was newer to him than a man-of-war would have been. The prophet had explained about the great ships, but he had forgotten parasols. He did not exactly make out whether the thing was to keep the sun off, or to hide her face from his when she wanted to. He retraced his steps, wrapped his knuckles around the handle with a drowning clutch, and it burned his hand. If previously it had taken all his force to manoeuvre himself, he felt now that he would bog down under this new weight. Atlas holding the world had a flying start of Ermine. He raised it above her head, and she looked up at him so pleasantly, that he felt she realized his predicament; so he said, "Miss Searles, if I lug this baby tent into that scout camp, they will either shoot at us, or crawl the ponies and scatter out for miles. I think they would stand if you or the Lieutenant pack it; but if I do this, there won't be anything to see but ponies' tails wavering over the prairie." "Oh, thank you; I will come to your rescue, Mr. Ermine." And she did. "It is rather ridiculous, a parasol, but I do not intend to let the sun have its way with me." And glancing up, "Think if you had always carried a parasol, what a complexion you would have." "But men don't carry them, do they?" "Only when it rains; they do then, back in the States," she explained. Ermine replied, "They do--hum!" and forthwith refused to consider men who did it. "I think, Mr. Ermine, if I were an Indian, I should very much like to scalp you. I cannot cease to admire your hair." "Oh, you don't have to be an Indian, to do that. Here is my knife; you can go ahead any time you wish," came the cheerful response. "Mr. Butler, our friend succumbs easily to any fate at my hands, it seems. I wonder if he would let me eat him," said the girl. "I will build the fire and put the kettle on for you." And Ermine was not joking in the least, though no one knew this. They were getting into the dangerous open fields, and Miss Searles urged the scout in a different direction. "Have you ever been East?" "Yes," he replied, "I have been to Fort Buford." The parasol came between them, and presently, "Would you like to go east of Buford--I mean away east of Buford," she explained. "No; I don't want to go east or west, north or south of here," came the astonishing answer all in good faith, and Miss Searles mentally took to her heels. She feared seriousness. "Oh, here are the Indians," she gasped, as they strode into the grotesque grouping. "I am afraid, Mr. Ermine--I know it is silly." "What are you afraid of, Miss Searles?" "I do not know; they look at me so!" And she gave a most delicious little shiver. "You can't blame them for that; they're not made of wood." But this lost its force amid her peripatetic reflections. "That's Broken-Shoe; that's White-Robe; that's Batailleur--oh, well, you don't care what their names are; you probably will not see them again." "They are more imposing when mounted and dashing over the plains, I assure you. At a distance, one misses the details which rather obtrude here," ventured Butler. "Very well; I prefer them where I am quite sure they will not dash. I very much prefer them sitting down quietly--such fearful-looking faces. Oh my, they should be kept in cages like the animals in the Zoo. And do you have to fight such people, Mr. Butler?" "We do," replied the officer, lighting a cigarette. This point of view was new and amusing. One of the Indians approached the party. Ermine spoke to him in a loud, guttural, carrying voice, so different from his quiet use of English, that Miss Searles fairly jumped. The change of voice was like an explosion. "Go back to your robe, brother; the white squaw is afraid of you--go back, I say!" The intruder hesitated, stopped, and fastened Ermine with the vacant stare which in such times precede sudden, uncontrollable fury among Indians. Again Ermine spoke: "Go back, you brown son of mules; this squaw is my friend; I tell you she is afraid of you. I am not. Go back, and before the sun is so high I will come to you. Make this boy go back, Broken-Shoe; he is a fool." The old chieftain emitted a few hollow grunts, with a click between, and the young Indian turned away. "My! Mr. Ermine, what are you saying? Have I offended the Indian? He looks daggers; let us retire--oh my, let us go--quick--quick!" And Ermine, by the flutter of wings, knew that his bird had flown. He followed, and in the safety of distance she lightly put her hand on his arm. "What was it all about, Mr. Ermine? Do tell me." Ermine's brain was not working on schedule time, but he fully realized what the affront to the Indian meant in the near future. He knew he would have to make his words good; but when the creature of his dreams was involved, he would have measured arms with a grizzly bear. "He would not go back," said the scout, simply. "But for what was he coming?" she asked. "For you," was the reply. "Goodness gracious! I had done nothing; did he want to kill me?" "No, he wanted to shake hands with you; he is a fool." "Oh, only to shake hands with me? And why did you not let him? I could have borne that." "Because he is a fool," the scout ventured, and then in tones which carried the meaning, "Shake hands with you!" "I see; I understand; you were protecting me; but he must hate you. I believe he will harm you; those dreadful Indians are so relentless, I have heard. Why did we ever go near the creatures? What will he do, Mr. Ermine?" The scout cast his eye carefully up at the sky and satisfied the curiosity of both by drawling, "A--hu!" "Well--well, Mr. Ermine, do not ever go near them again; I certainly would not if I were you. I shall see papa and have you removed from those ghastly beings. It is too dreadful. I have seen all I care to of them; let us go home, Mr. Butler." The two--the young lady and the young man--bowed to Ermine, who touched the brim of his sombrero, after the fashion of the soldiers. They departed up the road, leaving Ermine to go, he knew not where, because he wanted to go only up the road. The abruptness of white civilities hashed the scout's contempt for time into fine bits; but he was left with something definite, at least, and that was a deep, venomous hatred for Lieutenant Butler; that was something he could hang his hat on. Then he thought of the "fool," and his footsteps boded ill for that one. "That Ermine is such a tremendous man; do you not think so, Mr. Butler?" "He seems a rather forceful person in his simple way," coincided the officer. "You apparently appeal to him strongly. He is downright romantic in his address, but I cannot find fault with the poor man. I am equally unfortunate." "Oh, don't, Mr. Butler; I cannot stand it; you are, at least, sophisticated." "Yes, I am sorry to say I am." "Oh, please, Mr. Butler," with a deprecating wave of her parasol, "but tell me, aren't you afraid of them?" "I suppose you mean the Indians. Well, they certainly earned my respect during the last campaign. They are the finest light-horse in the world, and if they were not encumbered with the women, herds, and villages; if they had plenty of ammunition and the buffalo would stay, I think there would be a great many army widows, Miss Searles." "It is dreadful; I can scarcely remember my father; he has been made to live in this beast of a country since I was a child." Such was the lofty view the young woman took of her mundane progress. "Shades of the vine-clad hills and citron groves of the Hudson River! I fear we brass buttoners are cut off. I should have been a lawyer or a priest--no, not a priest; for when I look at a pretty girl I cannot feel any priesthood in my veins." Miss Searles whistled the bars of "Halt" from under the fortification of the parasol. "Oh, well, what did the Lord make pretty women for?" "I do not know, unless to demonstrate the foolishness of the line of Uncle Sam's cavalry," speculated the arch one. "Mr. Butler, if you do not stop, I shall run." "All right; I am under arrest, so do not run; we are nearly home. I reserve my right to resume hostilities, however. I insist on fair play with your sage-brush admirer. Since we met in St. Louis, I have often wondered if we should ever see each other again. I always ardently wished we could." "Mr. Butler, you are a poor imitation of our friend Ermine; he, at least, makes one feel that he means what he says," she rejoined. "And you were good enough to remind me that I was sophisticated." "I may have been mistaken," she observed. She played the batteries of her eyes on the unfortunate soldier, and all of his formations went down before them. He was in love, and she knew it, and he knew she knew it. He felt like a fool, but tried not to act one, with the usual success of lovers. He was an easy victim of one of those greatest of natural weaknesses men have. She had him staked out and could bring him into her camp at any time the spirit moved her. Being a young person just from school, she found affairs easier than she had been led to suspect. In the usual girl way she had studied her casts, lures, and baits, but in reality they all seemed unnecessary, and she began to think some lethal weapon which would keep her admirers at a proper distance more to the purpose. The handsome trooper was in no great danger, she felt, only she must have time; she did not want everything to happen in a minute, and the greatest dream of life vanish forever. Besides, she intended never, under any circumstances, to haul down her flag and surrender until after a good, hard siege. They entered the cabin of the Searles, and there told the story of the morning's adventures. Mrs. Searles had the Indians classified with rattlesnakes, green devils, and hyenas, and expected scenes of this character to happen. The Major wanted more details concerning Ermine. "Just what did he say, Butler?" "I do not know; he spoke in some Indian language." "Was he angry, and was the Indian who approached you mad?" "They were like two dogs who stand ready to fight,--teeth bared, muscles rigid, eyes set and just waiting for their nerves to snap," explained Butler. "Oh, some d---- Indian row, no one knows what, and Ermine won't tell; yet as a rule these people are peaceful among themselves. I will ask him about it," observed the Major. "Why can't you have Mr. Ermine removed from that awful scout camp, papa? Why can't he be brought up to some place near here? I do not see why such a beautiful white person as he is should have to associate with those savages," pleaded the graceful Katherine. "Don't worry about Ermine, daughter; you wouldn't have him rank the Colonel out of quarters, would you? I will look into this matter a little." Meanwhile the young scout walked rapidly toward his camp. He wanted to do something with his hands, something which would let the gathering electricity out at his finger-ends and relieve the strain, for the trend of events had irritated him. Going straight to his tent, he picked up his rifle, loaded it, and buckled on the belt containing ammunition for it. He twisted his six-shooter round in front of him, and worked his knife up and down in its sheath. Then he strode out, going slowly down to the scout fire. The day was warm; the white-hot sun cut traceries of the cottonwood trees on the ground. A little curl of blue smoke rose straight upward from the fire, and in a wide ring of little groups sat or lounged the scouts. They seemingly paid no attention to the approach of Ermine, but one could not determine this; the fierce Western sun closes the eyelids in a perpetual squint, and leaves the beady eyes a chance to rove unobserved at a short distance. Ermine came over and walked into the circle, stopping in front of the fire, thus facing the young Indian to whom he had used the harsh words. There was no sound except the rumble of a far-off government mule team and the lazy buzz of flies. He deliberately rolled a cigarette. Having done this to his satisfaction, he stooped down holding it against the coals, and it was ages before it caught fire. Then he put it to his lips, blew a cloud of smoke in the direction of his foe, and spoke in Absaroke. "Well, I am here." The silence continued; the Indian looked at him with a dull steady stare, but did nothing; finally Ermine withdrew. He understood; the Indian did not consider the time or opportunity propitious, but the scout did not flatter himself that such a time or place would never come. That was the one characteristic of an Indian of which a man could be certain. CHAPTER XIV IN LOVE John Ermine lay on his back in his tent, with one leg crossed over the other. His eyes were idly attracted by the play of shadows on the ducking, but his mind was visiting other places. He was profoundly discontented. During his life he had been at all times an easy-going person--taught in a rude school to endure embarrassing calamities and long-continued personal inconveniences by flood and hunger, bullets and snow. He had no conception of the civilized trait of acquisitiveness whereby he had escaped that tantalization. He desired military distinction, but he had gotten that. No man strode the camp whose deeds were better recognized than his, not even the Colonel commanding. His attitude toward mankind had always been patient and kindly except when urged into other channels by war. He even had schooled himself to the irksome labor at the prophet's mine, low delving which seemed useless; and had acquiesced while Crooked-Bear stuffed his head with the thousand details of white mentality; but now vaguely he began to feel a lack of something, an effort which he had not made--a something he had left undone; a difference and a distinction between himself and the officers who were so free to associate with the creature who had borrowed his mind and given nothing in return. No one in the rude campaigning which had been the lot of all since he joined had made any noticeable social distinction toward him--rather otherwise; they had sought and trusted him, and more than that, he had been singled out for special good will. He was free to call at any officer's quarters on the line, sure of a favorable reception; then why did he not go to Major Searles's? At the thought he lay heavier on the blanket, and dared not trust his legs to carry out his inclinations. The camp was full of fine young officers who would trust their legs and risk their hearts--he felt sure of that. True, he was subject to the orders of certain officials, but so were they. Young officers had asked him to do favors on many occasions, and he did them, because it was clear that they ought to be done, and he also had explained devious plains-craft to them of which they had instantly availed themselves. The arrangement was natural and not oppressive. Captain Lewis could command him to ford a rushing torrent: could tell him to stand on his head and be d---- quick about it, and of course he would do anything for him and Major Searles; they could ask nothing which the thinker would not do in a lope. As for Colonel Miles, the fine-looking man who led "ten thousand" in the great white battles, it was a distinction to do exactly what he ordered--every one did that; then why did he not go to Major Searles's quarters, he kept asking himself. He was not afraid of Colonel Miles or Captain Lewis or Major Searles or any officer, but--and the thought flashed, he was wary of the living eyes of the beloved photograph. Before these he could not use his mind, hands, or feet; his nerves shivered like aspen leaves in a wind, and the blood surged into his head until he could see nothing with his eyes; cold chills played up and down his spine; his hair crawled round under his sombrero, and he was most thoroughly miserable, but some way he no longer felt contentment except while undergoing this misery. He lay on the blanket while his thoughts alternately fevered and chilled his brain. So intense were his emotions that they did more than disorder his mind: they took smart hold of his very body, gnawing and constricting his vitals until he groaned aloud. No wild beast which roamed the hills was less conscious, ordinarily, of its bodily functions than Ermine. The machinery of a perfect physique had always responded to the vital principle and unwound to the steady pull of the spring of life, yet he found himself now stricken. It was not a thing for the surgeon, and he gradually gave way before its steady progress. His nature was a rich soil for the seeds of idealism which warm imagination constantly sprinkled, and the fruits became a consuming passion. His thoughts were burning him. Getting up from his bed, he took a kettle and small axe, saddled his pony, and took himself off toward the river. As he rode along he heard the Englishman call out to him, but he did not answer. The pony trotted away, leaving the camp far behind, until he suddenly came to a little prairie surrounded by cottonwoods, in the middle of which were numbers of small wick-e-ups made by the Indians for sweat-baths. He placed his blankets and ponchos over one, made a fire and heated a number of rocks, divested himself of his clothing, and taking his pail of water got inside, crouching while he dashed handfuls of water over the hot rocks. This simple remedy would do more than cleanse the skin and was always resorted to for common ills by the Indians. After Ermine came out he plunged into the cold waters of the Yellowstone and dressed himself, but he did not feel any better. He mounted and rode off, forgetting his axe, blankets, and pail; such furnishings were unconsidered now. In response to a tremendous desire to do something, he ran his pony for a mile, but that did not calm the yearning. "I feel like a piece of fly-blown meat," he said to himself. "I think I will go to Saw-Bones and let him have a hack at me; I never was so sick before." And to the cabin of the surgeon he betook himself. That gentleman was fussing about with affairs of his own, when Ermine entered. "Say, doctor, give me some medicine." "What's the matter with you?" asked the addressed, shoving his sombrero to one side and looking up incredulously. "Oh, I'm sick." "Well, where are you sick?" Ermine brushed his hair from off his forehead, slapped his leggings with his quirt, and answered, "Sick all over--kind of low fever, like a man with a bullet in him." "Bilious, probably." And the doctor felt his pulse and looked into his bright, clear eyes. "Oh, nonsense, boy--you are not sick. I guess loafing around is bad for you. The Colonel ought to give you a hundred miles with his compliments to some one; but here is a pill which will cure you." Saying which, the physician brought out his box containing wheat bread rolled into small balls, that he always administered to cases which he did not understand or to patients whom he suspected of shirking on "sick report." Ermine swallowed it and departed. The doctor tipped his sombrero forward and laughed aloud in long, cadenced peals as he sorted his vials. "Sick!" he muttered; "funny--funny--funny sick! One could not kill him with an axe. I guess he is sick of sitting round--sick to be loping over the wild plains. Humph--sick!" Ermine rode down the officers' row, but no one was to be seen. He pulled his horse's head up before Major Searles's door, but instantly slapped him with his whip and trotted on to his tent. "If that fool Indian boy would only show himself," he thought; but the Indian was not a fool, and did not. Again Ermine found himself lying on his back, more discontented than ever. The day waned and the shadows on the tent walls died, but still he lay. Ramon stuck his head in at the flaps. "Well--ah got your British man hees pony, Ermine--trade twenty-five dollar in goods for five pony." "Oh, d---- the Englishman," was the response to this, whereat Ramon took a good long stare at his friend and withdrew. He failed to understand the abruptness, and went away wondering how Ermine could know that he had gouged Mr. Harding a little on the trade. Still this did not explain; for he had confidence in his own method of blinding his trail. He was a business man and a moral cripple. The sun left the world and Ermine with his gloomy thoughts. * * * * * Late at night Captain Lewis sat at his desk writing letters, the lamp spotting on the white disk of his hat, which shaded his face, while the pale moonlight crept in through the open door. A sword clanked outside, and with a knock the officer of the guard hurriedly entered. "Say, Bill, I have your scout Ermine down by the guard-house, and he's drunk. I didn't lock him up. Wanted to see you first. If I lock him up, I am afraid he'll pull out on you when he comes to. What shall I do?" "The devil you say--Ermine drunk? Why, I never knew him to drink; it was a matter of principle with him; often told me that his mentor, whoever he was, told him not to." "Well, he's drunk now, so there you are," said the officer. "How drunk?" "Oh, good and drunk." "Can he walk?" Lewis queried. "No; all he can do is lay on his back and shoot pretty thick Injun at the moon." "Does every one know of this?" "No; Corporal Riley and Private Bass of Company K brought him up from Wilmore's whiskey-shack, and they are sitting on his chest out back of the guard-house. Come on," spoke the responsible one. Lewis jumped up and followed. They quickly made their way to the spot, and there Lewis beheld Ermine lying on his back. The moonlight cut his fine face softly and made the aureole of his light hair stand away from the ground. He moaned feebly, but his eyes were closed. Corporal Riley and Private Bass squatted at his head and feet with their eyes fastened on the insensible figure. Off to one side a small pile of Ermine's lethal weapons shimmered. The post was asleep; a dog barked, and an occasional cow-bell tinkled faintly down in the quartermaster's corral. "Gad!" gasped Lewis, as he too stooped down. "How did this happen, Corporal?" "Well, I suppose we might as well tell it as it is," Bass replied, indirectly conscious of the loyalty he owed his brother sinner. "We ran the guard, sir, and went down to Wilmore's, and when we got there, we found this feller pretty far gone with drink. He had his guns out, and was talking Injun, and he had Wilmore hiding out in the sage-brush. I beefed him under the ear, and we took his guns away, sir. I didn't hurt him much; he was easy money with his load, and then we packed him up here, and I told the officer of the guard, sir." "Well," said Lewis, finally, "make a chair of your hands and bring him down to my quarters." The soldiers gathered up the limp form, while Lewis took the belt and pistols. "No use of reporting this?" "No," answered the officer of the guard. The men laid him out on the Captain's bed after partially disrobing him, and started to withdraw. "Go to your quarters, men, and keep your mouths shut; you will understand it is best for you." The two saluted and passed out, leaving the Captain pacing the floor, and groping wildly for an explanation. "Why, I have offered that boy a drink out of my own flask on campaign, when we were cold enough and tired enough to make my old Aunt Jane weaken on her blue ribbon; but he never did. That was good of the men to bring him in, and smart of Welbote not to chuck him in the guard-house. Sailor's sins! he'd never stand that; it would kill his pride, and he has pride, this long-haired wild boy. He may tell me in the morning, but I am not so sure of that. Laying down on his luck is not the way he plays it. I don't doubt it was an accident, and maybe it will teach him a d---- good lesson; he'll have a head like a hornets' nest to-morrow morning." The Captain, after a struggle with the strange incident, sought his couch, and when he arose next morning betook himself to Ermine's room. He found him asleep amid the tangle of his wonderful hair, and he smiled as he pictured the scout's surprise when he awoke; in fact, he pulled himself together for a little amusement. A few remarks to reënforce the headache would do more good than a long brief without a big 'exhibit A,' such as would accompany the awakening. The steady gaze of the Captain awoke the scout, and he opened his eyes, which wandered about the room, but displayed no interest; they set themselves on the Captain's form, but refused to believe these dreams, and closed again. The Captain grinned and addressed the empty room:-- "How would you like to be a millionnaire and have that headache? Oh, gee--'twould bust a mule's skull." The eyes opened again and took more account of things; they began to credit their surroundings. When the scene had assembled itself, Ermine sat up on the bed, saying, "Where am I? what hit me?" and then he lay down again. His dream had come true; he was sick. "You are in my bed, so stay there, and you will come out all right. You have been making the Big Red Medicine; the devil is pulling your hair, and every time he yanks, he will say, 'John Ermine, don't do that again.' Keep quiet, and you will get well." After saying which Lewis left the room. All day long the young man lay on the bed; he was burning at the stake; he was being torn apart by wild horses; the regimental band played its bangiest music in his head; the big brass drum would nearly blow it apart; and his poor stomach kept trying to crawl out of his body in its desperate strife to escape Wilmore's decoction of high-wine. This lasted all day, but by evening the volcano had blown itself out, when a natural sleep overcame him. Captain Lewis had the knowledge of certain magic, well enough known in the army, to alleviate Ermine's condition somewhat, but he chose not to use it; he wanted 'exhibit A' to wind up in a storm of fireworks. As Ermine started out the next morning Lewis called, "Hey, boy, how did you come to do it?" Ermine turned a half-defiant and half-questioning front to Lewis and tossed his matted hair. "I don't know, Captain; it all seems as though I must have fallen off the earth; but I'm back now and think I can stay here." "Well, no one knows about it except myself, so don't say a word to any one, and don't do it again--sabe?" "You bet I won't. If the soldiers call that drowning their sorrows, I would rather get along with mine." CHAPTER XV BRINGING IN THE WOLF "Going to follow the dogs to-day, Lewis?" said Lieutenant Shockley, poking his head in the half-open door. "Yes, reckon I'll give this chair a vacation; wait a minute," and he mauled the contents of his ditty-box after the manner of men and bears when in search of trifles. A vigorous stirring is bound to upheave what is searched for, so in due course the Captain dug up a snaffle-bit. "I find my horse goes against this better than the government thing--when the idea is to get there and d---- formations." "Well, shake yourself, Lewis; the people are pulling out." "What, ahead of the scouts?" laughed the chief of them. "Yes; and you know the line never retires on the scouts; so smoke up." The orderly having changed the bits, the two mounted and walked away. "'Spose this is for the Englishman. Great people these Englishmen--go trotting all over the earth to chase something; anything will do from rabbits to tigers, and niggers preferred," said Lewis. "Must be a great deprivation to most Englishmen to have to live in England where there is nothing to chase. I suppose they all have this desire to kill something; a great hardship it must be," suggested Shockley. "Oh, I think they manage," continued Lewis; "from what I understand the rich and the great go batting about the globe after heads; the so-so fellows go into the army and navy to take their chance of a killing, and the lower orders have to find contentment in staying at home, where there is no amusement but pounding each other." "There goes your friend Ermine on that war-pony of his; well, he can show his tail to any horse in cantonments. By the way, some one was telling me that he carries a medicine-bag with him; isn't he a Christian?" "Oh, I don't know. He reminds me of old Major Doyle of ours, who was promoted out of us during the war, but who rejoined in Kansas and was retired. You don't remember him? He was an Irishman and a Catholic; he had been in the old army since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, and ploughed his way up and down all over the continent. And there was Major Dunham--you know him. He and Doyle had been comrades since youth; they had fought and marched together, spilled many a noggin in each other's honor, and who drew the other's monthly pay depended on the paste-boards. Old Doyle came into post, one day, and had a lot of drinks with the fellows as he picked up the social threads. Finally he asked: 'Un' phware is me ole friend, Dunham? Why doesn't he come down and greet me with a glass?' "Some one explained that old Dunham had since married, had joined the church, and didn't greet any one over glasses any more. "'Un' phwat church did he join?' "Some one answered, the Universalist Church. "'Ah, I see,' said Doyle, tossing off his drink, 'he's huntin' an aisy ford.' So I guess that's what Ermine is doing." They soon joined the group of mounted officers and ladies, orderlies, and nondescripts of the camp, all alive with anticipations, and their horses stepping high. "Good morning, Mr. Harding; how do you find yourself?" called out Captain Lewis. "Fine--fine, thank you." "How are you mounted?" Harding patted his horse's neck, saying: "Quite well--a good beast; seems to manage my weight, but I find this saddle odd. Bless me, I know there is no habit in the world so strong as the saddle. I have the flat saddle habit." "What we call a rim-fire saddle," laughed Searles, who joined the conversation. "Ah--a rim-fire, do you call them? Well, do you know, Major, I should say this saddle was better adapted to carrying a sack of corn than a man," rejoined Harding. "Oh, you'll get along; there isn't a fence nearer than St. Paul except the quartermaster's corral." "I say, Searles," spoke Lewis, "there's the Colonel out in front--happy as a boy out of school; glad there's something to keep him quiet; we must do this for him every day, or he'll have us out pounding sage-brush." "And there's the quartermaster with a new popper on his whip," sang some voice. "There is no champagne like the air of the high plains before the sun burns the bubble out of it," proclaimed Shockley, who was young and without any of the saddle or collar marks of life; "and to see these beautiful women riding along--say, Harding, if I get off this horse I'll set this prairie on fire," and he burst into an old song:-- "Now, ladies, good-by to each kind, gentle soul, Though me coat it is ragged, me heart it is whole; There's one sitting yonder I think wants a beau, Let her come to the arms of young Billy Barlow." And Shockley urged his horse to the side of Miss Katherine Searles. Observing the manoeuvre, Captain Lewis poked her father in the ribs. "I don't think your daughter wants a beau very much, Major; the youngsters are four files deep around her now." "'Tis youth, Bill Lewis; we've all had it once, and from what I observe, they handle it pretty much as we used to." "The very same. I don't see how men write novels or plays about that old story; all they can do is to invent new fortifications for Mr. Hero to carry before she names the day." Lieutenant Shockley found himself unable to get nearer than two horses to Miss Searles, so he bawled: "And I thought you fellows were hunting wolves. I say, Miss Searles, if you ride one way and the wolf runs the other, it is easy to see which will have the larger field. My money is on you--two to one. Who will take the wolf?" [Illustration: SHOCKLEY.] "Oh, Mr. Shockley, between you and this Western sun, I shall soon need a new powder puff." "Shall I challenge him?" called Bowles to the young woman. "Please not, Mr. Bowles; I do not want to lose him." And every one greeted Shockley derisively. "Guide right!" shouted the last, putting his horse into a lope. Miss Searles playfully slashed about with her riding-whip, saying, "Deploy, gentlemen," and followed him. The others broke apart; they had been beaten by the strategy of the loud mouth. Lieutenant Butler, however, permitted himself the pleasure of accompanying Miss Searles; his determination could not be shaken by these diversions; he pressed resolutely on. "I think Butler has been hit over the heart," said one of the dispersed cavaliers. "You bet, and it is a disabling wound too. I wonder if Miss Searles intends to cure him. When I see her handle her eyes, methinks, compadre, she's a cruel little puss. I wouldn't care to be her mouse." "But, fellows, she's pretty, a d---- pretty girl, hey!" ventured a serious youngster. "You can bet any chap here would hang out the white flag and come a-running, if she hailed him." And so, one with another, they kept the sacred fire alight. As for that matter, the aforesaid Miss Puss knew how her men valued the difficulties of approach, which was why she scattered them. She proposed to take them in detail. Men do not weaken readily before each other, but alone they are helpless creatures, when the woman understands herself. She can then sew them up, tag them, and put them away on various shelves, and rely on them to stay there; but it requires management, of course. "I say, Miss Searles, those fellows will set spring guns and bear traps for me to-night; they will never forgive me." "Oh, well, Mr. Shockley, to be serious, I don't care. Do you suppose a wolf will be found? I am so bored." Which remark caused the eminent Lieutenant to open his mouth very wide in imitation of a laugh, divested of all mirth. "Miss Katherine Searles," he said, in mock majesty, "I shall do myself the honor to crawl into the first badger-hole we come to and stay there until you dig me out." "Don't be absurd; you know I always bury my dead. Mr. Butler, do you expect we shall find a wolf? Ah, there is that King Charles cavalier, Mr. Ermine--for all the world as though he had stepped from an old frame. I do think he is lovely." "Oh, bother that yellow Indian; he is such a nuisance," jerked Butler. "Why do you say that? I find him perfectly new; he never bores me, and he stood between me and that enraged savage." "A regular play. I do not doubt he arranged it beforehand. However, it was well thought out--downright dramatic, except that the Indian ought to have killed him." "Oh, would you have arranged it that way if you had been playwright?" "Yes," replied the bilious lover. Shaking her bridle rein, she cried, "Come, Mr. Shockley, let us ride to Ermine; at least you will admire him." Shockley enjoyed the death stroke which she had administered to Butler, but saying to himself as he thought of Ermine, "D---- the curly boy," and followed his charming and difficult quarry. He alone had ridden true. The independent and close-lipped scout was riding outside the group. He never grew accustomed to the heavy columns, and did not talk on the march--a common habit of desert wanderers. But his eye covered everything. Not a buckle or a horse-hair or the turn of a leg escaped him, and you may be sure Miss Katherine Searles was detailed in his picture. He had beheld her surrounded by the young officers until he began to hate the whole United States army. Then he saw her dismiss the escort saving only two, and presently she reduced her force to one. As she came toward him, his blood took a pop into his head, which helped mightily to illumine his natural richness of color. She was really coming to him. He wished it, he wanted it, as badly as a man dying of thirst wants water, and yet a whole volley of bullets would not disturb him as her coming did. "Good morning, Mr. Ermine; you, too, are out after wolves, I see," sang Katherine, cheerily. "No, ma'am, I don't care anything about wolves; and why should I care for them?" "What are you out for then, pray?" "Oh, I don't know; thought I would like to see you after wolves. I guess that's why I am out," came the simple answer. "Well, to judge by the past few miles I don't think you will see me after them to-day." "I think so myself, Miss Searles. These people ought to go back in the breaks of the land to find wolves; they don't give a wolf credit for having eyes." "Why don't you tell them so, Mr. Ermine?" pleaded the young woman. "The officers think they know where to find them; they would not thank me, and there might not be anywhere I would go to find them. It does not matter whether we get one or none, anyhow," came Ermine's sageness. "Indeed, it does matter. I must have a wolf." "Want him alive or dead?" was the low question. "What! am I to have one?" "You are," replied the scout, simply. "When?" "Well, Miss Searles, I can't order one from the quartermaster exactly, but if you are in a great hurry, I might go now." "Mr. Ermine, you will surely kill me with your generosity. You have offered me your scalp, your body, and now a wolf. Oh, by the way, what did that awful Indian say to you? I suppose you have seen him since." "Didn't say anything." "Well, I hope he has forgiven you; but as I understand them, that is not the usual way among Indians." "No, Miss Searles, he won't forgive me. I'm a-keeping him to remember you by." "How foolish; I might give you something for a keepsake which would leave better memories, do you not think so?" "You might, if you wish to." The girl was visibly agitated at this, coming as it did from her crude admirer. She fumbled about her dress, her hair, and finally drew off her glove and gave it to the scout, with a smile so sweet and a glance of the eye which penetrated Ermine like a charge of buckshot. He took the glove and put it inside of the breast of his shirt, and said, "I'll get the wolf." Shockley was so impressed with the conversation that he was surprised into silence, and to accomplish that phenomenon took a most powerful jolt, as every one in the regiment knew. He could talk the bottom out of a nose-bag, or put a clock to sleep. Ordinary verbal jollity did not seem at all adequate, so he carolled a passing line:-- "One little, two little, three little Injuns, Four little, five little, six little Injuns, Seven little, eight little, nine little Injuns, Ten little Injun boys." This came as an expiring burst which unsettled his horse though it relieved him. Shockley needed this much yeast before he could rise again. "Oh, Mr. Shockley, you must know Mr. Ermine." "I have the pleasure, Miss Searles; haven't I, Ermine?" The scout nodded assent. "We were side by side when we rushed the point of that hill in the Sitting Bull fight last fall; remember that, Ermine?" "Yes, sir," said the scout; but the remembrance evidently did not cause Ermine's E string to vibrate. Fighting was easier, freer; but altogether it was like washing the dishes at home compared with the dangers which now beset him. Suddenly every one was whipping and spurring forward; the pack of greyhounds were streaking it for the hills. "Come on," yelled Shockley, "here's a run." And that mercurial young man's scales tipped right readily from his heart to his spurs. "It's only a coyote, Miss Searles," said Ermine; but the young woman spatted her horse with her whip and rode bravely after the flying Shockley. Ermine's fast pony kept steadily along with her under a pull; the plainsman's long, easy sway in the saddle was unconscious, and he never took his eyes from the girl, now quite another person under the excitement. Every one in the hunting-party was pumping away to the last ounce. A pack of greyhounds make a coyote save all the time he can; they stimulate his interest in life, and those who have seen a good healthy specimen burn up the ground fully realize the value of passing moments. "Oh, dear; my hat is falling off!" shrieked the girl. "Shall I save it, Miss Searles?" "Yes! yes! Catch it!" she screamed. Ermine brought his flying pony nearer hers on the off side and reached his hand toward the flapping hat, struggling at a frail anchorage of one hat-pin, but his arm grew nerveless at the near approach to divinity. "Save it! save it!" she called. "Shall I?" and he pulled himself together. Dropping his bridle-rein over the pommel of his saddle, standing in his stirrups as steadily as a man in church, he undid the hat with both hands. When he had released it and handed it to its owner, she heard him mutter hoarsely, "My God!" "Oh, Mr. Ermine, I hope the pin did not prick you." "No, it wasn't the pin." "Ah," she ejaculated barely loud enough for him to hear amid the rushing hoof-beats. The poor man was in earnest, and the idea drove the horses, the hounds, and the coyote out of her mind, and she ran her mount harder than ever. She detested earnest men, having so far in her career with the exception of Mr. Butler found them great bores; but drive as she would, the scout pattered at her side, and she dared not look at him. These two were by no means near the head of the drive, as the girl's horse was a stager, which had been selected because he was highly educated concerning badger-holes and rocky hillsides. Orderlies clattered behind them, and Private Patrick O'Dowd and Private Thompson drew long winks at each other. "Oi do be thinkin' the long bie's harse cud roon fasther eff the divil was afther him. Faith, who'd roon away from a fairy?" "The horse is running as fast as is wanted," said Thompson, sticking his hooks into the Indian pony which he rode. "Did yez obsarve the bie ramove the hat from the lady, and his pony shootin' gravel into our eyes fit to smother?" shouted O'Dowd, using the flat of his hand as a sounding-board to Thompson. "You bet, Pat; and keeping the gait he could take a shoe off her horse, if she wanted it done." "They say seein's believin', but Oi'll not be afther tellin' the story in quarters. Oi'm eaight year in the ahrmy, and Oi can lie whin it's convanient." The dogs overhauled the unfortunate little wolf despite its gallant efforts, and it came out of the snarling mass, as some wag had expressed it, "like a hog going to war--in small pieces." The field closed up and dismounted, soldier fashion, at the halt. "What's the matter with the pony to-day, Ermine? Expected you'd be ahead of the wolf at least," sang out Lewis. "I stopped to pick up a hat," he explained; but Captain Lewis fixed his calculating eye on his man and bit his mustache. Events had begun to arrange themselves; that drunken night and Ermine's apathy toward the Englishman's hunting-party--and he had stopped to pick up her hat--oho! Without a word the scout regained his seat and loped away toward the post, and Lewis watched him for some time, in a brown study; but a man of his years often fails to give the ardor of youth its proper value, so his mind soon followed more natural thoughts. "Your horse is not a very rapid animal, I observe, Miss Searles," spoke Butler. "Did you observe that? I did not notice that you were watching me, Mr. Butler." "Oh, I must explain that in an affair of this kind I am expected to sustain the reputation of the cavalry. I forced myself to the front." "Quite right. I kept the only man in the rear, who was capable of spoiling your reputation; you are under obligations to me." "That wild man, you mean. He certainly has a wonderful pony, but you need not trouble about him if it is to please me only." "I find this sun becoming too insistent; I think I will go back," said Katherine Searles. Many of the women also turned their horses homeward, leaving only the more pronounced types of sportsmen to search for another wolf. "Having sustained the cavalry, I'll accompany you, Katherine." "Miss Searles, please!" she said, turning to him, and the little gem of a nose asserted itself. "Oh, dear me! What have I done? You permitted me to call you Katherine only last night." "Yes, but I do not propose to divide my friendship with a nasty little gray wolf which has been eaten up alive." The officer ran his gauntlet over his eyes. "I am such a booby. I see my mistake, Miss Searles, but the idea you advance seems so ridiculous--to compare yourself with a wolf." "Oh, I say, Miss Searles," said Shockley, riding up, "may I offer you one of my gauntlets? The sun, I fear, will blister your bare hand." "No, indeed." And Butler tore off a glove, forcing it into her hand. She could not deny him, and pulled it on. "Thank you; I lost one of mine this morning." Then she turned her eyes on Mr. Shockley with a hard little expression, which sealed him up. He was prompt to feel that the challenge meant war, and war with this girl was the far-away swing of that gallant strategic pendulum. "Yes," Shockley added, "one is apt to drop things without noting them, in a fast rush. I dropped something myself this morning." "Pray what was it, Mr. Shockley?" "It was an idea," he replied with a shrug of the shoulders. "An idea?" laughed she, appreciating Shockley's discretion. "I hope you have more of them than I have gloves." "I have only one," he sighed. "Are all soldiers as stupid as you are, my dear sir?" "All under thirty, I am sorry to say," and this from Shockley too. Miss Searles applied the whip; but go as she would, the two officers did not lose again the idea, but kept their places beside her. "You are not very steady under fire," laughed Shockley. "You are such an absurd person." "I may be a blessing in disguise." "You may be; I am unable to identify you." "The chaperon is waving her whip at us, Miss Searles," cautioned Butler. "Private O'Dowd is my chaperon, and he can stand the pace," she replied. The young woman drove on, leaving a pall of dust behind, until the little party made the cantonment and drew rein in front of the Searleses' quarters. Giving her hand to the orderly, she dismissed her escort and disappeared. "Well, Katherine," said Mrs. Searles, "did you enjoy your ride?" "Yes, mother, but my horse is such an old poke I was nowhere in the race." "The Major says he is a safe horse; one which can be relied on, and that is more important than speed. I do not want your neck broken, my dear." "Neither do I want my neck broken, but I should like to be somewhere in sight during a run. The young officers desert me once a wolf is sighted; they forget their manners at the first flash of a greyhound." "I know, daughter, but what can you expect? They go out for that purpose." "Mr. Ermine doesn't, or at least he is polite enough to say that he goes out to see me run, and not the wolf. If he is not sophisticated, he seems to have the primitive instincts of a gentleman." "Mr. Ermine, forsooth!" And Madam Searles betrayed some asperity. "Is he presumptuous enough to present you with compliments? You had better maintain your distance." "He is a perfectly delightful man, mother; so thoughtful and so handsome." "Tut tut, Katherine; he is only an ordinary scout--a wild man." "I don't care; I like him." "Katherine, what are you thinking of?" "Oh, I don't know, mother; I am thinking what an absurd lot men are. They insist on talking nonsense at me. They do not seem to preserve their reserve; they are not a bit like the men back in the States." "Well, my daughter, you must be careful not to provoke familiarity. Young women are rather scarce out here, and you are not without your charms. I believe you use your eyes more than you should. Have a care; do not forget that quiet modesty is the most becoming thing in the world for a woman." "I am sure I do nothing; in fact, I have to be constantly menacing these military youths to keep them from coming too near, especially Mr. Shockley and Mr. Butler. I am in distress every minute for fear Mr. Butler will say more than I am ready to hear." Mrs. Searles was by no means averse to Butler's attentions to her daughter. "A very fine young man," was her comment when she thought of him. Both women knew that the Lieutenant was ready to draw his sabre in Katherine's behalf. Katherine had met Butler while visiting St. Louis the year before, had come to know him well, and didn't pretend to dislike him. His father and mother were dead, but his people were of consequence. Mrs. Searles determined to ask the Major to make some inquiries about her daughter's suitor, and meanwhile dismissed Katherine with the caution not to tempt this midday sun overmuch; "It will soon turn your peach-blow into russet apples," she told her, "and men, you know, like the peach-blow. Without it you might be less troubled by the young officers." * * * * * The sun was about to depart. The families of the officers were sitting under their _ramadas_ enjoying the cool. Butler and Shockley with two or three other men were seated with the Searleses when their attention was attracted by a commotion down by the quarters. "What's the circus?" "Don't make out; seems to be coming this way. It is--why, it is the scout Ermine!" The group sat expectantly and witnessed the approach of John Ermine on his horse. At some distance to one side rode Wolf-Voice, and gradually through the dusk they made out some small animal between them--a dog-like thing. The riders drew up before the Searleses' hut, and every one rose. The object was a scared and demoralized wolf with his tail between his legs. His neck was encircled by two rawhide lariats which ran to the pommels of the riders. Touching his hat, Ermine said, "Miss Searles, I have brought you the wolf." "Goodness gracious, Mr. Ermine! I only said that in fun. What can I possibly do with a wolf?" "I don't know. You said you wanted one, so here he is." "Yaes," said Wolf-Voice, with an oath, "she was bite my harm hoff; you no want heem; I skin her alive." He had previously warned Ermine that no one but a d---- fool would want a live wolf. "Well, daughter, what are you going to do with it? Start a Zoo? I don't know where we can put him," spoke Major Searles, in perplexity. "He will have to roost high if the dogs find out about this visitation," observed Shockley. "How did you get him, Ermine?" "Dug him out of his den, and before we got him roped he pinched Wolf-Voice, and I had a hard time to keep him from killing the beast." "Yaes; no want him, an' we dig a hole mile deep mabeso--dig ever since sun she so high, ten-as tol-a-pas." And in his disgust Wolf-Voice was about to slacken his rope. "Hold up there; don't turn that animal loose near here! Take him down to the corral and lock him up. We'll see to-morrow what can be done with him," spoke Searles. Ermine and Wolf-Voice turned and drifted out into the gathering darkness with their forlorn tow, while a few soldiers with clubs fought the dogs off as they gradually began to gather around their natural enemy. "Why, I only asked for a wolf in the most casual way--in a joking way; you heard me, Mr. Shockley." "Yes, I did hear you, but I also heard him say you should have one, and I thought at the time he looked serious about it." "I was so astonished that I did not properly thank him," she added; "and the Indian was in a lovely humor over the whole episode; his disgust was most apparent. I must be more careful what I say to Mr. Ermine." "I have it," cried the Major; "we'll make up a purse, buy the wolf, and run him so soon as he gets over the effects of his capture." "No, no, papa, you must not offend Ermine with money. He would be awfully offended; that would be the very last thing to do to him." CHAPTER XVI A HUNT [Illustration] A troop of cavalry trotted along through the early morning dust, and Lieutenant Butler drew out at the Searleses' quarters, tying his horse for a moment in front, while he went inside. It was early for casual people. He did not stay long, but the sergeant in the rear thought he saw a girl come to the door and kiss him good-by. As the officer dashed to the head of the troop, the old sergeant dipped a smiling countenance deep into a plug of tobacco. "Hello! there goes Butler with his troop," said Mr. Harding to Captain Lewis, as they basked in the morning sun before that officer's quarters. "Yes, he goes to escort some wagons; but the fact is, internecine war has broken out in the post, and he goes for the good of the service. It's all about a damn little yellow dog." "A dog make a war! How, pray?" "Oh gee! yes! Dogs and rum and women make all the trouble there is in the army, and particularly dogs. That sounds odd, doesn't it? Nevertheless, it's a hard, dry fact. Soldiers take to dogs, and it's always 'kick my dog kick me' with these bucks. That troop has a miserable runt of a _fice_, and he's smart the same as such pups often are. The cavalrymen have taught him to nip at infantrymen, which they think is great fun. Some of the infantrymen got tired of sewing up three-cornered tears in their galligaskins and allowed they would assassinate said _fice_. Here is where these baby cavalrymen lose their temper and threaten to fire on the company-quarters of any outfit which bags Fido--and that's war. It has been fixed up. Some officer has arranged an armistice, and meanwhile the troop gets a few miles in the sage-brush, which, it is hoped, will be credited to the pup, whereat he won't be so popular." "Ah, a very sad case for the doggie," added Harding; "he was taught to take wrong views of the service." "Let us go down and take a look at Ermine's wolf," said Lewis, and the two proceeded to the quartermaster's corral, where they found a group standing about the wolf. It was held by a stout chain and lay flat on the ground, displaying an entire apathy concerning the surroundings, except that it looked "Injuny," as a passing mule-skinner observed. "When I see one of those boys, it makes my back come up like a cat's," said Lewis. "A bunch of them nearly pulled me down two years ago on the Canadian. I fired all my ammunition at them and got into camp just about the right time; a half a mile more and I would have got my 'final statement.'" "Yes, I have hunted them in Poland, on moonlight nights. A wolf in the deep forests on a moonlight night harmonizes better than one tied by a chain, with twenty men staring at him in broad daylight." An irrepressible private shoved his nose into the circle, looked at the captive, and departed saying:-- "He enlisted in the army, The bullets took their toll, The wolves got his body, And the divil got his soul. Om-a yah-ha-ha." Poor wolf! He possessed too many attributes of man to ingratiate himself. He did not admit their superiority, and lay stoically under the heel of the conqueror; all thumbs were down for him. He was apostrophized by a soldier: "Ah, me innocent-lukin' child of the divil--wait till ye git thim hoop-shnake dawgs afther yez." Major Searles rode in through the gate and sang out: "The Colonel has a few papers to sign, after which he says we will chase the wolf; so you can get ready, gentlemen, those who care to run." And then to Ermine, who stood near: "Miss Searles thinks that will be a proper disposition of your valuable present. Can you manage to turn him loose?" "Why, yes, I suppose we can. Putting the ropes on him is easier than taking them off. I won't take him out until you are all ready; every dog in the camp will fly at him. Can I have four or five soldiers to drive them off? Wolf-Voice and myself will be on horseback, and can't protect him." "Certainly, certainly!" And under the Major's directions various soldiers armed themselves with whips, and undertook to make a rear-guard fight with the garrison pups. Horses were saddled, and went clattering to all points of the post. The certainty of a run drew every one out. Shockley aided Miss Searles to mount, saying, "I am on duty to-day; my thoughts will fly where my pony should. You cannot doubt where he would go." "Poor man, do not look so woebegone; it does not become you. I like you better when you sing than when you cry." "If you didn't make me cry, I should sing all the time." "Oh, that would be bad for your voice, my dear Mr. Shockley, as we say on a letter head." And she mocked him beyond her rapier point, as she rode along, followed by the rapidly receding words:-- "Don't forget me, Molly darling; Put your little hand in mine. Tell me truly that you love me, And--" The rest died behind her. "He is such a nice fellow," she mused, "but there's more music in his soul than in his throat. I shall miss him to-day, but not so much as I shall Mr. Butler; and there is my knight of the yellow hair. Oh! I must be careful of him. He is such a direct person, there is no parrying his assault. His presence has a strange effect on me; I do not understand it; he is queer. What a pity he is not an officer, with short hair; but pshaw! I might not like him then; how absurd, I do not like him now." And thus the girlish emotions swayed her pretty head, not stopping to clarify, man fashion. They flitted about on every little wind, and alighted nowhere for more than a few seconds. Other women joined her, and a few men, all making for the quartermaster's. "Your mother finds herself past riding, Miss Katherine," spoke one merry matron, to whom age had been generous, and who was past it herself, did she but know it. "Yes, mother takes that view. I am afraid I cannot sustain the reputation of the Searles outfit, as the phrase goes here. My horse is a Dobbin--papa is so absurdly careful. There is no fun in being careful." "Oh, the Major is right. He knows the value of that little nose of yours, and doesn't want it ploughed in the dirt. Noses which point upward, just ever so little, lack the severity of those that point down, in women; that is what the men tell me, Katherine." The girl glanced at her companion, and doubted not that the men had said that to her. "I don't care to go through life thinking of my nose," she added. "No, indeed; never think of your nose; think of what men think of it." "I can go home and do that, Mrs. Gooding; out here my horse seems more to the point than my nose." At this juncture some men opened the corral gate, and the women passed in. Seeing the wolf flattened out like an unoratorical man at a banquet, who knows he is next on the toast-list, Miss Searles exclaimed, "Poor creature! it seems such a shame." And the others added, "Now that I see him I feel like a butcher." "Let him go, Major; we will not have his murder on our conscience," continued a third. "I should as soon think of killing a canary in a cage." And thus did the gentler sex fail at this stage; but when the Colonel rode out of the enclosure, they all followed. The wolf rose to its feet with a snap as the half-breed and Ermine approached, curling their lariats. A few deft turns, and the ropes drew around the captive's throat. A man undid the chain, the horse started, and the wild beast drew after, a whizzing blur of gray hair. There was some difficulty in passing the gate, but that was managed. The remembrance of yesterday's experience in the rawhide coils came back to the wolf. It slunk along, tail down, and with head turning in scared anxious glances. Behind followed the rear-guard, waving their whips at various feeble-minded ki-yis which were emboldened by their own yelling. "Colonel, give me a good start; this is a female wolf. I will raise my hat and drop it on the ground when it is time to let the dogs go! We may have trouble clearing away these ropes," talked Ermine, loudly. "Sacre--mi-ka-tic-eh muck-a-muck--dees dam wolf he have already bite de hole in my rope ver near," and Wolf-Voice gave a severe jerk. To be sure, the animal was already playing havoc with his lariat by savage side-snaps which bade fair shortly to shred it. "Watch my hat, Colonel; she may get away from us before we are ready." Well outside of the post the Colonel halted his field and waited; all eyes bent on the two wild men, with their dangerous bait, going up the road. The nimble ponies darted about in response to the riders' swayings, while at intervals the wolf gave an imitation of a pin-wheel. When well out, Wolf-Voice yelled, "Ah, dare go my rope!" The wolf had cut it, and turning, fixed its eyes on Ermine, who stopped and shook his lariat carefully, rolling it in friendly circles toward the wolf. Wolf-Voice drew his gun, and for an appreciable time the situation had limitless possibilities. By the exercise of an intelligence not at all rare in wild creatures, the wolf lay down and clawed at the rope. In an instant it was free and galloping off, turning its head to study the strategy of the field. "Wait for the people; she's going for the timber, and will get away," shouted Ermine, casting his big sombrero into the air. The dogs held in leash never lost sight of the gray fellow, and when let go were soon whippeting along. The horses sank on their quarters and heaved themselves forward until the dusty plain groaned under their feet. "Ki-yi-yi-yi," called the soldiers, imitating the Indians who had so often swept in front of their guns. The wolf fled, a gray shadow borne on the wind, making for the timber in the river-bottom. It had a long start and a fair hope. If it had understood how vain the noses of greyhounds are, it might have cut its angle to cover a little; for once out of sight it might soon take itself safely off; but no wild animal can afford to angle much before the spider dogs. The field was bunched at the start and kicked up a vast choking dust, causing many slow riders to deploy out on the sides, where they could at least see the chase and the going in front of them. Wolf-Voice and Ermine had gone to opposite sides and were lost in the rush. Ermine's interest in the wolf departed with it. He now swung his active pony through the dirt clouds, seeking the girl, and at last found her, well in the rear as usual, and unescorted, after the usual luck she encountered when she played her charms against a wolf. She was trying to escape from the pall by edging off toward the river-bank. Well behind strode the swift war-pony, and Ermine devoured her with his eyes. The impulse to seize and bear her away to the inaccessible fastnesses of which he knew was overcome by a fear of her--a fear so great that his blood turned to water when his passion was greatest. Time did not improve Ermine's logistics concerning this girl; he wanted her, and he did not know in the least how to get her. The tigers of his imagination bit and clawed each other in ferocious combat when he looked at her back as she rode or at her pensive photograph in the quiet of his tent. When, however, she turned the battery of her eyes on him, the fever left him in a dull, chilly lethargy--a realization of the hopelessness of his yearning; and plot and plan and assuage his fears as he might, he was always left in a mustache-biting perplexity. He could not at will make the easy reconnaissance of her fortresses which the young officers did, and this thought maddened him. It poisoned his mind and left his soul like a dead fish cast up on a river-bank. Ermine had known the easy familiarity of the Indian squaws, but none of them had ever stirred him. The vast silence of his mountain life had rarely been broken by the presence of men, and never by women. The prophet had utterly neglected the boy's emotions in the interest of his intellect. The intense poverty of his experience left him without any understanding of the most ordinary conventions or casual affairs of white men's lives. All he knew was gathered from his observation of the rude relations of frontier soldiers on campaign. The visions of angels never exalted a fasting mediæval monk in his cell as did the advent of this white woman to Ermine, and they were quite as nebulous. The powerful appeal which Katherine Searles made to his imagination was beyond the power of his analysis; the word Love was unknown to his vocabulary. He wanted her body, he wanted her mind, and he wanted her soul merged with his, but as he looked at her now, his mouth grew dry, like a man in mortal fear or mortal agony. And thinking thus, he saw her horse stop dead--sink--and go heels up and over in a complete somersault. The girl fluttered through the air and struck, raising a dust which almost concealed her. A savage slap of his quirt made his pony tear the ground in his frantic rush to her aid. No one noticed the accident, and the chase swept around the bluffs and left him kneeling beside her. She showed no sign of life; the peach-blow left her cheeks an ivory white, set with pearls when the high lights showed, but there was no blood or wound which he could see. Her mount struggled to extract his poor broken foreleg from a gopher-hole, where it was sunk to the elbow. He raised his head, with its eyes rolling, and groaned in agony. If this had been a man, or even any other woman, Ermine would have known what to do. In his life a wounded or broken man had been a frequent experience. As he took her wrist to feel her pulse, his own hands trembled so that he gave over; he could feel nothing but the mad torrent of his own blood. Turning his face in the direction where the hunt had gone, he yelled, "Help! help!" but the sound never reached the thudding hunt. Putting his arm under her shoulder, he raised her up, and supporting her, he looked hopelessly around until his eye fell on the Yellowstone only a short distance away. Water had always been what the wounded wanted. He slowly gathered her in his arms, gained his feet, and made his way toward the river. A gopher-hole had planned what Ermine never could; it had brought her body to him, but it might be a useless gift unless the water gave him back her life. He bore the limp form to the sands beside the flowing river and laid it down while he ran to fill his hat with water. He made fast work of his restoration, rubbing her wrists and sprinkling her forehead with water; but it was long before a reward came in the way of a breath and a sigh. Again he raised her in a sitting position against his knee. [Illustration: "HE BORE THE LIMP FORM TO THE SANDS."] "Breathe, Katherine--try again--now breathe." And he pressed her chest with his hand, aiding nature as best he knew, until she sighed again and again. The girl was half damp in death, while like a burning mine the pent-up fire-damp exploded and reverberated through the veins of the young man. Oh, if he could but impart his vitality to her. Possibly he did, for presently her weakness permitted her to note that the sky was blue, that the tree-tops waved in familiar forms, that the air flooded her lungs, and that a cooling rain was falling. Again she drifted somewhere away from the earth in pleasant passage through kaleidoscopic dreams of all a girl's subconsciousness ever offers. Her eyes spread, but soon closed in complete rest against the easy cradle. She sensed kindly caresses and warm kisses which delighted her. The long yellow hair hung about her face and kept it shadowed from the hot sun. "Oh my! Oh my! Where am I? Is that you--How do I--" but the effort exhausted her. "God--God--Sak-a-war-te come quick! It will be too late." He put more water on her face. * * * * * The hunt missed the wolf in the cover of the river-bottom. It doubled on the dogs, and out of sight was out of mind with the fast-running hounds. "She gave us a run, anyhow," sang out Major Searles to Wolf-Voice. "Yaes, d---- him; she give me a bite and two run. What good was come of eet, hey--why ain't you keel him first plass, by Gar?" "Oh! you are a poor sport, Wolf-Voice." "Am poor sport, hey? All right; nex' wolf she not tink dat, mabeso." Laughing and talking, they trotted home, picking up belated ones who had strung behind the fastest horses. "Where is Miss Searles, Major?" spoke one. "That's so! don't know; had a slow horse; by Gad, we must look this up." And the now anxious father galloped his mount. The others followed sympathetically. Rounding the bluffs, they saw Ermine's pony quietly feeding. "Where is Ermine?" came a hail of questions, and presently they almost ran over the girl's horse, now lying on its side, breathing heavily, and no longer trying to disengage his leg from the gopher-hole. "The horse is in a gopher-hole," said some one; "and see here--look at the dirt; he has thrown Miss Searles; here is where she struck." "Yes, but where is she? where is she?" ejaculated the Major, in a nervous tremor of excitement. "Where is my girl?" Wolf-Voice had dismounted and found Ermine's trail, which he followed toward the river. "Come!" he called. "Am show you dose girl!" While an orderly stayed behind to shoot the horse and get the empty saddle, the group followed hard on the half-breed. "Done you ride on de trail, you was keep behine. Dey girl was broke his neck, an' Ermine am pack him." Stepping briskly forward, the plainsman made quick work of empty moccasin tracks and burst through the brush. A pistol-shot rang in the rear; an orderly had shot the horse. A cry of "Help, help!" responded from the river beyond the cottonwoods, and the horses ploughed their way to the sands. The people all dismounted around the limp figure and kneeling scout. Her pale face, the hat with the water in it, and the horse in the gopher-hole made everything clear. "Here, Swan, ride to the post for an ambulance," spoke the Major, as he too knelt and took his daughter in his arms. "Ride the horse to death and tell the ambulance to come running." Some of the women brought their ministering hands to bear and with more effect. "What happened, Katherine?" whispered her father amid the eager silence of the gathered people. "What did I do?" she pleaded weakly. "How was it, Ermine?" "Her horse put his foot in a hole; he is out there now. I saw her go down. Then I tried to save her. Will she live?" Ermine's eager interest had not departed because of the advent of so many people. He still continued to kneel and to gaze in rapture at the creature of his hopes and fears. No one saw anything in it but the natural interest of one who had been left with so much responsibility. "If you men will retire, we will endeavor to find her injuries," spoke one of the older ladies; so the men withdrew. Every one asked eager questions of the scout, who walked hat in hand, and had never before shown perturbation under the trying situations in which he and the soldiers had been placed. "I knew that wolf would get away in the timber, and I wasn't going to ride my pony for the fun of seeing it, so I was behind. Miss Searles's horse was slow, and I noticed she was being left; then she went down and I didn't know what to do,"--which latter statement was true. He had done as well under the circumstances as any man could, they all admitted. A magpie on an adjoining limb jeered at the soldiers, though he made no mention of anything further than the scout had admitted. In due course the ambulance came bounding behind the straining mules. Mrs. Searles was on the seat with the driver, hatless, and white with fear. The young woman was placed in and taken slowly to quarters. Being the only witness, Ermine repeated his story until he grew tired of speech and wanted only silence which would enable him to think. The greatest event of his life had happened to him that morning; it had come in a curious way; it had lasted but a few moments, but it had added new fuel to his burning mind, which bade fair to consume it altogether. Miss Searles's injuries consisted of a few bruises and a general shock from which she would soon recover, said the doctor, and the cantonment slowly regathered its composure, all except Shockley, who sat, head down, in most disordered thought, slowly punctuating events as they came to him, by beating on the floor with his scabbard. "And she gave him her glove and she never gave me any glove--and she never gave Butler her glove that I know of; and he gave her a wolf and he was with her when this thing happened. Say, Shockley, me boy, you are too slow, you are rusty; if you saw an ancient widow woman chopping wood, you would think she was in love with the wood-pile." And thus did that worthy arrive at wrong conclusions. He would not give himself the credit of being only a man, whom God in the wisdom of His creation did not intend to understand women and thus deaden a world. The camp was in ignorance of the points of contact between Katherine Searles and the scout; it felt none of the concern which distressed Shockley. Miss Searles had known Butler back in the States; they were much together here on the Yellowstone, and it was pretty generally admitted that in so far as she was concerned Lieutenant Butler had the biggest pair of antlers in the garrison. That young officer was a fine soldier--one of the best products of West Point, and was well connected back East, which was no small thing in an affair of this nature. Also his fellows easily calculated that he must have more than his pay. Shockley, however, continued to study the strategy of the scout Ermine, and he saw much to fear. CHAPTER XVII A PROPOSAL [Illustration] "Oh! I say, Captain Lewis, I am all ready to start. I have Ramon, a cook, and Wolf-Voice, together with pack-animals, but I can't get your man Ermine to say when he will go." "That's odd, Harding; I don't know of anything to detain him. But go slow; he's like all these wild men up here; when they will they will, and when they won't, they'll lay down on you. I'll go round and scout him up. What is the matter so far as you can determine?" "I can't determine. He says he will go, but will not name any exact time; tells me to push on and that he will catch up. That is a curious proposition. He is willing to take my money--" "Oh! whoa up, Mr. Harding! That fellow doesn't care anything about your money--make no mistake about that. Money means no more to him than to a blue jay. He wanted to go back to his own country and was willing, incidentally, to take you. I'll see; you wait here awhile;" saying which, Captain Lewis went in search of his man, whom he found whittling a stick pensively. "Hello, my boy, you don't seem to be very busy. Suppose your heart is out in the hills chasing the elk and bear." "No, Captain; I don't care much about the hills." "Or the Crow squaws?" "D---- the Crow squaws!" And Ermine emphasized this by cutting his stick through the middle. "Want to stay here?" "Yes, I am getting so I like this camp; like the soldiers--like the wagons--kind of like the whole outfit." "Like to chase wolves?" interrupted the officer. Ermine slowly turned up his head and settled his fathomless blue eyes on Lewis, but he said nothing. "Well, Mr. Harding is all set. You said you would go with him; a soldier must keep his word." "I will go with him." "When?" Again Ermine shaved some delicate slivers off the stick; suddenly he threw it away, shut up his knife, and arose. "If Mr. Harding will pull out now, Wolf-Voice will show him the way. I shall know where the Indian takes him, and in four days I will walk into his camp. The pack-ponies travel slowly, I do not care to punch pack-horses; that will do for Ramon and the cook." "Does that go?" "I have said it. Did I ever lie, Captain Lewis?" "All right. Mr. Harding will go now. I will attend to that." With this Lewis left him, and in two hours the little cavalcade trotted westward, out into the hot, sunlit plains, carrying faith in Ermine's word. The scout, leaning on a log stable, saw them go. Three days took their slow departure, and on the morrow Ermine would have to make good his word to follow the Englishmen. He would have liked to stay even if his body suffered slow fire, but excuses would not avail for his honor. A soldier's honor was something made much of in these parts; it pegged higher than the affairs of the flesh. He had not been able to see Miss Searles, and he wondered what she would feel, or think, or say. He was a thief when he remembered the stolen kisses, and he dared not go to the Searleses' home to inquire after her. All this diffidence the public put down to apathy; he had done his duty, so why further concern himself? After supper he strolled along the officers' row, desperately forlorn, but hoping and yearning, barely nodding his head to passers-by. Major Searles approached him with the nervous stride habitual to a soldier, and held out his hand, saying bluffly: "Of course, I can't thank you enough for your attention to my daughter, Ermine. But for your fortunate presence there at the time of the accident, things might have been bad; how bad I fear to contemplate. Come to my quarters, my boy, and allow my daughter to thank you. She is quite recovered. She is sitting out-of-doors. She hasn't been abroad much. Such a fall would have killed an older woman." Together they made their way to the house, and Ermine passed under the _ramada_ with his hat off. Mrs. Searles shook his hand and said many motherly things due on such occasions. "Please forgive me if I do not rise; it is the doctor's orders, you know." And Miss Searles extended her hand, which the scout reverently took. To have seen him one would have fancied that, after all, manners must have been made before men; which idea is, of course, absurd. In response to their inquiries, he retold the story of the accident and of his ministrations and perplexities. He did not embellish, but left out very important details, wondering the while if they were dead to all but his memory. "She should not ride so poor a horse," ventured Ermine. "She should not have been left unattended." And this severity was directed at Major Searles by his wife, to which he feebly pleaded vain extenuations, without hope of their acceptance. "No, no, my dear; you were always a careless person; one is never safe to place dependence on you in minor matters. I declare, all men are alike --leastwise soldiers are. A blanket and a haversack, and the world may wag at will, so far as they concern themselves." Rising, she adjusted her hat, saying: "I must run down to Mrs. Taylor's for a minute. Her baby is very ill, and she has sent for me. You will stay here, Major," and she swept out. "When do you depart for your hunting with Mr. Harding, Ermine?" asked Searles. "I must go soon. He left camp three days ago, and I have promised to follow." "I should think you would be delighted to hunt. I know I should if I were a man," cheerfully remarked the young woman. "I have always hunted, Miss Searles. I think I should like to do something else." "What, pray?" "Oh, I don't know, something with a white shirt in it." "Isn't that foolish? There is no more fun in a white shirt than there is in a buckskin one, and there is no fun in either when it rains, I am told." A passing officer appealed to the Major to come out; he was needed, together with other requests to follow, with reasons why haste was important. "All right, I will be back in a moment, daughter." And the officer took himself off in complete disobedience of his wife's orders. "Don't be gone long, father; there is no one here but Mary and the striker. You know I cannot depend on them." "You keep the wolves off, Ermine; I won't be gone a minute." And Ermine found himself alone again with Katherine. This time she was not pale unto death, but warm and tingling. Her lover's hands and feet took better care of themselves on a horse than in a chair, but the gloom under the porch at least stayed some of the embarrassment which her eyes occasioned him. Indeed, it is well known that lovers prefer night attacks, and despite the law and the prophets, they manage better without an audience. She gained a particularly entrancing attitude in her chair by a pussy-cat wiggle which let the point of her very small foot out of concealing draperies. One hand hung limply toward Ermine over the arm of the chair, and it seemed to scream out to him to take hold of it. "And when do you go, Mr. Ermine?" This seemed safe, and along the lines of his self-interest. "I go to-morrow; I have given my word." "Very naturally there can be nothing to delay you here," she continued; "the fighting is over, I hear." "There is something in the world beside fighting." "Yes?" she evaded. "Yes, you detain me." "I!" and the little foot went back to its nest; the extended hand rose in protest. "I detain you! My dear Mr. Ermine, I do not understand how I detain you; really, I am quite recovered from my fall." "You may have got well, Miss Searles, but I am not. Do you remember?" "Remember--remember--do I remember? What should I remember? I am told you were very good to me, but I was laboring under such a shock at the time that you cannot expect much of my memory." "I was but little better off." "And were you injured also?" "Yes, so bad that I shall never get well unless you come to my rescue." "I come to your rescue! What can I do?" Her sword waved in tierce and seconde. "Be my wife; come, girl, be my wife." He had beaten down her guard; the whole mass was in the fire. The dam had broken; he led his forlorn hope into the breach. "Come, Katherine, say you will marry me; say it and save me." "Oh," she almost screamed, "I can't do that; why, my mother would never consent to it," she appealed in bewilderment. He had risen and taken a step forward. "What has your mother to say? Say you will be my wife, Katherine." "Careful, careful, Mr. Ermine; restrain yourself, or I shall call a servant. No, no, I cannot marry you. Why, what should we do if I did? We should have to live in the mule corral." "No, come to the mountains with me. I will make you a good camp." She almost laughed aloud at this. "But I should make a poor squaw. I fear you would have many quarrels with your dinner. Besides, my father would not let me marry you. I like you, and you have been very good to me, but I had no idea we had gotten so far as this. Don't you think you Western men cover the ground a little too fast?" Ermine drew back. "Why did you kiss me?" "I didn't," she snapped. Her manner grew cold and strange to him. He had never seen this mood before. It chilled him not a little, and he sat down again in the chair. His assault had been repulsed. They were now looking straight into each other's eyes. Fear had departed from Ermine's and all graciousness from hers. Divested of their seductive flashes, he saw the eyes of his photograph, and slowly reaching into the bosom of his shirt, drew out the buckskin bag and undid it. Turning to the straining light, he gazed a moment, and then said, "It is you!" "I!--what is I?" "Yes! it is you!" and he handed the much-soiled photograph labelled "Bogardus" to her. She regarded it. "Why, how on earth did you come by this, Mr. John Ermine?" "Sak-a-war-te sent it to me in the night, and he made it talk to me and he made me swear that I would seek the woman until I found her. Then she would be my wife. I have found you--I do not know--my head is burning--" She scanned the photograph, and said in an undertone: "Taken last year in New York, and for him; yet you have it away out here in the middle of this enormous desert. He surely would not give it away to you. I do not understand." And she questioned him sharply as she returned the card. "Who is this Sak-a-war-te?" "He is God," said the scout. "Oh!" she started up. The little miss had never heard God connected with affairs of this sort. An active fear of the fire which burned this extraordinary man's head began to oppress her. "It is very strange. What has your god got to do with me,--with my--oh, you are joking, Mr. Ermine," she again appealed, a shadow of her old smile appearing. "No, no; I am not joking. I have found you. I must believe what the spirits say to me when they take my mind from me and give it to you," returned the excited man. "But really--I did not mean to take your mind. I haven't it anywhere about me. You have dreamed all this." "Yes; it may be only a dream, Miss Searles, but make it come true; please make it all come true. I should like to live such a dream." "Oh, my good man, I cannot make the dreams of casual people come true, not such serious dreams as yours." "You say you would have to live in the corral with mules. Is that because I have so little money?" "No, it is not money. I do not know how much you have." "I have often taken enough gold out of the ground in a few days to last me a year." "Yes, yes, but that is not the only thing necessary." "What is necessary, then? Tell me what you want." "There would have to be a great deal of love, you know. That is why any one marries. I have been flattered by the attentions of many cavaliers like yourself, Mr. Ermine, but I could not marry any one of them unless I loved him." "And then you do not love me," this in a low, far-away voice, lopping each word off as though with an axe. "No, I do not. I have given you no reason to think I did. I like you, and I am sorry for you, now that I know in what way you regard me. Sit down again and let me tell you." She crouched herself on the edge of her chair, and he sat in his, revolving his big hat in both hands between his knees. He was composed, and she vaguely felt that she owed him a return for his generous acts of the past. She had the light touch of mature civilization and did not desire her darts to be deadly. Now that one had laid this simple nature low, she felt a womanly impulse to nurse the wound. "Some terrible mistake has been made. Believe me, I am truly sorry that our relationship has not been rightly understood." Here she paused a moment to take a long breath and observe the effect of her words on the one who had so easily lost his head. "No, I simply admired you, Mr. Ermine, as I do many of the brave men about here. I was not thinking of marrying any one. As for living in the mule corral, I was only joking about that. There might be worse places. I should dearly love a gold mine, but don't you understand there would have to be something else--I should have to give you something before we thought of marrying." "I see it; it all comes to me now," he labored. "You would have to give me something, and you won't give me yourself. Then give me back my mind--give me the peace which I always had until I saw you. Can you do that, Miss Searles? Can you make John Ermine what he was before the steamboat came here, and let him mount his pony and go away?" It was all so strange, this quiet appeal, that she passed her hand across her forehead in despair. "If you will not make my dreams come true; if you will not say the things which the photograph does; if you will not do what God intends,--then I must take my body away from here and leave my shadow, my mind, and my heart to be kicked about among the wagons and the dogs. And I know now that you will soon forget me. Then I will be John Ermine, riding among the hills, empty as an old buffalo carcass, moving without life, giving no thought to the sunshine, not feeling the wind nor caring how the birds fly or the animals run. If you will not marry me--" "Stop, please stop. I cannot stand this sort of thing, my dear Mr. Ermine. There are other young women besides myself. Go about the world, back in the States; you will find whole oceans of them, and without flattery, I feel you will soon find your mind again." "You have my mind. You have all the mind I ever had." And his voice dropped until she could distinguish only wild gutturals. He was talking to himself in the Indian language. Springing up quickly, she flew into the house, out through it to the rear steps, where she fell upon the neck of Mary, the cook, to the utter consternation of a soldier, who, to all appearances, was there with a similar ambition so to do. This latter worthy flung himself out into the darkness. The cook held Katherine, expecting the entire Sioux tribe to come pouring through the front door on the instant, and at this belated interval Mrs. Searles entered her own porch. "Why, Mr. Ermine, where is Katherine, and where is the Major? Why, you are all alone!" And she came up standing. "Yes, I am all alone," said the scout, quietly, rising from the chair and putting on his sombrero. Before she could comprehend, he was gone. CHAPTER XVIII MAN TO MAN [Illustration] The Major sauntered in shortly and found Mrs. Searles standing over Katherine's chair, trying to dry her tears and gather the reasons for her grief. Mary's Indians not having appeared, she stood in the doorway, with her apron raised to a sort of feminine "charge bayonets." "What in the devil is the circus?" demanded the father. "It's nothing, father; I am nervous, that is all." "Now, Major Searles, I want you to sit down and keep quiet. You will drive me frantic. Why did you run away when I clearly told you to stay here?" Her tones were dry with formality. Against all manner of people and happenings the Major joyfully pitted his force and cunning. His only thought in a great crisis was his six-shooter; but he always hesitated before anything which concerned Mrs. Searles and a military order. These impelled obedience from the very nature of things. "But what has happened? What must I do?" "You must sit down," said his wife; and he sat down. Affairs of this kind could be cleared only by women; he was conscious that he could not hurry matters. "Now what has happened, Katherine? Will you tell me? Who did it?" pleaded the mother. "Why, it is nothing, only that horrible scout wanted to marry me. Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?" said the girl, sitting up and made defiant by the idea. "Did he do anything?" and the Major again forgot his orders and rose truculently. "Benjamin!" said Mrs. Searles, with asperity; and he again subsided. Like most soldiers and sailors, he was imperfectly domesticated. "He wanted to marry you?" she continued with questioning insistence. "Yes, he said I must marry him; that God wanted me to, and he also said he had lost his mind--" "Well, I think he has," observed the mother, catching this idea, which was at least tangible to her. "Is that all, Katherine?" "Is that all, mother? Why, isn't that enough?" "I mean, he simply asked you to marry him--properly--he wasn't insulting--insistent beyond--" "No, he did nothing else, though he went about it in a most alarming way." "You said, No!" "I most emphatically did, mother." "What then?" "Then he began mumbling Indian and scared me nearly to death. I ran to Mary." "Dade an' she did, mum; an' I'm afther loosin' my sinses thinkin' thim rid-divils what do be ploughin' the land down be the river was devastating the cantonmint for to pass the time. An' ets only some bye afther wantin' to marry her--the swate thing." Mrs. Searles interposed, "Mary!" and the domestic retired to the sable silences of the rear steps, to split a joke with one Private O'Shane, should he venture to return. "The social savagery of this place is depressing. To think of my daughter living in a log-cabin, cooking bear meat for a long-haired wild man. In the future, Benjamin Searles, I trust you will not feel called upon to introduce your fantastic acquaintances to this house. You can sit on the corral fence to entertain them. That is where they belong. I suppose next, an out-and-out Indian will want to be my son-in-law." "I certainly will see that the man does not again obtrude himself. I do not understand his nerve in this matter. Lewis thinks the boy's ridgepole is crooked; but he is harmless and has done many good and gallant deeds. As for his proposing, I simply think he doesn't know any better. For my part, I think it is about time that the engagement to Mr. Butler is announced; it will put an end to this foolishness all round," added the father. "I am going out to see Lewis about this fellow now." "Ben Searles, I hope you are not going to do anything rash," pleaded the mother. "Of course not, my dear; the situation doesn't call for any temperature beyond blood-heat. I only want to put a cooling lotion on the base of that scout's brain. He must stop this dreaming habit." Having found Lewis at his quarters and seated himself, the Major began, "Now, Captain, what do you think of this Ermine of yours--is he crazy?" "Is he crazy? Why, what has he done now?" "Well, by Gad, he came to my house this evening, and when I stepped out for a minute he proposed marriage to my daughter--wanted her to marry him! Now, how's that strike you? Is it just gall, or does he need a physician?" "Well, I will be d----d; proposed marriage, hey! Looks like he ought to have an opiate," concluded Lewis. "You know, now that I think of it, I have a little mistrusted him before. He has shown signs of liking your daughter, but I never regarded the matter seriously--didn't ever credit him with being an entire fool. The boy's queer, Searles--mighty queer, but he never did anything wrong; in fact, he is a pretty good boy--a heap different from most of these double-belted, sage-bush terrors. Then, of course, he was born and raised in the wilderness, and there is a whole lot of things he don't savvy. Probably he has lost his head over your daughter and he can't see why he hasn't a chance. I will send for him, and we will make a big talk, and I'll send him away to Harding." Turning, the Captain yelled, "Orderly! Jones! Oh, Jones!" "Yes, sir," responded Jones, as he appeared in the doorway. "Go find the scout Ermine, if you can, and tell him to report to me immediately. If you don't find him in half an hour, let it go until to-morrow--understand? "As I was saying, you see, Major, if this thing wasn't vinegar, it would be sugar. When I think of him proposing--say, I have to laugh. There is one thing about him which kept me guessing: it is the Indian reserve of the fellow. He goes round here like a blue-moon, and if you should hit him over the head with an axe, I don't think he would bat an eye. He never complains, he never questions, and when you are right up against it, as we were a half-dozen times last winter, he is Johnny-on-the-spot. So you see, if he fell in love, no one would hear the splash. Now that he is in love, we want to tighten the curb chain; he might--well, he might take it into his head to do something, and that something might be just what we would never think of." Thus the two speculated until the sandpaper grating of Ermine's moccasins on the porch warned them, and looking up they beheld the scout, standing with his rifle in the hollow of his left arm. This was unusual and produced several seconds of very bad silence. Captain Lewis held up his hand in mockery of the "peace sign," and said: "I see you're fixed for war, Ermine. Sit down over there. I want to talk to you." The scout removed his hat and sat down, but with the ominous rifle in place. He had been told by the orderly whom he was to encounter; and it had come over him that wanting to marry Katherine Searles might be some crime against the white man's law. He had seen very natural actions of men punished under those laws during his sojourn in camp. "Ermine, I understand that during the temporary absence of her father this evening, you asked Miss Searles to marry you." "I did, sir." "Very well. Don't you think you took an unfair advantage of her father's absence?" "I don't know, sir. A man doesn't speak to a woman before other men," replied Ermine, dubiously. The Captain emitted a slight cough, for the blow had staggered him a little. He knew the law of convention, and he knew the customs of men; but they did not separate readily in his mind. "In any event, Ermine, the young lady had given you no encouragement which would warrant you in going to the length of proposing marriage to her." This was an assertion which Ermine did not care to discuss. His views would not coincide, and so he fumbled his hat and made no reply. "I may state that you are not warranted in aspiring to the hand of Miss Searles for many reasons; further, that she distinctly doesn't want attention of any kind from you. To this I will add, her father and mother forbid you all association in the future--do you understand?" This, also, failed to break the scout's silence. "And," interpolated the father, "I may add that my daughter is already engaged to be married to Lieutenant Butler, which will end the matter." If the evening's occurrences had set the nerves of the Searles family on edge, it had torn the scout's into shreds; but he managed his stoicism. "Now, my boy," continued Captain Lewis, with a sense of benevolence, "we do not mean to be hard on you. We all, including Miss Searles, feel a great pity for you in this matter." "Pity--pity--what is pity?" saying which the boy's eyes took on an unnatural glow and he rose to his feet. Lewis quickly added, "I mean that we feel for you." "I know what you feel for me, Captain Lewis, and Major Searles," and it was evident that Ermine was aroused. "You feel that I am an uneducated man, without money, and that I do not wear a white shirt; that I tuck my pants in my leggings and that I sleep among the Indians. I know you think I am a dog. I know Miss Searles thinks I belong in the corral with the mules; but, by G----, you did not think I was a dog when the Sioux had your wagon-train surrounded and your soldiers buffaloed; you did not think I was a dog when I stood beside the Colonel, and neither did Sitting Bull. You did not think I was a dog when I kept you all from freezing to death last winter; but here among the huts and the women I am a dog. I tell you now that I do not understand such men as you are. You have two hearts: one is red and the other is blue; and you feel with the one that best suits you at the time. Your blue heart pities me. Me, a warrior and a soldier! Do you give pity with your coffee and sow-belly? Is that what you feed a soldier on? Hum-m--G----!" And the scout slapped his hat on his head. "Steady, steady, my boy; don't you go up in the air on us," said Lewis, persuasively. "I did not mean to offend you, and we want to be friends; but you keep your feet on the ground and don't go raring and pitching, or we may forget you." "Yes; that is it,--forget me; you may forget me. What's more, you can do it now. I am going far away, so that your eyes will not remind you." "You are going to make your word good to Mr. Harding, are you not?" asked the chief of scouts. "What good is a dog's word?" came the bitter reply. The Major said little, but remained steadily studying the face of the scout; rising, he approached him with extended hand. "If you are going away, let us part friends, at least. Here is my hand, and I shall not forget you; I shall not forget your services to me or mine, and I do not think you are a dog. When you calm down you may find that you have been unjust to Captain Lewis and myself." The scout took the Major's hand mechanically, and also that of Lewis, which the latter offered in turn, saying:-- "In the morning I will see that you get your pay, and if you conclude to return, I will find you employment." "Thank you, sir; I care nothing for the pay. I did not come here for money; I came here to help you fight the Sioux, and to be a man among white men." And once more the young man relapsed into the quiet of his ordinary discourse. "You certainly have shown yourself a man among men; no one has ever questioned that," said the Major. "Then why is it wrong for a man among men to want your daughter to be his wife?" "It is not wrong, but you have gone about the matter wrong. I have tried to make it plain that her hand is promised to Mr. Butler." As this was said, two horses trotted up to Captain Lewis's quarters. A man dismounted, gave his horse to the other, and Butler himself strode heavily into the room. He was quite gray with dust, with a soiled handkerchief about his neck, unshaven, booted, and armed. "Hello, Major! Hello, Lewis! I'm just in with my troop, and if you will pardon me, I will have a word with Mr. Ermine here." His manner was strained, and knowing the situation as they all did, the two older officers were alarmed. "Hold up there, Butler; never mind your word to-night; wait until morning." Butler paid no attention, but addressed the scout with icy directness. "May I ask, Mr. Ermine, if you have in your possession a photograph of Miss Searles?" "I have." "Have you it about your person at present?" "I have, sir." "Then, Mr. Ermine, I have the word of Miss Searles for it, that the photograph in question was one she had taken, of which there is only one copy in the world; and which was given to me, and lost by myself, somewhere on the road between here and Fort Ellis. It must be my property. If you will let me see it, I can soon identify it. In which case I demand that you hand it over to me." "Mr. Butler, you will only get that photograph from off my dead body. You have Miss Searles; is not that enough?" "I will then take it by force from you!" A tremendous bang roared around the room, and the little group was lost in smoke. [Illustration: "A TREMENDOUS BANG ROARED AROUND THE ROOM."] Butler turned half round, his six-shooter going against the far wall with a crash. He continued to revolve until caught in the Major's arms. Lewis sprang to his desk, where his pistol lay, and as he turned, the smoke lifted, revealing Butler lying against the Major's chest, wildly waving his left arm and muttering savagely between short breaths. Ermine was gone. "Fire on that man!" yelled Lewis to the orderly outside, taking one shot himself at the fleeing figure of the scout. The soldier jerked his carbine and thrashed about the breech-block with a cartridge. "I can't see him, Captain!" he shouted. "Fire at him, anyway! Fire, I tell you!" And the man discharged his rifle in the direction in which Ermine's figure had disappeared. Simultaneously with the shots, the garrison bugles were drawling "Taps," but they left off with an expiring pop. The lights did not go out in quarters, and the guard turned out with much noise of shoe leather and rattle of guns. This body soon arrived, and Lewis spoke from the porch of his quarters. "The scout, Ermine, has just shot Lieutenant Butler in the arm! He ran that way! Chase him! Go quickly, or he will get away. Shoot instantly if he resists; and he will, I think." The guard shuffled off in the darkness and beat up the camp to no purpose. The soldiers stood about, speculating in low voices and gradually quieting as the word passed about on the uneasy wings of gossip that Ermine had shot Butler in the arm, wounding him badly, and that the scout had gone into the earth or up in the air, for divil the hide nor hair of him could the guard find. When the orderly had come for Ermine and told him who wanted to see him, the scout scented trouble ahead. According to the immemorial practices of the desert at such times, he had saddled his pony, tying him in the darkest and most unlikely place he could find, which was between two six-mule wagons outside the corral. He armed himself and obeyed the summons, but he intended never to let a hand be placed on his shoulder; and he chose death rather than the military court which sat so gravely around the long table at headquarters. He fully expected to depart for the mountains on the morrow, but his hand was forced. The quick episode of Butler, ending in the shot and his flight, had precipitated matters. Shortly he found himself seated on his horse between the wagons, while the denizens of the cantonments swarmed around. A group searched the corral with lanterns, and he heard one soldier tell another what had happened, with the additional information that Butler was not seriously injured. Armed men passed close to him, and he knew that discovery meant probable death, because he would not hold up his hands. Despite the deadly danger which encompassed him, he found time for disappointment in the news that Butler was only wounded. Even now he would go to his enemy and make more sure, but that enemy was in the hospital surrounded by many friends. She, too, was probably there, weeping and hating the responsible one,--a fugitive criminal driven into the night. The silken robes of self-respect had been torn from Ermine, and he stood naked, without the law, unloved by women, and with the hand of all men turned against him. The brotherhood of the white kind, which had promised him so much, had ended by stealing the heart and mind of the poor mountain boy, and now it wanted his body to work its cold will on; but it could have that only dead. This he knew as he loosed five cartridges, putting them between his teeth and clutching his loaded rifle. Would the search never cease? The lanterns glided hither and yon; every garrison cur ran yelping; the dull shuffling of feet was coming directly to the wagons which stood apart from other objects, and a dog ran under the wagon. With their eyes on the ground, an officer and two men towered above the light of a lantern. They were coming directly to the wagons. He kicked the pony and galloped softly out. Instantly the men began calling, "Halt! halt! G---- d---- you, halt!" but the ghostly pony only answered feebly the lantern light. "Bang! bang! bang!" came the shots, which "zee-weeped" about his ears. He doubled quickly in the dark and trotted to the edge of the camp, which buzzed loudly behind him. He knew he must pass the sentries, but he took the chance. His apprehensions were quickly answered. "Halt!"--the man was very near, but it was very dark. "Bang!"--it missed, and he was away. He stopped shortly, dismounted, and ran his hand completely over the body of the pony; it was dry. "Good!" For a half-hour he walked over the herd-grounds, crossing, circling, and stopping; then back as near to the post as he dared. At last he turned and rode away. He was thoroughly familiar with the vicinity of the camp, and had no trouble so long as the post lights guided him. The mountain boy had brought little to the soldier camp but the qualities of mind which distinguished his remote ancestors of the north of Europe, who came out of the dark forests clad in skins, and bearing the first and final law of man, a naked sword on a knotted arm. An interval of many centuries intervened between him and his fellows; all the race had evolved, all the laws which they had made for the government of society, all the subtle customs which experience had decreed should circumscribe associates, were to him but the hermit's gossip in idle hours at the cabin. The bar sinister was on his shield; his credentials were the advice of an unreal person to fight in common with the whites. He came clad in skins on a naked horse, and could barely understand English when it was in the last adulteration; and still he had made his way without stumbling until the fatal evening. Now he was fleeing for life because he had done two of the most natural things which a man can do. "Good-by, good-by, white men, and good-by, white woman; the frost is in your hearts, and your blood runs like the melting snow from the hills. When you smile, you only skin your fangs; and when you laugh, your eyes do not laugh with you. You say good words which mean nothing. You stroke a man's back as a boy does a dog's, and kick him later as a boy does. You, woman, you who pick men's hearts and eat them as a squaw does wild plums, I want no more of you. You, Butler, I wish were out here in the dark with me; one of us would never see the sun rise. You would force me!" and the scout vented himself in a hollow laugh which was chill with murder. The lights were lost behind the rise of the land, and the pony trotted along. No horse or man not raised on the buffalo range could travel in that darkness; but both of them made steady progress. "Those Indians will have to crawl on their knees a whole day to pick up my pony tracks on the herd ground. The Crows will never try to follow me; the Shoshone may when the white men offer a reward. That fool of a boy may see his chance to even up the insult which I gave before the woman. He can shake her hand now for all I would do. I will ride for two hours before the sun comes, and then let the pony feed." Patting his horse's neck, he added: "And then, my boy, we will blind our trail in some creek. I will rub the medicine on your heels, you shall gallop until dark, and no horse in that camp will get near enough to spoil my sleep." Keeping along the river flats, floundering occasionally and dismounting to lead through the dry washes, he kept steadily on, impelled by the fear that the Indian scouts and cavalry might not stop for his trail, but deploy out at daybreak, and ride fast to the west, in the hopes that he had not yet made a long start in the darkness. There was only the danger that his horse might lame himself in the night; but then he could go back in the hills and make a skulk on foot. Even to be brought to bay had no great terror; Ermine held his life lightly in the hollow of his hand. He mused as he rode: "They took my hair out of the braids and let it flow in the wind; then they said I was a white man. I may be one; but I wish now I had forgotten my color and I would not be so empty-handed this night. If I had followed my Indian heart, I could have stolen that girl out from under the noses of those soldiers, and I may do it yet. When she was riding, I could have taken her away from the hunting-party, rawhided her on to her horse, and left no more sign than a bird behind us; but when she looked at me, my blood turned to water. O Sak-a-war-te, why did you not take the snake's gaze out of her eyes, and not let poor Ermine sit like a gopher to be swallowed? God, God, have you deserted me?" CHAPTER XIX FLIGHT Ermine understood the "talking wire,"--the telegraph had been made plain to him,--and he knew the soldiers were stretching one into the west. He sheered away from the white man's medicine, going up a creek where only the silent waters swirling about his horse's legs could know the story of his ride, which secret they would carry to the eternal sea. [Illustration] The gallant pony's blood was rich from the grain-sacks; he had carried a rider in the strain of many war-trails, and his heart had not yet failed. In the prime of life, he was now asked to do the long, quick distance that should lose the white man; those mighty people who bought the help of mercenary men; whose inexhaustible food came in the everlasting wagons; and who spoke to each other twenty sleeps apart. His rider had violated their laws, and they would have him. Only the pony could save. Having walked the bed of the creek as far as he deemed necessary, Ermine backed his pony out of the stream into some low bushes, where he turned him about and rode away. All day over the yellow plains and through the defiles of the hills loped the fugitive. Once having seen buffalo coming in his direction, he travelled for miles along a buffalo path which he judged they would follow. If by fortune they did, he knew it would make the scouts who came after rub their eyes and smoke many pipes in embarrassment. Not entirely satisfied with his precautions,--for he thought the Indians would cast ahead when checked,--he continued to urge the pony steadily forward. The long miles which lay before his pursuers would make their hearts weak and their ponies' forelegs wobble. He reflected that since he was indeed going to join Mr. Harding's party at the secret place in Gap-full-of-arrow-holes,[15] why would not Lewis's scouts follow the easy trail made by their ponies and trust to finding him with them; and again, would the Englishman want his company under his altered status? This he answered by saying that no horse in the cantonment could eat up the ground with his war-pony; and as for the Englishman, he could not know of the late tragedy unless the accused chose to tell him. What of his word? Why was he keeping it? With a quick bullet from his rifle had gone his honor, along with other things more material. Still, the Gap lay in his way, so he could stop without inconvenience, at least long enough for a cup of coffee and some tobacco. The suddenness of his departure had left him no time to gather the most simple necessities, and he was living by his gun. Only once did he see Indians far away in the shimmer of the plains. He had dropped into the dry washes and sneaked away. They might be Crows, but the arrows of doubt made sad surgery in his poor brain; the spell of the white man's vengeance was over him. Their arms were long, their purses heavy; they could turn the world against him. From their strong log-towns they would conjure his undoing by the devious methods which his experience with them had taught him to dread. The strain of his thoughts made his head ache as he cast up the events which had forced him to this wolfing through the lonely desert. He had wanted to marry a pretty girl whose eyes had challenged him to come on, and when he had ventured them, like a mountain storm the whole cantonment rattled about his head and shot its bolts to kill. As the girl had fled his presence at the mere extension of his hand, in swift response to her emotions the whole combination of white humanity was hard on the heels of his flying pony. [15] Pryor Gap. * * * * * From the summit of the red cliffs Ermine looked down into the secret valley of his quest, and sitting there beside a huge boulder he studied the rendezvous. There were Ramon's pack-ponies--he remembered them all. There curled the smoke from the tangle of brushwood in the bottom, and finally Wolf-Voice and Ramon came out to gather in the horses for the night. He rode down toward them. Their quick ears caught the sound of the rattle of the stones loosened by his mount, and they stopped. He waved his hat, and they recognized him. He came up and dismounted from his drooping horse, stiff-hided with lather and dust, hollow-flanked, and with his belly drawn up as tight as the head of a tom-tom. "Are you alone in the camp? Has no one been here?" "No; what for waas any one been here?" asked and answered the half-breed. "De King George Man,[16] she waas set by dose fire an' waas ask me 'bout once a minit when waas Ermine come." [16] Any person who belonged to the Queen. The men drove the horses in while Ermine made his way through the brush to the camp-fire. "A-ha! Glad to see you, Mr. Ermine. Gad! but you must have put your horse through. He is barely holding together in the middle. Picket him out, and we will soon have some coffee going." Ermine did as directed and was soon squatting before the fire with his cup and plate. To the hail of questions he made brief response, which Harding attributed to fatigue and the inclination of these half-wild men not to mix discourse with the more serious matter of eating. "How did you leave every one at the camp?" Ermine borrowed a pipe and interspersed his answers with puffs. "Left them in the night--and they were all sitting up to see me off. My pony is weak, Mr. Harding. Will you give me a fresh one in the morning? We ought to start before daylight and make a long day of it." "My dear man, before daylight? Are we in such haste? It seems that we have time enough before us." "This is a bad country here. Indians of all tribes are coming and going. We are better off back in the range. In two or three sleeps we will be where we can lie on the robe, but not here;" saying which, Ermine rolled up in his saddle blanket, and perforce the others did likewise, in view of the short hours in store. The last rasping, straining pack-rope had been laid while yet the ghostly light played softly with the obscurity of the morning. The ponies were forced forward, crashing through the bushes, floundering in the creek, cheered on by hoarse oaths, all strange to the ear of Harding. The sedate progression of other days was changed to a fox-trot--riding-whips and trail-ropes slapping about the close-hugged tails of the horses. Harding congratulated himself on the unexpected energy of his guide; it would produce results later when wanted in the hunting. The ponies strung out ahead to escape the persecution of the lash, but Wolf-Voice saw something new in it all, and as he rode, his fierce little eyes gleamed steadily on Ermine. The half-breed knew the value of time when he was pushing the horses of the enemy away from their lodges, but these horses had no other masters. He turned his pony alongside of Ermine's. "Say, John, what for you waas keep look behin'? Who you 'fraid follar dese pony? Ain't dose Canada-man pay for dese pony--sacre, what you was do back de camp dare? De Sioux, she broke hout?" And the half-breed's mischievous eye settled well on his _confrère_. "Well, I did that back there which will make the high hills safer for me than any other place. Don't say anything to Mr. Harding until I feel safe. I want to think." "You waas shoot some one, mabeso?" "Yes--that ---- ---- Butler. He said he would force me to give up the paper we found in the moonlight on the soldier trail down the Yellowstone a year ago. He pulled his pistol, and I shot him." "You kiell heem--hey?" "No, caught him in the arm, but it will not kill him. I may go back and do that--when the soldiers forget a little." "Den you waas run away--hey?" "Yes; I made the grass smoke from Tongue River to here. I don't think they can follow me, but they may follow this party. That's why I look behind, Wolf-Voice, and that's why I want you to look behind." "What for you waas come to de King George Man, anyhow?" "I wanted coffee and tobacco and a fresh pony and more cartridges, and it will be many moons before John Ermine will dare look in a trader's store. If the white men come, I will soon leave you; and if I do, you must stay and guide Mr. Harding. He is a good man and does what is right by us." "Ah!" hissed the half-breed, "old Broken-Shoe and White-Robe, she ain' let dose Engun follar you. You 'spose dey let dose Crow tak de ack-kisr-attah[17] to Crooked-Bear's boy? Humph, dey 'fraid of hees medecin'." [17] Soldiers. "Well, they will pile the blankets as high as a horse's back, and say to the Shoshone, 'Go get the yellow-hair, and these are your blankets.' What then?" "Ugh! ugh!--a-nah," grunted the half-breed; "de ---- ---- Shoshone, we will leek de pony--come--come!" The energy of the march, the whacking ropes, and scampering horses passed from satisfaction to downright distress in Mr. Harding's mind. He pleaded for more deliberation, but it went unheeded. The sun had gone behind the hard blue of the main range before they camped, and the good nature of the Englishman departed with it. "Why is it necessary to break our cattle down by this tremendous scampering? It does not appeal to my sense of the situation." "Wael, meester, wan more sun we waas en de hiell--den we have long smoke; all you waas do waas sit down smoke your pipe--get up--kiell dose grizzly bear--den sit down some more." [Illustration: RAMON.] But this observation of the half-breed's was offset by Ramon, who was cleaning a frying-pan with a piece of bread, and screwing his eyes into those of Wolf-Voice. The matter was not clear to him. "What good can come of running the legs off the ponies? Why can't we sit down here and smoke?" "You waas trader--you waas spend all de morning pack de pony--spend all the afternoon unpack heem--a man see your night fire from stan where you waas cook your breakfast--bah!" returned Wolf-Voice. This exasperated Ramon, who vociferated, "When I see men run the pony dat way, I was wander why dey run dem." Wolf-Voice betook himself to that ominous silence which, with Indians, follows the knife. Ermine was lame in the big white camp, but out here in the desert he walked ahead; so, without looking up, he removed his pipe, and said in his usual unemotional manner, "Shut up!" The command registered like a gong. Wolf-Voice sat down and smoked. When men smoke they are doing nothing worse than thinking. The cook ceased doing the work he was paid for, and also smoked. Every one else smoked, and all watched the greatest thinker that the world has ever known--the Fire. The first man to break the silence was the Englishman. Whether in a frock coat, or a more simple garment, the Englishman has for the last few centuries been able to think quicker, larger, and more to the purpose in hours of bewilderment, than any other kind of man. He understood that his big purpose was lost in this "battle of the kites and crows." The oak should not wither because one bird robbed another's nest. As a world-wide sportsman he had seen many yellow fellows shine their lethal weapons to the discomfiture of his plans; and he knew that in Ermine he had an unterrified adversary to deal with. He talked kindly from behind his pipe. "Of course, Ermine, I am willing to do what is proper under any and all circumstances, and we will continue this vigorous travel if you can make the necessity of it plain to me. Frankly, I do not understand why we are doing it, and I ask you to tell me." Ermine continued to smoke for a time, and having made his mind up he removed his pipe and said slowly: "Mr. Harding, I shot Butler, and the soldiers are after me. I have to go fast--you don't--that's all." The gentleman addressed opened wide eyes on his guide and asked in low amazement, "D---- me--did you? Did you kill him?" "No," replied Ermine. Rising from his seat, Mr. Harding took the scout to one side, out of reach of other ears, and made him tell the story of the affair, with most of the girl left out. "Why did you not give him the photograph?" "Because he said he would make me give it and drew his pistol, and what is more, I am going back to kill the man Butler--after a while. We must go fast to-morrow, then I will be where I am safe, for a time at least." All this gave Harding a sleepless night. He had neither the power nor the inclination to arrest the scout. He did not see how the continuance of his hunt would interfere with final justice; and he hoped to calm the mood and stay the murderous hand of the enraged man. So in half-bewilderment, on the morrow, that staid traveller found himself galloping away from the arms of the law, in a company of long-haired vagabonds; and at intervals it made him smile. This was one of those times when he wished his friends at home could have a look at him. "Say, Wolf-Voice," said he, "Ermine says he is going back to kill Lieutenant Butler sometime later." "He says dat--hey?" "Yes, he says that." "Wiell den--she wiell do eet--var much, 'fraid--what for she wan kiell dose man Butler? She already waas shoot heem en the harm." "I think Ermine is jealous," ventured Harding. "What you call jealous?" queried the half-breed. "Ermine wants Butler's girl and cannot get her; that is the trouble." "Anah-a! a bag of a squaw, ees eet?" and Wolf-Voice ran out to head a pack-horse into the line of flight. Coming back he continued: "Say, Meester Harding, dese woman he ver often mak' man wan' kiell some ozer man. I have done dose ting." "Whew!" said Harding, in amazement, but he caught himself. "But, Wolf-Voice, we do not want our friend Ermine to do it, and I want you to promise me you will help me to keep him from doing it." "'Spose I say, 'Ermine, you no kiell Meester Butler'--he teel me to go to hell, mabeso--what den?" "Oh, he may calm down later." "Na--Engun she no forget," cautioned the half-breed. "But Ermine is not an Indian." "Na, but she all de same Engun," which was true so far as that worthy could see. "If we do not stop him from killing Butler, he will hang or be shot for it, sooner or later, and that is certain," said Harding. "Yees--yees; deese white man have funny way when one man kiell 'nozer. Ermine ees brave man--he eese see red, an' he wiell try eet eef he do hang. No one eese able for stop heem but deese Crooked-Bear," observed the half-breed. "Is Crooked-Bear an Indian chief?" "Na; she ain' Enjun, she ain' white man; she come out of the groun'. Hees head eet waas so big an' strong eet were break hees back for to carry eet." "Where does this person live?" ventured Harding. "Where she eese lieve, ah?--where Ermine an' his pony can find heem," was the vague reply. "You no wan' Ermine for kiell deese Butler; weel den, you say, 'Ermine, you go see Crooked-Bear--you talk wid heem.' I weel take you where you wan' go een de montaign for get de grizzly bear." "I suppose that is the only solution, and I suppose it is my duty to do it, though the thing plays havoc with my arrangements." Later the trail steepened and wound its tortuous way round the pine and boulders, the ponies grunting under their burdens as they slowly pushed their toilsome way upwards. When Ermine turned here to look back he could see a long day's march on the trail, and he no longer worried concerning any pursuit which might have been in progress. They found their beds early, all being exhausted by the long day's march, particularly the fugitive scout. On the following morning, Harding suggested that he and Ermine begin the hunting, since fresh meat was needed in camp; so they started. In two hours they had an elk down and were butchering him. The antlers were in the velvet and not to the head-hunter's purpose. Making up their package of meat and hanging the rest out of the way of prowling animals, to wait a pack-horse, they sat down to smoke. "Are you still intending to kill Mr. Butler?" ventured Harding. "Yes, when you are through hunting, I shall begin--begin to hunt Butler." "You will find your hunting very dangerous, Ermine," ventured Harding. "It does not matter; he has got the girl, and he may have my life or I shall have his." "But you cannot have the girl. Certainly after killing Butler the young lady will not come to you. Do you think she would marry you? Do you dream you are her choice?" "No, the girl would not marry me; I have forgotten her," mused Ermine, as he patiently lied to himself. "Does this maiden wish to marry Butler?" asked Harding, who now recalled garrison gossip to the effect that all things pointed that way. "She does." "Then why do you kill the man she loves?" "Because I do not want to think he is alive." The wide vacancy of the scout's blue eyes, together with the low deliberation in his peaceful voice, was somewhat appalling to Harding. He never had thought of a murderer in this guise, and he labored with himself to believe it was only a love-sickness of rather alarming intenseness; but there was something about the young man which gave this idea pause. His desperation in battle, his Indian bringing-up, made it all extremely possible, and he searched in vain for any restraining forces. So for a long time they sat by the dead elk, and Harding sorted and picked out all the possible reasons he could conjure as to why Ermine should not kill Butler, until it began to dawn upon him that he was not replying to his arguments at all, but simply reiterating his own intentions despite them. He then recalled cases in England where fists had been the arguments under a rude lover's code; only out here the argument was more vital, more insistent, and the final effect left the lady but one choice should she care to interest herself in the affair. Resuming his talk, Harding suggested that his guide go to his own friends, who might advise him more potently than he was able, and ended by asking pointedly, "You have friends, I presume?" "I have one friend," answered the youth, sullenly. "Who is he?" "Crooked-Bear," came the reply. "Crooked-Bear is your friend; then you must listen to him; what he advises will probably be the thing to do." "Of course I will listen to him. He is the only person in the world I care for now. I have often heard him talking to himself, and I think he has known a woman whom he cannot forget," spoke Ermine. "He will not want me to seek my enemy's life. I have talked too much, Mr. Harding. Talk weakens a man's heart. I will make no more talk." "Well, then, my man, go to your friend; I can do nothing more," and Harding arose. They tied their meat on the saddles, mounted, and sought their camp. On the following morning Ermine had gone. CHAPTER XX THE END OF ALL THINGS The heart of the rider hung like a leaden weight in his body, as he cast accustomed glances at the old trail up the mountain to Crooked-Bear's cabin. He heard the dogs bark, and gave the wolf's call which was the hermit's countersign. The dogs grew menacing at his unfamiliar scent, but a word satisfied them. A dog forgets many things about a person in a year, but never his voice. From out of a dark corner came the goblin of the desolate mountain, ready with his gun for the unwelcome, but to greet Ermine with what enthusiasm his silent forest ways had left him. For a long time they held each other's hands, while their faces lighted with pleasure; even the warmth of kindliness kindling in the scout's as he stood in the presence of one who did not seek him with the corner of his eyes. [Illustration] As they built the fire and boiled the water, the old man noted the improved appearance of his protégé--the new clothes and the perfect equipment were a starched reminder of the glories of the old world, which he had left in the years long gone. He plied his questions, and was more confused to uncover Ermine's lack of enthusiasm concerning the events which must have been tremendous, and with difficulty drew the belated news of war and men and things from him. Then like the raising of a curtain, which reveals the play, the hermit saw suddenly that it was heavy and solemn--he was to see a tragedy, and this was not a play; it was real, it was his boy, and he did not want to see a tragedy. He feared to have it go on; he shut his eyes for a long time, and then rose to his feet and put his hands on the young man's shoulders. He sought the weak gleam of the eyes in the dusk of the cabin. "Tell me, boy, tell me all; you cannot hide it any more than a deer can hide his trail in the snow. I can read your thoughts." Ermine did not immediately reply, but the leaden heart turned slowly into a burning coal. "Crooked-Bear, I wanted a white girl for my wife, and I shot a soldier, who drew a revolver and said he would force me to give him her picture which I had in my pocket, and then I ran away, everybody shooting at me. They may even come here for me. They want to stand me up beside the long table with all the officers sitting around it, and they want to take me out and hang me on a tree for the ravens and magpies to pick at. That is what your white people want to do to me, Crooked-Bear, and by God they are going to have a chance to do it, for I am going back to kill the man and get the girl or die. Do you hear that, Crooked-Bear, do you hear that?" The hermit's arms dropped to his side, and he could make no sound or sign. "Sit down, be quiet, boy; let us talk more of this thing. Be calm, and I can find a reason why you will not want to stain your hands with this man's blood. When I sent you to the white men to do a man's work in a white man's way, I did not think you would lock horns with any buck you met on the trail, like the dumb things that carry their reason for being on the point of their antlers--sit down." And the long arms of the hermit waved with a dropping motion. Ermine sat down, but by no means found his composure. Even in the darkness his eyes gave an unnatural light, his muscles twitched, and his feet were not still. "I knew, Crooked-Bear, I knew you would talk that way. It is the soft talk of the white men. She made a fool of me, and he was going to put his foot on me as though John Ermine was a grasshopper, and every white man would say to me after that, 'Be quiet, Ermine, sit down.' Bah! I will be quiet and I will sit down until they forget a little, and then--" Ermine emitted the savage snarl of a lynx in a steel trap. Slapping his knee, he continued: "The white men in the camp are two-sided; they pat you with a hand that is always ready to strike. When the girl looked at me, it lighted a fire in my heart, and then she blew the flame until I was burning up. She told me as well as any words can say, 'Come on,' and when I offered her my hand she blatted like a fawn and ran away. As if that were not enough, this Butler walked into the room and talked to me as though I were a dog and drew his gun; everything swam before my eyes, and they swim yet, Crooked-Bear. I tell you I will kill him as surely as day follows night. These soldiers talk as white and soft as milk when it suits their plan, but old Major Searles says that they stand pat in war, that they never give up the fight, that they must win if it takes years to do it. Very well, I shall not forget that." "But, my boy, you must not see red in a private feud; that is only allowed against the enemies of the whole people. Your heart has gone to your head; you can never win a white woman by spilling the blood of the other man who happens to love her also. That is not the way with them." "No, it is not the way with them; it is the way with their women to set a man on fire and then laugh at him, and it is the way with their men to draw a gun. What do they expect, Crooked-Bear? I ask you that!" "Who was the girl, Ermine?" The scout unwrapped the package from his bosom, and handed the photograph to the old man, saying, "She is like that." The hermit regarded the picture and ventured, "An officer's daughter?" "Yes; daughter of Major Searles." "Who was the man you shot?" "A young pony soldier,--an officer; his name is Butler." And gradually Ermine was led to reveal events to the wise man, who was able to piece out the plot with much knowledge not natural to the wilds of the Rocky Mountains. And it was a tragedy. He knew that the girl's unfortunate shot had penetrated deeper than Ermine's, and that the Law and the Lawless were in a death grapple. They sought their bunks, and in the following days the prophet poured much cold water on Ermine's determination, which only turned to steam and lost itself in the air. The love of the woman and the hate of the man had taken root in the bedrock of his human nature, and the pallid "should nots" and "must nots" of the prophet only rustled the leaves of Ermine's philosophy. "He has taken her from me; he has made me lose everything I worked for with the white men; he has made me a human wolf, and I mean to go back and kill him. You say I may lose my life; ho! what is a dead man? A dead man and a buffalo chip look just alike to these mountains, to this sky, and to me, Crooked-Bear," came the lover's reply. And at other times: "I know, Crooked-Bear, that you wanted a girl to marry you once, and because she would not, you have lived all your life like a gray bear up here in these rocks, and you will die here. I am not going to do that; I am going to make others drink with me this bitter drink, which will sweeten it for me." Sadly the hermit saw this last interest on earth pass from him; saw Fate wave her victorious banners over him; saw the forces of nature work their will; and he sank under the burden of his thoughts. "I had hoped," he said to himself, "to be able to restore this boy to his proper place among the white people, but I have failed. I do not understand why men should be so afflicted in this world as Ermine and I have been, but doubtless it is the working of a great law, and possibly of a good one. My long years as a hunter have taught me that the stopping of the heart-beat is no great thing--it is soon over; but the years of living that some men are made to undergo is a very trying matter. Brave and sane is he who keeps his faith. I fear for the boy." After a few weeks Ermine could no longer bear with the sullen savagery of his emotions, and he took his departure. Crooked-Bear sat by his cabin door and saw him tie his blanket on his saddle; saw him mount and extend his hand, which he shook, and they parted without a word. They had grown accustomed to this ending; there was nothing in words that mattered now. The prophet's boy disappeared in the gloom of the woods, snapping bushes, and rolling stones, until there was no sound save the crackling of the fire on the lonely hearth. As Ermine ambled over the yellow wastes, he thought of the difference between now and his going to the white man one year ago. Then he was full of hopes; but now no Crow Indian would dare be seen in his company--not even Wolf-Voice could offer him the comfort of his reckless presence. He was compelled to sneak into the Absaroke camp in the night, to trade for an extra pony with his relatives, and to be gone before the morning. The ghostly tepees, in the quiet of the night, seemed to dance around him, coming up, and then retiring, while their smoke-flaps waved their giant fingers, beckoning him to be gone. The dogs slunk from him, and the ponies walked away. The curse of the white man was here in the shadows, and he could feel the Indians draw their robes more closely over their heads as they dreamed. The winds from the mountains blew on his back to help him along, and whispered ugly thoughts. All the good of the world had drawn away from Ermine, and it seemed that the sun did not care to look at him, so long was he left to stumble through the dark. But Nature did not paint this part of her day any blacker than she had Ermine's heart; each footfall of his pony took him nearer to death, and he whipped on impatiently to meet it. Hope had long since departed--he could not steal the girl; he realized the impossibility of eluding pursuit; he only wanted to carry Butler with him away from her. All the patient training of Crooked-Bear, all the humanizing influence of white association, all softening moods of the pensive face in the photograph, were blown from the fugitive as though carried on a wind; he was a shellfish-eating cave-dweller, with a Springfield, a knife, and a revolver. He had ceased to think in English, and muttered to himself in Absaroke. As his pony stumbled at a ford in the river, he cut it savagely with his whip,--the pony which was the last of his friends,--and it grunted piteously as it scrambled for its foothold. Day after day he crawled through the rugged hills far from the places where men might be; for every one was his enemy, and any chance rifle would take away from him his vengeance. The tale of his undoing had travelled wide--he found that out in the Crow camp; Ba-cher-hish-a had told him that through her tears. He could trust no one; the scouts at Tongue River might be apathetic in an attempt to capture him, but they could not fail to report his presence if seen in the vicinity. Butler was probably in the middle of the log-town, which swarmed with soldiers, but it was there he must go, and he had one friend left, just one; it is always the last friend such a one has,--the Night. Having arrived in the vicinity of the post, he prowled out on foot with his only friend. It was early, for he must do his deed while yet the lights were lit. Any one moving about after "taps" would surely be investigated by the guard. The country was not yet tranquil enough to permit of laxity in the matter of sentry duty, and the soldiers counted "ten" very fast after they challenged. He had laid aside his big hat, and was wrapped in his blanket. Many Indians were about, and he was less apt to be spoken to or noticed. He moved forward to the scout fire, which was outside of the guard-line, and stood for a time in some brushwood, beyond the play of the flames. He was closely enveloped in his blanket, and although Indians passed quite near him, he was not noticed. Suddenly he heard a detail of wagons clanking up the road, and conjectured rightly that they would go into the post. He ran silently toward them, and stooping low, saw against the skyline that the cavalry guard had worked up in front, impatient to shave the time when they should reach their quarters. It was a wood train, and it clanked and ground and jingled to the quartermaster's corral, bearing one log on the last wagon which was John Ermine and his fortunes. This log slid to the ground and walked swiftly away. * * * * * The time for "taps" was drawing near, and the post buzzed in the usual expectation of that approaching time of quiet. A rifle-shot rang loud and clear up on the officers' row; it was near Major Searles's house, every one said as they ran. Women screamed, and Tongue River cantonment laid its legs to the ground as it gathered to the place. Officers came with revolvers, and the guard with lanterns. Mrs. Searles and her daughter were clasped in each other's arms, while Mary, the cook, put her apron over her head. Searles ran out with his gun; the shot had been right under the window of his sitting-room. An Indian voice greeted him, "Don' shoot; me killi him." "Who in h---- are you?" swore Searles, at a present. "Don' shoot, me Ahhæta--all same Sharp-Nose--don' shoot--me killi him." "Killi who? Who have you killed? Talk up quick!" "Me killi him. You come--you see." By this time the crowd drew in with questions and eager to help. A sergeant arrived with a lantern, and the guard laid rude hands on the Crow scout, Sharp-Nose, who was well known. He was standing over the prostrate figure, and continued to reiterate, "Me killi him." The lantern quickly disclosed the man on the ground to be John Ermine, late scout and fugitive from justice, shot through the heart and dead, with his blanket and rifle on the ground beside him. As he looked through the window, he had been stalked and killed by the fool whom he would not allow to shake hands with Katherine Searles, and a few moments later, when Sharp-Nose was brought into her presence, between two soldiers, she recognized him when he said, "Mabeso, now you shake hands." "Yes, I will shake hands with you, Sharp-Nose," and half to herself, as she eyed her malevolent friend, she muttered, "and he kept you to remember me by." The following pages are advertisements of THE MACMILLAN STANDARD LIBRARY THE MACMILLAN FICTION LIBRARY THE MACMILLAN JUVENILE LIBRARY THE MACMILLAN STANDARD LIBRARY This series has taken its place as one of the most important popular-priced editions. The "Library" includes only those books which have been put to the test of public opinion and have not been found wanting,--books, in other words, which have come to be regarded as standards in the fields of knowledge--literature, religion, biography, history, politics, art, economics, sports, sociology, and belles lettres. 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ALTSHELER "A story of the West, of Indians, of scouts, trappers, fur traders, and, in short, of everything that is dear to the imagination of a healthy American boy."--_New York Sun._ =Bacon--While Caroline Was Growing= BY JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON "Only a genuine lover of children, and a keenly sympathetic observer of human nature, could have given us a book as this."--_Boston Herald._ =Carroll--Alice's Adventures, and Through the Looking Glass= BY LEWIS CARROLL "One of the immortal books for children." =Dix--A Little Captive Lad= BY MARIE BEULAH DIX "The human interest is strong, and children are sure to like it."--_Washington Times._ =Greene--Pickett's Gap= BY HOMER GREENE "The story presents a picture of truth and honor that cannot fail to have a vivid impression upon the reader."--_Toledo Blade._ =Lucas--Slowcoach= BY E. V. LUCAS "The record of an English family's coaching tour in a great old-fashioned wagon. A charming narrative, as quaint and original as its name."--_Booknews Monthly._ =Mabie--Book of Christmas= BY H. W. MABIE "A beautiful collection of Christmas verse and prose in which all the old favorites will be found in an artistic setting."--_The St. Louis Mirror._ =Major--The Bears of Blue River= BY CHARLES MAJOR "An exciting story with all the thrills the title implies." =Major--Uncle Tom Andy Bill= BY CHARLES MAJOR "A stirring story full of bears, Indians, and hidden treasures."--_Cleveland Leader._ =Nesbit--The Railway Children= BY E. NESBIT "A delightful story revealing the author's intimate knowledge of juvenile ways."--_The Nation._ =Whyte--The Story Book Girls= BY CHRISTINA G. WHYTE "A book that all girls will read with delight--a sweet, wholesome story of girl life." =Wright--Dream Fox Story Book= BY MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT "The whole book is delicious with its wise and kindly humor, its just perspective of the true value of things." =Wright--Aunt Jimmy's Will= BY MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT "Barbara has written no more delightful book than this." Transcriber's Note Apparent printer's errors have been retained, unless stated below. Page numbers cited in illustration captions refer to their original placement in the text. Illustrations have been moved near their mention in the text. "_" surrounding text represents italics. "=" surrounding text represents bold. Punctuation, capitalization, accents and formatting markup have been made consistent. Page 34, "Ba-chua-hish-a" changed to "Ba-cher-hish-a" for consistency. (Ba-cher-hish-a sobbed and wailed all night in her lodge, while the foster-father walked outside, speculating endlessly with his friends.) Page 94, "trial" changed to "trail". (Now we must blind our trail; their scouts will find it in the morning.) Page 5 of the Advertisements, "These" changed to "There". (There is interwoven with it a play of mild philosophy and of pointed wit.) Page 12 of the Advertisements, "JOHN" changed to "FREDERIC". (BY FREDERIC REMINGTON) Page 14 of the Advertisements has been left as originally published. The accompanying comment for "Aunt Jimmy's Will" by Mabel Osgood Wright has been left to read: "Barbara has written no more delightful book than this." 
44934	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. OUTING ADVENTURE LIBRARY CAPTIVES AMONG THE INDIANS First-hand Narratives of Indian Wars, Customs, Tortures, and Habits of Life in Colonial Times EDITED BY HORACE KEPHART NUMBER 3 NEW YORK OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY MCMXV COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY All rights reserved CONTENTS I COLONEL JAMES SMITH'S LIFE AMONG THE DELAWARES, 1755-1759 9 II FATHER BRESSANI'S CAPTIVITY AMONG THE IROQUOIS, 1644 117 III CAPTIVITY OF MRS. MARY ROWLANDSON AMONG THE INDIANS OF MASSACHUSETTS, 1676 143 IV CAPTURE AND ESCAPE OF MERCY HARBISON, 1792 210 CAPTIVES AMONG THE INDIANS I COL. JAMES SMITH'S LIFE AMONG THE DELAWARES, 1755-1759 James Smith, pioneer, was born in Franklin county, Pennsylvania, in 1737. When he was eighteen years of age he was captured by the Indians, was adopted into one of their tribes, and lived with them as one of themselves until his escape in 1759. He became a lieutenant under General Bouquet during the expedition against the Ohio Indians in 1764, and was captain of a company of rangers in Lord Dunmore's War. In 1775 he was promoted to major of militia. He served in the Pennsylvania convention in 1776, and in the assembly in 1776-77. In the latter year he was commissioned colonel in command on the frontiers, and performed distinguished services. Smith moved to Kentucky in 1788. He was a member of the Danville convention, and represented Bourbon county for many years in the legislature. He died in Washington county, Kentucky, in 1812. The following narrative of his experience as member of an Indian tribe is from his own book entitled "Remarkable Adventures in the Life and Travels of Colonel James Smith," printed at Lexington, Kentucky, in 1799. It affords a striking contrast to the terrible experiences of the other captives whose stories are republished in this book; for he was well treated, and stayed so long with his red captors that he acquired expert knowledge of their arts and customs, and deep insight into their character. (_Editor._) In May, 1755, the province of Pennsylvania agreed to send out three hundred men, in order to cut a wagon-road from Fort Loudon, to join Braddock's road, near the Turkey Foot, or three forks of Youghiogheny. My brother-in-law, William Smith, Esq., of Conococheague, was appointed commissioner, to have the oversight of these road-cutters. Though I was at that time only eighteen years of age, I had fallen violently in love with a young lady, whom I apprehended was possessed of a large share of both beauty and virtue; but being born between Venus and Mars, I concluded I must also leave my dear fair one, and go out with this company of road-cutters to see the event of this campaign; but still expecting that some time in the course of this summer I should again return to the arms of my beloved. We went on with the road, without interruption, until near the Alleghany mountain; when I was sent back in order to hurry up some provision-wagons that were on the way after us. I proceeded down the road as far as the crossings of Juniata, where, finding the wagons were coming on as fast as possible, I returned up the road again towards the Alleghany mountain, in company with one Arnold Vigoras. About four or five miles above Bedford, three Indians had made a blind of bushes, stuck in the ground as though they grew naturally, where they concealed themselves, about fifteen yards from the road. When we came opposite to them they fired upon us, at this short distance, and killed my fellow-traveller, yet their bullets did not touch me; but my horse, making a violent start, threw me, and the Indians immediately ran up and took me prisoner. The one who laid hold on me was a Canasatauga, the other two were Delawares. One of them could speak English, and asked me if there were any more white men coming after. I told them not any near that I knew of. Two of these Indians stood by me, while the other scalped my comrade; they then set off and ran at a smart rate through the woods, for about fifteen miles, and that night we slept on the Alleghany mountain without fire. The next morning they divided the last of their provisions which they had brought from Fort Du Quesne, and gave me an equal share, which was about two or three ounces of mouldy biscuit; this and a young ground-hog, about as large as a rabbit, roasted, and also equally divided, was all the provision we had until we came to the Loyal Hannan, which was about fifty miles; and a great part of the way we came through exceeding rocky laurel-thickets without any path. When we came to the west side of Laurel hill, they gave the scalp halloo, as usual, which is a long yell or halloo for every scalp or prisoner they have in possession; the last of these scalp halloos were followed with quick and sudden shrill shouts of joy and triumph. On their performing this, we were answered by the firing of a number of guns on the Loyal Hannan, one after another, quicker than one could count, by another party of Indians who were encamped near where Ligonier now stands. As we advanced near this party, they increased with repeated shouts of joy and triumph; but I did not share with them in their excessive mirth. When we came to this camp we found they had plenty of turkeys and other meat there; and though I never before ate venison without bread or salt, yet as I was hungry it relished very well. There we lay that night, and the next morning the whole of us marched on our way for Fort Du Quesne. The night after we joined another camp of Indians, with nearly the same ceremony, attended with great noise, and apparent joy, among all except one. The next morning we continued our march, and in the afternoon we came in full view of the fort, which stood on the point, near where Fort Pitt[1] now stands. We then made a halt on the bank of the Alleghany, and repeated the scalp halloo, which was answered by the firing of all the firelocks in the hands of both Indians and French who were in and about the fort, in the aforesaid manner, and also the great guns, which were followed by the continued shouts and yells of the different savage tribes who were then collected there. [1] Pittsburgh. As I was at this time unacquainted with this mode of firing and yelling of the savages, I concluded that there were thousands of Indians there ready to receive General Braddock; but what added to my surprise, I saw numbers running towards me, stripped naked, excepting breech-clouts, and painted in the most hideous manner, of various colors, though the principal color was vermilion, or a bright red; yet there was annexed to this black, brown, blue, etc. As they approached, they formed themselves into two long ranks, about two or three rods apart. I was told by an Indian that could speak English that I must run betwixt these ranks, and that they would flog me all the way as I ran; and if I ran quick, it would be so much the better, as they would quit when I got to the end of the ranks. There appeared to be a general rejoicing around me, yet I could find nothing like joy in my breast; but I started to the race with all the resolution and vigor I was capable of exerting, and found that it was as I had been told, for I was flogged the whole way. When I had got near the end of the lines I was struck with something that appeared to me to be a stick, or the handle of a tomahawk, which caused me to fall to the ground. On my recovering my senses I endeavored to renew my race; but, as I arose, some one cast sand in my eyes, which blinded me so that I could not see where to run. They continued beating me most intolerably, until I was at length insensible; but before I lost my senses I remember my wishing them to strike the fatal blow, for I thought they intended killing me, but apprehended they were too long about it. The first thing I remember was my being in the fort amidst the French and Indians, and a French doctor standing by me, who had opened a vein in my left arm: after which the interpreter asked me how I did. I told him I felt much pain. The doctor then washed my wounds, and the bruised places of my body with French brandy. As I felt faint, and the brandy smelt well, I asked for some inwardly, but the doctor told me, by the interpreter, that it did not suit my case. When they found I could speak, a number of Indians came around me, and examined me, with threats of cruel death if I did not tell the truth. The first question they asked me was how many men were there in the party that were coming from Pennsylvania to join Braddock? I told them the truth, that there were three hundred. The next question was, were they well armed? I told them they were all well armed (meaning the arm of flesh), for they had only about thirty guns among the whole of them; which if the Indians had known they would certainly have gone and cut them all off; therefore I could not in conscience let them know the defenceless situation of these road-cutters. I was then sent to the hospital, and carefully attended by the doctors, and recovered quicker than what I expected. Some time after I was there, I was visited by the Delaware Indian already mentioned, who was at the taking of me, and could speak some English. Though he spoke but bad English, yet I found him to be a man of considerable understanding. I asked him if I had done anything that had offended the Indians which caused them to treat me so unmercifully. He said no; it was only an old custom the Indians had, and it was like "how do you do"; after that, he said, I would be well used. I asked him if I should be admitted to remain with the French. He said no; and told me that as soon as I recovered, I must not only go with the Indians, but must be made an Indian myself. I asked him what news from Braddock's army. He said the Indians spied them every day, and he showed me, by making marks on the ground with a stick, that Braddock's army was advancing in very close order, and that the Indians would surround them, take trees, and (as he expressed it) _shoot um down all one pigeon_. Shortly after this, on the 9th day of July, 1755, in the morning, I heard a great stir in the fort. As I could then walk with a staff in my hand, I went out of the door, which was just by the wall of the fort, and stood upon the wall, and viewed the Indians in a huddle before the gate, where were barrels of powder, bullets, flints, etc., and every one taking what suited. I saw the Indians also march off in rank entire; likewise the French Canadians, and some regulars. After viewing the Indians and French in different positions, I computed them to be about four hundred, and wondered that they attempted to go out against Braddock with so small a party. I was then in high hopes that I would soon see them fly before the British troops, and that General Braddock would take the fort and rescue me. I remained anxious to know the event of this day; and, in the afternoon, I again observed a great noise and commotion in the fort, and though at that time I could not understand French, yet I found that it was the voice of joy and triumph, and feared that they had received what I called bad news. I had observed some of the old-country soldiers speak Dutch: as I spoke Dutch, I went to one of them, and asked him what was the news. He told me that a runner had just arrived, who said that Braddock would certainly be defeated; that the Indians and French had surrounded him, and were concealed behind trees and in gullies, and kept a constant fire upon the English, and that they saw the English falling in heaps, and if they did not take the river, which was the only gap, and make their escape, there would not be one man left alive before sundown. The morning after the battle I saw Braddock's artillery brought into the fort; the same day I also saw several Indians in British officers' dress, with sash, half-moon, laced hats, etc., which the British then wore. A few days after this the Indians demanded me, and I was obliged to go with them. I was not yet well able to march, but they took me in a canoe up the Alleghany River to an Indian town that was on the north side of the river, about forty miles above Fort Du Quesne. Here I remained about three weeks, and was then taken to an Indian town on the west branch of Muskingum, about twenty miles above the forks, which was called Tullihas, inhabited by Delawares, Caughnewagas, and Mohicans. The day after my arrival at the aforesaid town a number of Indians collected about me, and one of them began to pull the hair out of my head. He had some ashes on a piece of bark, in which he frequently dipped his fingers in order to take the firmer hold, and so he went on, as if he had been plucking a turkey, until he had all the hair clean out of my head except a small spot about three or four inches square on my crown; this they cut off with a pair of scissors, excepting three locks, which they dressed up in their own mode. Two of these they wrapped round with a narrow beaded garter made by themselves for that purpose, and the other they plaited at full length, and then stuck it full of silver brooches. After this they bored my nose and ears, and fixed me off with earrings and nose jewels; then they ordered me to strip off my clothes and put on a breech-clout, which I did; they then painted my head, face, and body in various colors. They put a large belt of wampum on my neck, and silver bands on my hands and right arm; and so an old chief led me out in the street, and gave the alarm halloo, _coo-wigh_, several times repeated quick; and on this, all that were in the town came running and stood round the old chief, who held me by the hand in the midst. As I at that time knew nothing of their mode of adoption, and had seen them put to death all they had taken, and as I never could find that they saved a man alive at Braddock's defeat, I made no doubt but they were about putting me to death in some cruel manner. The old chief, holding me by the hand, made a long speech, very loud, and when he had done, he handed me to three young squaws, who led me by the hand down the bank, into the river, until the water was up to our middle. The squaws then made signs to me to plunge myself into the water, but I did not understand them; I thought that the result of the council was that I should be drowned, and that these young ladies were to be the executioners. They all three laid violent hold of me, and I for some time opposed them with all my might, which occasioned loud laughter by the multitude that were on the bank of the river. At length one of the squaws made out to speak a little English (for I believe they began to be afraid of me), and said _no hurt you_. On this I gave myself up to their ladyships, who were as good as their word; for though they plunged me under water, and washed and rubbed me severely, yet I could not say they hurt me much. These young women then led me up to the council-house, where some of the tribe were ready with new clothes for me. They gave me a new ruffled shirt, which I put on, also a pair of leggings done off with ribbons and beads, likewise a pair of moccasons and garters dressed with beads, porcupine quills, and red hair--also a tinsel-laced cappo. They again painted my head and face with various colors, and tied a bunch of red feathers to one of those locks they had left on the crown of my head, which stood up five or six inches. They seated me on a bearskin, and gave me a pipe, tomahawk, and pole-cat skin pouch, which had been skinned pocket fashion, and contained tobacco, killegenico, or dry sumach leaves, which they mix with their tobacco; also spunk, flint, and steel. When I was thus seated, the Indians came in dressed and painted in their grandest manner. As they came in they took their seats, and for a considerable time there was a profound silence--every one was smoking; but not a word was spoken among them. At length one of the chiefs made a speech, which was delivered to me by an interpreter, and was as followeth: "My son, you are now flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. By the ceremony which was performed this day every drop of white blood was washed out of your veins; you are taken into the Caughnewaga nation, and initiated into a warlike tribe; you are adopted into a great family, and now received with great seriousness and solemnity in the room and place of a great man. After what has passed this day, you are now one of us by an old strong law and custom. My son, you have now nothing to fear--we are now under the same obligations to love, support, and defend you that we are to love and to defend one another; therefore, you are to consider yourself as one of our people." At this time I did not believe this fine speech, especially that of the white blood being washed out of me; but since that time I have found out that there was much sincerity in said speech; for, from that day, I never knew them to make any distinction between me and themselves in any respect whatever until I left them. If they had plenty of clothing, I had plenty; if we were scarce, we all shared one fate. After this ceremony was over I was introduced to my new kin, and told that I was to attend a feast that evening, which I did. And as the custom was, they gave me also a bowl and a wooden spoon, which I carried with me to the place where there was a number of large brass kettles full of boiled venison and green corn; every one advanced with his bowl and spoon, and had his share given him. After this, one of the chiefs made a short speech, and then we began to eat. Shortly after this I went out to hunt in company with Mohawk Solomon, some of the Caughnewagas, and a Delaware Indian that was married to a Caughnewaga squaw. We travelled about south from this town, and the first night we killed nothing, but we had with us green corn, which we roasted and ate that night. The next day we encamped about twelve o'clock, and the hunters turned out to hunt, and I went down the run that we encamped on, in company with some squaws and boys, to hunt plums, which we found in great plenty. On my return to camp I observed a large piece of fat meat; the Delaware Indian, that could talk some English, observed me looking earnestly at this meat, and asked me, "What meat you think that is?" I said I supposed it was bear meat; he laughed, and said, "Ho, all one fool you, beal now elly pool," and pointing to the other side of the camp, he said, "Look at that skin, you think that beal skin?" I went and lifted the skin, which appeared like an ox-hide; he then said, "What skin you think that?" I replied, that I thought it was a buffalo-hide; he laughed, and said, "You fool again, you know nothing, you think buffalo that colo'?" I acknowledged I did not know much about these things, and told him I never saw a buffalo, and that I had not heard what color they were. He replied, "By and by you shall see gleat many buffalo; he now go to gleat lick. That skin no buffalo-skin, that skin buck-elk-skin." They went out with horses, and brought in the remainder of this buck-elk, which was the fattest creature I ever saw of the tallow kind. We remained at this camp about eight or ten days, and killed a number of deer. Though we had neither bread nor salt at this time, yet we had both roast and boiled meat in great plenty, and they were frequently inviting me to eat when I had no appetite. We then moved to the buffalo lick, where we killed several buffalo, and in their small brass kettles they made about half a bushel of salt. I suppose this lick was about thirty or forty miles from the aforesaid town, and somewhere between the Muskingum, Ohio, and Sciota. About the lick was clear, open woods, and thin white-oak land, and at that time there were large roads leading to the lick, like wagon-roads. We moved from this lick about six or seven miles, and encamped on a creek. Some time after this, I was told to take the dogs with me, and go down the creek, perhaps I might kill a turkey; it being in the afternoon, I was also told not to go far from the creek, and to come up the creek again to the camp, and to take care not to get lost. When I had gone some distance down the creek, I came upon fresh buffalo tracks, and as I had a number of dogs with me to stop the buffalo, I concluded I would follow after and kill one; and as the grass and weeds were rank, I could readily follow the track. A little before sundown I despaired of coming up with them. I was then thinking how I might get to camp before night. I concluded, as the buffalo had made several turns, if I took the track back to the creek it would be dark before I could get to camp; therefore I thought I would take a near way through the hills, and strike the creek a little below the camp; but as it was cloudy weather, and I a very young woodsman, I could find neither creek nor camp. When night came on I fired my gun several times, and hallooed, but could have no answer. The next morning, early, the Indians were out after me, and as I had with me ten or a dozen dogs, and the grass and weeds rank, they could readily follow my track. When they came up with me they appeared to be in very good-humor. I asked Solomon if he thought I was running away; he said, "No, no, you go too much clooked." On my return to camp they took my gun from me, and for this rash step I was reduced to a bow and arrows for near two years. We were out on this tour for about six weeks. This country is generally hilly, though intermixed with considerable quantities of rich upland and some good bottoms. When we returned to the town, Pluggy and his party had arrived, and brought with them a considerable number of scalps and prisoners from the south branch of the Potomac; they also brought with them an English Bible, which they gave to a Dutch woman who was a prisoner; but as she could not read English, she made a present of it to me, which was very acceptable. I remained in this town until some time in October, when my adopted brother, called Tontileaugo, who had married a Wyandot squaw, took me with him to Lake Erie. On this route we had no horses with us, and when we started from the town all the pack I carried was a pouch containing my books, a little dried venison, and my blanket. I had then no gun, but Tontileaugo, who was a first-rate hunter, carried a rifle gun, and every day killed deer, raccoons, or bears. We left the meat, excepting a little for present use, and carried the skins with us until we encamped, and then stretched them with elm bark, in a frame made with poles stuck in the ground, and tied together with lynn or elm bark; and when the skins were dried by the fire, we packed them up and carried them with us the next day. As Tontileaugo could not speak English, I had to make use of all the Caughnewaga I had learned, even to talk very imperfectly with him; but I found I learned to talk Indian faster this way than when I had those with me who could speak English. As we proceeded down the Canesadooharie waters, our packs increased by the skins that were daily killed, and became so very heavy that we could not march more than eight or ten miles per day. We came to Lake Erie about six miles west of the mouth of Canesadooharie. As the wind was very high the evening we came to the lake, I was surprised to hear the roaring of the water, and see the high waves that dashed against the shore, like the ocean. We encamped on a run near the lake, and, as the wind fell that night, the next morning the lake was only in a moderate motion, and we marched on the sand along the side of the water, frequently resting ourselves, as we were heavily laden. I saw on the sand a number of large fish, that had been left in flat or hollow places; as the wind fell and the waves abated they were left without water, or only a small quantity; and numbers of bald and gray eagles, etc., were along the shore devouring them. Some time in the afternoon we came to a large camp of Wyandots, at the mouth of Canesadooharie, where Tontileaugo's wife was. Here we were kindly received; they gave us a kind of rough, brown potatoes, which grew spontaneously, and were called by the Caughnewagas _ohnenata_. These potatoes, peeled and dipped in raccoon's fat, taste nearly like our sweet potatoes. They also gave us what they call _canaheanta_, which is a kind of hominy, made of green corn, dried, and beans, mixed together. We continued our camp at the mouth of Canesadooharie for some time, where we killed some deer and a great many raccoons; the raccoons here were remarkably large and fat. At length we all embarked in a large birch-bark canoe. This vessel was about four feet wide and three feet deep, and about five-and-thirty feet long; and though it could carry a heavy burden, it was so artfully and curiously constructed that four men could carry it several miles, or from one landing-place to another, or from the waters of the lake to the waters of the Ohio. We proceeded up Canesadooharie a few miles, and went on shore to hunt; but, to my great surprise, they carried the vessel we all came in up the bank, and inverted it, or turned the bottom up, and converted it to a dwelling-house, and kindled a fire before us to warm ourselves by and cook. With our baggage and ourselves in this house we were very much crowded, yet our little house turned off the rain very well. While we remained here I left my pouch with my books in camp, wrapped up in my blanket, and went out to hunt chestnuts. On my return to camp my books were missing. I inquired after them, and asked the Indians if they knew where they were; they told me that they supposed the puppies had carried them off. I did not believe them, but thought they were displeased at my poring over my books, and concluded that they had destroyed them, or put them out of my way. After this I was again out after nuts, and on my return beheld a new erection, composed of two white-oak saplings, that were forked about twelve feet high, and stood about fifteen feet apart. They had cut these saplings at the forks, and laid a strong pole across, which appeared in the form of a gallows; and the poles they had shaved very smooth, and painted in places with vermilion. I could not conceive the use of this piece of work, and at length concluded it was a gallows. I thought that I had displeased them by reading my books, and that they were about putting me to death. The next morning I observed them bringing their skins all to this place, and hanging them over this pole, so as to preserve them from being injured by the weather. This removed my fears. They also buried their large canoe in the ground, which is the way they took to preserve this sort of a canoe in the winter season. As we had at this time no horse, every one got a pack on his back, and we steered an east course about twelve miles and encamped. The next morning we proceeded on the same course about ten miles to a large creek that empties into Lake Erie, betwixt Canesadooharie and Cayahoga. Here they made their winter cabin in the following form: they cut logs about fifteen feet long, and laid these logs upon each other, and drove posts in the ground at each end to keep them together; the posts they tied together at the top with bark, and by this means raised a wall fifteen feet long and about four feet high, and in the same manner they raised another wall opposite to this, at about twelve feet distance; then they drove forks in the ground in the centre of each end, and laid a strong pole from end to end on these forks; and from these walls to the poles they set up poles instead of rafters, and on these they tied small poles in place of laths; and a cover was made of lynn-bark, which will run[2] even in the winter season. [2] Peel. It was some time in December when we finished this winter-cabin; but when we had got into this comparatively fine lodging another difficulty arose--we had nothing to eat. While I was travelling with Tontileaugo, as was before mentioned, and had plenty of fat venison, bear's meat, and raccoons, I then thought it was hard living without bread or salt; but now I began to conclude that, if I had anything that would banish pinching hunger, and keep soul and body together, I would be content. While the hunters were all out, exerting themselves to the utmost of their ability, the squaws and boys (in which class I was) were scattered out in the bottoms, hunting red haws, black haws, and hickory nuts. As it was too late in the year we did not succeed in gathering haws, but we had tolerable success in scratching up hickory-nuts from under a light snow, and these we carried with us lest the hunters should not succeed. After our return the hunters came in, who had killed only two small turkeys, which were but little among eight hunters and thirteen squaws, boys, and children; but they were divided with the greatest equity and justice; every one got their equal share. The next day the hunters turned out again, and killed one deer and three bears. One of the bears was very large and remarkably fat. The hunters carried in meat sufficient to give us all a hearty supper and breakfast. The squaws and all that could carry turned out to bring in meat; every one had their share assigned them, and my load was among the least; yet, not being accustomed to carrying in this way, I got exceedingly weary, and told them my load was too heavy; I must leave part of it and come for it again. They made a halt, and only laughed at me, and took part of my load, and added it to a young squaw's, who had as much before as I carried. This kind of reproof had a greater tendency to excite me to exert myself in carrying without complaining than if they had whipped me for laziness. After this the hunters held a council, and concluded that they must have horses to carry their loads; and that they would go to war, even in this inclement season, in order to bring in horses. Tontileaugo wished to be one of those who should go to war; but the votes went against him, as he was one of our best hunters; it was thought necessary to leave him at this winter-camp to provide for the squaws and children. It was agreed upon that Tontileaugo and three others should stay and hunt, and the other four go to war. They then began to go through their common ceremony. They sung their war-songs, danced their war-dances, etc. And when they were equipped they went off singing their marching-song and firing their guns. Our camp appeared to be rejoicing; but I was grieved to think that some innocent persons would be murdered, not thinking of danger. After the departure of these warriors we had hard times; and though we were not altogether out of provisions, we were brought to short allowance. At length Tontileaugo had considerable success, and we had meat brought into camp sufficient to last ten days. Tontileaugo then took me with him in order to encamp some distance from this winter-cabin, to try his luck there. We carried no provisions with us; he said he would leave what was there for the squaws and children, and that we could shift for ourselves. We steered about a south course up the waters of this creek, and encamped about ten or twelve miles from the winter-cabin. As it was still cold weather, and a crust upon the snow, which made a noise as we walked, and alarmed the deer, we could kill nothing, and consequently went to sleep without supper. The only chance we had, under these circumstances, was to hunt bear-holes; as the bears, about Christmas, search out a winter lodging-place, where they lie about three or four months without eating or drinking. This may appear to some incredible, but it is well known to be the case by those who live in the remote western parts of North America. The next morning early we proceeded on, and when we found a tree scratched by the bears climbing up, and the hole in the tree sufficiently large for the reception of the bear, we then felled a sapling or small tree against or near the hole, and it was my business to climb up and drive out the bear, while Tontileaugo stood ready with his gun and bow. We went on in this manner until evening without success. At length we found a large elm scratched, and a hole in it about forty feet up, but no tree nigh suitable to lodge against the hole. Tontileaugo got a long pole and some dry rotten wood, which he tied in bunches with bark; and as there was a tree that grew near the elm, and extended up near the hole, but leaned the wrong way, so that we could not lodge it to advantage, to remedy this inconvenience he climbed up this tree and carried with him his rotten wood, fire, and pole. The rotten wood he tied to his belt, and to one end of the pole he tied a hook and a piece of rotten wood, which he set fire to, as it would retain fire almost like punk, and reached this hook from limb to limb as he went up. When he got up with his pole he put dry wood on fire into the hole; after he put in the fire he heard the bear snuff, and he came speedily down, took his gun in his hand, and waited until the bear would come out; but it was some time before it appeared, and when it did appear he attempted taking sight with his rifle; but it being then too dark to see the sights, he set it down by a tree, and instantly bent his bow, took hold of an arrow, and shot the bear a little behind the shoulder. I was preparing also to shoot an arrow, but he called to me to stop, there was no occasion; and with that the bear fell to the ground. Being very hungry, we kindled a fire, opened the bear, took out the liver, and wrapped some of the caul-fat round, and put it on a wooden spit, which we stuck in the ground by the fire to roast; then we skinned the bear, got on our kettle, and had both roast and boiled, and also sauce to our meat, which appeared to me to be delicate fare. After I was fully satisfied I went to sleep; Tontileaugo awoke me, saying, "Come, eat hearty, we have got meat plenty now." The next morning we cut down a lynn-tree, peeled bark and made a snug little shelter, facing the southeast, with a large log betwixt us and the northwest; we made a good fire before us, and scaffolded up our meat at one side. When we had finished our camp we went out to hunt; searched two trees for bears, but to no purpose. As the snow thawed a little in the afternoon, Tontileaugo killed a deer, which we carried with us to camp. Some time in February the four warriors returned, who had taken two scalps and six horses from the frontiers of Pennsylvania. The hunters could then scatter out a considerable distance from the winter-cabin and encamp, kill meat, and bring it in upon horses; so that we commonly, after this, had plenty of provision. In this month we began to make sugar. As some of the elm-bark will strip at this season, the squaws, after finding a tree that would do, cut it down, and with a crooked stick, broad and sharp at the end, took the bark off the tree, and of this bark made vessels, in a curious manner, that would hold about two gallons each; they made above one hundred of these kind of vessels. In the sugar-tree they cut a notch, sloping down, and at the end of the notch stuck in a tomahawk; in the place where they stuck the tomahawk they drove a long chip, in order to carry the water out from the tree, and under this they set their vessel to receive it. As sugar-trees were plenty and large here, they seldom or never notched a tree that was not two or three feet over. They also made bark vessels for carrying the water that would hold about four gallons each. They had two brass kettles that held about fifteen gallons each, and other smaller kettles in which they boiled the water. But as they could not at times boil away the water as fast as it was collected, they made vessels of bark that would hold about one hundred gallons each for retaining the water; and though the sugar-trees did not run every day, they had always a sufficient quantity of water to keep them boiling during the whole sugar-season. About the latter end of March we began to prepare for moving into town in order to plant corn. The squaws were then frying the last of their bear's fat and making vessels to hold it; the vessels were made of deer-skins, which were skinned by pulling the skin off the neck without ripping. After they had taken off the hair they gathered it in small plaits round the neck, and, with a string, drew it together like a purse; in the centre a pin was put, below which they tied a string, and while it was wet they blew it up like a bladder, and let it remain in this manner until it was dry, when it appeared nearly in the shape of a sugar-loaf, but more rounding at the lower end. One of these vessels would hold about four or five gallons. In these vessels it was they carried their bear's oil. When all things were ready we moved back to the falls of Canesadooharie. On our arrival at the falls (as we had brought with us on horseback about two hundred weight of sugar, a large quantity of bear's oil, skins, etc.) the canoe we had buried was not sufficient to carry all; therefore we were obliged to make another one of elm-bark. While we lay here a young Wyandot found my books. On this they collected together. I was a little way from the camp, and saw the collection, but did not know what it meant. They called me by my Indian name, which was Scoouwa, repeatedly. I ran to see what was the matter; they showed me my books, and said they were glad they had been found, for they knew I was grieved at the loss of them, and that they now rejoiced with me because they were found. As I could then speak some Indian, especially Caughnewaga (for both that and the Wyandot tongue were spoken in this camp), I told them that I thanked them for the kindness they had always shown to me, and also for finding my books. They asked if the books were damaged. I told them not much. They then showed how they lay, which was in the best manner to turn off the water. In a deer-skin pouch they lay all winter. The print was not much injured, though the binding was. This was the first time that I felt my heart warm towards the Indians. Though they had been exceedingly kind to me, I still before detested them on account of the barbarity I beheld after Braddock's defeat. Neither had I ever before pretended kindness, or expressed myself in a friendly manner; but I began now to excuse the Indians on account of their want of information. We staid at this camp about two weeks, and killed a number of bears, raccoons, and some beavers. We made a canoe of elm-bark, and Tontileaugo embarked in it. He arrived at the falls that night; while I, mounted on horseback, with a bear-skin saddle and bark stirrups, proceeded by land to the falls. I came there the next morning, and we carried our canoe and loading past the falls. We again proceeded towards the lakes; I on horseback and Tontileaugo by water. Here the land is generally good, but I found some difficulty in getting round swamps and ponds. When we came to the lake I proceeded along the strand and Tontileaugo near the shore, sometimes paddling and sometimes poling his canoe along. After some time the wind arose, and he went into the mouth of a small creek and encamped. Here we staid several days on account of high wind, which raised the lake in great billows. While we were here Tontileaugo went out to hunt, and when he was gone a Wyandot came to our camp. I gave him a shoulder of venison which I had by the fire well roasted, and he received it gladly; told me he was hungry, and thanked me for my kindness. When Tontileaugo came home I told him that a Wyandot had been at camp, and that I gave him a shoulder of roasted venison. He said that was very well, "and I suppose you gave him also sugar and bear's oil to eat with his venison." I told him I did not, as the sugar and bear's oil were down in the canoe, I did not go for it. He replied, "You have behaved just like a Dutchman.[3] Do you not know that when strangers come to our camp we ought always to give them the best that we have?" I acknowledged that I was wrong. He said that he could excuse this, as I was but young; but I must learn to behave like a warrior, and do great things, and never be found in any such little actions. [3] The Dutch he called Skoharehaugo, which took its derivation from a Dutch settlement called Skoharey. The lake being again calm, we proceeded, and arrived safe at Sunyendeand, which was a Wyandot town that lay upon a small creek which empties into the little lake below the mouth of Sandusky. The town was about eighty rood above the mouth of the creek, on the south side of a large plain, on which timber grew, and nothing more but grass or nettles. In some places there were large flats where nothing but grass grew, about three feet high when grown, and in other places nothing but nettles, very rank, where the soil is extremely rich and loose; here they planted corn. In this town there were also French traders, who purchased our skins and fur, and we all got new clothes, paint, tobacco, etc. After I had got my new clothes, and my head done off like a red-headed woodpecker, I, in company with a number of young Indians, went down to the corn-field to see the squaws at work. When we came there they asked me to take a hoe, which I did, and hoed for some time. The squaws applauded me as a good hand at the business; but when I returned to the town the old men, hearing of what I had done, chid me, and said that I was adopted in the place of a great man, and must not hoe corn like a squaw. They never had occasion to reprove me for anything like this again; as I never was extremely fond of work, I readily complied with their orders. As the Indians, on their return from their winter hunt, bring in with them large quantities of bear's oil, sugar, dried venison, etc., at this time they have plenty, and do not spare eating or giving; thus they make way with their provision as quick as possible. They have no such thing as regular meals, breakfast, dinner, or supper; but if any one, even the town-folks, would go to the same house several times in one day, he would be invited to eat of the best; and with them it is bad manners to refuse to eat when it is offered. If they will not eat it is interpreted as a symptom of displeasure, or that the persons refusing to eat were angry with those who had invited them. At this time hominy, plentifully mixed with bear's oil and sugar, or dried venison, bear's oil, and sugar, is what they offer to every one who comes in any time of the day; and so they go on until their sugar, bear's oil, and venison are all gone, and then they have to eat hominy by itself, without bread, salt, or anything else; yet still they invite every one that comes in to eat while they have anything to give. It is thought a shame not to invite people to eat while they have anything; but if they can in truth only say we have got nothing to eat, this is accepted as an honorable apology. All the hunters and warriors continued in town about six weeks after we came in; they spent this time in painting, going from house to house, eating, smoking, and playing at a game resembling dice, or hustle-cap. They put a number of plum-stones in a small bowl; one side of each stone is black, and the other white; they then shake or hustle the bowl, calling, "_Hits, hits, hits, honesey, honesey, rago, rago_;" which signifies calling for white or black, or what they wish to turn up; they then turn the bowl, and count the whites and blacks. Some were beating their kind of drum and singing; others were employed in playing on a sort of flute made of hollow cane; and others playing on the jew's-harp. Some part of this time was also taken up in attending the council-house, where the chiefs, and as many others as chose, attended; and at night they were frequently employed in singing and dancing. Towards the last of this time, which was in June, 1756, they were all engaged in preparing to go to war against the frontiers of Virginia. When they were equipped they went through their ceremonies, sung their war-songs, etc. They all marched off, from fifteen to sixty years of age; and some boys, only twelve years of age, were equipped with their bows and arrows, and went to war; so that none were left in town but squaws and children, except myself, one very old man, and another, about fifty years of age, who was lame. The Indians were then in great hopes that they would drive all the Virginians over the lake, which is all the name they know for the sea. When the warriors left this town we had neither meat, sugar, or bear's oil left. All that we had then to live on was corn pounded into coarse meal or small hominy; this they boiled in water, which appeared like well-thickened soup, without salt or anything else. For some time we had plenty of this kind of hominy; at length we were brought to very short allowance, and as the warriors did not return as soon as they expected, we were soon in a starving condition, and but one gun in the town, and very little ammunition. The old lame Wyandot concluded that he would go a-hunting in a canoe, and take me with him, and try to kill deer in the water, as it was then watering time. We went up Sandusky a few miles, then turned up a creek and encamped. We had lights prepared, as we were to hunt in the night, and also a piece of bark and some bushes set up in the canoe, in order to conceal ourselves from the deer. A little boy that was with us held the light; I worked the canoe, and the old man, who had his gun loaded with large shot, when we came near the deer, fired, and in this manner killed three deer in part of one night. We went to our fire, ate heartily, and in the morning returned to town in order to relieve the hungry and distressed. When we came to town the children were crying bitterly on account of pinching hunger. We delivered what we had taken, and though it was but little among so many, it was divided according to the strictest rules of justice. We immediately set out for another hunt, but before we returned a part of the warriors had come in, and brought with them on horseback a quantity of meat. These warriors had divided into different parties, and all struck at different places in Augusta County. They brought in with them a considerable number of scalps, prisoners, horses, and other plunder. One of the parties brought in with them one Arthur Campbell, that is now Colonel Campbell, who lives on Holston River, near the Royal Oak. As the Wyandots at Sunyendeand and those at Detroit were connected, Mr. Campbell was taken to Detroit; but he remained some time with me in this town. His company was very agreeable, and I was sorry when he left me. During his stay at Sunyendeand he borrowed my Bible, and made some pertinent remarks on what he had read. One passage was where it is said, "It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth." He said we ought to be resigned to the will of Providence, as we were now bearing the yoke in our youth. Mr. Campbell appeared to be then about sixteen or seventeen years of age. About the time that these warriors came in the green corn was beginning to be of use, so that we had either green corn or venison, and sometimes both, which was, comparatively, high living. When we could have plenty of green corn, or roasting ears, the hunters became lazy, and spent their time, as already mentioned, in singing and dancing, etc. They appeared to be fulfilling the Scriptures beyond those who profess to believe in them, in that of taking no thought of to-morrow; and also in living in love, peace, and friendship together, without disputes. In this respect they shame those who profess Christianity. In this manner we lived until October; then the geese, swans, ducks, cranes, etc., came from the north, and alighted on this little lake, without number, or innumerable. Sunyendeand is a remarkable place for fish in the spring, and fowl both in the fall and spring. As our hunters were now tired with indolence, and fond of their own kind of exercise, they all turned out to fowling, and in this could scarce miss of success; so that we had now plenty of hominy and the best of fowls; and sometimes, as a rarity, we had a little bread, which was made of Indian-corn meal, pounded in a hominy block, mixed with boiled beans, and baked in cakes under the ashes. This with us was called good living, though not equal to our fat, roasted, and boiled venison, when we went to the woods in the fall; or bear's meat and beaver in the winter; or sugar, bear's oil, and dry venison in the spring. Some time in October, another adopted brother, older than Tontileaugo came to pay us a visit at Sunyendeand, and he asked me to take a hunt with him on Cayahoga. As they always used me as a free man, and gave me the liberty of choosing, I told him that I was attached to Tontileaugo, had never seen him before, and therefore asked some time to consider of this. He told me that the party he was going with would not be along, or at the mouth of this little lake, in less than six days, and I could in this time be acquainted with him, and judge for myself. I consulted with Tontileaugo on this occasion, and he told me that our old brother Tecaughretanego (which was his name) was a chief, and a better man than he was, and if I went with him I might expect to be well used; but he said I might do as I pleased, and if I staid he would use me as he had done. I told him that he had acted in every respect as a brother to me; yet I was much pleased with my old brother's conduct and conversation; and as he was going to a part of the country I had never been in, I wished to go with him. He said that he was perfectly willing. I then went with Tecaughretanego to the mouth of the little lake, where he met with the company he intended going with, which was composed of Caughnewagas and Ottawas. As the wind was high and we could not proceed on our voyage, we remained here several days, and killed abundance of wild fowl, and a number of raccoons. When a company of Indians are moving together on the lake, as it is at this time of the year often dangerous sailing, the old men hold a council; and when they agree to embark, every one is engaged immediately in making ready, without offering one word against the measure, though the lake may be boisterous and horrid. One morning, though the wind appeared to me to be as high as in days past, and the billows raging, yet the call was given "_yohoh-yohoh_," which was quickly answered by all--"_ooh-ooh_," which signifies agreed. We were all instantly engaged in preparing to start, and had considerable difficulties in embarking. As soon as we got into our canoes we fell to paddling with all our might, making out from the shore. Though these sort of canoes ride waves beyond what could be expected, yet the water several times dashed into them. When we got out about half a mile from shore we hoisted sail, and as it was nearly a west wind, we then seemed to ride the waves with ease, and went on at a rapid rate. We then all laid down our paddles, excepting one that steered, and there was no water dashed into our canoes until we came near the shore again. We sailed about sixty miles that day, and encamped some time before night. The next day we again embarked, and went on very well for some time; but the lake being boisterous, and the wind not fair, we were obliged to make to shore, which we accomplished with hard work and some difficulty in landing. The next morning a council was held by the old men. As we had this day to pass by a long precipice of rocks on the shore, about nine miles, which rendered it impossible for us to land, though the wind was high and the lake rough, yet, as it was fair, we were all ordered to embark. We wrought ourselves out from the shore and hoisted sail (what we used in place of sail-cloth were our tent-mats, which answered the purpose very well), and went on for some time with a fair wind, until we were opposite to the precipice, and then it turned towards the shore, and we began to fear we should be cast upon the rocks. Two of the canoes were considerably farther out from the rocks than the canoe I was in. Those who were farthest out in the lake did not let down their sails until they had passed the precipice; but as we were nearer the rock, we were obliged to lower our sails, and paddle with all our might. With much difficulty we cleared ourselves of the rock, and landed. As the other canoes had landed before us, there were immediately runners sent off to see if we were all safely landed. About the first of December, 1756, we were preparing for leaving the river: we buried our canoes, and as usual hung up our skins, and every one had a pack to carry. The squaws also packed up their tents, which they carried in large rolls that extended up above their heads, and though a great bulk, yet not heavy. We steered about a southeast course, and could not march over ten miles per day. At night we lodged in our flag tents, which, when erected, were nearly in the shape of a sugar-loaf, and about fifteen feet diameter at the ground. In this manner we proceeded about forty miles, and wintered in these tents, on the waters of Beaver Creek, near a little lake or large pond, which is about two miles long and one broad, and a remarkable place for beaver. It is a received opinion among Indians that the geese turn to beavers, and the snakes to raccoons; and though Tecaughretanego, who was a wise man, was not fully persuaded that this was true, yet he seemed in some measure to be carried away with this whimsical notion. He said that this pond had been always a great place for beaver. Though he said he knew them to be frequently all killed (as he thought), yet the next winter they would be as plenty as ever. And as the beaver was an animal that did not travel by land, and there being no water communication to or from this pond, how could such a number of beavers get there year after year? But as this pond was also a considerable place for geese, when they came in the fall from the north, and alighted in this pond, they turned beavers, all but the feet, which remained nearly the same. In conversation with Tecaughretanego I happened to be talking of the beavers catching fish. He asked me why I thought that the beaver caught fish. I told him that I had read of the beaver making dams for the conveniency of fishing. He laughed, and made game of me and my book. He said the man that wrote that book knew nothing about the beaver. The beaver never did eat flesh of any kind, but lived on the bark of trees, roots, and other vegetables. In order to know certainly how this was, when we killed a beaver I carefully examined the intestines, but found no appearance of fish; I afterwards made an experiment on a pet beaver which we had, and found that it would neither eat fish nor flesh; therefore I acknowledged that the book I had read was wrong. Near this pond beaver was the principal game. Before the water froze up we caught a great many with wooden and steel traps; but after that we hunted the beaver on the ice. Some places here the beavers build large houses to live in; and in other places they have subterraneous lodgings in the banks. Where they lodge in the ground we have no chance of hunting them on the ice; but where they have houses, we go with mauls and handspikes, and break all the hollow ice, to prevent them from getting their heads above the water under it. Then we break a hole in the house, and they make their escape into the water; but as they cannot live long under water, they are obliged to go to some of those broken places to breathe, and the Indians commonly put in their hands, catch them by the hind-leg, haul them on the ice, and tomahawk them. Sometimes they shoot them in the head when they raise it above the water. I asked the Indians if they were not afraid to catch the beavers with their hands. They said no: they were not much of a biting creature; yet if they would catch them by the fore-foot they would bite. I went out with Tecaughretanego and some others a beaver hunting; but we did not succeed, and on our return we saw where several raccoons had passed while the snow was soft, though there was now a crust upon it; we all made a halt, looking at the raccoon tracks. As they saw a tree with a hole in it, they told me to go and see if they had gone in thereat; and if they had to halloo, and they would come and take them out. When I went to that tree, I found they had gone past; but I saw another the way they had gone, and proceeded to examine that, and found they had gone up it. I then began to halloo, but could have no answer. As it began to snow and blow most violently, I returned and proceeded after my company, and for some time could see their tracks; but the old snow being only about three inches deep, and a crust upon it, the present driving snow soon filled up the tracks. As I had only a bow, arrows, and tomahawk with me, and no way to strike fire, I appeared to be in a dismal situation; and as the air was dark with snow, I had little more prospect of steering my course than I would in the night. At length I came to a hollow tree, with a hole at one side that I could go in at. I went in, and found that it was a dry place, and the hollow about three feet diameter, and high enough for me to stand in. I found that there was also a considerable quantity of soft, dry rotten wood around this hollow; I therefore concluded that I would lodge here, and that I would go to work, and stop up the door of my house. I stripped off my blanket (which was all the clothes that I had, excepting a breech-clout, leggings, and moccasons), and with my tomahawk fell to chopping at the top of a fallen tree that lay near, and carried wood, and set it up on end against the door, until I had it three or four feet thick all around, excepting a hole I had left to creep in at. I had a block prepared that I could haul after me to stop this hole; and before I went in I put in a number of small sticks that I might more effectually stop it on the inside. When I went in, I took my tomahawk and cut down all the dry rotten wood I could get, and beat it small. With it I made a bed like a goose-nest or hog-bed, and with the small sticks stopped every hole, until my house was almost dark. I stripped off my moccasons, and danced in the centre of my bed, for half an hour, in order to warm myself. In this time my feet and whole body were agreeably warmed. The snow, in the meanwhile, had stopped all the holes, so that my house was as dark as a dungeon, though I knew it could not yet be dark out of doors. I then coiled myself up in my blanket, lay down in my little round bed, and had a tolerable night's lodging. When I awoke all was dark--not the least glimmering of light was to be seen. Immediately I recollected that I was not to expect light in this new habitation, as there was neither door nor window in it. As I could hear the storm raging, and did not suffer much cold as I was then situated, I concluded I would stay in my nest until I was certain it was day. When I had reason to conclude that it surely was day, I arose and put on my moccasons, which I had laid under my head to keep from freezing. I then endeavored to find the door, and had to do all by the sense of feeling, which took me some time. At length I found the block, but it being heavy, and a large quantity of snow having fallen on it, at the first attempt I did not move it. I then felt terrified--among all the hardships I had sustained, I never knew before what it was to be thus deprived of light. This, with the other circumstances attending it, appeared grievous. I went straightway to bed again, wrapped my blanket round me, and lay and mused awhile, and then prayed to Almighty God to direct and protect me as he had done heretofore. I once again attempted to move away the block, which proved successful; it moved about nine inches. With this a considerable quantity of snow fell in from above, and I immediately received light; so that I found a very great snow had fallen, above what I had ever seen in one night. I then knew why I could not easily move the block, and I was so rejoiced at obtaining the light that all my other difficulties seemed to vanish. I then turned into my cell, and returned God thanks for having once more received the light of heaven. At length I belted my blanket about me, got my tomahawk, bow and arrows, and went out of my den. I was now in tolerable high spirits, though the snow had fallen above three feet deep, in addition to what was on the ground before; and the only imperfect guide I had in order to steer my course to camp was the trees, as the moss generally grows on the northwest side of them, if they are straight. I proceeded on, wading through the snow, and about twelve o'clock (as it appeared afterwards, from that time to night, for it was yet cloudy) I came upon the creek that our camp was on, about half a mile below the camp; and when I came in sight of the camp I found that there was great joy, by the shouts and yelling of the boys, etc. When I arrived they all came round me, and received me gladly; but at this time no questions were asked, and I was taken into a tent, where they gave me plenty of fat beaver meat, and then asked me to smoke. When I had done, Tecaughretanego desired me to walk out to a fire they had made. I went out, and they all collected round me, both men, women, and boys. Tecaughretanego asked me to give them a particular account of what had happened from the time they left me yesterday until now. I told them the whole of the story, and they never interrupted me; but when I made a stop, the intervals were filled with loud exclamations of joy. As I could not at this time talk Ottawa or Jibewa well (which is nearly the same), I delivered my story in Caughnewaga. As my sister Molly's husband was a Jibewa, and could understand Caughnewaga, he acted as interpreter, and delivered my story to the Jibewas and Ottawas, which they received with pleasure. One day, as I was looking after my traps, I got benighted, by beaver ponds intercepting my way to camp; and as I had neglected to take fireworks with me, and the weather very cold, I could find no suitable lodging-place; therefore the only expedient I could think of to keep myself from freezing was exercise. I danced and hallooed the whole night with all my might, and the next day came to camp. Though I suffered much more this time than the other night I lay out, yet the Indians were not so much concerned, as they thought I had fireworks with me; but when they knew how it was, they did not blame me. They said that old hunters were frequently involved in this place, as the beaver dams were one above another on every creek and run, so that it is hard to find a fording-place. They applauded me for my fortitude, and said, as they had now plenty of beaver skins, they would purchase me a new gun at Detroit, as we were to go there the next spring; and then if I should chance to be lost in dark weather, I could make a fire, kill provision, and return to camp when the sun shone. By being bewildered on the waters of Muskingum, I lost repute, and was reduced to the bow and arrow, and by lying out two nights here I regained my credit. After some time the waters all froze again, and then, as formerly, we hunted beavers on the ice. Though beaver meat, without salt or bread, was the chief of our food this winter, yet we had always plenty, and I was well contented with my diet, as it appeared delicious fare after the way we had lived the winter before. Some time in February we scaffolded up our fur and skins, and moved about ten miles in quest of a sugar-camp, or a suitable place to make sugar, and encamped in a large bottom on the head-waters of Big Beaver Creek. We had some difficulty in moving, as we had a blind Caughnewaga boy, about fifteen years of age, to lead; and as this country is very brushy, we frequently had him to carry. We had also my Jibewa brother-in-law's father with us, who was thought by the Indians to be a great conjuror; his name was Manetohcoa. This old man was so decrepit that we had to carry him this route upon a bier, and all our baggage to pack on our backs. Some time in March, 1757, we began to move back to the forks of Cayahoga, which was about forty or fifty miles. And as we had no horses, we had all our baggage and several hundred weight of beaver skins, and some deer and bear skins, all to pack on our backs. The method we took to accomplish this was by making short days' journeys. In the morning we would move on with as much as we were able to carry, about five miles, and encamp, and then run back for more. We commonly made three such trips in the day. When we came to the great pond, we staid there one day to rest ourselves, and to kill ducks and geese. When we came to the forks, we found that the skins we had scaffolded were all safe. Though this was a public place, and Indians frequently passing, and our skins hanging up in view, yet there were none stolen. And it is seldom that Indians do steal anything from one another. And they say they never did, until the white people came among them, and taught some of them to lie, cheat, and steal; but be that as it may, they never did curse or swear until the whites taught them. Some think their language will not admit of it, but I am not of that opinion. If I was so disposed, I could find language to curse or swear in the Indian tongue. We took up our birch-bark canoes which we had buried, and found that they were not damaged by the winter; but they not being sufficient to carry all that we now had, we made a large chestnut-bark canoe, as elm-bark was not to be found at this place. We all embarked, and had a very agreeable passage down the Cayahoga, and along the south side of Lake Erie, until we passed the mouth of Sandusky; then the wind arose, and we put in at the mouth of the Miami of the Lake, at Cedar Point, where we remained several days, and killed a number of turkeys, geese, ducks, and swans. The wind being fair, and the lake not extremely rough, we again embarked, hoisted up sails, and arrived safe at the Wyandot town, nearly opposite to Fort Detroit, on the north side of the river. Here we found a number of French traders, every one very willing to deal with us for our beaver. We bought ourselves fine clothes, ammunition, paint, tobacco, etc., and, according to promise, they purchased me a new gun; yet we had parted with only about one third of our beaver. At length a trader came to town with French brandy; we purchased a keg of it, and held a council about who was to get drunk and who was to keep sober. I was invited to get drunk, but I refused the proposal; then they told me that I must be one of those who were to take care of the drunken people. I did not like this; but of two evils I chose that which I thought was the least--and fell in with those who were to conceal the arms, and keep every dangerous weapon we could out of their way, and endeavor, if possible, to keep the drinking-club from killing each other, which was a very hard task. Several times we hazarded our own lives, and got ourselves hurt in preventing them from slaying each other. Before they had finished this keg, near one third of the town was introduced to this drinking-club; they could not pay their part, as they had already disposed of all their skins; but that made no odds--all were welcome to drink. When they were done with this keg, they applied to the traders, and procured a kettle full of brandy at a time, which they divided out with a large wooden spoon; and so they went on, and never quit while they had a single beaver skin. When the trader had got all our beaver, he moved off to the Ottawa town, about a mile above the Wyandot town. When the brandy was gone, and the drinking-club sober, they appeared much dejected. Some of them were crippled, others badly wounded, a number of their fine new shirts torn, and several blankets were burned. A number of squaws were also in this club, and neglected their corn-planting. We could now hear the effects of the brandy in the Ottawa town. They were singing and yelling in the most hideous manner, both night and day; but their frolic ended worse than ours: five Ottawas were killed and a great many wounded. After this a number of young Indians were getting their ears cut, and they urged me to have mine cut likewise, but they did not attempt to compel me, though they endeavored to persuade me. The principal arguments they used were, its being a very great ornament, and also the common fashion. The former I did not believe, and the latter I could not deny. The way they performed this operation was by cutting the fleshy part of the circle of the ear, close to the gristle, quite through. When this was done they wrapped rags round this fleshy part until it was entirely healed; they then hung lead to it, and stretched it to a wonderful length: when it was sufficiently stretched, they wrapped the fleshy part round with brass wire, which formed it into a semicircle about four inches in diameter. Many of the young men were now exercising themselves in a game resembling football, though they commonly struck the ball with a crooked stick made for that purpose; also a game something like this, wherein they used a wooden ball, about three inches in diameter, and the instrument they moved it with was a strong staff, about five feet long, with a hoop net on the end of it large enough to contain the ball. Before they begin the play, they lay off about half a mile distance in a clear plain, and the opposite parties all attend at the centre, where a disinterested person casts up the ball, then the opposite parties all contend for it. If any one gets it into his net, he runs with it the way he wishes it to go, and they all pursue him. If one of the opposite party overtakes the person with the ball, he gives the staff a stroke, which causes the ball to fly out of the net; then they have another debate for it, and if the one that gets it can outrun all the opposite party, and can carry it quite out, or over the line at the end, the game is won; but this seldom happens. When any one is running away with the ball, and is likely to be overtaken, he commonly throws it, and with this instrument can cast it fifty or sixty yards. Sometimes when the ball is almost at the one end, matters will take a sudden turn, and the opposite party may quickly carry it out at the other end. Oftentimes they will work a long while back and forward before they can get the ball over the line, or win the game. About the 1st of June, 1757, the warriors were preparing to go to war, in the Wyandot, Pottowatomy, and Ottawa towns; also a great many Jibewas came down from the upper lakes; and after singing their war-songs and going through their common ceremonies, they marched off against the frontiers of Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, in their usual manner, singing the travelling song, slow firing, etc. About the middle of June the Indians were almost all gone to war, from sixteen to sixty; yet Tecaughretanego remained in town with me. Though he had formerly, when they were at war with the southern nations, been a great warrior and an eminent counsellor, and I think as clear and able a reasoner upon any subject that he had an opportunity of being acquainted with as I ever knew, yet he had all along been against this war, and had strenuously opposed it in council. He said, if the English and French had a quarrel, let them fight their own battles themselves; it is not our business to intermeddle therewith. Before the warriors returned we were very scarce of provision; and though we did not commonly steal from one another, yet we stole during this time anything that we could eat from the French, under the notion that it was just for us to do so, because they supported their soldiers; and our squaws, old men, and children were suffering on account of the war, as our hunters were all gone. Some time in August the warriors returned, and brought in with them a great many scalps, prisoners, horses, and plunder; and the common report among the young warriors was that they would entirely subdue Tulhasaga, that is the English, or it might be literally rendered the Morning Light Inhabitants. About the first of November a number of families were preparing to go on their winter hunt, and all agreed to cross the lake together. We encamped at the mouth of the river the first night, and a council was held, whether we should cross through by the three islands, or coast it round the lake. These islands lie in a line across the lake, and are just in sight of each other. Some of the Wyandots, or Ottawas, frequently make their winter hunt on these islands; though, excepting wild fowl and fish, there is scarcely any game here but raccoons, which are amazingly plenty, and exceedingly large and fat, as they feed upon the wild rice, which grows in abundance in wet places round these islands. It is said that each hunter, in one winter, will catch one thousand raccoons. It is a received opinion among the Indians that the snakes and raccoons are transmigratory, and that a great many of the snakes turn into raccoons every fall, and raccoons into snakes every spring. This notion is founded on observations made on the snakes and raccoons in this island. We concluded to coast it round the lake, and in two days we came to the mouth of the Miami of the Lake, and landed on Cedar Point, where we remained several days. Here we held a council, and concluded we would take a driving hunt in concert and in partnership. The river in this place is about a mile broad, and as it and the lake form a kind of neck, which terminates in a point, all the hunters (which were fifty-three) went up the river, and we scattered ourselves from the river to the lake. When we first began to move we were not in sight of each other, but as we all raised the yell, we could move regularly together by the noise. At length we came in sight of each other, and appeared to be marching in good order; before we came to the point, both the squaws and boys in the canoes were scattered up the river and along the lake, to prevent the deer from making their escape by water. As we advanced near the point the guns began to crack slowly, and after some time the firing was like a little engagement. The squaws and boys were busy tomahawking the deer in the water, and we shooting them down on the land. We killed in all about thirty deer, though a great many made their escape by water. Here our company separated. The chief part of them went up the Miami River,[4] which empties into Lake Erie at Cedar Point, while we proceeded on our journey in company with Tecaughretanego, Tontileaugo, and two families of the Wyandots. [4] The Miami of the Lakes, now called Maumee. As cold weather was now approaching, we began to feel the doleful effects of extravagantly and foolishly spending the large quantity of beaver we had taken in our last winter's hunt. We were all nearly in the same circumstances; scarcely one had a shirt to his back; but each of us had an old blanket which we belted round us in the day, and slept in at night, with a deer or bear skin under us for our bed. When we came to the Falls of Sandusky we buried our birch-bark canoes, as usual, at a large burying-place for that purpose, a little below the falls. At this place the river falls about eight feet over a rock, but not perpendicularly. With much difficulty we pushed up our wooden canoes; some of us went up the river, and the rest by land with the horses, until we came to the great meadows or prairies that lie between Sandusky and Sciota. When we came to this place, we met with some Ottawa hunters, and agreed with them to take what they call a ring hunt, in partnership. We waited until we expected rain was near falling to extinguish the fire, and then we kindled a large circle in the prairie. At this time, or before the bucks began to run, a great number of deer lay concealed in the grass in the day, and moved about in the night; but as the fire burned in towards the centre of the circle, the deer fled before the fire; the Indians were scattered also at some distance before the fire, and shot them down every opportunity, which was very frequent, especially as the circle became small. When we came to divide the deer, there were about ten to each hunter, which were all killed in a few hours. The rain did not come on that night to put out the outside circle of the fire, and as the wind arose, it extended through the whole prairie, which was about fifty miles in length, and in some places nearly twenty in breadth. This put an end to our ring hunting this season, and was in other respects an injury to us in the hunting business; so that upon the whole we received more harm than benefit by our rapid hunting frolic. We then moved from the north end of the glades, and encamped at the carrying-place. About the time the bucks quit running, Tontileaugo, his wife and children, Tecaughretanego, his son Nunganey, and myself, left the Wyandot camps at the carrying-place, and crossed the Sciota River at the south end of the glades, and proceeded on about a southwest course to a large creek called Ollentangy, which I believe interlocks with the waters of the Miami, and empties into Sciota on the west side thereof. From the south end of the prairie to Ollentangy there is a large quantity of beech land, intermixed with first-rate land. Here we made our winter hut, and had considerable success in hunting. After some time one of Tontileaugo's stepsons (a lad about eight years of age) offended him, and he gave the boy a moderate whipping, which much displeased his Wyandot wife. She acknowledged that the boy was guilty of a fault, but thought that he ought to have been ducked, which is their usual mode of chastisement. She said she could not bear to have her son whipped like a servant or slave; and she was so displeased, that when Tontileaugo went out to hunt, she got her two horses, and all her effects (as in this country the husband and wife have separate interests), and moved back to the Wyandot camp that we had left. When Tontileaugo returned he was much disturbed on hearing of his wife's elopement, and said that he would never go after her, were it not that he was afraid that she would get bewildered, and that his children that she had taken with her might suffer. Tontileaugo went after his wife, and when they met they made up the quarrel; and he never returned, but left Tecaughretanego and his son (a boy about ten years of age), and myself, who remained here in our hut all winter. Tecaughretanego had been a first-rate warrior, statesman, and hunter, and though he was now near sixty years of age, was yet equal to the common run of hunters, but subject to the rheumatism, which deprived him of the use of his legs. Shortly after Tontileaugo left us, Tecaughretanego became lame, and could scarcely walk out of our hut for two months. I had considerable success in hunting and trapping. Though Tecaughretanego endured much pain and misery, yet he bore it all with wonderful patience, and would often endeavor to entertain me with cheerful conversation. Sometimes he would applaud me for my diligence, skill, and activity; and at other times he would take great care in giving me instructions concerning the hunting and trapping business. He would also tell me that if I failed of success we would suffer very much, as we were about forty miles from any one living, that we knew of; yet he would not intimate that he apprehended we were in any danger, but still supposed that I was fully adequate to the task. Tontileaugo left us a little before Christmas, and from that until some time in February we had always plenty of bear meat, venison, etc. During this time I killed much more than we could use; but having no horses to carry in what I killed, I left part of it in the woods. In February there came a snow, with a crust, which made a great noise when walking on it, and frightened away the deer; and as bear and beaver were scarce here, we got entirely out of provision. After I had hunted two days without eating anything, and had very short allowance for some days before, I returned late in the evening, faint and weary. When I came into our hut, Tecaughretanego asked what success. I told him not any. He asked me if I was not very hungry. I replied that the keen appetite seemed to be in some measure removed, but I was both faint and weary. He commanded Nunganey, his little son, to bring me something to eat, and he brought me a kettle with some bones and broth. After eating a few mouthfuls, my appetite violently returned, and I thought the victuals had a most agreeable relish, though it was only fox and wildcat bones, which lay about the camp, which the ravens and turkey-buzzards had picked; these Nunganey had collected and boiled, until the sinews that remained on the bones would strip off. I speedily finished my allowance, such as it was, and when I had ended my _sweet_ repast, Tecaughretanego asked me how I felt. I told him that I was much refreshed. He then handed me his pipe and pouch, and told me to take a smoke. I did so. He then said he had something of importance to tell me, if I was now composed and ready to hear it. I told him that I was ready to hear him. He said the reason why he deferred his speech till now was because few men are in a right humor to hear good talk when they are extremely hungry, as they are then generally fretful and discomposed; "But as you appear now to enjoy calmness and serenity of mind, I will now communicate to you the thoughts of my heart, and those things that I know to be true. "_Brother_,--As you have lived with the white people, you have not had the same advantage of knowing that the great Being above feeds his people, and gives them their meat in due season, as we Indians have, who are frequently out of provisions, and yet are wonderfully supplied, and that so frequently, that it is evidently the hand of the great Owaneeyo[5] that doth this. Whereas the white people have commonly large stocks of tame cattle, that they can kill when they please, and also their barns and cribs filled with grain, and therefore have not the same opportunity of seeing and knowing that they are supported by the Ruler of heaven and earth. [5] This is the name of God, in their tongue, and signifies the owner and ruler of all things. "_Brother_,--I know that you are now afraid that we will all perish with hunger, but you have no just reason to fear this. "_Brother_,--I have been young, but now am old; I have been frequently under the like circumstances that we now are, and that some time or other in almost every year of my life; yet I have hitherto been supported, and my wants supplied in time of need. "_Brother_,--Owaneeyo sometimes suffers us to be in want, in order to teach us our dependence upon him, and to let us know that we are to love and serve him; and likewise to know the worth of the favors that we receive, and to make us more thankful. "_Brother_,--Be assured that you will be supplied with food, and that just in the right time; but you must continue diligent in the use of means. Go to sleep, and rise early in the morning and go a-hunting; be strong, and exert yourself like a man, and the Great Spirit will direct your way." The next morning I went out, and steered about an east course. I proceeded on slowly for about five miles, and saw deer frequently; but as the crust on the snow made a great noise, they were always running before I spied them, so that I could not get a shot. A violent appetite returned, and I became intolerably hungry. It was now that I concluded I would run off to Pennsylvania, my native country. As the snow was on the ground, and Indian hunters almost the whole of the way before me, I had but a poor prospect of making my escape, but my case appeared desperate. If I staid here, I thought I would perish with hunger, and if I met with Indians they could but kill me. I then proceeded on as fast as I could walk, and when I got about ten or twelve miles from our hut I came upon fresh buffalo tracks; I pursued after, and in a short time came in sight of them as they were passing through a small glade. I ran with all my might and headed them, where I lay in ambush, and killed a very large cow. I immediately kindled a fire and began to roast meat, but could not wait till it was done; I ate it almost raw. When hunger was abated I began to be tenderly concerned for my old Indian brother and the little boy I had left in a perishing condition. I made haste and packed up what meat I could carry, secured what I left from the wolves, and returned homewards. I scarcely thought on the old man's speech while I was almost distracted with hunger, but on my return was much affected with it, reflected on myself for my hard-heartedness and ingratitude, in attempting to run off and leave the venerable old man and little boy to perish with hunger. I also considered how remarkably the old man's speech had been verified in our providentially obtaining a supply. I thought also of that part of his speech which treated of the fractious dispositions of hungry people, which was the only excuse I had for my base inhumanity, in attempting to leave them in the most deplorable situation. As it was moonlight, I got home to our hut, and found the old man in his usual good-humor. He thanked me for my exertion, and bid me sit down, as I must certainly be fatigued, and he commanded Nunganey to make haste and cook. I told him I would cook for him, and let the boy lay some meat on the coals for himself; which he did, but ate it almost raw, as I had done. I immediately hung on the kettle with some water, and cut the beef in thin slices, and put them in. When it had boiled awhile, I proposed taking it off the fire, but the old man replied, "Let it be done enough." This he said in as patient and unconcerned a manner as if he had not wanted one single meal. He commanded Nunganey to eat no more beef at that time, lest he might hurt himself, but told him to sit down, and after some time he might sup some broth; this command he reluctantly obeyed. When we were all refreshed, Tecaughretanego delivered a speech upon the necessity and pleasure of receiving the necessary supports of life with thankfulness, knowing that Owaneeyo is the great giver. Such speeches from an Indian may be thought by those who are unacquainted with them altogether incredible; but when we reflect on the Indian war, we may readily conclude that they are not an ignorant or stupid sort of people, or they would not have been such fatal enemies. When they came into our country they outwitted us; and when we sent armies into their country, they outgeneralled and beat us with inferior force. Let us also take into consideration that Tecaughretanego was no common person, but was among the Indians as Socrates in the ancient heathen world; and, it may be, equal to him, if not in wisdom and in learning, yet perhaps in patience and fortitude. Notwithstanding Tecaughretanego's uncommon natural abilities, yet in the sequel of this history you will see the deficiency of the light of nature, unaided by revelation, in this truly great man. The next morning Tecaughretanego desired me to go back and bring another load of buffalo beef. As I proceeded to do so, about five miles from our hut I found a bear tree. As a sapling grew near the tree, and reached near the hole that the bear went in at, I got dry dozed or rotten wood, that would catch and hold fire almost as well as spunk. This wood I tied up in bunches, fixed them on my back, and then climbed up the sapling, and with a pole I put them, touched with fire, into the hole, and then came down and took my gun in my hand. After some time the bear came out, and I killed and skinned it, packed up a load of the meat (after securing the remainder from the wolves), and returned home before night. On my return my old brother and his son were much rejoiced at my success. After this we had plenty of provisions. We remained here until some time in April, 1758. At this time Tecaughretanego had recovered so that he could walk about. We made a bark canoe, embarked, and went down Ollentangy some distance, but, the water being low, we were in danger of splitting our canoe upon the rocks; therefore Tecaughretanego concluded we would encamp on shore, and pray for rain. When we encamped Tecaughretanego made himself a sweat-house, which he did by sticking a number of hoops in the ground, each hoop forming a semicircle; this he covered all round with blankets and skins. He then prepared hot stones, which he rolled into this hut, and then went into it himself with a little kettle of water in his hand, mixed with a variety of herbs, which he had formerly cured, and had now with him in his pack; they afforded an odoriferous perfume. When he was in, he told me to pull down the blankets behind him, and cover all up close, which I did, and then he began to pour water upon the hot stones, and to sing aloud. He continued in this vehement hot place about fifteen minutes. All this he did in order to purify himself before he would address the Supreme Being. When he came out of his sweat-house he began to burn tobacco and pray. He began each petition with "_Oh, ho, ho, ho_" which is a kind of aspiration, and signifies an ardent wish. I observed that all his petitions were only for immediate or present temporal blessings. He began his address by thanksgiving in the following manner: "O Great Being! I thank thee that I have obtained the use of my legs again; that I am now able to walk about and kill turkeys, etc., without feeling exquisite pain and misery. I know that thou art a hearer and a helper, and therefore I will call upon thee. "_Oh, ho, ho, ho,_ "Grant that my knees and ankles may be right well, and that I may be able, not only to walk, but to run and to jump logs, as I did last fall. "_Oh, ho, ho, ho,_ "Grant that on this voyage we may frequently kill bears, as they may be crossing the Scioto and Sandusky. "_Oh, ho, ho, ho,_ "Grant that we may kill plenty of turkeys along the banks, to stew with our fat bear meat. "_Oh, ho, ho, ho,_ "Grant that rain may come to raise the Ollentangy about two or three feet, that we may cross in safety down to Scioto, without danger of our canoe being wrecked on the rocks. And now, O Great Being, thou knowest how matters stand; thou knowest that I am a great lover of tobacco, and though I know not when I may get any more, I now make a present of the last I have unto thee, as a free burnt-offering; therefore I expect thou wilt hear and grant these requests, and I, thy servant, will return thee thanks and love thee for thy gifts." During the whole of this scene I sat by Tecaughretanego, and as he went through it with the greatest solemnity I was seriously affected with his prayers. I remained duly composed until he came to the burning of the tobacco; and as I knew he was a great lover of it, and saw him cast the last of it into the fire, it excited in me a kind of merriment, and I insensibly smiled. Tecaughretanego observed me laughing, which displeased him, and occasioned him to address me in the following manner. "_Brother_,--I have somewhat to say to you, and I hope you will not be offended when I tell you of your faults. You know that when you were reading your books in town I would not let the boys or any one disturb you; but now, when I was praying, I saw you laughing. I do not think that you look upon praying as a foolish thing; I believe you pray yourself. But perhaps you may think my mode or manner of praying foolish; if so, you ought in a friendly manner to instruct me, and not make sport of sacred things." I acknowledged my error, and on this he handed me his pipe to smoke, in token of friendship and reconciliation, though at this time he had nothing to smoke but red-willow bark. I told him something of the method of reconciliation with an offended God, as revealed in my Bible, which I had then in possession. He said that he liked my story better than that of the French priests, but he thought that he was now too old to begin to learn a new religion, therefore he should continue to worship God in the way that he had been taught, and that if salvation or future happiness was to be had in his way of worship, he expected he would obtain it, and if it was inconsistent with the honor of the Great Spirit to accept of him in his own way of worship, he hoped that Owaneeyo would accept of him in the way I had mentioned, or in some other way, though he might now be ignorant of the channel through which favor or mercy might be conveyed. He said that he believed that Owaneeyo would hear and help every one that sincerely waited upon him. A few days after Tecaughretanego had gone through his ceremonies and finished his prayers, the rain came and raised the creek a sufficient height, so that we passed in safety down to Scioto, and proceeded up to the carrying-place. We proceeded from this place down Sandusky, and in our passage we killed four bears and a number of turkeys. Tecaughretanego appeared now fully persuaded that all this came in answer to his prayers, and who can say with any degree of certainty that it was not so? When we came to the little lake at the mouth of Sandusky, we called at a Wyandot town that was then there, called Sunyendeand. Here we diverted ourselves several days by catching rock-fish in a small creek, the name of which is also Sunyendeand, which signifies rock-fish. They fished in the night with lights, and struck the fish with gigs or spears. The rock-fish here, when they begin first to run up the creek to spawn, are exceedingly fat, sufficiently so to fry themselves. The first night we scarcely caught fish enough for present use for all that were in the town. The next morning I met with a prisoner at this place by the name of Thompson, who had been taken from Virginia. He told me, if the Indians would only omit disturbing the fish for one night, he could catch more fish than the whole town could make use of. I told Mr. Thompson that if he was certain he could do this, that I would use my influence with the Indians to let the fish alone for one night. I applied to the chiefs, who agreed to my proposal, and said they were anxious to see what the Great Knife (as they called the Virginian) could do. Mr. Thompson, with the assistance of some other prisoners, set to work, and made a hoop-net of elm-bark; they then cut down a tree across the creek, and stuck in stakes at the lower side of it to prevent the fish from passing up, leaving only a gap at the one side of the creek; here he sat with his net, and when he felt the fish touch the net he drew it up, and frequently would haul out two or three rock-fish that would weigh about five or six pounds each. He continued at this until he had hauled out about a wagon-load, and then left the gap open in order to let them pass up, for they could not go far on account of the shallow water. Before day Mr. Thompson shut it up, to prevent them from passing down, in order to let the Indians have some diversion in killing them in daylight. When the news of the fish came to town the Indians all collected, and with surprise beheld the large heap of fish, and applauded the ingenuity of the Virginian. When they saw the number of them that were confined in the water above the tree, the young Indians ran back to the town, and in a short time returned with their spears, gigs, bows and arrows, etc., and were the chief part of that day engaged in killing rock-fish, insomuch that we had more than we could use or preserve. As we had no salt, or any way to keep them, they lay upon the banks, and after some time great numbers of turkey-buzzards and eagles collected together and devoured them. Shortly after this we left Sunyendeand, and in three days arrived at Detroit, where we remained this summer. Some time in May we heard that General Forbes, with seven thousand men, was preparing to carry on a campaign against Fort Du Quesne, which then stood near where Fort Pitt was afterwards erected. Upon receiving this news, a number of runners were sent off by the French commander at Detroit to urge the different tribes of Indian warriors to repair to Fort Du Quesne. Some time in July, 1758, the Ottawas, Jibewas, Potowatomies, and Wyandots rendezvoused at Detroit, and marched off to Fort Du Quesne, to prepare for the encounter of General Forbes. The common report was that they would serve him as they did General Braddock, and obtain much plunder. From this time until fall we had frequent accounts of Forbes's army, by Indian runners that were sent out to watch their motion. They espied them frequently from the mountains even after they left Fort Loudon. Notwithstanding their vigilance, Colonel Grant, with his Highlanders, stole a march upon them, and in the night took possession of a hill about eighty rods from Fort Du Quesne; this hill is on that account called Grant's Hill to this day. The French and Indians knew not that Grant and his men were there, until they beat the drum and played upon the bagpipes just at daylight. They then flew to arms, and the Indians ran up under cover of the banks of the Alleghany and Monongahela for some distance, and then sallied out from the banks of the rivers, and took possession of the hill above Grant; and as he was on the point of it, in sight of the fort, they immediately surrounded him; and as he had his Highlanders in ranks, and in very close order, and the Indians scattered and concealed behind trees, they defeated him with the loss only of a few warriors; most of the Highlanders were killed or taken prisoners. After this defeat the Indians held a council, but were divided in their opinions. Some said that General Forbes would now turn back, and go home the way that he came, as Dunbar had done when General Braddock was defeated; others supposed he would come on. The French urged the Indians to stay and see the event; but as it was hard for the Indians to be absent from their squaws and children at this season of the year, a great many of them returned home to their hunting. After this the remainder of the Indians, some French regulars, and a number of Canadians, marched off in quest of General Forbes. They met his army near Fort Ligonier, and attacked them, but were frustrated in their design. They said that Forbes's men were beginning to learn the art of war, and that there were a great number of American riflemen along with the redcoats, who scattered out, took trees, and were good marksmen; therefore they found they could not accomplish their design, and were obliged to retreat. When they returned from the battle to Fort Du Quesne, the Indians concluded that they would go to their hunting. The French endeavored to persuade them to stay and try another battle. The Indians said if it was only the redcoats they had to do with they could soon subdue them, but they could not withstand _Ashalecoa_, or the Great Knife, which was the name they gave the Virginians. They then returned home to their hunting, and the French evacuated the fort, which General Forbes came and took possession of, without further opposition, late in the year 1758, and at this time began to build Fort Pitt. When Tecaughretanego had heard the particulars of Grant's defeat he said that he could not well account for his contradictory and inconsistent conduct. He said, as the art of war consists in ambushing and surprising our enemies, and in preventing them from ambushing and surprising us, Grant, in the first place, acted like a wise and experienced warrior in artfully approaching in the night without being discovered; but when he came to the place, and the Indians were lying asleep outside of the fort, between him and the Alleghany River, in place of slipping up quietly, and falling upon them with their broadswords, they beat the drums and played upon the bagpipes. He said he could account for this inconsistent conduct in no other way than by supposing that he had made too free with spirituous liquors during the night, and became intoxicated about daylight. But to return. This year we hunted up Sandusky and down Scioto, and took nearly the same route that we had done the last hunting season. We had considerable success, and returned to Detroit some time in April, 1759. Shortly after this Tecaughretanego, his son Nunganey, and myself went from Detroit (in an elm-bark canoe) to Caughnewaga, a very ancient Indian town, about nine miles above Montreal, where I remained until about the first of July. I then heard of a French ship at Montreal that had English prisoners on board, in order to carry them over sea and exchange them. I went privately off from the Indians, and got also on board; but as General Wolfe had stopped the river St. Lawrence, we were all sent to prison in Montreal, where I remained four months. Some time in November we were all sent off from this place to Crown Point, and exchanged. Early in the year 1760 I came home to Conococheague, and found that my people could never ascertain whether I was killed or taken until my return. They received me with great joy, but were surprised to see me so much like an Indian, both in my gait and gesture. Upon inquiry, I found that my sweetheart was married a few days before I arrived. My feelings I must leave, on this occasion, for those of my readers to judge who have felt the pangs of disappointed love, as it is impossible now for me to describe the emotion of soul I felt at that time. In the year 1788 I settled in Bourbon County, Kentucky, seven miles above Paris, and in the same year was elected a member of the convention that sat at Danville to confer about a separation from the State of Virginia; and from that year until the year 1799 I represented Bourbon County either in convention or as a member of the General Assembly, except two years that I was left a few votes behind. II THE NARRATIVE OF FRANCESCO GIUSEPPE BRESSANI, S.J., RELATING HIS CAPTIVITY AMONG THE IROQUOIS, IN 1644 The Italian Jesuit missionary Father Bressani was born in Rome, 6 May, 1612. At the age of fourteen he entered the novitiate of the Society of Jesus. Becoming zealous to serve as missionary among the American Indians, he went to Quebec in the summer of 1642, and the following year he was sent among the Algonquins at Three Rivers. In April, 1644, while on his way to the Huron country, where a mission had been established, he was captured by the Iroquois, who at that time were an exceedingly fierce and even cannibal nation, perpetually at war with nearly the whole known continent. By them he was subjected to tortures, but finally was made over to an old squaw to take the place of a deceased relative. From her he was ransomed by the Dutch at Fort Orange (the modern Albany), and by them he was sent to France, where he arrived in November, 1644. Despite his terrible experiences among the savages, and his maimed condition, the indomitable missionary returned to Canada the next spring, and labored with the Hurons until their mission was destroyed by the Iroquois four years later. In November, 1650, Bressani, in broken health, went back to his native land. Here he spent many years as a preacher and home missionary. He died at Florence, 9 September, 1672. The following account of Father Bressani's sufferings among the Indians is translated from two of his own letters in his book _Breve Relatione d'alcune Missioni nella Nuova Francia_, published at Macerata in 1653. (_Editor._) FIRST LETTER, Dated "From the Iroquois, the 15th of July, 1644." OUR MOST REVEREND FATHER IN CHRIST: _PAX CHRISTI_--I know not whether Your Paternity will recognize the handwriting of a poor cripple, who formerly, when in perfect health, was well known to you. The letter is badly written, and quite soiled, because, among other inconveniences, the writer has but one whole finger on his right hand, and can scarcely prevent the paper's being stained by the blood which flows from his yet unhealed wounds. His ink is arquebuse powder [gunpowder rubbed up with water], and his table the bare earth. He writes to you from the land of the Iroquois, where he is now a captive, and would briefly relate what Divine Providence has at last ordained for him. I set out from Three Rivers, by order of the Superior, the 27th of last April, in company with six Christian Indians and a young Frenchman, with three canoes, to go to the country of the Hurons. On the evening of the first day, the Huron who steered our canoe, when firing at an eagle, upset us into Lake St. Pierre. I did not know how to swim, but two Hurons caught me and drew me to the shore, where we spent the night, all drenched. The Hurons took this accident for an ill-omen, and advised me to return to our starting point, which was only eight or ten miles off. "Certainly," they cried, "this voyage will not prove fortunate." As I feared that there might be some superstition in this discourse, I preferred to push on to another French fort [Richelieu], thirty miles higher up, where we might recruit a little. They obeyed me, and we started quite early the next morning, but the snow and bad weather greatly retarded our speed, and compelled us to stop at midday. On the third day, when twenty-two or twenty-four miles from Three Rivers, and seven or eight from Fort Richelieu, we fell into an ambuscade of twenty-seven Iroquois, who killed one of our Indians, and took the rest and myself prisoners. We might have fled, or killed some Iroquois; but I, for my part, seeing my companions taken, judged it better to remain with them, accepting it as a sign of the will of God.... Those who had captured us made horrible cries, and after profuse thanks to the Sun for having in their hands, among the others, a "Black Robe," as they call the Jesuits, they changed the canoes. Then they took from us everything; that is, provisions for all of ours residing among the Hurons, who were in extreme want, inasmuch as they had for several years received no aid from Europe. Having commanded us to sing, they led us to a little river hard by, where they divided the booty, and scalped the Huron whom they had killed. The scalp was to be carried in triumph on a pole. They also cut off the feet, hands, and most fleshy parts of the body to eat, as well as the heart. Then they made us cross the lake to pass the night in a retired but very damp spot. We there began to take our sleep bound and in the open air, as we continued to do during the rest of the voyage.... The following day we embarked on a river, and after some miles they ordered me to throw overboard my papers, which they had left me till then. They superstitiously imagined that these had caused the wreck of our canoe. They were surprised to see me grieve at this loss, who had never shown any regret for all else. We were two days in ascending this river to the rapids [of Chambly], which compelled us to land, and we marched six days in the woods. The next day, which was Friday, the sixth of May, we met other Iroquois going out to war. They added some blows to the many threats they had made; and having related to us the death of one of their party, killed by a Frenchman, was the cause of their commencing to treat me with greater cruelty than before. At the moment of our capture the Iroquois were dying of hunger; so that, in two or three days, they consumed all our provisions, and we had no food during the rest of the way but from hunting, fishing, or some wild roots, if any were found. Their want was so great that they picked up on the shore a dead beaver already putrefying. They gave it to me in the evening to wash in the river; but, its stench leading me to believe that they did not want it, I threw it into the water. I was paid for that by a severe penance. I will not here relate all I had to suffer in that voyage. It is enough to say that we had to carry our loads in the woods where there were no roads, but only stones, shoots, holes, water, and snow, which had not yet everywhere melted. We were barefooted, and were left fasting sometimes till three or four o'clock in the afternoon, and often during the whole day, exposed to the rain, and drenched with the waters of the torrents and rivers which we had to cross. When evening was come I was ordered to go for wood, to bring water, and to cook when they had any provisions. When I did not succeed, or misunderstood the orders which I received, blows were not spared; still less when we met other barbarians going to fish or hunt. It was not easy for me to rest at night, because they tied me to a tree, leaving me exposed to the keen night air, which was still quite cold. We at last arrived at their lake [Champlain]. We had to make other canoes, in which I too had to do my part. After five or six days' sailing we landed, and marched for three more. The fourth day, which was the fifteenth of May, we arrived about the twentieth hour [3 P.M.], and before having as yet taken any food, at a river where some four hundred barbarians were gathered fishing. Hearing of our approach, they came out to meet us. When about two hundred paces from their cabins, they stripped off all my clothes, and made me march ahead. The young men formed a line on each side, armed with sticks, except the first one, who held a knife in his hand. When I began my march this one stopped my passage, and, seizing my left hand, cleft it open with his knife between the little finger and the ring finger, with such force and violence that I thought he would lay open my whole hand. The others then began to load me with blows till I reached the stage which they had erected for our torture. Then I had to mount on great pieces of bark, raised about nine palms high so as to give the crowd an opportunity to see and insult us. I was all drenched and covered with blood that streamed from every part of my body, and exposed to a very cold wind that made it congeal immediately on my skin. But I consoled myself, seeing that God granted me the favor of suffering in this world some pain in place of what I was under obligation, on account of my sins, to pay in the other with torments incomparably greater. The warriors came next, and were received by the people with great ceremony, and regaled with the best of all that their fishing supplied. They bade us sing. Judge whether we could do so, fasting, worn down by marching, broken by their blows, and shivering from head to foot with cold. Shortly after, a Huron slave brought me a little Indian corn, and a captain, who saw me all trembling with cold, at last, at my entreaty, gave me back the half of an old summer cassock, all in tatters, which served to cover rather than warm me. We had to sing till the warriors went away, and were then left at the mercy of the youths, who made us come down from the scaffold, where we had been about two hours, to make us dance in their fashion; and, because I did not succeed, nor indeed knew how, they beat me, pricked me, plucked out my hair, my beard, etc. They kept us five or six days in this place for their pastime, leaving us at the discretion or indiscretion of every one. We were obliged to obey even the children, and that in things unreasonable, and often contradictory. "Sing!" cries one. "Hold your tongue!" says another. If I obeyed the first, the latter tormented me. "Stretch out your hand; I want to burn it." Another burned it because I did not extend it to _him_. They commanded me to take fire between the fingers to put in their pipes, full of tobacco, and then let it fall on the ground purposely four or five times, one after another, to make me burn myself picking it up each time. These scenes usually took place at night. Towards evening the captains cried in fearful voices around the cabins, "Gather, ye young men; come and caress our prisoners!" On this they flocked together, and assembled in some large cabin. There the remnant of dress which had been given me was torn off, leaving me naked. Then some goaded me with pointed sticks; some burned me with firebrands or red-hot stones, while others used burning ashes or hot coals. They made me walk around the fire on hot ashes, under which they had stuck sharp sticks in the ground. Some plucked out my hair, others my beard. Every night, after making me sing, and tormenting me as above, they spent eight or ten minutes in burning one of my nails or a finger. Of the ten that I had I have now but one left whole, and even of that they have torn out the nail with their teeth. One evening they burned a nail; the next day the first joint; the day after, the second. By the sixth time they burned almost six. To the hands they applied fire and iron more than eighteen times; and during this torment I was obliged to sing. They ceased torturing me only at one or two o'clock at night. Then they usually left me tied to the ground in some spot exposed to the rain, with no bed or blanket, but a small skin which did not cover half my body, and often even without any covering; for they had already torn up the piece of a cassock which had been given me. Yet, out of compassion, they left me enough to cover what decency, even among them, requires to be concealed. They kept the rest. For a whole month I had to undergo these cruelties, and greater still, but we remained only eight days in the first place. I never would have believed that man could endure so hard a life. One night that they were as usual torturing me, a Huron, taken prisoner with me, seeing one of his companions escape torments by siding against me, suddenly cried out, in the middle of the assembled throng, that I was a person of rank, and a captain among the French. This they heard with great attention; then, raising a loud shout in sign of joy, they resolved to treat me still worse, and the next morning I was condemned to be burnt alive, and to be eaten. They then began to guard me more narrowly. The men and children never left me alone, even in the necessities of nature, but came tormenting me to force me to return to the cabin with all speed, fearing that I might take flight. We left there the 26th of May, and four days after reached the first village of this nation. In this march on foot, what with rain and other hardships, I suffered more than I had yet done. The barbarian then my keeper was more cruel than the first. I was wounded, weak, ill-fed, half naked, and slept in the open air, bound to a stake or a tree, shivering all night with cold and from the pain caused by my bonds. At difficult places in the road my weakness called for help, but it was refused; and even when I fell, renewing my wounds, they showered blows on me again, to force me to march; for they believed that I did it purposely to lag behind, and so escape. One time, among others, I fell into a river, and was like to have drowned. However, I got out, I know not how, and in this plight had to march nearly six miles more till evening, with a very heavy burden on my shoulders. They jeered at me and at my awkwardness in falling into the water, and they did not omit, at night, to burn off one of my nails. We at last reached the first village of this nation, and here our reception resembled the first, but was still more cruel. Besides blows from their fists, and other blows, which I received in the most sensitive parts of my body, they a second time slit open my left hand, between the middle finger and the fore finger, and the bastinade was such that I fell half dead on the ground. I thought I would lose my right eye forever. As I did not rise, because I was unable to do so, they continued to beat me, especially on the breast and head. I should surely have expired beneath their blows had not a captain caused me to be dragged by main strength upon a stage made, like the former one, of bark. There they soon after cut off the thumb and mangled the fore finger of my left hand. Meanwhile a great rain came, with thunder and lightning, and they went away, leaving us exposed naked to the storm, till some one, I know not who, took pity on us, and in the evening took us into his cabin. Here we were tormented with more cruelty and impudence than ever, without leaving a moment's rest. They forced me to eat filth, and burned some of my fingers and the rest of my nails. They dislocated my toes, and ran a firebrand through one of them. I know not what they did not do to me another time, when I pretended to faint, so as to seem not to see an indecent action. After glutting their cruelty here, they sent us into another village, nine or ten miles further. Here they added to the torments of which I have spoken that of hanging me up by my feet, either with cords or with chains, which they had taken from the Dutch. By night I lay stretched on the ground, naked and bound, according to their custom, to several stakes, by the feet, hands, and neck. The torments which I had to suffer in this state, for six or seven nights, were in such places, and of such nature, that it is not lawful to describe them, nor could they be read without blushing. I seldom closed my eyes those nights, which, though the shortest of the year, seemed to me most long. "My God, what will purgatory be?" This thought lightened my pains not a little. In this way of living I had become so fetid and horrible that every one drove me away like a thing of carrion, and they never came near me save to torment me. Scarcely anyone would feed me, although I had not the use of my hands, as they were extraordinarily swollen and putrid. Thus I was still further tormented by hunger, which led me to eat Indian corn raw, not without concern for my health, and made me find a relish in chewing clay, although I could not easily swallow it. I was covered with loathsome vermin, and could neither get rid of them nor defend myself from them. In my wounds worms were born; more than four fell out of one finger in one day.... I had an abscess in the right thigh, caused by blows and frequent falls, which hindered me from all repose, and especially as I had only skin and bone, and the earth, for bed. Several times the barbarians had tried, but failed, to open it with sharp stones--not without great pain to me. I was forced to employ as surgeon the renegade Huron who had been taken with us. He, on what was supposed to be the eve of my death, opened it for me with four knife-thrusts, and caused blood and matter to issue from it in so great abundance, and with such stench, that all the barbarians of the cabin were constrained to abandon it. I desired and was awaiting death, though not without some horror of the fire. Still I was preparing for it as best I could, and was commending myself to the Mother of Mercy, who was, after God, the sole refuge of a poor sinner forsaken by all creatures in a strange land, without a language to make himself understood, without friends to console him, without sacraments to strengthen him, and without any human remedy to sweeten his ills. The Huron and Algonquin prisoners (these are our barbarians), instead of consoling me, were the first to torment me, in order to please the Iroquois. I did not see the good Guillaume [Cousture], except afterward, when my life was spared me, and the boy who had been taken in my company was no more with me. They had noticed that I had him say his prayers, and that they did not favor. But they did not let him escape torments, for, although he was no more than twelve or thirteen years old, they tore out five of his nails with their teeth; and, on his arrival in the country, they bound his wrists tightly with thongs, causing him the severest pain--and all before me, to afflict me the more.... My days being thus filled up with sufferings, and my nights being spent without repose, I counted in the month five days more than there were; but, seeing the moon one night, I corrected my error. I was ignorant why the savages so long deferred my death. They told me that it was to fatten me before eating me; though they took no means to do so. One day, at last, they assembled to despatch me. It was the nineteenth of June, which I deemed the last of my life, and I begged a captain to put me to death, if possible, otherwise than by fire; but another man exhorted him to stand firm in the resolution already taken. The first then told me that I was to die neither by fire nor by any other death. I could not believe it, nor do I know whether he spoke in earnest; yet finally it was as he said, because such was the will of God and of the Virgin Mother.... The barbarians themselves marveled at this result, so contrary was it to their intentions, as the Dutch have written to me. I was therefore given, with all the usual ceremonies, to an old woman, to replace her grandfather, formerly killed by the Hurons, but instead of having me burned, as all desired, and had already resolved, she redeemed me from their hands at the expense of some beads, which the French call "porcelain" [wampum]. I live here in the midst of the shadows of death, hearing nothing spoken of but murder and assassination. They have recently murdered one of their own countrymen in his cabin, as useless and unworthy to live. I have still something to suffer; my wounds are yet open, and many of the barbarians look upon me with no kindly eye. But we cannot live without crosses, and this is like sugar in comparison with the past. The Dutch gave me hopes of my ransom, and that of the boy taken prisoner with me. God's will be done in time and in eternity! My hope will be still more confirmed, if you grant me a share in your holy sacrifices and prayers, and those of our fathers and brethren, especially of those who knew me in other days. SECOND LETTER, Dated "From New Amsterdam, the 31st of August, 1644." I have found no one to carry the enclosed, so that you will receive it at the same time as the present one, which will give you the news of my deliverance from the hands of the barbarians, whose captive I was. I am indebted for it to the Dutch, and they obtained it with no great difficulty, for a moderate ransom, on account of the little value which the Indians attached to me, from my unhandiness at everything, and because they believed that I would never get well of my ailments. I have been twice sold: first to the old woman who was to have me burned, and next to the Dutch, dear enough, that is, for about fifteen or twenty doppias [sixty to eighty dollars in gold]. I chanted my "exodus from Egypt" the nineteenth of August, a day that is in the octave of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, who was my deliverer. I was a prisoner among the Iroquois for four months; but small is that compared to what my sins deserve. I was unable, during my captivity, to render to any of those wretched beings, in return for the evil they did me, the good which was the object of my desires; that is, impart to them a knowledge of the true God. Not knowing the language, I tried to instruct, through a captive interpreter, an old man who was dying; but he was too proud to listen to me, answering that a man of his age and standing should teach, and not be taught. I asked him if he knew whither he would go after death. He answered me: "To the Sunset." Then he began to relate their fables and delusions, which those wretched people, blinded by the Demon, esteem as the most solid truths. I baptized none but a Huron. They had brought him where I was, to burn him, and those who guarded me told me to go and see him. I did so with reluctance; for they had told me falsely that he was not one of our Indians, and that I could not understand him. I advanced towards the crowd, which opened and let me approach this man, even then all disfigured by the tortures. He was stretched upon the bare ground, with nothing to rest his head upon. Seeing a stone near me, I pushed it with my foot towards his head, to serve him as a pillow. He then looked up at me, and either some wisp of beard that I had left, or some other mark, made him suppose I was a foreigner. "Is not this man," said he to his keeper, "the European whom you hold captive?" Being answered "Yes," he again cast towards me a piteous look. "Sit down, my brother, by me," said he; "I would speak with thee." I sat down, though not without horror, such was the stench that exhaled from his already half-roasted body. Happy to be able to understand him a little, because he spoke Huron, I asked him what he desired, hoping to be able to profit by the occasion to instruct and baptize him. To my great consolation I was anticipated by the answer: "What do I ask?" he said; "I ask but one thing, baptism. Make haste, for the time is short." I wished to question him as to the faith, so as not to administer a sacrament with precipitation; but I found him perfectly instructed, having been already received among the catechumens in the Huron country. I therefore baptized him, to his and my own great satisfaction. Though I had done so by a kind of stratagem, using the water which I had brought for him to drink, the Iroquois nevertheless perceived it. The captains were at once informed, and, with angry threats, drove me from the hut, and then began to torture him as before. The following morning they roasted him alive. Then, because I had baptized him, they brought all his members, one by one, into the cabin where I was. Before my eyes they skinned and ate the feet and hands. The husband of the mistress of the lodge threw at my feet the dead man's head, and left it there a long while, reproaching me with what I had done, alluding to the baptism and prayers which I had offered with him, and saying: "And what indeed have thy enchantments helped him? Have they perhaps delivered him from death?" III NARRATIVE OF MRS. MARY ROWLANDSON WHO WAS TAKEN CAPTIVE BY THE WAMPONOAGS UNDER KING PHILIP, IN 1676. WRITTEN BY HERSELF. Mary Rowlandson was the wife of the Reverend Joseph Rowlandson, the first minister of Lancaster, Massachusetts. On the tenth of February, 1676, during King Philip's War, the Indians destroyed Lancaster, and took her captive. She was treated with gross cruelty, and was sold by her Narragansett captor to a sagamore named Quannopin. After nearly three months of starving and wretchedness she was ransomed for about eighty dollars which was contributed by some women of Boston. Her own account of her captivity, originally published in 1682, is here given with the omission of nothing but certain reflections that are not essential to the narrative. (_Editor._) On the 10th of February, 1676, came the Indians with great numbers[6] upon Lancaster. Their first coming was about sun-rising. Hearing the noise of some guns, we looked out; several houses were burning, and the smoke ascending to heaven. [6] Fifteen hundred Wamponoags, led by King Philip, and accompanied by the Narragansetts, his allies, and by the Nipmucks and Nashaways. There were five persons taken in one house. The father and mother, and a sucking child, they knocked on the head; the other two they took and carried away alive. There were two others, who, being out of their garrison upon occasion, were set upon; one was knocked on the head, the other escaped. Another there was, who, running along, was shot and wounded, and fell down; he begged of them his life, promising them money, as they told me, but they would not hearken to him, but knocked him on the head, stripped him naked, and split open his bowels. Another, seeing many of the Indians about his barn, ventured and went out, but was quickly shot down. There were three others belonging to the same garrison who were killed. The Indians getting up on the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon them over their fortification. Thus these murderous wretches went on burning and destroying all before them. At length they came and beset our house, and quickly it was the dolefulest day that ever mine eyes saw. The house stood upon the edge of a hill; some of the Indians got behind the hill, others into the barn, and others behind anything that would shelter them; from all which places they shot against the house, so that the bullets seemed to fly like hail, and quickly they wounded one man among us, then another, and then a third. About two hours, according to my observation in that amazing time, they had been about the house before they prevailed to fire it, which they did with flax and hemp which they brought out of the barn, and there being no defence about the house, only two flankers at two opposite corners, and one of them not finished; they fired it once, and one ventured out and quenched it, but they quickly fired it again, and that took. Now is the dreadful hour come that I have often heard of in time of the war, as it was the case of others, but now mine eyes see it. Some in our house were fighting for their lives, others wallowing in blood, the house on fire over our heads, and the bloody heathen ready to knock us on the head if we stirred out. Now might we hear mothers and children crying out for themselves and one another, "Lord, what shall we do?" Then I took my children, and one of my sisters (Mrs. Drew), hers to go forth and leave the house, but as soon as we came to the door and appeared, the Indians shot so thick that the bullets rattled against the house as if one had taken a handful of stones and threw them, so that we were forced to give back. We had six stout dogs belonging to our garrison, but none of them would stir, though at another time if an Indian had come to the door, they were ready to fly upon him and tear him down. The Lord hereby would make us the more to acknowledge his hand, and to see that our help is always in him. But out we must go, the fire increasing, and coming along behind us roaring, and the Indians gaping before us with their guns, spears and hatchets, to devour us. No sooner were we out of the house, but my brother-in-law[7] (being before wounded in defending the house, in or near the throat) fell down dead, whereat the Indians scornfully shouted and hallooed, and were presently upon him, stripping off his clothes. The bullets flying thick, one went through my side, and the same, as would seem, through the bowels and hand of my poor child in my arms. One of my elder sister's children, named William, had then his leg broke, which the Indians perceiving, they knocked him on the head. Thus were we butchered by those merciless heathens, standing amazed, with the blood running down to our heels. [7] Thomas Rowlandson, brother to the clergyman. My eldest sister being yet in the house, and seeing those woful sights, the infidels hauling mothers one way and children another, and some wallowing in their blood; and her eldest son telling her that her son William was dead, and myself was wounded, she said, "Lord, let me die with them:" which was no sooner said but she was struck with a bullet, and fell down dead over the threshold. The Indians laid hold of us, pulling me one way and the children another, and said, "Come, go along with us." I told them they would kill me; they answered, if I were willing to go along with them they would not hurt me.... There were twelve killed, some shot, some stabbed with their spears, some knocked down with their hatchets. When we are in prosperity, oh, the little that we think of such dreadful sights, to see our dear friends and relations lie bleeding out their heart's-blood upon the ground. There was one who was chopped in the head with a hatchet, and stripped naked, and yet was crawling up and down. I had often before this said, that if the Indians should come, I should choose rather to be killed by them than taken alive, but when it came to the trial my mind changed; their glittering weapons so daunted my spirit that I chose rather to go along with those (as I may say) ravenous bears, than that moment to end my days. And that I may the better declare what happened to me during that grievous captivity, I shall particularly speak of the several removes we had up and down the wilderness. THE FIRST REMOVE.--Now away we must go with those barbarous creatures, with our bodies wounded and bleeding, and our hearts no less than our bodies. About a mile we went that night, up on a hill within sight of the town where we intended to lodge. There was hard by a vacant house, deserted by the English before, for fear of the Indians. I asked them whether I might not lodge in the house that night; to which they answered, "What, will you love Englishmen still?" This was the dolefulest night that ever my eyes saw. Oh, the roaring and singing and dancing and yelling of those black creatures in the night, which made the place a lively resemblance of hell! And miserable was the waste that was there made of horses, cattle, sheep, swine, calves, lambs, roasting pigs, and fowls (which they had plundered in the town), some roasting, some lying and burning, and some boiling, to feed our merciless enemies; who were joyful enough, though we were disconsolate. To add to the dolefulness of the former day, and the dismalness of the present night, my thoughts ran upon my losses and sad, bereaved condition. All was gone, my husband gone (at least separated from me, he being in the Bay;[8] and, to add to my grief, the Indians told me they would kill him as he came homeward); my children gone, my relations and friends gone,[9] our house and home, and all our comforts within door and without--all was gone except my life, and I knew not but the next moment that might go too. [8] Boston. [9] Seventeen of her family were put to death or captured. There remained nothing to me but one poor, wounded babe; and it seemed at present worse than death, that it was in such a pitiful condition, bespeaking compassion, and I had no refreshing for it, nor suitable things to revive it. Little do many think what is the savageness and brutishness of this barbarous enemy, those even that seem to profess more than others among them, when the English have fallen into their hands. THE SECOND REMOVE.--But now (the next morning) I must turn my back upon the town, and travel with them into the vast and desolate wilderness, I know not whither. It is not my tongue or pen can express the sorrows of my heart, and bitterness of my spirit, that I had at this departure; but God was with me in a wonderful manner, carrying me along and bearing up my spirit, that it did not quite fail. One of the Indians carried my poor wounded babe upon a horse. It went moaning all along, "I shall die, I shall die!" I went on foot after it with sorrow that cannot be expressed. At length I took it off the horse, and carried it in my arms, till my strength failed and I fell down with it. Then they set me upon a horse with my wounded child in my lap, and there being no furniture on the horse's back, as we were going down a steep hill we both fell over the horse's head, at which they, like inhuman creatures, laughed, and rejoiced to see it, though I thought we should there have ended our days, overcome with so many difficulties.... After this it quickly began to snow, and when night came on they stopped. And now down I must sit in the snow, by a little fire, and a few boughs behind me, with my sick child in my lap, and calling much for water, being now, through the wound, fallen into a violent fever; my own wound also growing so stiff that I could scarce sit down or rise up. THE THIRD REMOVE.--The morning being come, they prepared to go on their way. One of the Indians got upon a horse, and they sat me up behind him, with my poor sick babe in my lap. A very wearisome and tedious day I had of it; what with my own wound, and my child being so exceeding sick, and in a lamentable condition with her wound, it may easily be judged what a poor, feeble condition we were in, there being not the least crumb of refreshing that came within either of our mouths from Wednesday night to Saturday night, except only a little cold water. This day in the afternoon, about an hour by sun, we came to the place where they intended, viz., an Indian town called Wenimesset (New Braintree), northward of Quabaug (Brookfield). This day there came to me one Robert Pepper, a man belonging to Roxbury, who was taken at Captain Beers's fight, and had been now a considerable time with the Indians, and up with them almost as far as Albany, to see King Philip, as he told me, and was now very lately come into these parts. Hearing, I say, that I was in this Indian town, he obtained leave to come and see me. He told me he himself was wounded in the leg at Captain Beers's fight, and was not able some time to go, but as they carried him, and that he took oak leaves and laid to his wound, and by the blessing of God he was able to travel again. Then took I oak leaves and laid to my side, and with the blessing of God it cured me also. I sat much alone with my poor wounded child in my lap, which moaned night and day, having nothing to revive the body or cheer the spirits of her; but instead of that, one Indian would come and tell me one hour, "Your master will knock your child on the head," and then a second, and then a third, "Your master will quickly knock your child on the head." This was the comfort I had from them; miserable comforters were they all. Thus nine days I sat upon my knees, with my babe in my lap, till my flesh was raw again. My child being even ready to depart this sorrowful world, they bid me carry it out to another wigwam, I suppose because they would not be troubled with such spectacles; whither I went with a very heavy heart, and down I sat with the picture of death in my lap. About two hours in the night, my sweet babe, like a lamb, departed this life, on Feb. 18, 1676, it being about six years and five months old. In the morning when they understood that my child was dead, they sent me home to my master's wigwam. By my master in this writing must be understood Quannopin, who was a sagamore, and married King Philip's wife's sister; not that he first took me, but I was sold to him by a Narragansett Indian, who took me when I first came out of the garrison. I went to take up my dead child in my arms to carry it with me, but they bid me let it alone. There was no resisting, but go I must, and leave it. When I had been a while at my master's wigwam, I took the first opportunity I could get to look after my dead child. When I came I asked them what they had done with it. They told me it was on the hill. Then they went and showed me where it was, where I saw the ground was newly digged, and where they told me they had buried it. There I left that child in the wilderness, and must commit it and myself also in this wilderness condition to Him who is above all. God having taken away this dear child, I went to see my daughter Mary, who was at the same Indian town, at a wigwam not very far off, though we had little liberty or opportunity to see one another. She was about ten years old, and taken from the door at first by a praying Indian,[10] and afterwards sold for a gun. When I came in sight she would fall a-weeping, at which they were provoked, and would not let me come near her, but bid me begone, which was a heart-cutting word to me. I could not sit still in this condition, but kept walking from one place to another; and as I was going along, my heart was even overwhelmed with the thoughts of my condition, and that I should have children, and a nation that I knew not ruled over them. Whereupon I earnestly entreated the Lord that he would consider my low estate, and show me a token for good, and if it were his blessed will, some sign and hope of some relief. [10] Convert to Christianity. And, indeed, quickly the Lord answered in some measure my poor prayer; for as I was going up and down mourning and lamenting my condition, my son (Joseph) came to me and asked me how I did. I had not seen him before since the destruction of the town; and I knew not where he was, till I was informed by himself that he was among a smaller parcel of Indians, whose place was about six miles off. With tears in his eyes he asked me whether his sister Sarah was dead, and told me he had seen his sister Mary, and prayed me that I would not be troubled in reference to himself. The occasion of his coming to see me at this time was this: there was, as I said, about six miles from us, a small plantation of Indians, where it seems he had been during his captivity; and at this time there were some forces of the Indians gathered out of our company, and some also from them, among whom was my son's master, to go to assault and burn Medfield. In this time of his master's absence his dame brought him to see me. Now the Indians began to talk of removing from this place, some one way and some another. There were now, besides myself, nine English captives in this place, all of them children except one woman. I got an opportunity to go and take my leave of them, they being to go one way and I another. I asked them whether they were earnest with God for deliverance. They told me they did as they were able, and it was some comfort to me that the Lord stirred up children to look to Him. The woman, viz., good-wife Joslin, told me she should never see me again, and that she could not find it in her heart to run away by any means, for we were near thirty miles from any English town, and she with a child two years old; and bad rivers there were to go over, and we were feeble with our poor and coarse entertainment.... THE FOURTH REMOVE.--And now must I part with the little company I had. Here I parted with my daughter Mary, whom I never saw again till I saw her in Dorchester, returned from captivity; and from four little cousins and neighbors, some of which I never saw afterwards; the Lord only knows the end of them. We travelled about a half a day or a little more, and came to a desolate place in the wilderness, where there were no wigwams or inhabitants before. We came about the middle of the afternoon to this place, cold, wet, and snowy, and hungry and weary, and no refreshing for man, but the cold ground to sit on, and our poor Indian cheer. THE FIFTH REMOVE.--The occasion, as I thought, of their removing at this time was the English army's being near and following them; for they went as if they had gone for their lives for some considerable way. Then they made a stop, and chose out some of their stoutest men, and sent them back to hold the English army in play while the rest escaped; and then, like Jehu, they marched on furiously with their old and young. Some carried their old, decrepit mothers; some carried one, and some another. Four of them carried a great Indian upon a bier; but, going through a thick wood with him, they were hindered, and could make no haste; whereupon they took him upon their backs, and carried him, one at a time, till we came to Baquaug River. Upon Friday, a little after noon, we came to this river. When all the company was come up and were gathered together I thought to count the number of them, but they were so many, and being somewhat in motion, it was beyond my skill. In this travel, because of my wound, I was somewhat favored in my load. I carried only my knitting-work and two quarts of parched meal. Being very faint, I asked my mistress to give me one spoonful of the meal, but she would not give me a taste. They quickly fell to cutting dry trees to make rafts to carry them over the river, and soon my turn came to go over. By the advantage of some brush which they had laid upon the raft to sit on, I did not wet my foot, while many of themselves, at the other end, were mid-leg deep, which cannot but be acknowledged as a favor of God to my weakened body, it being a very cold time. I was not before acquainted with such kind of doings or dangers. A certain number of us got over the river that night, but it was the night after the Sabbath before all the company was got over. On the Saturday they boiled an old horse's leg which they had got, and so we drank of the broth as soon as they thought it was ready, and when it was almost all gone they filled it up again. The first week of my being among them I hardly eat anything; the second week I found my stomach grow very faint for want of something, and yet it was very hard to get down their filthy trash; but the third week, though I could think how formerly my stomach would turn against this or that, and I could starve and die before I could eat such things, yet they were pleasant and savory to my taste. I was at this time knitting a pair of cotton stockings for my mistress, and I had not yet wrought upon the Sabbath day. When the Sabbath came they bid me go to work. I told them it was Sabbath day, and desired them to let me rest, and told them I would do as much more work to-morrow; to which they answered me they would break my face. And here I cannot but take notice of the strange providence of God in preserving the heathen. They were many hundreds, old and young, some sick, and some lame; many had papooses at their backs; the greatest number at this time with us were squaws, and yet they travelled with all they had, bag and baggage, and they got over this river aforesaid; and on Monday they set their wigwams on fire, and away they went. On that very day came the English army after them to this river, and saw the smoke of their wigwams, and yet this river put a stop to them. God did not give them courage or activity to go over after us. We were not ready for so great a mercy as victory and deliverance; if we had been, God would have found out a way for the English to have passed this river as well as for the Indians, with their squaws and children and all their luggage. THE SIXTH REMOVE.--On Monday, as I said, they set their wigwams on fire and went away. It was a cold morning, and before us there was a great brook with ice on it. Some waded through it up to the knees and higher, but others went till they came to a beaver-dam, and I among them, where, through the good providence of God, I did not wet my foot. I went along that day mourning and lamenting, leaving farther my own country, and travelling farther into the vast and howling wilderness, and I understood something of Lot's wife's temptation when she looked back. We came that day to a great swamp, by the side of which we took up our lodging that night. When we came to the brow of the hill that looked towards the swamp I thought we had been come to a great Indian town, though there were none but our own company; the Indians were as thick as the trees; it seemed as if there had been a thousand hatchets going at once. THE SEVENTH REMOVE.--After a restless and hungry night there we had a wearisome time of it the next day. The swamp by which we lay was, as it were, a deep dungeon, and an exceeding high and steep hill before it. Before I got to the top of the hill I thought my heart and legs and all would have broken and failed me. What with faintness and soreness of body, it was a grievous day of travel to me. As we went along, I saw a place where English cattle had been. That was a comfort to me, such as it was. Quickly after that we came to an English path, which so took me that I thought I could there have freely lain down and died. That day, a little after noon, we came to Squaheag,[11] where the Indians quickly spread themselves over the deserted English fields, gleaning what they could find. Some picked up ears of wheat that were crickled down, some found ears of Indian corn, some found ground-nuts,[12] and others sheaves of wheat that were frozen together in the shock, and went to threshing of them out. Myself got two ears of Indian corn, and, whilst I did but turn my back, one of them was stole from me, which much troubled me. [11] Or Squakeag, now Northfield. [12] _Apios tuberosa._ The Pilgrims, during their first winter, lived chiefly on these roots. The tubers vary from the size of a cherry to that of a hen's egg, and grow in strings of perhaps forty together. There came an Indian to them at that time with a basket of horse-liver. I asked him to give me a piece. "What," says he, "can you eat horse-liver?" I told him I would try, if he would give me a piece, which he did; and I laid it on the coals to roast; but, before it was half ready, they got half of it away from me; so that I was forced to take the rest and eat it as it was, with the blood about my mouth, and yet a savory bit it was to me; for to the hungry soul every bitter thing was sweet. A solemn sight methought it was to see whole fields of wheat and Indian corn forsaken and spoiled, and the remainder of them to be food for our merciless enemies. That night we had a mess of wheat for our supper. THE EIGHTH REMOVE.--On the morrow morning we must go over Connecticut River to meet with King Philip. Two canoes full they had carried over. The next turn myself was to go; but, as my foot was upon the canoe to step in, there was a sudden outcry among them, and I must step back; and instead of going over the river, I must go four or five miles up the river farther northward. Some of the Indians ran one way, and some another. The cause of this route was, as I thought, their espying some English scouts, who were thereabouts. In this travel up the river, about noon the company made a stop and sat down, some to eat and others to rest them. As I sat amongst them, musing on things past, my son Joseph unexpectedly came to me.... We travelled on till night, and in the morning we must go over the river to Philip's crew. When I was in the canoe I could not but be amazed at the numerous crew of pagans that were on the bank on the other side. When I came ashore they gathered all about me, I sitting alone in the midst. I observed they asked one another questions, and laughed, and rejoiced over their gains and victories. Then my heart began to fail, and I fell a-weeping; which was the first time, to my remembrance, that I wept before them. There one of them asked me why I wept. I could hardly tell what to say; yet I answered, they would kill me. "No," said he, "none will hurt you." Then came one of them and gave me two spoonfuls of meal to comfort me, and another gave me half a pint of peas, which was worth more than many bushels at another time. Then I went to see King Philip. He bade me come in and sit down, and asked me whether I would smoke--a usual compliment nowadays among the saints and sinners; but this noway suited me; for though I had formerly used tobacco, yet I had left it ever since I was first taken. It seems to be a bait the devil lays to make men lose their precious time. I remember with shame how, formerly, when I had taken two or three pipes, I was presently ready for another, such a bewitching thing it is; but I thank God He has now given me power over it. Surely there are many who may be better employed than to sit sucking a stinking tobacco pipe. Now the Indians gathered their forces to go against Northampton. Over night one went about yelling and hooting to give notice of the design. Whereupon they went to boiling of ground-nuts and parching corn--as many as had it--for their provision; and in the morning away they went. During my abode in this place Philip spake to me to make a shirt for his boy, which I did; for which he gave me a shilling. I offered the money to my mistress, but she bid me keep it, and with it I bought a piece of horse-flesh. Afterwards he asked me to make a cap for his boy, for which he invited me to dinner. I went, and he gave me a pancake about as big as two fingers; it was made of parched wheat, beaten and fried in bear's grease, but I thought I never tasted pleasanter meat in my life. There was a squaw who spake to me to make a shirt for her sannup; for which she gave me a piece of beef. Another asked me to knit a pair of stockings, for which she gave me a quart of peas. I boiled my peas and beef together, and invited my master and mistress to dinner; but the proud gossip, because I served them both in one dish, would eat nothing, except one bit that he gave her upon the point of his knife. Hearing that my son was come to this place, I went to see him, and found him lying flat on the ground. I asked him how he could sleep so. He answered me that he was not asleep, but at prayer, and that he lay so that they might not observe what he was doing. I pray God he may remember these things now he is returned in safety. At this place, the sun now getting higher, what with the beams and heat of the sun and smoke of the wigwams, I thought I should have been blinded. I could scarce discern one wigwam from another. There was one Mary Thurston, of Medfield, who, seeing how it was with me, lent me a hat to wear; but as soon as I was gone the squaw that owned that Mary Thurston came running after me and got it away again. Here was a squaw who gave me a spoonful of meal; I put it in my pocket to keep it safe, yet notwithstanding somebody stole it, but put five Indian corns in the room of it; which corns were the greatest provision I had in my travel for one day. The Indians, returning from Northampton,[13] brought with them some horses and sheep and other things which they had taken. I desired them that they would carry me to Albany upon one of those horses, and sell me for powder; for so they had sometimes discoursed. I was utterly helpless of getting home on foot, the way that I came. I could hardly bear to think of the many weary steps I had taken to this place. [13] Northampton was attacked March 14, 1676. THE NINTH REMOVE.--But, instead of either going to Albany or homeward, we must go five miles up the river, and then go over it. Here we abode awhile. Here lived a sorry Indian, who spake to me to make him a shirt. When I had done it he would pay me nothing for it. But he, living by the river-side, where I often went to fetch water, I would often be putting him in mind, and calling for my pay; at last he told me if I would make another shirt for a papoose not yet born he would give me a knife, which he did when I had done it. I carried the knife in, and my master asked me to give it him, and I was not a little glad that I had anything that they would accept of and be pleased with. My son being now about a mile from me, I asked liberty to go and see him. They bid me go, and away I went; but quickly lost myself, travelling over hills and through swamps, and could not find the way to him. And I cannot but admire at the wonderful power and goodness of God to me, in that though I was gone from home and met with all sorts of Indians, and those I had no knowledge of, and there being no Christian soul near me, yet not one of them offered the least imaginable miscarriage to me. I turned homeward again, and met with my master, and he showed me the way to my son. When I came to him I found him not well; and withal he had a boil on his side, which much troubled him. We bemoaned one another awhile, as the Lord helped us, and then I returned again. When I was returned I found myself as unsatisfied as I was before. But I was fain to go look after something to satisfy my hunger; and, going among the wigwams, I went into one, and there found a squaw who showed herself very kind to me, and gave me a piece of bear. I put it into my pocket, and came home, but could not find an opportunity to broil it for fear they should get it from me. And there it lay all the day and night in my pocket. In the morning I went again to the same squaw, who had a kettle of ground-nuts boiling. I asked her to let me boil my piece of bear in the kettle, which she did, and gave me some ground-nuts to eat with it; and I cannot but think how pleasant it was to me. I have sometimes seen bear baked handsomely amongst the English, and some liked it, but the thoughts that it was bear made me tremble. But now that was savory to me that one would think was enough to turn the stomach of a brute creature. One bitter cold day I could find no room to sit down before the fire. I went out, and could not tell what to do, but I went into another wigwam, where they were also sitting round the fire; but the squaw laid a skin for me, and bid me sit down, and gave me some ground-nuts, and bid me come again, and told me they would buy me if they were able. And yet these were strangers to me that I never knew before. THE TENTH REMOVE.--That day a small part of the company removed about three quarters of a mile, intending farther the next day. When they came to the place they intended to lodge, and had pitched their wigwams, being hungry, I went again back to the place we were before at to get something to eat; being encouraged by the squaw's kindness, who bid me come again. When I was there, there came an Indian to look after me; who, when he had found me, kicked me all along. I went home and found venison roasting that night, but they would not give me one bit of it. Sometimes I met with favor, and sometimes with nothing but frowns. THE ELEVENTH REMOVE.--The next day, in the morning, they took their travel, intending a day's journey up the river; I took my load at my back, and quickly we came to wade over a river, and passed over tiresome and wearisome hills. One hill was so steep that I was fain to creep up upon my knees, and to hold by the twigs and bushes to keep myself from falling backwards. My head, also, was so light that I usually reeled as I went. THE TWELFTH REMOVE.--It was upon a Sabbath-day morning that they prepared for their travel. This morning I asked my master whether he would sell me to my husband; he answered, _nux_; which did much rejoice my spirits. My mistress, before we went, was gone to the burial of a papoose, and returning she found me sitting and reading in my Bible. She snatched it hastily out of my hand and threw it out of doors. I ran out and caught it up, and put it in my pocket, and never let her see it afterwards. Then they packed up their things to be gone, and gave me my load; I complained it was too heavy, whereupon she gave me a slap on the face and bid me be gone. I lifted up my heart to God, hoping that redemption was not far off; and the rather because their insolence grew worse and worse. But thoughts of my going homeward, for so we bent our course, much cheered my spirit, and made my burden seem light, and almost nothing at all. But, to my amazement and great perplexity, the scale was soon turned; for when we had got a little way, on a sudden my mistress gave out she would go no farther, but turn back again, and said I must go back again with her; and she called her sannup, and would have had him go back also, but he would not, but said he would go on, and come to us again in three days. My spirit was upon this, I confess, very impatient, and almost outrageous. I thought I could as well have died as went back. Down I sat, with my heart as full as it could hold, and yet so hungry that I could not sit neither. But going out to see what I could find, and walking among the trees, I found six acorns and two chestnuts, which were some refreshment to me. Towards night I gathered me some sticks for my own comfort, that I might not lie cold; but when we came to lie down, they bid me go out and lie somewhere else, for they had company they said come in more than their own. I told them I could not tell where to go; they bid me go look; I told them if I went to another wigwam they would be angry and send me home again. Then one of the company drew his sword and told me he would run me through if I did not go presently. Then was I fain to stoop to this rude fellow, and go out in the night I knew not whither. Mine eyes hath seen that fellow afterwards walking up and down in Boston, under the appearance of a friendly Indian, and several others of the like cut. I went to one wigwam, and they told me they had no room. Then I went to another, and they said the same. At last, an old Indian bid me come to him, and his squaw gave me some ground-nuts; she gave me also something to lay under my head, and a good fire we had. Through the good providence of God, I had a comfortable lodging that night. In the morning, another Indian bid me come at night and he would give me six ground-nuts, which I did. We were at this place and time about two miles from Connecticut River. THE THIRTEENTH REMOVE.--Instead of going towards the Bay, which was what I desired, I must go with them five or six miles down the river, into a mighty thicket of brush, where we abode almost a fortnight. Here one asked me to make a shirt for her papoose, for which she gave me a mess of broth which was thickened with meal made of the bark of a tree; and to make it better she had put into it about a handful of peas and a few roasted ground-nuts. I had not seen my son a pretty while, and here was an Indian of whom I made inquiry after him, and asked him when he saw him. He answered me, that such a time his master roasted him, and that himself did eat a piece of him as big as his two fingers, and that he was very good meat. But the Lord upheld my spirit under this discouragement; and I considered their horrible addictedness to lying, and that there is not one of them that makes the least conscience of speaking the truth. In this place, one cold night, as I lay by the fire, I removed a stick which kept the heat from me; a squaw moved it down again, at which I looked up, and she threw a handful of ashes in my eyes. I thought I should have been quite blinded and never have seen more; but, lying down, the water ran out of my eyes, and carried the dirt with it, that by the morning I recovered my sight again. About this time they came yelping from Hadley, having there killed three Englishmen, and brought one captive with them, viz., Thomas Reed. They all gathered about the poor man, asking him many questions. I desired also to go and see him; and when I came, he was crying bitterly, supposing they would quickly kill him. Whereupon I asked one of them whether they intended to kill him; he answered me they would not. He being a little cheered with that, I asked him about the welfare of my husband; he told me he saw him such a time in the Bay, and he was well, but very melancholy. By which I certainly understood, though I suspected it before, that whatsoever the Indians told me respecting him was vanity and lies. Some of them told me he was dead, and they had killed him; some said he was married again, and that the governor wished him to marry, and told him that he should have his choice; and that all persuaded him that I was dead. So like were these barbarous creatures to him who was a liar from the beginning. As I was sitting once in the wigwam here, Philip's maid came with the child in her arms, and asked me to give her a piece of my apron to make a flap for it. I told her I would not; then my mistress bid me give it, but I still said no. The maid told me if I would not give her a piece, she would tear a piece off it. I told her I would tear her coat then. With that my mistress rises up, and takes up a stick big enough to have killed me, and struck at me with it, but I stepped out, and she struck the stick into the mat of the wigwam. But while she was pulling it out, I ran to the maid, and gave her all my apron, and so that storm went over. Hearing that my son was come to this place, I went to see him, and told him his father was well, but very melancholy. He told me he was as much grieved for his father as for himself. I wondered at his speech, for I thought I had enough upon my spirit, in reference to myself, to make me mindless of my husband and every one else, they being safe among their friends. He told me also, that a while before, his master, together with other Indians, were going to the French for powder; but by the way the Mohawks met with them, and killed four of their company, which made the rest turn back again. For which I desire that myself and he may ever bless the Lord; for it might have been worse with him had he been sold to the French, than it proved to be in his remaining with the Indians. I asked his master to let him stay awhile with me, that I might comb his head and look over him, for he was almost overcome with lice. He told me when I had done that he was very hungry, but I had nothing to relieve him, but bid him go into the wigwams as he went along, and see if he could get anything among them; which he did, and, it seems, tarried a little too long, for his master was angry with him, and beat him, and then sold him. Then he came running to tell me he had a new master, and that he had given him some ground-nuts already. Then I went along with him to his new master, who told me he loved him, and he should not want. So his master carried him away, and I never saw him afterwards till I saw him at Piscataqua, in Portsmouth. That night they bid me go out of the wigwam again; my mistress's papoose was sick, and it died that night; and there was one benefit in it, that there was more room. I went to a wigwam and they bid me come in, and gave me a skin to lie upon, and a mess of venison and ground-nuts, which was a choice dish among them. On the morrow they buried the papoose; and afterwards, both morning and evening, there came a company to mourn and howl with her; though I confess I could not much condole with them. THE FOURTEENTH REMOVE.--Now must we pack up and be gone from this thicket, bending our course towards the Bay towns; I having nothing to eat by the way this day but a few crumbs of cake that an Indian gave my girl the same day we were taken. She gave it me, and I put it in my pocket. There it lay till it was so mouldy, for want of good baking, that one could not tell what it was made of. It fell all into crumbs, and grew so dry and hard that it was like little flints; and this refreshed me many times when I was ready to faint. It was in my thoughts when I put it to my mouth that, if ever I returned, I would tell the world what a blessing the Lord gave to such mean food. As we went along, they killed a deer, with a young one in her. They gave me a piece of the fawn, and it was so young and tender that one might eat the bones as well as the flesh, and yet I thought it very good. When night came on we sat down. It rained, but they quickly got up a bark wigwam, where I lay dry that night. I looked out in the morning, and many of them had lain in the rain all night, I knew by their reeking. Thus the Lord dealt mercifully with me many times, and I fared better than many of them. In the morning they took the blood of the deer, and put it into the paunch, and so boiled it. I could eat nothing of that, though they eat it sweetly. And yet they were so nice in other things, that when I had fetched water, and had put the dish I dipped the water with into the kettle of water which I brought, they would say they would knock me down, for they said it was a sluttish trick. THE FIFTEENTH REMOVE.--We went on our travel. I having got a handful of ground-nuts for my support that day, they gave me my load, and I went on cheerfully, with the thoughts of going homeward, having my burthen more upon my back than my spirit. We came to Baquaug River again that day, near which we abode a few days. Sometimes one of them would give me a pipe, another a little tobacco, another a little salt, which I would change for victuals. I cannot but think what a wolfish appetite persons have in a starving condition; for many times, when they gave me that which was hot, I was so greedy, that I should burn my mouth, that it would trouble me many hours after, and yet I should quickly do the like again. And after I was thoroughly hungry, I was never again satisfied; for though it sometimes fell out that I had got enough, and did eat till I could eat no more, yet I was as unsatisfied as I was when I began. THE SIXTEENTH REMOVE.--We began this remove with wading over Baquaug River. The water was up to our knees, and the stream very swift, and so cold that I thought it would have cut me in sunder. I was so weak and feeble that I reeled as I went along, and thought there I must end my days at last, after my bearing and getting through so many difficulties. The Indians stood laughing to see me staggering along, but in my distress the Lord gave me experience of the truth and goodness of that promise, Isa. xliii., 2--"When thou passeth through the waters I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee." Then I sat down to put on my stockings and shoes, with the tears running down my eyes, and many sorrowful thoughts in my heart. But I got up to go along with them. Quickly there came up to us an Indian who informed them that I must go to Wachusett[14] to my master, for there was a letter come from the council to the sagamores about redeeming the captives, and that there would be another in fourteen days, and that I must be there ready. My heart was so heavy before that I could scarce speak or go in the path, and yet now so light that I could run. My strength seemed to come again, and to recruit my feeble knees and aching heart; yet it pleased them to go but one mile that night, and there we staid two days. [14] Princeton. The mountain in this town still retains the name of Wachusett. In that time came a company of Indians to us, near thirty, all on horseback. My heart skipped within me, thinking they had been Englishmen, at the first sight of them; for they were dressed in English apparel, with hats, white neckcloths, and sashes about their waists, and ribbons upon their shoulders. But when they came near there was a vast difference between the lovely faces of Christians and the foul looks of those heathen, which much damped my spirits again. THE SEVENTEENTH REMOVE.--A comfortable remove it was to me, because of my hopes. They gave me my pack and along we went cheerfully. But quickly my will proved more than my strength; having little or no refreshment my strength failed, and my spirits were almost quite gone. At night we came to an Indian town, and the Indians sat down by a wigwam discoursing, but I was almost spent and could scarce speak. I laid down my load and went into the wigwam, and there sat an Indian boiling of horse-feet, they being wont to eat the flesh first, and when the feet were old and dried, and they had nothing else, they would cut off the feet and use them. I asked him to give me a little of his broth, or water they were boiling it in. He took a dish and gave me one spoonful of samp, and bid me take as much of the broth as I would. Then I put some of the hot water to the samp, and drank it up, and my spirits came again. THE EIGHTEENTH REMOVE.--We took up our packs, and along we went; but a wearisome day I had of it. As we went along I saw an Englishman stripped naked and lying dead upon the ground, but knew not who he was. Then we came to another Indian town where we staid all night. In this town there were four English children captives, and one of them my own sister's. I went to see how she did, and she was well, considering her captive condition. I would have tarried that night with her, but they that owned her would not suffer it. Then I went to another wigwam, where they were boiling corn and beans, which was a lovely sight to see, but I could not get a taste thereof. Then I went home to my mistress's wigwam, and they told me I disgraced my master with begging, and if I did so any more they would knock me on the head. I told them they had as good do that as starve me to death. THE NINETEENTH REMOVE.--They said when we went out that we must travel to Wachusett this day. But a bitter weary day I had of it, travelling now three days together, without resting any day between. Going along, having indeed my life, but little spirit, Philip, who was in the company, came up, and took me by the hand, and said, "Two weeks more and you shall be mistress again." I asked him if he spoke true. He said, "Yes, and quickly you shall come to your master again;" who had been gone from us three weeks. My master had three squaws, living sometimes with one and sometimes with another: Onux, this old squaw at whose wigwam I was, and with whom my master had been these three weeks. Another was Wettimore, with whom I had lived and served all this while. A severe and proud dame she was, bestowing every day in dressing herself near as much time as any of the gentry of the land; powdering her hair and painting her face, going with her necklaces, with jewels in her ears, and bracelets upon her hands. When she had dressed herself, her work was to make girdles of wampum and beads. The third squaw was a younger one, by whom he had two papooses. By that time I was refreshed by the old squaw, Wettimore's maid came to call me home, at which I fell a-weeping. Then the old squaw told me, to encourage me, that when I wanted victuals I should come to her, and that I should lie in her wigwam. Then I went with the maid, and quickly I came back and lodged there. The squaw laid a mat under me, and a good rug over me; the first time that I had any such kindness showed me. I understood that Wettimore thought that if she should let me go and serve with the old squaw she should be in danger to lose not only my service, but the redemption-pay also. And I was not a little glad to hear this; being by it raised in my hopes that in God's due time there would be an end of this sorrowful hour. Then came an Indian and asked me to knit him three pair of stockings, for which I had a hat and a silk handkerchief. Then another asked me to make her a shift, for which she gave me an apron. Then came Tom and Peter with the second letter from the council, about the captives. Though they were Indians, I gat them by the hand, and burst out into tears; my heart was so full that I could not speak to them; but recovering myself, I asked them how my husband did, and all my friends and acquaintance. They said they were well, but very melancholy. They brought me two biscuits and a pound of tobacco. The tobacco I soon gave away. When it was all gone one asked me to give him a pipe of tobacco. I told him it was all gone. Then he began to rant and threaten. I told him when my husband came I would give him some. "Hang him, rogue," says he; "I will knock out his brains if he comes here." And then again at the same breath they would say that if there should come an hundred without guns they would do them no hurt; so unstable and like madmen they were. So that, fearing the worst, I durst not send to my husband, though there were some thoughts of his coming to redeem and fetch me, not knowing what might follow; for there was little more trust to them than to the master they served. When the letter was come, the sagamores met to consult about the captives, and called me to them to inquire how much my husband would give to redeem me. When I came I sat down among them, as I was wont to do, as their manner is. Then they bid me stand up, and said they were the general court. They bid me speak what I thought he would give. Now knowing that all we had was destroyed by the Indians, I was in a great strait. I thought if I should speak of but a little, it would be slighted and hinder the matter; if of a great sum, I knew not where it would be procured. Yet at a venture I said twenty pounds, yet desired them to take less; but they would not hear of that, but sent the message to Boston, that for twenty pounds I should be redeemed. It was a praying Indian that wrote their letters for them. About that time there came an Indian to me, and bid me come to his wigwam at night, and he would give me some pork and groundnuts, which I did; and as I was eating, another Indian said to me, "He seems to be your good friend, but he killed two Englishmen at Sudbury,[15] and there lie the clothes behind you." I looked behind me, and there I saw bloody clothes, with bullet-holes in them. Yet the Lord suffered not this wretch to do me any hurt; yea, instead of that, he many times refreshed me: five or six times did he and his squaw refresh my feeble carcass. If I went to their wigwam at any time they would always give me something, and yet they were strangers that I never saw before. Another squaw gave me a piece of fresh pork, and a little salt with it, and lent me her frying-pan to fry it; and I cannot but remember what a sweet, pleasant, and delightful relish that bit had to me, to this day. So little do we prize common mercies when we have them to the full. [15] Sudbury was attacked 21st April. THE TWENTIETH REMOVE.--It was their usual manner to remove when they had done any mischief, lest they should be found out; and so they did at this time. We went about three or four miles, and there they built a great wigwam, big enough to hold an hundred Indians, which they did in preparation to a great day of dancing. They would now say among themselves that the governor would be so angry for his loss at Sudbury that he would send no more about the captives, which made me grieve and tremble. My sister being not far from this place, and hearing that I was here, desired her master to let her come and see me, and he was willing to it, and would come with her, but she, being ready first, told him she would go before, and was come within a mile or two of the place. Then he overtook her, and began to rant as if he had been mad, and made her go back again in the rain; so that I never saw her till I saw her in Charlestown. But the Lord requited many of their ill doings, for this Indian, her master, was hanged afterwards at Boston. They began now to come from all quarters, against their merry dancing day. Among some of them came one good-wife Kettle. I told her my heart was so heavy that it was ready to break. "So is mine too," said she, "but yet I hope we shall hear some good news shortly." I could hear how earnestly my sister desired to see me, and I earnestly desired to see her; yet neither of us could get an opportunity. My daughter was now but a mile off, and I had not seen her for nine or ten weeks, as I had not seen my sister since our first taking. I desired them to let me go and see them; yea, I entreated, begged, and persuaded them to let me see my daughter, and yet so hard-hearted were they that they would not suffer it. They made use of their tyrannical power while they had it, but through the Lord's wonderful mercy their time was now but short. On a Sabbath day, the sun being about an hour high in the afternoon, came Mr. John Hoar (the council permitting him, and his own forward spirit inclining him), together with the two forementioned Indians, Tom and Peter, with the third letter from the council. When they came near I was abroad. They presently called me in, and bid me sit down and not stir. Then they catched up their guns and away they ran as if an enemy had been at hand, and the guns went off apace. I manifested some great trouble, and asked them what was the matter. I told them I thought they had killed the Englishman (for they had in the meantime told me that an Englishman was come). They said no; they shot over his horse, and under, and before his horse, and they pushed him this way and that way, at their pleasure, showing him what they could do. Then they let him come to their wigwams. I begged of them to let me see the Englishman, but they would not; but there was I fain to sit their pleasure. When they had talked their fill with him, they suffered me to go to him. We asked each other of our welfare, and how my husband did, and all my friends. He told me they were all well, and would be glad to see me. Among other things which my husband sent me, there came a pound of tobacco, which I sold for nine shillings in money; for many of them for want of tobacco smoked hemlock and ground-ivy. It was a great mistake in any who thought I sent for tobacco, for through the favor of God that desire was overcome. I now asked them whether I should go home with Mr. Hoar. They answered no, one and another of them, and it being late, we lay down with that answer. In the morning Mr. Hoar invited the sagamores to dinner; but when we went to get it ready, we found they had stolen the greatest part of the provisions Mr. Hoar had brought. And we may see the wonderful power of God in that one passage, in that when there was such a number of them together, and so greedy of a little good food, and no English there but Mr. Hoar and myself, that there they did not knock us on the head and take what we had; there being not only some provision, but also trading cloth, a part of the twenty pounds agreed upon. But instead of doing us any mischief, they seemed to be ashamed of the fact, and said it was the _matchit_[16] Indians that did it. Oh, that we could believe that there was nothing too hard for God. God showed His power over the heathen in this, as He did over the hungry lions when Daniel was cast into the den. [16] Wicked. Mr. Hoar called them betime to dinner, but they ate but little, they being so busy in dressing themselves and getting ready for their dance, which was carried on by eight of them, four men and four squaws, my master and mistress being two. He was dressed in his Holland shirt, with great stockings, his garters hung round with shillings, and had girdles of wampom upon his head and shoulders. She had a kersey coat, covered with girdles of wampom from the loins upward. Her arms from her elbows to her hands were covered with bracelets; there were handfuls of necklaces about her neck, and several sorts of jewels in her ears. She had fine red stockings, and white shoes, her hair powdered, and her face painted red, that was always before black. And all the dancers were after the same manner. There were two others singing and knocking on a kettle for their music. They kept hopping up and down one after another, with a kettle of water in the midst, standing warm upon some embers, to drink of when they were dry. They held on till almost night, throwing out their wampom to the standers-by. At night I asked them again if I should go home. They all as one said no, except my husband would come for me. When we were lain down, my master went out of the wigwam, and by and by sent in an Indian called James the printer, who told Mr. Hoar that my master would let me go home to-morrow if he would let him have one pint of liquor. Then Mr. Hoar called his own Indians, Tom and Peter, and bid them all go and see if he would promise it before them three, and if he would he should have it; which he did and had it. Philip, smelling the business, called me to him, and asked me what I would give him to tell me some good news, and to speak a good word for me, that I might go home to-morrow. I told him I could not tell what to give him, I would anything I had, and asked him what he would have. He said two coats, and twenty shillings in money, half a bushel of seed corn, and some tobacco. I thanked him for his love, but I knew that good news as well as that crafty fox. On Tuesday morning they called their General Court, as they styled it, to consult and determine whether I should go home or no. And they all seemingly consented that I should go, except Philip, who would not come among them. At first they were all against it, except my husband would come for me; but afterwards they assented to it, and seeming to rejoice in it; some asking me to send them some bread, others some tobacco, others shaking me by the hand, offering me a hood and scarf to ride in; not one moving hand or tongue against it. Thus hath the Lord answered my poor desires, and the many earnest requests of others put up unto God for me. In my travels an Indian came to me and told me, if I were willing, he and his squaw would run away, and go home along with me. I told them no, I was not willing to run away, but desired to wait God's time, that I might go home quietly and without fear. And now God hath granted me my desire. Oh, the wonderful power of God that I have seen, and the experiences that I have had! I have been in the midst of those roaring lions and savage bears that feared neither God nor man nor the devil, by night and day, alone and in company, sleeping all sorts together, and yet not one of them ever offered the least abuse of unchastity to me in word or action; though some are ready to say I speak it for my own credit; but I speak it in the presence of God, and to His glory. God's power is as great now as it was to save Daniel in the lions' den or the three children in the fiery furnace. Especially that I should come away in the midst of so many hundreds of enemies, and not a dog move his tongue. So I took my leave of them, and in coming along my heart melted into tears more than all the while I was with them, and I was almost swallowed up with the thoughts that ever I should go home again. About the sun's going down Mr. Hoar, myself, and the two Indians came to Lancaster; and a solemn sight it was to me. There had I lived many comfortable years among my relations and neighbors, and now not one Christian to be seen, or one house left standing. We went on to a farmhouse that was yet standing, where we lay all night; and a comfortable lodging we had, though nothing but straw to lie on. The Lord preserved us in safety that night, raised us up again in the morning, and carried us along, that before noon we came to Concord. Now was I full of joy, and yet not without sorrow; joy to see such a lovely sight, so many Christians together, and some of them my neighbors. Being recruited with food and raiment, we went to Boston that day, where I met with my dear husband; but the thoughts of our dear children--one being dead and the other we could not tell where--abated our comfort in each other. I was not before so much hemmed in by the merciless and cruel heathen, but now as much with pitiful, tender-hearted, and compassionate Christians. In that poor and beggarly condition I was received in I was kindly entertained in several houses.... The twenty pounds, the price of my redemption, was raised by some Boston gentlewomen, and Mr. Usher, whose bounty and charity I would not forget to make mention of. Then Mr. Thomas Shepard, of Charlestown, received us into his house, where we continued eleven weeks; and a father and mother they were unto us. And many more tender-hearted friends we met with in that place. We were now in the midst of love, yet not without much and frequent heaviness of heart for our poor children and other relations who were still in affliction. The week following, after my coming in, the governor and council sent to the Indians again, and that not without success; for they brought in my sister and good-wife Kettle. About this time the council had ordered a day of public thanksgiving, though I had still cause of mourning; and being unsettled in our minds, we thought we would ride eastward, to see if we could hear anything concerning our children. As we were riding along between Ipswich and Rowley we met with William Hubbard, who told us our son Joseph and my sister's son were come into Major Waldren's. I asked him how he knew it. He said the major himself told him so. So along we went till we came to Newbury; and their minister being absent, they desired my husband to preach the thanksgiving for them; but he was not willing to stay there that night, but he would go over to Salisbury to hear farther, and come again in the morning, which he did, and preached there that day. At night, when he had done, one came and told him that his daughter was come into Providence. Here was mercy on both hands. Now we were between them, the one on the east, and the other on the west. Our son being nearest, we went to him first, to Portsmouth, where we met with him, and with the major also, who told us he had done what he could, but could not redeem him under seven pounds, which the good people thereabouts were pleased to pay. On Monday we came to Charlestown, where we heard that the Governor of Rhode Island had sent over for our daughter, to take care of her, being now within his jurisdiction; which should not pass without our acknowledgments. But she being nearer Rehoboth than Rhode Island, Mr. Newman went over and took care of her, and brought her to his own house. And the goodness of God was admirable to us in our low estate, in that he raised up compassionate friends on every side, when we had nothing to recompense any for their love. Our family being now gathered together, the South Church in Boston hired a house for us. Then we removed from Mr. Shepard's (those cordial friends) and went to Boston, where we continued about three quarters of a year.... IV CAPTURE AND ESCAPE OF MERCY HARBISON, 1792 On the 4th of November, 1791, a force of Americans under General Arthur St. Clair was attacked, near the present Ohio-Indiana boundary line, by about the same number of Indians led by Blue Jacket, Little Turtle, and the white renegade Simon Girty. Their defeat was the most disastrous that ever has been suffered by our arms when engaged against a savage foe on anything like even terms. Out of 86 officers and about 1400 regular and militia soldiers, St. Clair lost 70 officers killed or wounded, and 845 men killed, wounded, or missing. The survivors fled in panic, throwing away their weapons and accoutrements. Such was "St. Clair's defeat." The utter incompetency of the officers commanding this expedition may be judged from the single fact that a great number of women were allowed to accompany the troops into a wilderness known to be infested with the worst kind of savages. There were about 250 of these women with the "army" on the day of the battle. Of these, 56 were killed on the spot, many being pinned to the earth by stakes driven through their bodies. Few of the others escaped captivity. After this unprecedented victory, the Indians became more troublesome than ever along the frontier. No settler's home was safe, and many were destroyed in the year of terror that followed. The awful fate of one of those households is told in the following touching narrative of Mercy Harbison, wife of one of the survivors of St. Clair's defeat. How two of her little children were slaughtered before her eyes, how she was dragged through the wilderness with a babe at her breast, how cruelly maltreated, and how she finally escaped, barefooted and carrying her infant through days and nights of almost superhuman exertion, she has left record in a deposition before the magistrates at Pittsburgh and in the statement here reprinted. (_Editor._) On the return of my husband from General St. Clair's defeat, and on his recovery from the wound he received in the battle, he was made a spy, and ordered to the woods on duty, about the 23d of March, 1792. The appointment of spies to watch the movements of the savages was so consonant with the desires and interests of the inhabitants that the frontiers now resumed the appearance of quiet and confidence. Those who had for nearly a year been huddled together in the blockhouses were scattered to their own habitations, and began the cultivation of their farms. The spies saw nothing to alarm them, or to induce them to apprehend danger, until the fatal morning of my captivity. They repeatedly came to our house to receive refreshments and to lodge. On the 15th of May my husband, with Captain Guthrie and other spies, came home about dark and wanted supper; to procure which I requested one of the spies to accompany me to the spring and spring-house, and William Maxwell complied with my request. While at the spring and spring-house we both distinctly heard a sound like the bleating of a lamb or fawn. This greatly alarmed us and induced us to make a hasty retreat into the house. Whether this was an Indian decoy, or a warning of what I was to pass through, I am unable to determine. But from this time and circumstance I became considerably alarmed, and entreated my husband to remove me to some place more secure from Indian cruelties. But Providence had designed that I should become a victim to their rage, and that mercy should be made manifest in my deliverance. On the night of the 21st of May two of the spies, Mr. James Davis and Mr. Sutton, came to lodge at our house, and on the morning of the 22d, at daybreak, when the horn blew at the blockhouse, which was within sight of our house and distant about two hundred yards, the two men got up and went out. I was also awake, and saw the door open, and thought, after I was taken prisoner, that the scouts had left it open. I intended to rise immediately, but having a child at the breast, and it being awakened, I lay with it at the breast to get it to sleep again, and accidentally fell asleep myself. The spies have since informed me that they returned to the house again, and found that I was sleeping; that they softly fastened the door and went immediately to the blockhouse, and those who examined the house after the scene was over say that both doors had the appearance of being broken open. The first thing I knew from falling asleep was the Indians pulling me out of bed by my feet. I then looked up and saw the house full of Indians, every one having his gun in his left hand and tomahawk in his right. Beholding the danger in which I was, I immediately jumped to the floor on my feet, with the young child in my arms. I then took a petticoat to put on, having on only the one in which I slept; but the Indians took it from me, and as many as I attempted to put on they succeeded in taking from me, so that I had to go just as I had been in bed. While I was struggling with some of the savages for clothing, others of them went and took the children out of another bed, and immediately took the two feather beds to the door and emptied them. The savages immediately began their work of plunder and devastation. What they were unable to carry with them they destroyed. While they were at their work, I made to the door, and succeeded in getting out with one child in my arms and another by my side; but the other little boy was so much displeased by being so early disturbed in the morning that he would not come to the door. When I got out I saw Mr. Wolf, one of the soldiers, going to the spring for water, and beheld two or three of the savages attempting to get between him and the blockhouse; but Mr. Wolf was unconscious of his danger, for the savages had not yet been discovered. I then gave a terrific scream, by which means Mr. Wolf discovered his danger and started to run for the blockhouse. Seven or eight of the Indians fired at him, but the only injury he received was a bullet in his arm, which broke it. He succeeded in making his escape to the blockhouse. When I raised the alarm, one of the Indians came up to me with his tomahawk as though about to take my life; a second came and placed his hand before my mouth and told me to hush, when a third came with a lifted tomahawk and attempted to give me a blow; but the first that came raised his tomahawk and averted the blow, and claimed me as his squaw. The commissary, with his waiter, slept in the storehouse near the blockhouse; and, upon hearing the report of the guns, came to the door to see what was the matter; and, beholding the danger he was in, made his escape to the blockhouse; but not without being discovered by the Indians, several of whom fired at him, and one of the bullets went through his handkerchief, which was tied about his head, and took off some of his hair. The handkerchief, with several bullet-holes in it, he afterwards gave to me. The waiter, on coming to the door, was met by the Indians, who fired upon him, and he received two bullets through the body and fell dead by the door. The savages then set up one of their tremendous and terrifying yells, and pushed forward and attempted to scalp the man they had killed; but they were prevented from executing their diabolical purpose by the heavy fire which was kept up through the portholes from the blockhouse. In this scene of horror and alarm I began to meditate an escape, and for that purpose I attempted to direct the attention of the Indians from me and to fix it on the blockhouse, and thought if I could succeed in this I would retreat to a subterranean cave with which I was acquainted, which was in the run near where we were. For this purpose I began to converse with some of those who were near me respecting the strength of the blockhouse, the number of men in it, etc., and being informed that there were forty men there, and that they were excellent marksmen, the savages immediately came to the determination to retreat, and for this purpose they ran to those who were besieging the blockhouse and brought them away. They then began to flog me with their wiping sticks, and to order me along. Thus what I intended as the means of my escape was the means of accelerating my departure in the hands of the savages. But it was no doubt ordered by a kind Providence for the preservation of the fort and the inhabitants in it; for when the savages gave up the attack and retreated, some of the men in the fort had the last load of ammunition in their guns, and there was no possibility of procuring more, for it was all fastened up in the storehouse, which was inaccessible. The Indians, when they had flogged me away with them, took my oldest boy, a lad about five years of age, along with them, for he was still at the door by my side. My middle little boy, who was about three years of age, had by this time obtained a situation by the fire in the house, and was crying bitterly to me not to go, and making sore complaints of the depredations of the savages. But these monsters were not willing to let the child remain behind them; they took him by the hand to drag him along with them, but he was so very unwilling to go, and made such a noise by crying, that they took him up by his feet and dashed his brains out against the threshold of the door. They then scalped and stabbed him, and left him for dead. When I witnessed this inhuman butchery of my own child I gave a most indescribable and terrific scream, and felt a dimness come over my eyes, next to blindness, and my senses were nearly gone. The savages then gave me a blow across my head and face and brought me to my sight and recollection again. During the whole of this agonizing scene I kept my infant in my arms. As soon as the murder was effected they marched me along to the top of the bank, about forty or sixty rods, and there they stopped and divided the plunder which they had taken from our house, and here I counted their number and found them to be thirty-two, two of whom were white men painted as Indians. Several of the Indians could speak English well. I knew several of them well, having seen them going up and down the Alleghany River. I knew two of them to be from the Seneca tribe of Indians, and two of them Munsees; for they had called at the shop to get their guns repaired, and I saw them there. We went from this place about forty rods, and they then caught my uncle John Currie's horses, and two of them, into whose custody I was put, started with me on the horses towards the mouth of the Kiskiminetas, and the rest of them went off towards Puckety. When they came to the bank that descended towards the Alleghany it was so very steep, and there appeared so much danger in descending it on horseback that I threw myself off the horse, in opposition to the will and command of the savages. My horse descended without falling, but the one on which the Indian rode who had my little boy, in descending, fell and rolled over repeatedly; and my little boy fell back over the horse, but was not materially injured; he was taken up by one of the Indians, and we got to the bank of the river, where they had secreted some bark canoes under the rocks, opposite the island that lies between the Kiskiminetas and Buffalo. They attempted, in vain, to make the horses take the river, and had to leave the horses behind them, and took us in one of the canoes to the point of the island, and there left the canoe. Here I beheld another hard scene, for as soon as we landed, my little boy, who was still mourning and lamenting about his little brother, and who complained that he was injured by the fall in descending the bank, _was murdered_. One of the Indians ordered me along, probably that I should not see the horrid deed about to be perpetrated. The other then took his tomahawk from his side, and with this instrument of death killed and scalped him. When I beheld this second scene of inhuman butchery I fell to the ground senseless, with my infant in my arms, it being under and its little hands in the hair of my head. How long I remained in this state of insensibility I know not. The first thing I remember was my raising my head from the ground and feeling myself exceedingly overcome with sleep. I cast my eyes around and saw the scalp of my dear little boy, fresh bleeding from his head, in the hand of one of the savages, and sank down to the earth again upon my infant child. The first thing I remember, after witnessing this spectacle of woe, was the severe blows I was receiving from the hands of the savages, though at that time I was unconscious of the injury I was sustaining. After a severe castigation, they assisted me in getting up, and supported me when up. The scalp of my little boy was hid from my view, and in order to bring me to my senses again they took me back to the river and led me in knee-deep; this had its intended effect. But, "the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel." We now proceeded on our journey by crossing the island, and coming to a shallow place where we could wade out, and so arrive at the Indian side of the country. Here they pushed me in the river before them, and had to conduct me through it. The water was up to my breast, but I suspended my child above the water, and, with the assistance of the savages, got safely out. Thence we rapidly proceeded forward, and came to Big Buffalo; here the stream was very rapid and the Indians had again to assist me. When we had crossed this creek, we made a straight course to the Connoquenessing Creek, the very place where Butler, Pa., now stands; and thence we travelled five or six miles to Little Buffalo, which we crossed. I now felt weary of my life, and had a full determination to make the savages kill me, thinking that death would be exceedingly welcome when compared to the fatigue, cruelties, and miseries I had the prospect of enduring. To have my purpose effected I stood still, one of the savages being before me, and the other walking behind me, and I took from off my shoulder a large powder-horn they made me carry, in addition to my child, who was one year and four days old. I threw the horn on the ground, closed my eyes, and expected every moment to feel the deadly tomahawk. But to my surprise the Indian took it up, cursed me bitterly, and put it on my shoulder again. I took it off the second time, and threw it on the ground, and again closed my eyes, with the assurance I should meet death; but instead of this, the Indian again took up the horn, and with an indignant, frightful countenance, came and placed it on again. I took it off the third time, and was determined to effect it, and, therefore, threw it as far as I was able from me, over the rocks. The savage immediately went after it, while the one who had claimed me as his squaw, and who had stood and witnessed the transaction, came up to me and said: "Well done; you did right and are a good squaw, and the other is a lazy son-of-a-gun; he may carry it himself." The savages now changed their position, and the one who claimed me as his squaw went behind. This movement, I believe, was to prevent the other from doing me any injury; and we went on till we struck the Connoquenessing at the Salt Lick, about two miles above Butler, where was an Indian camp, where we arrived a little before dark, having no refreshment during the day. The camp was made of stakes driven into the ground, sloping, and covered with chestnut bark, and appeared sufficiently long for fifty men. The camp appeared to have been occupied for some time; it was very much trodden, and large beaten paths went out from it in different directions. That night they took me about three hundred yards from the camp, up a run, into a large, dark bottom, where they cut the brush in a thicket and placed a blanket on the ground and permitted me to sit down with my child. They then pinioned my arms back, only with a little liberty, so that it was with difficulty that I managed my child. Here, in this dreary situation, without fire or refreshment, having an infant to take care of, and my arms bound behind me, and having a savage on each side of me who had killed two of my dear children that day, I had to pass the first night of my captivity. But the trials and tribulations of the day I had passed had so completely exhausted nature that, notwithstanding my unpleasant situation, and my determination to escape, if possible, I insensibly fell asleep, and repeatedly dreamed of my escape and safe arrival in Pittsburgh, and several things relating to the town, of which I knew nothing at the time, but found to be true when I arrived there. The first night passed away and I found no means of escape, for the savages kept watch the whole of the night without any sleep. In the morning one of them left us to watch the trail we had come, to see if any white people were pursuing us. During the absence of the Indian, the one that claimed and remained with me, and who was the murderer of my last boy, took from his bosom his scalp, and prepared a hoop and stretched the scalp upon it. Those mothers who have not seen the like done to one of the scalps of their own children will be able to form but faint ideas of the feelings which then harrowed up my soul. I meditated revenge! While he was in the very act I attempted to take his tomahawk, which hung by his side and rested on the ground, and had nearly succeeded, and was, as I thought, about to give the fatal blow, when, alas! I was detected. The savage felt at his tomahawk handle, turned upon me, cursed me and told me I was a Yankee; thus insinuating he understood my intention, and to prevent me from doing so again, faced me. My excuse to him for handling his tomahawk was, that my child wanted to play with the handle of it. The savage who went upon the lookout in the morning came back about twelve o'clock, and had discovered no pursuers. Then the one who had been guarding me went out on the same errand. The savage who was now my guard began to examine me about the white people, the strength of the armies going against the Indians, etc., and boasted largely of their achievements in the preceding fall, at the defeat of General St. Clair. He then examined the plunder which he had brought from our house the day before. He found my pocket-book and money among his plunder. There were ten dollars in silver and a half-guinea in gold in the book. During this day they gave me a piece of dried venison, about the bulk of an egg, and a piece about the same size the day we were marching, for my support and that of my child; but, owing to the blows I had received from them on the jaws, I was unable to eat a bit of it. I broke it up and gave it to the child. The savage on the lookout returned about dark. This evening (Monday, the 23d) they moved me to another station in the same valley, and secured me as they did the preceding night. Thus I found myself the second night between two Indians, without fire and refreshment. During this night I was frequently asleep, notwithstanding my unpleasant situation, and as often dreamed of my arrival in Pittsburgh. Early on the morning of the 24th a flock of mocking-birds and robins hovered over us as we lay in our uncomfortable bed; and sang and said, at least to my imagination, that I was to get up and go off. As soon as day broke, one of the Indians went off again to watch the trail, as on the preceding day, and he who was left to take care of me appeared to be sleeping. When I perceived this I lay still and began to snore, as though asleep, and he also fell asleep. Then I concluded it was time to escape. I found it impossible to injure him for my child at the breast, as I could not effect anything without putting the child down, and then it would cry and give the alarm; so I contented myself with taking, from a pillow-case of plunder stolen from our house, a short gown, handkerchief, and child's frock, and so made my escape; the sun then being about half an hour high. I struck the Connoquenessing, and went down stream until about two o'clock in the afternoon, over rocks, precipices, thorns, briers, etc., with my bare feet and legs. I then discovered I was on the wrong course, and waited till the North Star appeared. Marking out the direction for the next day, I collected a bed of leaves, laid down and slept, though my feet, being full of thorns, began to be exceedingly painful, and I had nothing for self or babe to eat. The next morning I started early, nothing material occurring. Towards evening a gentle rain came on, and I began to prepare my leaf bed, setting the child down the while, who began to cry. Fearful of the consequences, I put him to the breast and he became quiet. I then listened and distinctly heard footsteps. The ground over which I had travelled was soft and my foot traces had been followed. Greatly alarmed, I looked about for a place of safety, and providentially discovered a large tree which had fallen, into the top of which I crept. The darkness greatly assisted me and prevented detection. The savage who followed me had heard the cry of the child and came to the very spot where it had cried, and there he halted, put down his gun, and was at this time so near that I heard the wiping stick strike against his gun distinctly. My getting in under the tree and sheltering myself from the rain, and pressing my boy to my bosom, got him warm, and, most providentially, he fell asleep, and lay very still during that time of extreme danger. All was still and quiet; the savage was listening to hear again the cry. My own heart was the only thing I feared, and that beat so loud that I was apprehensive it would betray me. It is almost impossible to conceive the wonderful effect my situation produced upon my whole system. After the savage had stood and listened with nearly the stillness of death for two hours, the sound of a bell and a cry like that of a night owl, signals which were given to him by his companions, induced him to answer, and after he had given a most horrid yell, which was calculated to harrow up my soul, he started and went off to join them. After his retreat, I concluded it unsafe to remain there till morning. But by this time nature was so nearly exhausted that I found some difficulty in moving; yet, compelled by necessity, I threw my coat about my child and placed the end between my teeth, and with one arm and my teeth I carried him, and with the other groped my way between the trees and travelled on, as I supposed, a mile or two, and there sat down at the root of a tree till morning. The night was cold and wet, and thus terminated the fourth day-and-night's difficulties, trials, and dangers! The fifth day, wet, exhausted, hungry, and wretched, I started from my resting-place as soon as I could see my way, and on that morning struck the head-waters of Pine Creek, which falls into the Alleghany about four miles above Pittsburgh; though I knew not then what waters they were; I crossed them, and on the opposite bank I found a path, and on it two moccason tracks, fresh indented. This alarmed me; but as they were before me, and travelling in the same direction as I was, I concluded I could see them as soon as they could see me, and, therefore, I pressed on in that path for about three miles, when I came to where another branch emptied into the creek, where was a hunter's camp, where the two men, whose tracks I had before discovered and followed, had breakfasted and left the fire burning. I became more alarmed, and determined to leave the path. I then crossed a ridge towards Squaw Run, and came upon a trail. Here I stopped and meditated what to do; and while I was thus musing I saw three deer coming towards me at full speed; they turned to look at their pursuers; I looked too, with all attention, and saw the flash and heard the report of a gun. I saw some dogs start after them, and began to look about for shelter, and immediately made for a large log to hide myself. Providentially I did not go clear to the log; for as I put my hand to the ground, to raise myself so that I might see who and where the hunters were, I saw a large heap of rattlesnakes, the top one being very large, and coiled up very near my face, and quite ready to bite me. I again left my course, bearing to the left, and came upon the head-waters of Squaw Run, and kept down the run the remainder of that day. It rained, and I was in a very deplorable situation; so cold and shivering were my limbs, that frequently, in opposition to all my struggles, I gave an involuntary groan. I suffered intensely from hunger, though my jaws were so far recovered that, wherever I could, I procured grape-vines, and chewed them for a little sustenance. In the evening I came within one mile of the Alleghany River, though I was ignorant of it at the time; and there, at the root of a tree, through a most tremendous rain, I took up my fifth night's lodgings. In order to shelter my infant as much as possible, I placed him in my lap, and then leaned my head against the tree, and thus let the rain fall upon me. On the sixth (that was the Sabbath) morning from my captivity, I found myself unable, for a very considerable time, to raise myself from the ground; and when I had once more, by hard struggling, got myself upon my feet and started, nature was so nearly exhausted and my spirits were so completely depressed that my progress was amazingly slow and discouraging. In this almost helpless condition I had not gone far before I came to a path where there had been cattle travelling; I took it, under the impression that it would lead me to the abode of some white people, and in about a mile I came to an uninhabited cabin, and though I was in a river bottom, yet I knew not where I was nor yet on what river bank I had come. Here I was seized with feelings of despair, went to the threshold of the cabin and concluded that I would enter and lie down and die, since death would have been an angel of mercy to me in such a miserable situation. Had it not been for the sufferings which my infant, who would survive me some time, must endure, I would have carried my determination into execution. Here I heard the sound of a cow-bell, which imparted a gleam of hope to my desponding mind. I followed the sound till I came opposite the fort at the Six Mile Island, where I saw three men on the opposite bank of the river. My feelings then can be better imagined than described. I called to them, but they seemed unwilling to risk the danger of coming after me, and asked who I was. I told them, and they requested me to walk up the bank awhile that they might see if Indians were making a decoy of me; but I replied my feet were so sore I could not walk. Then one of them, James Closier, got into a canoe to fetch me over, while the other two stood with cocked rifles ready to fire on the Indians, provided they were using me as a decoy. When Mr. Closier came near and saw my haggard and dejected appearance, he exclaimed, "Who in the name of God are you?" This man was one of my nearest neighbors, yet in six days I was so much altered that he did not know me, either by my voice or countenance. When I landed on the inhabited side of the river the people from the fort came running out to see me. They took the child from me, and now that I felt safe from all danger, I found myself unable to move or to assist myself in any degree, whereupon the people took me and carried me out of the boat to the house of Mr. Cortus. Now that I felt secure from the cruelties of the barbarians, for the first time since my captivity, my feelings returned in all their poignancy and the tears flowed freely, imparting a happiness beyond what I ever experienced. When I was taken into the house the heat of the fire and the smell of victuals, of both of which I had so long been deprived, caused me to faint. Some of the people attempted to restore me and some to put clothes on me, but their kindness would have killed me had it not been for the arrival of Major McCully, who then commanded along the river. When he understood my situation, and saw the provisions they were preparing for me, he was greatly alarmed; ordered me out of the house, away from the heat and smell; prohibited me from taking anything but a very little whey of buttermilk, which he administered with his own hands. Through this judicious management I was mercifully restored to my senses and gradually to health and strength. Two of the females, Sarah Carter and Mary Ann Crozier, then began to take out the thorns from my feet and legs, which Mr. Felix Negley stood by and counted to the number of one hundred and fifty, though they were not all extracted at that time, for the next evening, at Pittsburgh, there were many more taken out. The flesh was mangled dreadfully, and the skin and flesh were hanging in pieces on my feet and legs. The wounds were not healed for a considerable time. Some of the thorns went through my feet and came out at the top. For two weeks I was unable to put my feet to the ground to walk. The next morning a young man employed by the magistrates of Pittsburgh came for me to go immediately to town to give in my deposition, that it might be published to the American people. Some of the men carried me into a canoe, and when I arrived I gave my deposition. As the intelligence spread, Pittsburgh, and the country for twenty miles around, was all in a state of commotion. The same evening my husband came to see me, and soon after I was taken back to Coe's Station. In the evening I gave an account of the murder of my boy on the island, and the next morning a scout went out and found the body and buried it, nine days after the murder. THE END OUTING ADVENTURE LIBRARY _Edited by Horace Kephart_ ¶ Here are brought together for the first time the great stories of adventure of all ages and countries. These are the personal records of the men who climbed the mountains and penetrated the jungles; who explored the seas and crossed the deserts; who knew the chances and took them, and lived to write their own tales of hardship and endurance and achievement. The series will consist of an indeterminate number of volumes--for the stories are myriad. The whole will be edited by Horace Kephart. Each volume answers the test of these two questions: Is it true? Is it interesting? ¶ The entire series is uniform in style and binding. Among the titles now ready or in preparation are those described on the following pages. PRICE $1.00 EACH, NET. POSTAGE 10 CENTS EXTRA THE NUMBERS MAKE ORDERING CONVENIENT 1. IN THE OLD WEST, by George Frederick Ruxton. The men who blazed the trail across the Rockies to the Pacific were the independent trappers and hunters in the days before the Mexican war. They left no records of their adventures and most of them linger now only as shadowy names. But a young Englishman lived among them for a time, saw life from their point of view, trapped with them and fought with them against the Indians. That was George Frederick Ruxton. His story is our only complete picture of the Old West in the days of the real Pioneers, of Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, Bill Williams, the Sublettes, and all the rest of that glorious company of the forgotten who opened the West. 2. CASTAWAYS AND CRUSOES. Since the beginnings of navigation men have faced the dangers of shipwreck and starvation. Scattered through the annals of the sea are the stories of those to whom disaster came and the personal records of the way they met it. Some of them are given in this volume, narratives of men who lived by their hands among savages and on forlorn coasts, or drifted helpless in open boats. They range from the South Seas to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, from the iron coast of Patagonia to the shores of Cuba. They are echoes from the days when the best that could be hoped by the man who went to sea was hardship and man's-sized work. 3. CAPTIVES AMONG THE INDIANS. First of all is the story of Captain James Smith, who was captured by the Delawares at the time of Braddock's defeat, was adopted into the tribe, and for four years lived as an Indian, hunting with them, studying their habits, and learning their point of view. Then there is the story of Father Bressani who felt the tortures of the Iroquois, of Mary Rowlandson who was among the human spoils of King Philip's war, and of Mercy Harbison who suffered in the red flood that followed St. Clair's defeat. All are personal records made by the actors themselves in those days when the Indian was constantly at our forefathers's doors. 4. FIRST THROUGH THE GRAND CANYON, by Major John Wesley Powell. Major Powell was an officer in the Union Army who lost an arm at Shiloh. In spite of this four years after the war he organized an expedition which explored the Grand Canyon of the Colorado in boats--the first to make this journey. His story has been lost for years in the oblivion of a scientific report. It is here rescued and presented as a record of one of the great personal exploring feats, fitted to rank with the exploits of Pike, Lewis and Clark, and Mackenzie. 5. ADRIFT IN THE ARCTIC ICE-PACK, By Elisha Kent Kane, M.D. Out of the many expeditions that went north in search of Sir John Franklin over fifty years ago, it fell to the lot of one, financed by a New York merchant, to spend an Arctic winter drifting aimlessly in the grip of the Polar ice in Lancaster Sound. The surgeon of the expedition kept a careful diary and out of that record told the first complete story of a Far Northern winter. That story is here presented, shorn of the purely scientific data and stripped to the personal exploits and adventures of the author and the other members of the crew. 
32843	----	http://www.archive.org/details/sunmaidstoryoffo00raym THE SUN MAID A Story of Fort Dearborn by EVELYN RAYMOND Author of "The Little Lady of the Horse," Etc. New York E. P. Dutton & Company 31 West Twenty-Third St. Copyright, 1900 By E. P. Dutton & Co. The Knickerbocker Press, New York [Illustration: _Page 22._ KITTY AND THE SNAKE. _Frontispiece._] TO ALL YOUNG HEARTS IN THAT FAIR CITY BY THE INLAND SEA CHICAGO PREFACE. In some measure, the story of the Sun Maid is an allegory. Both the heroine and the city of her love grew from insignificant beginnings; the one into a type of broadest womanhood, the other into a grandeur which has made it unique among the cities of the world. Discouragements, sorrows, and seeming ruin but developed in each the same high attributes of courage, indomitable will power, and far-reaching sympathy. The story of the youth of either would be a tale unfinished; and those who have followed, with any degree of interest, the fortunes of either during any period will keep that interest to the end. There are things which never age. Such was the heart of the Maid who remained glad as a girl to the end of her century, and such the marvellous Chicago with a century rounded glory which is still the glory of a youth whose future magnificence no man can estimate. E. R., BALTIMORE, January, 1900. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. AS THE SUN WENT DOWN 1 II. TWO FOR BREAKFAST 13 III. IN INDIAN ATTIRE 27 IV. THE WHITE BOW 38 V. HORSES: WHITE AND BLACK 50 VI. THE THREE GIFTS 64 VII. A THREEFOLD CORD IS STRONGEST 77 VIII. AN ISLAND RETREAT 91 IX. AT MUCK-OTEY-POKEE 107 X. THE CAVE OF REFUGE 124 XI. UNDER A WHITE MAN'S ROOF 138 XII. AFTER FOUR YEARS 156 XIII. THE HARVESTING 169 XIV. ONCE MORE IN THE OLD HOME 180 XV. PARTINGS AND MEETINGS 194 XVI. THE SHUT AND THE OPEN DOOR 209 XVII. A DAY OF HAPPENINGS 231 XVIII. WESTWARD AND EASTWARD OVER THE PRAIRIE 247 XIX. THE CROOKED LOG 260 XX. ENEMIES, SEEN AND UNSEEN 272 XXI. FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH 284 XXII. GROWING UP 296 XXIII. HEROES 306 XXIV. CONCLUSION 315 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE FORT DEARBORN _Title-page_ BLACK PARTRIDGE AND THE SUN MAID 6 KITTY AND THE SNAKE _Frontispiece_ 22 THE GIFT OF THE WHITE BOW 48 SNOWBIRD AND THE SUN MAID 68 GASPAR AND KITTY REACH THE FORT 188 "KITTY! MY KITTY!" 258 OSCEOLO AND GASPAR 276 THE SUN MAID. CHAPTER I. AS THE SUN WENT DOWN. With gloom in his heart, Black Partridge strode homeward along the beach path. The glory of a brilliant August sunset crimsoned the tops of the sandhills on the west and the waters of the broad lake on the east; but if the preoccupied Indian observed this at all, it was to see in it an omen of impending tragedy. Red was the color of blood, and he foresaw that blood must flow, and freely. "They are all fools. All. They know that Black Partridge cannot lie, yet they believe not his words. The white man lies, and works his own destruction. His doom be on his head!" As his thought took this line the chief's brow grew still more stern, and an expression of contempt curled the corners of his wide, thin lips. A savage though he was, at that moment he felt himself immeasurably superior to the pale-faces whom he had known; and in the consciousness of his integrity he held his tall form even more erect, while he turned his face toward the sky in gratitude to that Great Spirit who had made him what he was. Then again he remembered the past, and again his feather-adorned head drooped beneath its burden of regret, while his brown fingers clasped and unclasped themselves about a glittering medal which decorated his necklace, and was the most cherished of his few possessions. "I have worn it for long, and it has rested lightly upon my heart; but now it becomes a knife that pierces. Therefore I must return it whence it came." Yet something like a sigh escaped him, and his hands fell down straight at his sides. Also, his narrow eyes gazed forward upon the horizon, absently, as if their inward visions were much clearer than anything external. In this manner he went onward for a little distance, till his moccasined foot struck sharply against something lying in his path, and so roused him from his reverie. "Ugh! Ugh! So. When the squaw dies the papoose must suffer." The soft obstruction was a little child, curled into a rounded heap, and fast asleep upon this primitive public highway. The touch of the red man's foot had partially wakened the sleeper, and when he bent and laid his hand upon her shoulder, she sprang up lightly, at once beginning to laugh and chatter with a gayety that infected even the stolid Indian. "Ugh! The Little-One-Who-Laughs. Why are you here alone, so far from the Fort, Kitty Briscoe?" "I runned away. Bunny rabbit runned away. I did catch him two times. I did find some posies, all yellow and round and--posies runned away, too. Ain't that funny? Kitty go seek them." Her laughter trilled out, bird clear, and a mischievous twinkle lighted her big blue eyes. "I runned away. Bunny rabbit runned to catch me. I runned to catch bunny. I caught the posies. Yellow posies gone--I go find them, too." As if it were the best joke in the world, the little creature still laughed over her own conceit of so many runnings till, in whirling about, she discovered the remnants of the flowers she had lost upon the heat-hardened path behind her. Indeed, when she had dropped down to sleep, overcome by sudden weariness, it had been with the cool leaves and blossoms for a couch. Now the love of all green and growing things was an inborn passion with this child, and her face sobered to a keen distress as she gazed upon her ruined treasures. But almost at once the cloud passed, and she laughed again. "Poor posies, tired posies, sleepy, too. Kitty sorry. Put them in the water trough and wake them up. Then they hold their eyes open, just like Kitty's." "Ugh! Where the papoose sleeps the blossoms wither," remarked Black Partridge, regarding the bruised and faded plants with more attention. They were wild orchids, and he knew that the child must have wandered far afield to obtain them. At that time of year such blooms were extremely rare, and only to be found in the moist shadows of some tree-bordered stream quite remote from this sandy beach. "Oh, dear! Something aches my feet. I will go home to my little bed. Pick up the posies, Feather-man, and take poor Kitty." With entire confidence that the Indian would do as she wished, the small maid clasped his buckskin-covered knee and leaned her dimpled cheek against it. It proved a comfortable support, and with a babyish yawn she promptly fell asleep again. Had she been a child of his own village, even of his own wigwam, Black Partridge would have shaken her roughly aside, feeling his dignity affronted by her familiarity; but in her case he could not do this and on this night least of all. The little estray was the orphan of Fort Dearborn; whose soldier father had met a soldier's common fate, and whose mother had quickly followed him with her broken heart. Then the babe of a few weeks became the charge of the kind women at the Fort, and the pet of the garrison in general. But now far graver matters than the pranks of a mischievous child filled the minds of all her friends. The peaceful, monotonous life of the past few years was over, and the order had gone forth that the post should be evacuated. Preparations had already begun for the long and hazardous journey which confronted that isolated band of white people, and the mothers of a score of other restless young folk had been too busy and anxious to notice when this child slipped away to wander on the prairie. For a brief time the weary baby slumbered against the red man's knee, while he considered the course he would best pursue; whether to return her at once to the family of the commandant, or to carry her southward to the Pottawatomie lodge whither he was bound. Then, his decision made, he lifted the child to his breast and resumed his homeward way. But the bright head pillowed so near his eyes seemed to dazzle him, and its floating golden locks to catch and hold, in a peculiar fashion, the rays of the sunset. From this, with his race instinct of poetic imagery, which finds in nature a type for everything, he caught a quaint suggestion. "She is like the sun himself. She is all warmth and brightness. She is his child, now that her pale-faced parents sleep the long sleep, and none other claims her. None? Yes, one. I, Black Partridge, the Man-Who-Lies-Not. In my village, Muck-otey-pokee, lives my sister, the daughter of a chief, her whose one son died of the fever on that same dark night when the arrow of a Sioux warrior killed a brave, his sire. In her closed tepee there will again be light. The Sun Maid shall make it. So shall she escape the fate of the doomed pale-faces, and so shall the daughter of my house again be glad." Thus, bearing her new name, and all unconsciously, the little Sun Maid was carried southward and still southward till the twilight fell and her new guardian reached the Pottawatomie village, on the Illinois prairie, where he dwelt. Sultry as the night was, there was yet a great council fire blazing in the midst of the settlement, and around this were grouped many young braves of the tribe. Before the arrival of their chief there had been a babel of tongues in the council, but all discussion ceased as he joined the circle in the firelight. The sudden silence was ominous, and the wise leader understood it; but it was not his purpose then to quarrel with any man. Ignoring the scowling glances bestowed upon him, he gave the customary evening salutation and, advancing directly to the fire, plucked a blazing fagot from it. This he lifted high and purposely held so that its brightness illuminated the face and figure of the child upon his breast. [Illustration: BLACK PARTRIDGE AND THE SUN MAID. _Page 6._] A guttural exclamation of astonishment ran from brave to brave. The action of their chief was significant, but its meaning not clearly comprehended. Had he brought the white baby as a hostage from the distant garrison, in pledge that the compact of its commandant would surely be kept? Or had some other tribe anticipated their own in obtaining the gifts to be distributed? Shut-Hand, one of the older warriors, whose name suggested his character, rose swiftly to his feet, and demanded menacingly: "What means our father, thus bringing hither the white papoose?" "That which the Black Partridge does--he does." Rebuked, but unsatisfied, the miserly inquirer sat down. Then, with a gesture of protection, the chief raised the sleeping little one, that all within the circle might better see her wonderful, glowing beauty, intensified as it was by the flare of the flames as well as by contrast to the dusky faces round about. "Who suffers harm to her shall himself suffer. She is the Sun Maid, the new daughter of our tribe." Having said this, and still carrying the burning fagot, he walked to the closed tepee of his widowed sister and lifted its door flap. Stooping his tall head till its feathered crest swept the floor he entered the spacious lodge. But he sniffed with contempt at the stifling atmosphere within, and laying down his torch raised the other half of the entrance curtain. At the back of the wigwam, crouching in the attitude she had sustained almost constantly since her bereavement, sat the Woman-Who-Mourns. She did not lift her head, or give any sign of welcome till the chief had crossed to her side, and in a tone of command bade her: "Arise and listen, my sister, for I bring you joy." "There is no joy," answered the woman, obediently lifting her tall figure to a rigidly erect posture; by long habit compelled to outward respect, though her heart remained indifferent. "Put back the hair from your eyes. Behold. For the dead son I give you the living daughter. In that land to which both have gone will her lost mother care for your lost child as you now care for her." Slowly, a pair of lean, brown hands came out from the swathing blanket and parted the long locks that served as a veil to hide a haggard, sorrowful face. After the deep gloom the sudden firelight dazzled the woman's sight, and she blinked curiously toward the burden upon her brother's breast. Then the small eyes began to see more clearly and to evince the amazement that filled her. "Dreams have been with me. They were many and strange. Is this another?" "This a glad reality. It is the Sun Maid. She has no parents. You have no child. She is yours. Take her and learn to laugh once more as in the days that are gone." Then he held the little creature toward her; and still amazed, but still obedient, the heart-broken squaw extended her arms and received the unconscious foundling. As the warm, soft flesh touched her own a thrill passed through her desolate heart, and all the tenderness of motherhood returned. "Who is she? Whence did she come? Where will she go?" "She is the Sun Maid. From the Fort by the great lake, where are still white men enough to die--as die they must. For there is treachery afoot, and they who were first treacherous must bear their own punishment. Only she shall be saved; and where she will go is in the power of the Woman-Who-Mourns, and of her alone." Without another word, and leaving the still blazing fagot lying on the earthen floor, the chief went swiftly away. But he had brought fresh air and light and comfort with him, as he had prophesied. The small Sun Maid was already brightening the dusky lodge as might an actual ray from her glorious namesake. It was proof of her utter exhaustion that she still slept soundly while her new foster-mother prepared a bed of softest furs spread over fresh green branches and went hurriedly out to beg from a neighbor squaw a draught of evening's milk. This action in itself was sufficiently surprising to set all tongues a-chatter. The lodge of Muck-otey-pokee had many of the comforts common to the white men's settlements. Its herd of cattle even surpassed that at Fort Dearborn itself, and was a matter of no small pride to the Pottawatomie villagers. From the old mission fathers they had learned, also, some useful arts, and wherever their prairie lands were tilled a rich result was always obtainable. So it was to a home of plenty, as well as safety, that Black Partridge had brought the little Sun Maid; and when she at length awoke to see a dusky face, full of wonderment and love, bending above her, she put out her arms and gurgled in a glee which brought an answering smile to lips that had not smiled for long. With an instinct of yearning tenderness, the Woman-Who-Mourns had lightened her sombre attire by all the devices possible, so that while the child slept she had transformed herself. She had neatly plaited her heavy hair, and wound about her head some strings of gay beads. She had fastened a scarlet tanager's wing to her breast, now covered by a bright-hued cotton gown once sent her from the Fort, and for which she had discarded her dingy blanket. But the greatest alteration of all was in the face itself, where a dawning happiness brought out afresh all the good points of a former comeliness. "Oh! Pretty! I have so many, many nice mammas. Are you another?" "Yes. All your mother now. My Sun Maid. My Girl-Child. My papoose!" "That is nice. But I'm hungry. Give me my breakfast, Other Mother. Then I will go seek my bunny rabbit, that runned away, and my yellow posies that went to sleep when I did. Did you put them to bed, too, Other Mother?" "There are many which shall wake for you, papoose," answered the woman, promptly; for though she did not understand about the missing blossoms, it was fortunate that she did both understand and speak the language of her adopted daughter. Her dead husband had been the tribe's interpreter, and both from him and from the Fort's chaplain she had acquired considerable knowledge. Until her widowhood and voluntary seclusion the Woman-Who-Mourns had been a person of note at Muck-otey-pokee; and now by her guardianship of this stranger white child she bade fair to again become such. CHAPTER II. TWO FOR BREAKFAST. The dead son of the Woman-Who-Mourns had never been disobedient, and small Kitty Briscoe had never obeyed anybody. She had laughed and frolicked her way through all rules and over all obstacles with a merry indifference that would have been insolent had it been less innocent and charming. During her short life the orphan had heard no voice but was full of tenderness, toward her at least; and every babyish misdemeanor had been pardoned almost before it was committed, by reason of her exceeding loveliness and overflowing affection. She had so loved all that she feared none, and not one of the kind mothers at the Fort had felt it her especial duty to discipline so sweet and fearless a nature. By and by, when she grew older, why, of course, the child must come under the yoke, like other children of that stern generation; but for the present, what was she but an ignorant baby, a motherless babe at that? So that, on that first morning of their life together, it gave the latest foster-mother a very decided shock when she directed: "Take your bowl of suppawn and milk, and eat it here by the fire, Girl-Child," to have the other reply, with equal decision: "Kitty will take it to the out-doors." "How? The papoose must eat her breakfast here, as I command." "But Kitty must take it out the doors. What will the pigeons say? Come with me, Other Mother." Quite to her own astonishment, the proud daughter of a chief complied. Superstition had suggested to her that this white-robed little creature, with her trustful eyes and her wonderful hair, who seemed rather to float over the space to the threshold than to tread upon the earthen floor, was the re-embodied spirit of her own lost child come back to comfort her sorrow and to be a power for good in her tribe. But if the Sun Maid were a spirit, she had many earthly qualities; and with a truly human carelessness she had no sooner stepped beyond the tent flap than she let fall her heavy bowl and spilled her breakfast. For there stood her last night's rescuer, his arms full of flowers. "Oh, the posies! the posies! Nice Feather-man did bring them." "Ugh! Black Partridge, the Truth-Teller. I have come to take my leave. Also to ask you, my sister, shall I carry away the Sun Maid to her own people? Or shall she abide with you?" "Take her away, my brother? Do you not guess, then, who she is?" "Why should I guess when I know. I saw her father die, and I stood beside her mother's grave. The white papoose has neither tribe nor kinsman." "There for once the Truth-Teller speaks unwisely. The Sun Maid, whom you found asleep on the path, is my own flesh and blood." In surprise Black Partridge stared at the woman, whose face glowed with delight. Then he reflected that it would be as well to leave her undisturbed in her strange notion. The helpless little one would be the better cared for, under such circumstances, and the time might speedily come when she would need all the protection possible for anybody to give. "It is well--as you believe; yet then you are no longer the Woman-Who-Mourns, but again Wahneenah, the Happy." For a moment they silently regarded the child who had thrown herself face downward upon the great heap of orchids that Black Partridge had brought, and which he had risen very early to gather. They were of the same sort that the little one had grieved over on the night before, only much larger and fairer, and of far greater number. Talking to the blossoms and caressing them as if they were human playmates, the Sun Maid forgot that she was hungry, until Wahneenah had brought a second bowl of porridge and, gently lifting her charge to a place upon the mat, had bidden her eat. "Oh, yes! My breakfast. I did forget it, didn't I? Oh, the darling posies! Oh! the pretty Feather-man, that couldn't tell a naughty story. I know 'bout him. We all know 'bout him to our Fort. My Captain says he is the bestest Feather-man in all the--everywhere." "Ugh! Ugh!" The low grunt of assent seemed to come from every side the big wigwam. At all times there were many idle Indians at Muck-otey-pokee, but of late their number had been largely increased by bands of visiting Pottawatomies. These had come to tarry with their tribesmen in the village till the distribution of goods should be made from Fort Dearborn, as had been ordered by General Hull; or until the hour was ripe for their treacherous assault upon the little garrison. The Man-Who-Kills was in the very centre of the group which had squatted in a semi-circle as near as it dared before the tepee of their chief's sister, and the low grunts came from this band of spectators. "We will sit and watch. So will we learn what the Black Partridge means," and when Spotted Rabbit so advised his brothers, they had come in the darkness and arranged themselves as has been described. The chief had found them there when, before dawn, he came with his offering of flowers, and Wahneenah had seen them when she raised the curtain of her tent and looked out to learn what manner of day was coming. But neither had noticed them any more than they did the birds rustling in the cottonwood beside the wigwam, or the wild creatures skurrying across the path for their early drink at the stream below. Neither had the Sun Maid paid them any attention, for she had always been accustomed to meeting the savages both at the Fort and on her rides abroad with any of her garrison friends; so she deliberately sipped her breakfast, pausing now and then to arrange the pouch-like petals of some favored blossoms and to converse with them in her fantastic fashion, quite believing that they heard and understood. "Did the nice Feather-man bring you all softly, little posies? Aren't you glad you've come to live with Kitty? Other Mother will give you all some breakfast, too, of coldest water in the brook. Then you will sit up straight and hold your heads high. That's the way the children do when my Captain takes the book with the green cover and makes them spell things out of it. Oscar doesn't like the green book. It makes him wriggle his nose--so; but Margaret is as fond of it as I am of you. Oh, dear! Some day, all my mothers say, I, too, will have to sit and look on the printing and spell words. I can, though, even now. Listen, posies. D-o-g--that's--that's--I guess it's 'cat.' Isn't it, posies? But you don't have to spell things, do you? I needn't either. Not to-day, and maybe not to-morrow day. Because, you see, I runned away. Oh, how I did run! So fast, so far, before I found your little sisters, posies, dear. Then I guess I went to sleep, without ever saying my 'Now I lay me,' and the black Feather-man came, and--that's all." Wahneenah had gone back to her household duties, for she had many things on hand that day. Not the least, to make her neglected tepee a brighter, fitter home for this stray sunbeam which the Great Spirit had sent to her out of the sky, and into which He had breathed the soul of her lost one. Indistinctly, she heard the murmuring of the babyish voice at the threshold and occasionally caught some of the words it uttered. These served but to establish her in her belief that the child had more than mortal senses; else how should she fancy that the blossoms would hear and understand her prattle? "Listen. She talks to the weeds as the white men talk to us. She is a witch," said the Man-Who-Kills to his neighbor in the circle, the White Pelican. "She is only a child of the pale-faces. The Black Partridge has set her among us to move our hearts to pity." "The White Pelican was ever a coward," snorted the Man-Who-Kills. But the younger warrior merely turned his head and smiled contemptuously. Then he critically scrutinized the ill-proportioned figure of the ugly-tempered brave. The fellow's crooked back, abnormally long arms and short legs were an anomaly in that race of stalwart Indians, and the soul of the savage corresponded to his outward development. For his very name had been given him in derision; because, though he always threatened and always sneaked after his prey, he had never been known to slay an enemy in open combat. "That is as the tomahawks prove. The scalps hang close on the pole of my wigwam," finally remarked the Pelican. "Ugh! But there was never such a scalp as that of the papoose yonder. It shall hang above all others in _my_ tepee. I have said it." "Having said it, you may unsay it. That is no human fleece upon that small head. She is sacred." "How? Is the White Pelican a man of dreams?" The elder brave also used a tone of contempt, though not with marked success. His thought reverted to the night before, when the chief had stood beside the council fire holding the sleeping child in his arms. Her wonderful yellow hair, fine as spun cobwebs and almost as light, had blown over the breast of Black Partridge like a cloud, and it had glistened and shimmered in the firelight as if possessed of restless life. The little figure was clothed in white, as the Fort mothers had fancied best suited their charge's fairness, even though the fabric must of necessity be coarse; and this garment likewise caught the glow of the dancing flames till it seemed luminous in itself. As an idle rumor spreads and grows among better cultured people so superstition held in power these watchful Indians. Said one: "The father of his tribe has met a spirit on the prairie and brought it to our village. Is the deed for good or evil?" This was what the men in the semi-circle had come to find out. So they relapsed again into silence, but kept a fixed gaze upon the indifferent child before them. She continued her playing and feeding as unconsciously as if she, the flowers, and the sunshine, were quite alone. Some even fancied that they could hear the orchids whispering in return; and it was due to that morning's incident that, thereafter, few among the Pottawatomies would lightly bruise or break a blossom which they then learned to believe was gifted with a sensate life. But presently a sibilant "Hst!" ran the length of the squatting line, and warriors who feared not death for themselves felt their muscles stiffen under a tension of dread as they saw the slow, sinuous approach of a poisonous reptile to the child on the mat; and the thought of each watcher was the same: "Now, indeed, the test--spirit or mortal?" The snake glided onward, its graceful body showing through the grass, its head slightly upraised, and its intention unmistakable. An Indian can be the most silent thing on earth, if he so wills, and at once it was as if all that row of red men had become stone. Even Wahneenah, in the wigwam behind, was startled by the stillness, and cautiously tiptoed forward to learn its cause. Then her heart, like theirs, hushed its beating and she rigidly awaited the outcome. Only the child herself was undisturbed. She did not cease the slow lifting of the clay spoon to her lips, and between sips she still prattled and gurgled in sheer content. "Kitty is most fulled up, 'cause she did have so big a breakfast, she did. Nice Other Mother did give it me. I wish my bunny rabbit had not runned away. Then he could have some. Never mind. Here comes a beau'ful cunning snake. I did see one two times to my Fort. Bad Jacky soldier did kill him dead, and that made Kitty cry. Come, pretty thing, do you want Kitty's breakfast? Then you may have it every bit." So she tossed her hair from her eyes and sat with uplifted spoon while the moccasin glided up to the mat and over it, till its mouth could reach the shallow bowl in the child's lap. "Oh! the funny way it eats. Poor thing! It hasn't any spoon. It might have Kitty's, only----" The bright eyes regarded the rudely shaped implement and the mouth it was to feed; then the little one's ready laughter bubbled forth. "Funny Kitty! How could it hold a spoon was bigger 'n itself--when its hands have never grown? Other pretty one, that Jacky killed, that didn't have its hands, either. Hush, snaky. Did I make you afraid, I laugh so much? Now I will keep very, very still till you are through. Then you may go back home to your childrens, and tell them all about your nice breakfast. Where do you live? Is it in a Fort, as Kitty does? Oh, I forgot! I did promise to keep still. Quite, quite still, till you go way away." So she did; while not only the red-skins, but all nature seemed to pause and watch the strange spectacle; for the light breeze that had come with the sunrise now died away, and every leaf stood still in the great heat which descended upon the earth. It seemed to Wahneenah, watching in a very motherly fear, and to the squatting braves, in their increasing awe, as if hours passed while the child and the reptile remained messmates. But at length the dangerous serpent was satisfied and, turning slowly about, retreated whence it came. Then Mistress Kitty lifted her voice and called merrily: "Come, Other Mother! Come and see. I did have a lovely, lovely creepy one to eat with me. He did eat so funny Kitty had to laugh. Then I remembered that my other peoples to my Fort tell all the children to be good and I was good, wasn't I? Say, Other Mother, my posies want some water." "They shall have it, White Papoose, my Girl-Child-Who-Is-Safe. She whom the Great Spirit has restored nothing can harm." Then she led the Sun Maid away, after she had gathered up every flower, not daring that anything beloved of her strange foster-child should be neglected. The watching Indians also rose and returned into the village from that point on its outskirts where Wahneenah's wigwam stood. They spoke little, for in each mind the conviction had become firm that the Sun Maid was, in deed and truth, a being from the Great Beyond, safe from every mortal hurt. Yet still, the Man-Who-Kills fingered the edge of his tomahawk with regret and remarked in a manner intended to show his great prowess: "Even a mighty warrior cannot fight against the powers of the sky." After a little, one, less credulous than his fellows, replied boastfully: "Before the sun shall rise and set a second time the white scalp will hang at my belt." Nobody answered the boast till at length a voice seemed to come out of the ground before them, and at its first sound every brave stood still to listen for that which was to follow. All recognized the voice, even the strangers from the most distant settlements. It was heard in prophecy only, and it belonged to old Katasha, the One-Who-Knows. "No. It is not so. Long after every one of this great Pottawatomie nation shall have passed out of sight, toward the place where the day dies, the hair of the Sun Maid's head shall be still shining. Its gold will have turned to snow, but generation after generation shall bow down to it in honor. Go. The road is plain. There is blood upon it, and some of this is yours. But the scalp of the Sun Maid is in the keeping of the Great Spirit. It is sacred. It cannot be harmed. Go." Then the venerable woman, who had risen from her bed upon the ground to utter her message, returned to her repose, and the warriors filed past her with bowed heads and great dejection of spirit. In this mood they joined another company about the dead council fire, and in angry resentment listened to the speech of the Black Partridge as he pleaded with them for the last time. "For it is the last. This day I make one more journey to the Fort, and there I will remain until you join me. We have promised safe escort for our white neighbors through the lands of the hostile tribes who dare not wage war against us. The white man trusts us. He counts us his friends. Shall we keep our promise and our honor, or shall we become traitors to the truth?" It was Shut-Hand who answered for his tribesmen: "It is the pale-face who is a traitor to honesty. The goods which our Great Father gave him in trust for his red children have been destroyed. The white soldiers have forgotten their duty and have taught us to forget ours. When the sun rises on the morrow we will join the Black Partridge at the Fort by the great water, and we will do what seems right in our eyes. The Black Partridge is our father and our chief. He must not then place the good of our enemies before the good of his own people. We have spoken." So the great Indian, who was more noble than his clansmen, went out from among them upon a hopeless errand. This time he did not make his journey on foot, but upon the back of his fleetest horse; and the medal he meant to relinquish was wrapped in a bit of deerskin and fastened to his belt. "Well, at least the Sun Maid will be safe. When the braves, with the squaws and children, join their brothers at the camp, Wahneenah will remain at Muck-otey-pokee; as should every other woman of the Pottawatomie nation, were I as powerful in reality as I appear. It is the squaws who urge the men to the darkest deeds. Ugh! What will be must be. Tchtk! Go on!" But the bay horse was already travelling at its best, slow as its pace seemed to the Black Partridge. CHAPTER III. IN INDIAN ATTIRE. Not many hours after Black Partridge turned his back upon Muck-otey-pokee, all its fighting men, with their squaws and children, also left it, as their chief had foreseen they would. They followed the direction he had taken, though they did not proceed to the garrison itself. The camp to which they repaired was a little distance from the Fort, and had been pitched beside the river, where was then a fringe of cottonwoods and locusts affording a grateful shade. Here the squaws cooked and gossiped, while their sons played the ancient games of throwing the spear through the ring, casting the hatchet, and shooting birds on the wing. The braves tested their weapons and boasted of many valorous deeds; or were else entirely silent, brooding upon mischief yet to come. Over all was the thrill of excitement and anticipation, which the great heat of the season seemed to deepen rather than dispel. At the Fort, Black Partridge pleaded finally and in vain. "We have been ordered to evacuate, and we will obey. All things are in readiness. The stores are already in the wagons, and other wagons wait for the sick, the women, and the children. Your people have promised us a safe conveyance through their country, and as far as we shall need it. They will be well paid. Part they have received, and the rest of their reward will be promptly delivered at the end of the journey. There is no more to be said"; and with this conclusion the weary commandant sat down in his denuded home to take a bit of food and a few moments' rest. He nodded hospitably toward an empty chair on the farther side of the deal table, by way of invitation that the Indian should join him, but this the honest chief declined to do. "No, good father, that can no longer be. I have come to return you this medal. I have worn it long and in peace. It was the gift of your people, a pledge between us of friendship. My friendship remains unbroken, but there also remains a tie which is stronger. I am the chief of my tribe. My young men are brave, and they have been deceived. They will punish the deceivers, and I have no power to prevent this. Nor do I blame them, though I would hold them to their compact if I could." "Cannot the Truth-Teller compel his sons to his own habit?" "Not when his white father sets them a bad example." "Black Partridge, your words are bold." "Your deed was bolder, father. It was the deed of a fool." "Take care!" As if he had not heard, the chief spoke steadily on: "My tribesman, Winnemeg--the white man's friend--brought the order that all goods stored here should be justly distributed among my people, to every man his portion. Was it thus done?" "Come, Black Partridge, you are not wanting in good sense nor in honesty. You must admit that such a course would have been hazardous in the extreme. The idea of putting liquor and ammunition into the hands of the red men was one of utter madness. It was worse than foolhardy. The broken firearms are safe in the well, and the more dangerous whiskey has mingled itself harmlessly with the waters of the river and the lake." "There is something more foolish than folly," said the Indian, gravely, "and that is a lie! The powder drowned in the well will kill more pale-faces than it could have done in the hands of your red children. The river-diluted whiskey will inflame more hot heads than if it had been dispensed honorably and in its full strength. But now the end. Though I will do what I can do, even the Truth-Teller cannot fight treachery. Prepare for the worst. And so--farewell!" Then the tall chief bowed his head in sadness and went away; but the terrible truth of what he then uttered all the world now knows. Meanwhile, in the almost empty village among the cottonwoods, the Sun Maid played and laughed and chattered as she had always done in her old home at the Fort. And all day, those wiser women like Wahneenah, who had refrained from following their tribe to the distant camp, watched and attended the child in admiring awe. By nightfall the Sun Maid had been loaded with gifts. Lahnowenah, wife of the avaricious Shut-Hand but herself surnamed the Giver, came earliest of all, with a necklace of bears' claws and curious shells which had come from the Pacific slope, none knew how many years before. The Sun Maid received the gift with delight and her usual exclamation of "Nice!" but when the donor attempted to clasp the trinket about the fair little throat she was met by a decided: "No, no, no!" "Girl-Child! All gifts are worthy, but this woman has given her best," corrected Wahneenah, with some sternness. This baby might be a spirit, in truth, but it was the spirit of her own child and she must still hold it under authority. At sound of the altered tones, Kitty looked up swiftly and her lip quivered. Then she replied with equal decision: "Other Mother must not speak to me like that. Kitty is not bad. It is a pretty, pretty thing, but it is dirty. It must have its faces washed. Then I will wear it and love it all my life." An Indian girl would have been punished for such frankness, but Lahnowenah showed no resentment. Beneath her outward manner lay a deeper meaning. To her the necklace was a talisman. From generations long dead it had come down to her, and always as a life-saver. Whoever wore it could never be harmed "by hatchet or arrow, nor by fire or flood." Yet that very morning had her own brother, the Man-Who-Kills, assured her that the child's life was a doomed one, and she had more faith in his threats than had his neighbors in their village. She knew that the one thing he respected was this heirloom, and that he would not dare injure anybody who wore it. The Sun Maid was, undoubtedly, under the guardianship of higher powers than a poor squaw's, yet it could harm nobody to take all precautions. So, with a grim smile, the donor carried her gift to the near-by brook and held it for a few moments beneath the sluggish water; then she returned to the wigwam and again proffered it to the foundling. "Yes. That is nice now. Kitty will wear it all the time. Won't the childrens be pleased when they see it! Maybe they may wear it, too, if the dear blanket lady says they may. Can they, Other Mother?" The squaws exchanged significant glances. They knew it was not probable that the Fort orphan and her old playmates would ever meet again; but Wahneenah answered evasively: "They can wear it when they come to the Sun Maid's home." Again Lahnowenah would have put the necklace in its place, and a second time she was prevented; for at that moment the One-Who-Knows came slowly down the path between the trees, and held up her crutch warningly, as she called, in her feeble voice: "Wait! This is a ceremony. Let all the women come." Lahnowenah ran to summon them, and they gathered about the tepee in expectant silence. When old Katasha exerted herself it behooved all the daughters of her tribe to be in attendance. Wahneenah hastened to spread her best mat for the visitor's use, and helped to seat her upon it. "Ugh! Old feet grow clumsy and old arms weak. Take this bundle, sister of my chief, and do with its contents as seems right to thee." The other squaws squatted around, eagerly curious, while Wahneenah untied the threads of sinew which fastened the blanket-wrapped parcel. This outer covering itself was different from anything she had ever handled, being exquisitely soft in texture and gaudily bright in hue. It was also of a small size, such as might fit a child's shoulders. Within the blanket was a little tunic of creamy buckskin, gayly bedecked with a fringe of beads around the neck and arms' eyes, while the short skirt ended in a border of fur, also bead-trimmed in an odd pattern. With it were tiny leggings that matched the tunic; and a dainty pair of moccasins completed the costume. As garment after garment was spread out before the astonished gaze of the squaws their exclamations of surprise came loud and fast. A group of white mothers over a fashionable outfit for a modern child could not have been more enthusiastic or excited. Yet through all this she who had brought it remained stolid and silent; till at length her manner impressed the others, and they remembered that she had said: "It is a ceremony." Then Wahneenah motioned the squaws to be silent, and demanded quietly: "What is this that the One-Who-Knows sees good to be done at the lodge of her chief's daughter?" "Take the papoose. Set her before me. Watch and see." Wide-eyed and smiling, and quite unafraid, the little orphan from the Fort stood, as she was directed, close beside the aged squaw while she was silently disrobed. Her baby eyes had caught the glitter of beads on the new garments, and there was never a girl-child born who did not like new clothes. When she was quite undressed, and her white body shone like a marble statue in contrast to their dusky forms, the hushed voices of the Indians burst forth again in a torrent of admiration. But Kitty was too young to understand this, and deemed it some new game in which she played the principal part. The prophetess held up her hand and the women ceased chattering. Then she pointed toward the brook and, herself comprehending what was meant by this gesture, the Sun Maid ran lightly to the bank and leaped in. With a scream of fear, that was very human and mother-like, Wahneenah followed swiftly. For the instant she had forgotten that the merry little one was a "spirit," and could not drown. Fortunately, the stream was not deep, and was delightfully sun-warmed. Besides, the Fort children had all been as much at home in the water as on the land and a daily plunge had been a matter of course. So Kitty laughed and clapped her hands as she ducked again and again into the deepest of the shallow pools, splashing and gurgling in glee, till another signal from the aged crone bade the foster-mother bring the bather back. "No, no! Kitty likes the water. Kitty did make the Feather-lady wash the necklace. Now the old Feather-lady makes Kitty wash Kitty. No, I do not want to go. I want to stay right here in the brook." "But--the beautiful tunic! What about that, papoose?" It was not at all a "spiritual" argument, yet it sufficed; and with a spring the little one was out of the water and clinging to Wahneenah's breast. As she was set down, dewy and glistening, she pranced and tossed her dripping hair about till the drops it scattered touched some faces that had not known the feel of water in many a day. With an "Ugh!" of disgust the squaws withdrew to a safe distance from this unsolicited bath, though remaining keenly watchful of what the One-Who-Knows might do. This was, first, the anointing of the child's body with some unctuous substance that the old woman had brought, wrapped in a pawpaw leaf. Since towels were a luxury unknown in the wilderness, as soon as this anointing was finished Katasha clothed the child in her new costume and laid her hand upon the sunny head, while she muttered a charm to "preserve it from all evil and all enemies." Then, apparently exhausted by her own efforts, the prophetess directed Lahnowenah, the Giver, to put on the antique White Necklace. This was so long that it went twice about the Sun Maid's throat and would have been promptly pulled off by her own fingers, as an adornment quite too warm for the season had not the fastening been one she could not undo and the string, which held the ornaments, of strong sinew. Then Wahneenah took the prophetess into her wigwam, and prepared a meal of dried venison meat, hulled corn, and the juice of wild berries pressed out and sweetened. Katasha's visits were of rare occurrence, and it had been long since the Woman-Who-Mourns had played the hostess, save in this late matter of her foster-child; so for a time she forgot all save the necessity of doing honor to her guest. When she did remember the Sun Maid and went in anxious haste to the doorway, the child had vanished. "She is gone! The Great Spirit has recalled her!" cried Wahneenah, in distress. "Fear not, the White Papoose is safe. She will live long and her hands will be full. As they fill they will overflow. She is a river that enriches yet suffers no loss. Patience. Patience. You have taken joy into your home, but you have also taken sorrow. Accept both, and wait what will come." Even Wahneenah, to whom many deferred, felt that she herself must pay deference to this venerable prophetess, and so remained quiet in her wigwam as long as her guest chose to rest there. This was until the sun was near its setting and till the foster-mother's heart had grown sick with anxiety. So, no sooner had Katasha's figure disappeared among the trees than Wahneenah set out at frantic speed to find the little one. "Have you seen the Sun Maid?" she demanded of the few she met; and at last one set her on the right track. "Yes. She chased a gray squirrel that had been wounded. It was still so swift it could just outstrip her, and she followed beyond the village, away along the bank. Osceolo passed near, and saw the squirrel seek refuge in the lodge of Spotted Adder. The Sun Maid also entered." "The lodge of Spotted Adder!" repeated Wahneenah, slowly. "Then only the Great Spirit can preserve her!" CHAPTER IV. THE WHITE BOW. Wahneenah had lived so entirely within the seclusion of her own lodge that she had become almost a stranger in the village. It was long since she had travelled so far as the isolated hut into which the youth, Osceolo, had seen the Sun Maid disappear, and as she approached it her womanly heart smote her with pain and self-reproach, while she reflected thus: "Has it come to this? Spotted Adder, the Mighty, whose wigwam was once the richest of all my father's tribe. I remember that its curtains of fine skins were painted by the Man-Of-Visions himself, and told the history of the Pottawatomies since the beginning of the world. Many a heap of furs and peltries went in payment for their adornment, but--where are they now! While I have sat in darkness with my sorrow new things have become old. Yet he is accursed. Else the trouble would not have befallen him. I have heard the women talking, through my dreams. He has lain down and cannot again arise. And the White Papoose is with him! Will she be accursed, too? Fool! Why do I fear? Is she not a child of the sky, and forever safe, as Katasha said? But the touch of her arms was warm, like the clasp of the son I bore, and----" The mother's reverie ended in a very human distress. There was a rumor among her people that whoever came near the Spotted Adder would instantly be infected by whatever was the dread disease from which he suffered. That the Sun Maid's wonderful loveliness should receive a blemish seemed a thing intolerable and, in another instant, regardless of her own danger, Wahneenah had crept beneath the broken flap of bark, into a scene of squalor indescribable. Even this squaw, who knew quite well how wretched the tepees of her poorer tribesmen often were, was appalled now; and though the torn skins and strips of bark which covered the hut admitted plenty of light and air, she gasped for breath before she could speak. "My Girl-Child! My Sun Maid! Come away. Wrong, wrong to have entered here, to have made me so anxious. Come." "No, no, Other Mother! Kitty cannot come. Kitty must stay. See the poor gray squirrel? It has broked its leg. It went so--hoppety-pat, hoppety-pat, as fast as fast. I thought it was playing and just running away. So Kitty runned too. Kitty always runs away when Kitty can." "Ugh! I believe you. Come." "No, Kitty must stay. Poor sick man needs Kitty. I did give him a nice drink. Berries, too. Kitty putted them in his mouth all the time. Poor man!" Wahneenah's anger rose. Was she, a chief's daughter, to be thus flouted by a baby, a pale-face at that? Surely, there was nothing whatever spiritual now about this self-willed, spoiled creature, whom an unkind fate had imposed upon her. She stooped to lift the little one and compel obedience, but was met by a smile so fearless and happy that her arms fell to her sides. "That's a good Other Mother. Poor sick man has wanted to turn him over, and he couldn't. Kitty tried and tried, and Kitty couldn't. Now my Other Mother's come. She can. She is so beau'ful strong and kind!" There was a grunt, which might have been a groan, from the corner of the hut where the Spotted Adder lay; and a convulsive movement of the contorted limbs as he vainly strove to change his uncomfortable position. Wahneenah watched him, with the contempt which the women of her race feel for any masculine weakness, and did not offer to assist. His poverty she pitied, and would have relieved, though his physical infirmity was repugnant to her. She would not touch him. But the Sun Maid was on her feet at once, tenderly laying upon the ground the wounded squirrel which she had held upon her lap. The wild thing had, apparently, lost all its timidity and now fully trusted the child who had caressed its fur and murmured soft, pitying sounds, in that low voice of hers, which the Fort people had sometimes felt was an unknown language. Certainly, she had had a strange power, always, over any animal that came near her and this case was no exception. Her white friends would not have been surprised by the incident, but Wahneenah was, and it brought back her belief that this was a child of supernatural gifts. She even began to feel ashamed of her treatment of Spotted Adder, though she waited to see what his small nurse would do. "Poor sick Feather-man! Is you hurted now? Does your face ache you to make it screw itself all this way?" and she made a comical grimace, imitative of the sufferer's expression. "Ugh! Ugh!" "Yes; Kitty hears. Other Mother, that is all the word he says. All the time it is just 'Ugh! Ugh!' I wish he would talk Kitty's talk. Make him do it, Other Mother. Please!" "That I cannot do. He knows it not. But he has a speech I understand. What need you, Spotted Adder?" she concluded, in his own dialect. "Ugh! It is the voice of Wahneenah, the Happy. What does she here, in the lodge of the outcast? It is many a moon since the footfall of a woman sounded on my floor. Why does one come now?" "In pursuit of this child, the adopted daughter of our tribe, whom the Black Partridge himself has given me. It was ill of you, accursed, to wile her hither with your unholy spells." "I wiled her not. It was the gray squirrel. Broken in his life, as am I, the once Mighty. Many wounded creatures seek shelter here. It is a sanctuary. They alone fear not the miserable one." "Does not the tribe see to it that you have food and drink set within your wigwam, once during each journey of the sun? I have so heard." "Ugh! Food and drink. Sometimes I cannot reach them. They are not even pushed beyond the door flap, or what is left of it. They are all afraid. All. Yet they are fools. That which has befallen me may happen to each when his time comes. It is the sickness of the bones. There is no contagion in it. But it twists the straight limbs into torturing curves and it rends the body with agony. One would be glad to die, but death--like friendship--holds itself aloof. Ugh! The drink! The drink!" The Sun Maid could understand the language of the eyes, if not the lips, and she followed their wistful gaze toward the clay bowl from which she had before given him the water. But it was empty now, and seizing it with all her strength, for it was heavy and awkward in shape, she sped out of the wigwam toward a spring she had discovered. "Four, ten, lots of times Kitty has broughted the nice water, and every time the poor, sick Feather-man has drinked it up. He must be terrible thirsty, and so is Kitty. I guess I will drink first, this time." Filling the utensil, she struggled to lift it to her own lips, but it was rudely pushed away. "Papoose! Would you drink to your own death? The thing is accursed, I tell you!" "Why, Other Mother! It is just as clean as clean. Kitty did wash and wash it long ago. It was all dirty, worse than my new necklace, but it is clean now. Do you want a drink, Other Mother? Is you thirsty, too, like the sick one and Kitty?" "If I were, it would be long before I touched my lips to that cup." "Would it? Now I will fill it again. Then you must take it, Other Mother, and quick, quick, back to that raggedy house. Kitty is tired, she has come here and there so many, many times." "Is it here you have spent this long day, papoose?" "I did come here when the gray squirrel runned away. I did stay ever since." Wahneenah's heart sank. But to her credit it was that, for the time being, she forgot the stories she had heard, and remembered only that there was suffering which she must relieve. It might be that already the soul of Spotted Adder was winged for its long flight, and could carry for her to that wide Unknown, where her own dead tarried, some message from her, the bereft. As this thought flashed through her brain she seized the bowl and hastened with it to the lodge. This time, also, she forgot everything but the possibility that had come to her, and kneeling beside the old Indian she held the dish to his mouth. "It is the fever, the fever! A little while and the awful chill will come again. The racking pain, the thirst! Ugh! Wahneenah, the Happy, is braver than her sisters. Her courage shall prove her blessing. The lips of the dying speak truth." "And the ears of the dying? Can they still hear and remember? Will the Spotted Adder take my message to the men I have lost? Sire and son, there was no Pottawatomie ever born so brave as they. Tell them I have been faithful. I have been the Woman-Who-Mourns. I have kept to my darkened wigwam and remembered only them, till she came, this child you have seen. She is a gift from the sky. She has come to comfort and sustain. She was born a pale-face, but she has a red man's heart. She is all brave and true and dauntless. None fear her, and she fears none. I believe that they have sent her to me. I believe that in her they both live. Ask them if this is so." "There is no need to ask, Wahneenah, the Happy. Happy, indeed, who has been blessed with a gift so gracious. She is the Merciful. The Unafraid. She will pass in safety through many perils. All day she has sat beside me whom all others shun. She has moistened my lips, she has kept the gnats from stinging, she has sung in her unknown tongue of that land whither I go, and soon,--the land of the sky from whence she came. The light of the morning is on her hair and the dusk of evening in her eyes. As she has ministered to me, the deserted, the solitary, so she will minister unto multitudes. I can see them crowding, crowding; the generations yet unborn. The vision of the dying is true." On the floor beside them the Sun Maid sat, caressing the wounded squirrel. Through the torn curtains the waning sunlight slanted and lighted the bleak interior. It seemed to rest most brilliantly upon the child, and in the eyes of the Spotted Adder she was like a lamp set to illumine his path through the dark valley, an unexpected messenger from the Great Father, showing him beforehand a glimpse of the beauty and tenderness of the Land Beyond. Yet even if a spirit, she wore a human shape, and she would have human needs. She would be often in danger against which she must be guarded. "Wahneenah, fetch me the bow and quiver." "Which?" she asked, in surprise, though in reality she knew. "Is there one that should be named with mine? The White Bow from the land of eternal snow; the arrows winged with feathers from the white eagle's wing,--light as thistle down, strong as love, invincible as death." The Spotted Adder had been the orator of his tribe. Men had listened to his words in admiration, wondering whence he obtained the eloquence which moved them; and at that moment it was as if all the power of his earlier manhood had returned. The White Bow was well known among all the Pottawatomie tribes. Even the Sacs and Foxes had heard of it and feared it. It was older than the Giver's historic necklace, and tradition said that it had been hurled to earth on the breath of a mighty snowstorm. It had fallen before the wigwam of the Spotted Adder's ancestor and had been handed down from father to son, as fair and sound as on the day of its first bestowal. None knew the wood of which it was fashioned, which many could bend and twist but none could break. The string which first bound it had never worn nor wasted, and not a feather had ever fallen from the arrows in the quiver, nor had their number ever diminished, no matter how often sped. It was the one possession left to the neglected warrior and had been protected by its own reputed origin. There were daring thieves in many a tribe, but never a thief so bold he would risk his soul in the seizure of the White Bow. Wahneenah felt no choice but to comply with the Indian's command. She took the bow and its accoutrements from the sheltered niche in the tepee where it hung; the only spot, it seemed, that had not been subjected to the destruction of the elements. She had never held it in her hand before, and she wondered at its lightness as she carried it to its owner, and placed it in the gnarled fingers which would never string it again. "Good! Call the child to stand here." With awe, Wahneenah motioned the little one within the red man's reach. The last vestige of fear or repulsion had vanished from her own mind before the majesty of this hour. "Does the poor, sick Feather-man want another drink? Shall Kitty fetch it now?" "Hush, papoose!" He would have opened the small white hand and clasped it about the bow, which reached full three times the height of the child, and along whose beautiful length she gazed in wonder, but he could not. "Take it, Girl-Child. It is a gift. It is more magical than the necklace. Take it, hold it tight--that will please him--and say what is in your heart." "Oh, the beau'ful bow! Is it for Kitty? To keep, forever and ever? Why, it is bigger than that one of the Sauganash, and far prettier than Winnemeg's. It cannot be for Kitty, just little Kitty girl." "Yes; it is." Then the Sun Maid laid it reverently down, and catching hold her scant tunic made the old-fashioned curtsey which her Fort friends had taught her. "Thank you, poor Feather-man. I will take care of it very nice. I won't break it, not once." "Ugh!" grunted the Indian, with satisfaction. Then he closed his eyes as if he would sleep. "Good-night, Spotted Adder, the Mighty. I thank you, also, on the child's behalf. It is the second gift this day of talismans that must protect. Surely, she will be clothed in safety. Hearken to me. I must go home. The Sun Maid must be fed and put to sleep. But I will return. I am no longer afraid. You were my father's friend. All that a woman's hand can now do for your comfort shall be done." [Illustration: THE GIFT OF THE WHITE BOW. _Page 48._] But the Spotted Adder made no sign, and whether he did or did not hear her, Wahneenah never knew. She walked swiftly homeward, bearing the White Papoose upon one strong arm and the White Bow upon the other. Yet she noticed, with a smile, that the child still clung tenderly to her own burden of the injured squirrel, and that she was infinitely more careful of it and its suffering than of the wonderful gift she had received. Long before her own tepee was reached the Sun Maid was fast asleep; and as the small head rested more and more heavily upon Wahneenah's shoulder, and the soft breath of childhood fanned her throat, the woman again doubted the spiritual origin of the foundling, and felt fresh gratitude for its simple humanity. "Well, whoever and whatever she is, she is already thrice protected. By her Indian dress, by her White Bow, and by Lahnowenah's White Necklace. She is quite safe from every enemy now." "Not quite," said a voice at Wahneenah's elbow. But it was only Osceolo, the Simple. Nobody minded him or his words. CHAPTER V. HORSES: WHITE AND BLACK. On the morning of the 15th of August, 1812, the sun rose in unclouded splendor, and transformed the great Lake Michigan into a sheet of gold. "It is a good omen," said one of the women at Fort Dearborn, as she looked out over the shining water. But only the merry children responded to her attempted cheerfulness. "We shall have a grand ride. I wish nobody need make the journey on foot; and I'm glad, for once, I'm just a boy, and not a grown-up man." "Even a boy may have to do a man's work, this day, Gaspar Keith. I wish that you were strong enough to hold a gun; but you have been taught how to use an arrow. Is your quiver well supplied?" That his captain should speak to him, a child, so seriously, impressed the lad profoundly. His ruddy cheek paled, and a fit of trembling seized him. A sombre memory rose to frighten him, and he caught his breath as he asked: "Do you think there will be any trouble, Captain Heald? I thought I heard the soldiers saying that the Pottawatomies would take care of us." "Who trusts to an Indian's care leans on a broken reed. You know that from your own experience. Surely, you must remember your earlier childhood, even though you have been forbidden to talk of it here." "Oh! I do, I do! Not often in the daytime, but in the long, long nights. The other children sleep. They have never seen what I did, or heard the dreadful yells that come in my dreams and wake me up. Then I seem to see the flames, the blood, the dead white faces. Oh, sir, don't tell me that must come again: don't, don't! I cannot bear it. I would rather die right now and here--safe in our Fort." Instantly the soldier regretted his own words. But the lad was one of the larger children at the garrison and should be incited, he thought, to take some share in the matter of defence, should defence be necessary. He had not known that under Gaspar's quiet, almost sullen demeanor, had lain such hidden experiences. Else he would have talked them over with the boy, and have tried to make him forget instead of remember his early wrongs. For Gaspar Keith was the son of an Indian trader, and had been born in an isolated cabin far to the northwest of his present home. The little cabin had been overflowing with young life and gayety, even in that wilderness. His mother was a Frenchwoman of the happiest possible temperament and, because no other society was available, had made comrades of her children. "What we did in Montreal" was the type of what she attempted to do under her more restricted conditions. So, for a long season of peace, the Keiths sang and made merry over every trifling incident. Did the father bring home an extra load of game, at once there was a feast prepared and all the friendly Indians, the only neighbors, were invited to come and partake. On one such occasion, when a red-skinned guest had brought with him a bottle of the forbidden "fire-water," a quarrel ensued. The trader was of sterner sort than his light-hearted wife, and of violent temper. In his own house his word was law, and he remonstrated with the Indian for his action. To little Gaspar, in his memories, it seemed but a moment's transition from a laughing group about a well-spread table to a scene of horror. He saw--but he could never afterward speak in any definite way of what he saw. Only he knew that almost before he had pushed back from his place he had been caught up on the shoulder of the chief Winnemeg, also a guest; and in another moment was riding behind that warrior at breakneck speed toward the little garrison, in pursuit of shelter for himself and aid for his defenceless family. The shelter was speedily found, but the aid came too late; and for a time the women of the Fort had a difficult task in comforting the fright-crazed boy. However, they were used to such incidents. Their courage and generosity were unlimited, and they persevered in their care till he recovered and repaid them by his faithful devotion and service. The manner of his arrival among them was never discussed in his presence, and as he gradually came to act like other, happier children, they hoped he had outgrown his troubles. He had now been at the Fort for two years, during all which time he had gone but short distances from it. Yet even in his restricted outings he had picked up much knowledge of useful things from the settlers near, and of things apparently not so useful from his red-faced friends. So it happened that there was not, probably, even any Indian boy who could string a bow or aim an arrow better than Gaspar. The Sauganash himself had presented the little fellow with a bow of finest workmanship, and had taught him the rare trick of shooting at fixed paces. It had been the delight of the garrison to watch him, in their hours of recreation, accomplish this feat. Sighting some bird flying high overhead, the lad would take swift aim and discharge each arrow from his quiver at a certain count. There never seemed any variation in the distances between the discharged arrows as they made the arc--upward with unerring aim, and downward in the body of the bird; hitting it, one by one, at proportionate intervals of time and space. The women thought it a cruel sport, and would have prevented it if they could; but the men knew that it was a wonderful achievement, and that many fine archers among the surrounding tribes would fail in accomplishing it. Therefore, it was natural that the Fort's commandant should be anxious to know if his ward's equipment were in order, on a morning so full of possible dangers as this. "There is no talk of dying, Gaspar. You are a man, child, if not full grown. You are brave and skilful. You have a clear head, too; so listen closely to what I say. In our garrison are not more than forty men able to fight. There are a dozen women and twenty children, of which none have been trained to use a bow as you can. Besides these helpless ones, there are many sick soldiers to occupy the wagons. I know you expected to be with your mates, but I have another plan for you. I want you to ride Tempest, and to sling your bow on your saddle horn." "Ride--Tempest! Why, Captain Heald! Nobody--that is, nobody but you--can ride him. I was never on his back----" "It's time you were. Lad, do you know how many Indians are in camp near us, or have broken camp this morning to join us?" "Oh! quite a lot, I guess." "Just so. A whole 'lot.' About five hundred, or a few less." The two were busily at work, packing the last of the few possessions that the commandant must convey to Fort Wayne, and which he could entrust to no other hands than his own and those of this deft-fingered lad, and they made no pause while they talked. Indeed, Gaspar's movements were even swifter now, as if he were eager to be through and off. "Five hundred, sir? They are friendly Indians, though. Black Partridge and Winnemeg----" "Are but as straws against the current. Gaspar, I shall need a boy who can be trusted. These red neighbors of ours are not so 'friendly' as they seem. They are dissatisfied. They mean mischief, I fear, though God forbid! Well, we are soldiers, and we cannot shrink. You must ride Tempest. You must tell nobody why. You can keep at a short distance from our main band, and act as scout. Captain Wells will march in front with his Miamis, upon whose assistance--the Miamis', I mean--I do not greatly count. They are cowards. They fear the 'canoe men.' Well, what do you say, my son?" Gaspar caught his breath. His own fear of an Indian had been nearly overcome by the friendship of those chiefs who were so constantly at the Fort; but the night before had brought him a recurrence of the terrifying visions which were as much memories as dreams. After such a night he was scarcely himself in courage, greatly as he desired to please the captain. Then he reflected how high was the honor designed him. He, a little boy, just past ten and going on eleven for a whole fortnight now, and--of course he'd do it! "Well, I'll ride him. That is, I'll try. Like as not, he'll shake me off first try." "Make the second try, then. You know the copy in your writing-book?" "Yes, sir. I wrote the whole page of it, yesterday, and the chaplain said it was well done. Shall I get him now? Are you almost ready?" The commandant looked at the waiting wagons, the assembled company, the women and little ones who were so dear and in such a perilous case. For a moment his heart sank, stout soldier though he was, and it was no detriment to his manhood that a fervent if silent prayer escaped him. "Yes, fetch him if you can. If not, I'll come." Tempest was a gelding of fine Kentucky breed. There were others of his line at the garrison, and upon them some of the women even were to ride. But Tempest was the king of the stables. He was the master's half-broken pet and recreation. For sterner uses, as for that morning's work, there was a better trained animal, and on this the commandant would make his own journey. A smile curled the officer's lips despite his anxiety as, presently, out from the stables galloped a bareheaded lad, clinging desperately to Tempest's back, who tried as desperately to shake off his unusual burden. But the saddle girth was well secured, and the rider clung like a burr. His bow was slung crosswise before him and his full quiver hung at his back. A cheer went up. The sight was as helpful to the soldiers as it was amusing, and they fell into line with a ready step as the band struck up--what was that tune? _The Dead March?_ By whose ill-judgment this? Well, there was no time to question. Any music helps to keep a line of men in step, and there was the determined Gaspar cavorting and wheeling before and around the soldiers in a way to provoke a mirth that no dismal strain could dispel. So the gates were flung open, and in orderly procession, each man in his place, each heart set upon its duty, the little garrison marched through them for the last time. Of what took place within the next dread hours, of the Indians' treachery and the white men's courage, there is no need to give the details. It is history. But of brave Gaspar Keith on the wild gelding, Tempest, history makes no mention. There is many a hero whose name is unknown, and the lad was a hero that day. He did what he could, and his empty quiver, his broken bow, told their own story to a Pottawatomie warrior who came upon the boy just as the sun crossed the meridian on that memorable day. Gaspar was lying unconscious beneath a clump of forest trees, and Tempest grazing quietly beside him. There was no wound upon the lad, and whether he had been thrown to the ground by the animal, or had slipped from his saddle out of sheer weariness, even he could never tell. The Indian who found him was none other than the Man-Who-Kills; and, from a perfectly safe distance for himself, he had watched the young pale-face with admiration and covetousness. "By and by, when the fight is over, I will get him. He shall be my prisoner. The black gelding is finer than any horse ever galloped into Muck-otey-pokee. They shall both be mine. I will tell a big tale at the council fires of my brothers, and they shall account me brave. Talking is easier than fighting, any time, and why should I peril my life, following this mad war-path of theirs to that far-away Fort Wayne? Enough is a plenty. I have hidden lots of plunder while the men of my tribe did their killing, and the Man-Who-Kills will always be wise, as he is always brave. I could shoot as fast and as far as anybody if--if I wished. But I do not wish. It is too much trouble. So I will tie the boy on the gelding's back and lead them home in triumph. Will my squaw, Sorah, flout me now? No. No, indeed! And there is no need to say that I dared not mount the beast myself. But I can lead him all right, and when the Woman-Who-Mourns, that haughty sister of my chief, sees me coming she will say: 'Behold! how merciful is this mighty warrior!'" These reflections of the astute Indian, as he rested upon the shaded sward, afforded him such satisfaction that he did, indeed, handle poor Gaspar with more gentleness than might have been expected; because such a person commonly mistakes brutality for bravery. Oddly enough, Tempest offered no resistance to the red man's plan, and allowed himself to be burdened by the helpless Gaspar and led slowly to the Indian village. There the party aroused less interest than the Man-Who-Kills had anticipated, for other prisoners had already been brought in and, besides this, something had occurred that seemed to the women far more important. This was the fresh grief of Wahneenah as she roamed from wigwam to wigwam, searching for her adopted daughter and imploring help to find her. For again the Sun Maid had disappeared, as suddenly and more completely than on the previous day though after much the same manner. The child had been attending her injured squirrel and giving her bowls of orchids fresh drinks, upon the threshold mat of her new home, and her indulgent foster-mother had gone to fetch from the stream the water needed for the latter purpose. At the brook's edge she had stopped, "just for a moment," to discuss with the other squaws the news of the massacre that was fast coming to them by the straggling bands of returning braves. But the brief absence was long enough to have worked the mischief. The small runaway had left her posies and her squirrel and departed, nobody could guess whither. Till at last again came Osceolo, the mischievous, and remarked, indifferently: "The Woman-Who-Mourns may save her steps. The White Papoose and the Snowbird are far over the prairie while the women search." "Osceolo! You are the son of the evil spirit! You bring distress in your hand as a gift! But take care what you say now. You know, as I know, that nobody can mount the White Snowbird and live. Or if one could succeed and pass beyond the village borders, it would be a ride to some far land whence there is no return. What is the mare, Snowbird, but a creature bewitched? or the home of the soul of a dead maiden, who would rather live thus with her people than without them as a spirit in the Great Beyond? You know all this, and yet you tell me----" "That the Sun Maid is flying now on the Snowbird's back toward the setting sun, who is her father." "How do you know this?" "I saw it." "Who took her to the Snowbird's corral? Who? Osceolo, torment of our tribe, it was you! It was you! Boy, do you know what you have done? Do you know that out there, on the prairie where you have sent her, the spirit of murder is abroad? Not a pale-face shall escape. She was safe here, where your own chief, the Black Partridge, placed her. Hear me. If harm befalls her, if by moonrise she is not restored to me, you shall bear the punishment. You----" By a gesture he stopped her. Now thoroughly frightened, the mischievous boy put up his arms as if to ward off the coming threat. Half credulous, and half doubtful that the Sun Maid was more than mortal, he had made a test for himself. He had remembered the Snowbird, fretting its high spirit out within the closed paddock, and a daring notion had seized him. It was this: "While the Woman-Who-Mourns gossips with her neighbors, I'll catch up the papoose and carry her there. She'll come fast enough. She ran away yesterday, and she played with me before the Spotted Adder's hut. She trusts everybody. I'll have some fun, even if my father didn't let me go with him to the camp yonder." Among all nations boyhood is the same--plays the same wild pranks, with equal disregard of consequences; and Osceolo would far rather have had a good time than a good supper. He thought he was having a perfectly fascinating good time when he bound a long blanket over the Snowbird's back and then fastened Kitty Briscoe in the folds of the blanket. He had laughed gayly as he clapped his hands and set the mare free, and the little one riding her had laughed and clapped also. He had watched them out of sight over the prairie, and had felt quite proud of himself. "If she is a spirit she'll come back safe; and if she's nothing but a white man's baby--why, that's all she is. Only a squaw child at that, though the silly women have made such ado. I wonder--will I ever see her again? Well, I'll go around by Wahneenah's tepee, after a while, and enjoy the worry. It's the smartest thing I've done yet; and she did look cunning, too. She wasn't a bit afraid--she isn't afraid of anything--which makes her better than most girl papooses, and she was laughing as hard as I was when she went away." With these thoughts, Osceolo had come back to the spot where Wahneenah met him and demanded if he knew aught of her charge; and there was no hilarity in his face now as he watched her enter her wigwam and drop its curtains behind her. He suddenly remembered--many things; and at thought of the Black Partridge's wrath he turned faint and sick. But the test had been made and no regret could recall it. Meanwhile, there came into his mind the fact: a black horse had just entered the village and a white one had gone out of it. The narrow superstition in which he had been reared taught him that the one brought misfortune and the other carried away happiness; and, in a redoubled terror at his own act and its consequences, Osceolo turned and fled. CHAPTER VI. THE THREE GIFTS. "The Black Partridge has served his white friends faithfully. He should now remember his own people, and rest his heart among them," said the White Pelican as he rode homeward beside his chief, not many hours after the massacre of the sandhills. The elder warrior lifted his bowed head, and regarded his nephew in sadness. His eyes had that far-away, dreamy look which was unusual among his race and had given him, at times, a strange power over his fellows. Because, unfortunately, the dreams were, after all, very practical, and the silent visions were of things that might have been averted. "The White Pelican, also, did well. He protected those whom he wished to kill. He did it for my sake. It shall not be forgotten, though the effort was useless. The end has begun." The younger brave touched his fine horse impatiently, and the animal sprang forward a few paces. As he did so, the rider caught a gleam of something white skimming along the horizon line, and wondered what it might be. But he had set out to attend his chief and, curbing his mount by a strong pull, whirled about and rode back to the side of Black Partridge. "What is the end that has begun, Man-Who-Cannot-Lie?" "The downfall of our nations. They have been as the trees of the forest and the grasses of the prairie. The trees shall be felled and the grasses shall be cut. The white man's hand shall accomplish both." "For once, the Truth-Teller is mistaken. We will wrest our lands back from the grasp of the pale-faces. We will learn their arts and conquer them with their own weapons. We will destroy their villages--few they are and widely scattered. Pouf! This morning's work is but a show of what is yet to come. As we did then, so we will do in the future. I, too, would go with my tribe to that other fort far beyond the Great Lake. I would help again to wipe away these usurpers from our homes, as I wipe--this, from my horse's flank. Only my promise to remain with my chief and my kinsman prevents." The youth had stooped and brushed a bit of grass bloom from the animal's shining skin; and as he raised his head again he looked inquiringly into the stern face of the other. Thus, indirectly, was he begging permission to join the contemplated raid upon another distant garrison. Black Partridge understood but ignored the silent petition. He had other, higher plans for the White Pelican. He would himself train the courageous youth to be as wise and diplomatic as he was brave. When the training was over, he should be sent to that distant land where the Great Father of the white men dwelt, and should there make a plea for the whole Indian race. "Would not a man who saved all this"--sweeping his arm around toward every point of the prairie--"to his people be better than one who killed a half-dozen pale-faces yet lost his home?" "Why--yes," said the other, regretfully. "But----" "But it is the last chance. The time draws near when not an Indian wigwam will dot this grand plain. Already, in the talk of the white men, there is the plan forming to send us westward. Many a day's journey will lie between us and this beloved spot. Our canoes will soon vanish from the Great Lake, and we shall cease to glide over our beautiful river. Hear me. It is fate. These people who have come to oust us from our birthright have been sent by the Great Spirit. It is His will. We have had our one day of life and of possession. They are to have theirs. Who will come after them and destroy them? They----" But the White Pelican could endure no more. The Black Partridge was not often in such a mood as this, stern and sombre though he might sometimes be, nor had his prophecies so far an outlook. That the Indians should ever be driven entirely away by their white enemies seemed a thing impossible to the stout-hearted young brave, and he spoke his mind freely. "My father has had sorrow this day, and his eyes are too dim to see clearly. Or he has eaten of the white man's food and it has turned his brain. Were it not for his dim eyesight, I would ask him to tell the White Pelican what that creature might be that darts and wheels and prances yonder"; and he pointed toward the western horizon. Now there was a hidden taunt in the warrior's words. No man in the whole Pottawatomie nation was reputed to have such clearness of eyesight as the Black Partridge. The readiness with which he could distinguish objects so distant as to be invisible to other men had passed into a proverb among his neighbors, who believed that his inward "visions" in some manner furthered this extraordinary outward eyesight. The chief flashed a scornful glance upon his attendant and, quite naturally, toward the designated object. White Pelican saw his gaze become intent and his indifference give way to amazement. Then, with a cry of alarm, that was half incredulity, the Black Partridge wheeled and struck out swiftly toward the west. "Ugh! It looked unusual, even to me, but my father has recognized something beyond my guessing. He rides like the wind, yet his horse was well spent an hour ago." Regardless of his own recent eagerness to be at Muck-otey-pokee, and relating the day's doings to an admiring circle of stay-at-homes, the young brave followed his leader. In a brief time they came up with a wild, high-spirited white horse, which rushed frantically from point to point in the vain hope of shaking from its back a burden to which it was not used. "Souls of my ancestors! It is--the Snowbird!" "It is the Sun Maid!" returned Black Partridge. But for all his straining vision, White Pelican could not make out that it was indeed that wonderful child who was wrapped and bundled in the long blanket and lashed to the Snowbird's back by many thongs of leather. Not until, by one dexterous swoop of his horsehair rope, the chief collared the terrified mare and brought her to her knees. "Cut the straps. Set the child free." The brave promptly obeyed; while the chief, holding the struggling mare with one hand, carefully drew the Sun Maid from her swathing blanket and laid her across his shoulder. Her little figure hung limp and relaxed where it was placed, and he saw that she had fainted. [Illustration: SNOWBIRD AND THE SUN MAID. _Page 68._] "Take her to that row of alder bushes yonder. There should be water there. I'll finish what has been begun, and prove whether this is a beast bewitched, or only a vicious mare that needs a master." The White Pelican would have preferred the horse-breaking to acting as child's nurse to this uncanny small maiden who had ridden a creature none other in his tribe would have attempted. But he did as he was bidden and laid the little one down in the cooling shade of the alders. Then he put the water on her face and forced a few drops between her parted lips. After that he fixed all his attention on the efforts of Black Partridge to bring into subjection the unbroken mare. However, the efforts were neither very severe nor long continued. Like many another, the Snowbird had received a worse name than she deserved, and she had already been well wearied by her wild gallop on the prairie. She had done her best to throw and kill the child which Osceolo had bound upon her back, but she had only succeeded in tightening the bands and exhausting both herself and her unconscious rider. More than that, Black Partridge had a will stronger than hers and it conquered. "Well, I did ride a long, long way, didn't I? Feather-man, did you put Kitty on the nice cool grass? Will you give Kitty another drink of water? I guess I'm pretty tired, ain't I?" These words recalled the White Pelican's attention to his charge. "Ugh! It's a wonder you're alive." "Is it? I rode till I got so sleepy I couldn't see. The sky kept whirling and whirling, and the sun did come right down into my face. And I got so twisted up I couldn't breathe. I guess--I guess I don't much love that Osceolo. He said it would be fun, and it was--a while. But he didn't come, too, and--I'm glad I'm here now. Who's that walking? Oh! my own Black Partridge, the nicest Feather-man there is!" The Sun Maid sat up and lifted her arms to be taken, while she bestowed upon the chief one of her sweetest smiles. But he received it gravely, and regarded the child in her new Indian dress with critical scrutiny. Who had thus clothed her he could not surmise, for too short a time had elapsed since he had taken her to his village for his sister to prepare these well-fitting garments. Finally, superstition began to influence him also, as it had influenced the weaker-minded people at Muck-otey-pokee, as he spoke to the White Pelican, rather than to the child. "Place her upon the Snowbird. They belong to each other, though I know not how they found one another." "Osceolo," answered the younger brave, tersely. "Humph! Then there's more of black spirits than white in this affair. However, I have spoken. Place the Sun Maid on the Snowbird's back." Kitty would have objected and strongly; but there was something so unusually stern in the elder warrior's face and so full of hatred in that of the younger that she was bewildered and wisely kept silence. Having made a comfortable saddle out of the long blanket, they seated her again upon the white mare's back, and each on either side, they led her slowly toward Muck-otey-pokee. But the little one had again fallen asleep long before they reached it, and now there could have been no gentler mount for so helpless a rider than this suddenly tamed White Snowbird. At the entrance to the village Wahneenah met them. She had again put on her mourning garb, and her hair was unplaited, while the lines of her face had deepened perceptibly. She had lamented to Katasha: "The Great Spirit sent me back my lost ones in the form of the Sun Maid, and because of my own carelessness and sternness He has recalled her. Now is our separation complete, and not even in the Unknown Land shall I find them again." But the One-Who-Knows had answered, impatiently: "Leave be. Whatever is must happen. The child is safe. Nothing can harm her. Has she not the three gifts? The White Necklace from the shore of the Sea-without-end?[1] The White Bow from the eternal north? and the White Snowbird, into which entered the white soul of a blameless virgin? Have I not clothed her with the garb of our people? You are a fool, Wahneenah. Go hide in your wigwam, and keep silence." [Footnote 1: Pacific Ocean.] This was good advice, but Wahneenah couldn't take it. She was too human, too motherly, and under all her superstition, too sure of the Sun Maid's real flesh-and-blood existence to be easily comforted. So she went, instead, to the outskirts of the settlement to watch for what might be coming of good or ill. And so she came all the sooner to find her lost darling, and she vowed within herself that never again, so long as her own life should last, would she lose sight of that precious golden head. "My Girl-Child! My White Papoose, Beloved! Found again! But how could you?" "I did get runned away with myself this time, nice Other Mother. Don't look at Kitty that way. Kitty is very hungry. Nice Black Partridge Feather-man did find me, riding and riding and riding. The pretty Snowbird had lots of wings, I guess, for she flew and flew and flew. But I didn't see Osceolo. He couldn't have come, could he? I thought he was coming, too, when he clapped his hands and shooed me off so fast. Where is he?" That was what several were desirous to learn. The affair had turned out much better than might have been expected, but there would be a day of reckoning for the village torment when he and its chief should chance to meet. Knowing this, Osceolo remained in hiding for some time. Until, indeed, his curiosity got the better of his discretion. This happened when the Man-Who-Kills came stealing to his retreat and begged his assistance. "I want you to take my white boy-captive and lead him to the tepee of the Woman-Who-Mourns. My wife Sorah will not have him in her wigwam. She says that from the moment that other white child, the Sun Maid, came to the lodge of Wahneenah, there has been trouble without end, even though all the three charms against evil have been bestowed upon her. There are no charms for this dark boy, but there's always trouble enough (where Sorah is). He's so worn and unhappy, he'll make no objection, but will follow like a dog. He neither speaks nor sleeps nor eats. I have no use for a fool, I. You do it, Osceolo, and you'll see what I will give you in reward! Also, if the Woman-Who-Mourns has lost the Sun Maid, maybe this Dark-Eye will be a better stayer." "But what will you give me, Man-Who-Kills? I--I think I'd rather not meddle any more with the family of my chief." "Ugh! Are a coward, eh? Never mind. There are other lads at Muck-otey-pokee, and plenty of plunder in my wigwam." "All right. Come along, Dark-Eye. Might as well be Dark-Brow, too, for he looks like a night without stars. What will you do with his horse, Man-Who-Kills?" "Let you ride it for me, sometimes." "I can do it"; and without further delay, leading the utterly passive and disheartened Gaspar, the Indian lad set off for Wahneenah's home. The captive had no expectation of anything but the most dreadful fate, and his tired brain reeled at the remembrance of what he might yet undergo. Yet, what use to resist? Meanwhile, Osceolo, confident that all the braves whom he need fear were still absent from the village, started his charge along the trail at a rapid pace, and reached the wigwam of the Woman-Who-Mourns at the very moment when Black Partridge, White Pelican, and the Sun Maid came riding to it from the prairie. She was alive, then! She was, in truth, a "spirit"! His mischievousness had had no power to harm her, she was exempt from any ill that might befall another, she had come back to--How could such an innocent-appearing creature punish one who had so misled her? He had no time to guess. For the child had caught sight of the stupid lad he was leading, and with a cry of ecstacy had sprung from the Snowbird and landed plump upon the prisoner's shoulders. "Gaspar! My Gaspar, my Gaspar! Mine, mine, mine!" It was a transformation scene. The white boy had staggered under the unexpected assault of his old playmate, but he had instantly recognized her. With a cry as full of joy as her own, he clasped her close, and showered his kisses on her upturned face. "Kitty! why, Kitty! You aren't dead, then? You are not hurt? And we thought--oh, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" Clinging to each other, they slipped to the ground, too absorbed in themselves to notice anything else; while Osceolo watched them in almost equal absorption. But he was roused sooner than they. A hand fell on his shoulder. A hand whose touch could be as gentle as a woman's, but was now like a steel band crushing the very bones. "Osceolo!" "Yes, Black Partridge," quavered the terrified lad. "You will come to my tepee. Alone!" CHAPTER VII. A THREEFOLD CORD IS STRONGEST. "She is a spirit. I know that nothing can harm her. Yet many things can harm me. I have no desire to suffer any further anxiety. Therefore--this. My Girl-Child, my White Papoose, come here." The Sun Maid reluctantly obeyed. It was the morning after her perilous ride on the back of an untamed horse and her joyful reunion with Gaspar, her old playmate of the Fort. The two were now just without the wigwam of Wahneenah, sitting clasped in each other's arms, as if fearful that a fresh separation awaited them should they once relinquish this tight hold of one another; and it was in much the same feeling that the foster-mother regarded them. "But why, Other Mother? I do love my Gaspar boy. I did know him always." "You've known me two years, Kitty," corrected the truthful lad. "But I suppose that is as long as you can remember. You're such a baby." "How old is the Sun Maid--as you white people reckon ages?" asked Wahneenah. "She is five years old. Her birthday was on the Fourth of July. We had a celebration. Our Captain fired as many rounds of ammunition as she was years old. The mothers made her a cake, with sugar on the top, and with five little candles they made themselves on purpose, and colored with strawberry juice. Oh, surely, there never was such a cake in all the world as they made for our 'baby!'" cried the lad, forgetting for the moment present troubles in this delightful memory. "Well, there are other women who can make other cakes," said Wahneenah, with ready jealousy. "Oh, but an Indian cake--" began Gaspar, then stopped abruptly, frightened at his own boldness. Wahneenah smiled. For small Kitty was swift to see the change in her playmate's face, and her own caught, for an instant, a reflection of its fear. The foster-mother wished to banish this fear. "Wahneenah likes those who say their thoughts out straight and clear. She is the sister of the Man-Who-Cannot-Lie. It is the crime of the pale-faces that they will lie, and always. Wherefore, they are always in danger. Take warning. Learn to be truth-tellers, like the Pottawatomies, and you will have no trouble." A quick retort rose to Gaspar's lips, but he subdued it. Then he watched what was being done to Kitty, and a faint smile brightened his face, that had been so far too gloomy for his years. Wahneenah had made a long rope of horsehair, gaily adorned with beads and trinkets, and was fastening it about the Sun Maid's waist. The little one submitted merrily, at first; but when it flashed through her mind that she was thus being made a prisoner, being "tied up," she burst into a paroxysm of tears and temper that astonished the others, and even herself. "I will not be 'tied up!' I was not a naughty girl. When I am bad, I will be punished, and I will not cry nor stamp my feet. But when I am good, I will be free--free! There shall nobody, nobody do this to me! Not any single body. Gaspar, will you let her do it?" The boy's timidity flew to the winds. His dark eyes flashed with indignation, and his heavy brows contracted in a fierce scowl. At that instant, he appeared much older than he really was, and he advanced upon Wahneenah with upraised hand and threatening gesture. She might easily have picked him up and tossed him out of the way; but there is nothing an Indian woman admires more greatly than courage. In this she does not differ from her pale-faced sisters, and, instead of resenting Gaspar's rudeness, she smiled upon him. "That is right, Dark-Eye. It is a warrior's duty to protect his women. You are not yet a warrior, nor is the Sun Maid yet a woman, but as you begin so you will continue. Hear me. Let us make compact. I was fastening the child for her own good, not in punishment. Is that a white mother's custom? Well, this is better. Let us three pledge our word: each to watch over and protect the other so long as our lives last. The Great Spirit sent the Sun Maid into my arms, by the hands of Black Partridge, my brother and my chief. The meanest Indian in Muck-otey-pokee brought you to the village, and the meanest boy to my wigwam. But when the chief saw you, he took you by the hand, and gave you, also, to me. A triple bond is the strongest. Shall we clasp hand upon it?" It was a curious proceeding for one so much older than these children, but it was in profoundest earnest. Wahneenah recognized in Gaspar a representative of a race whose wisdom exceeded that of her own, even if, as she believed, its morality was of a lower standard. But her brother and the other braves had already told her of his great courage on the day before, and of his wonderful skill with the bow and arrow. He had done a man's work, even though a stripling, and she would accord him a man's honor. As for the Sun Maid, despite her very human-like temper, she was, of course, a being above mortal, and therefore fit to "compact" with anybody, even had it been the case with one as venerable as old Katasha. So she felt that there was nothing derogatory to her own dignity in her request. Gaspar fixed his piercing eyes upon Wahneenah's face, and studied it carefully. The penetration of a child is keen, and not easily deceived. What he read in the Indian woman's unflinching gaze satisfied him, for after this brief delay, he lay his thin boyish hand within the extended palm in entire trust. Of course, what Gaspar did Kitty was bound to do. To her it was a game, and her own plump little fingers closed about the backs of the lad's with a mischievous pinch. Already her anger had disappeared, and her sunny face was dimpling with laughter. "Kitty was dreadful bad, wasn't she? She wouldn't be tied up first, because she wasn't naughty. Now she has been bad as bad, she did stamp and scream so; and she may be tied, if Other Mother wishes. Do you, nice Other Mother? It is a very pretty string. It wouldn't hurt, I guess." But Wahneenah's desire to fasten her ward to the lodge-pole had vanished. She would far rather trust the true, loving eyes of the boy Gaspar than the stoutest horsehair rope ever woven. "We will tie nobody. But hear me, my children, for you are both mine now. In this village are many friends and more enemies. Braves and their families, from other villages and other branches of our tribe, have raised their tepees here. It is easier for them to do this than to build villages of their own, and we are hospitable people. When a guest comes to us, he must stay until he chooses to go away again, and there are none who would bid them depart. Some of other tribes than our own are also here. It is they who are stirring up much mischief. They are giving the Black Partridge anxiety; they will not be wise. They will not learn that their only safety lies in friendship with the white faces. Therefore the heart of our chief is heavy with foreboding. He has the inner vision. To him all things are clear that to us are quite invisible. This is his command to me, ere he departed in the dawn of this day, to seek our friends who were of the Fort, and help them in their need, if need again arises. Listen to the words of Black Partridge: "'Have these white children trained to ride as an Indian rides. The boy Gaspar is to be given the black gelding, Tempest, for his very own. I shall see the man who owns it, and I will pay his cost. The White Snowbird belongs to the Sun Maid. Let nobody else dare touch the mare, except to handle it in care. The day is coming when they will need to ride fast and far, and with more skill than on yesterday. The Snake-Who-Leaps is the best horseman in our tribe. I have bidden him come to this tepee when the sun crosses the meridian. He is friendly to these prisoners, because they are mine, and he will guide them well.'" Gaspar's eyes had opened to their widest extent. The words he had heard seemed incredible; yet he was shrewd and practical by nature, and he promptly inquired: "Why? Why will the Indian chief bestow so rich a gift upon his white boy-prisoner? For if he buys Tempest from the Captain he will have to pay big money. There isn't another like the black gelding this side that far-away Kentucky where he was bred." "Hear me, Gaspar Keith; prisoner, if you will. But I would rather call you an adopted son of the Black Partridge, and by your new name of Dark-Eye. This is the reason: In these troubles which are coming, you may not only serve yourself, the Sun Maid, and me, by having as your own the gelding Tempest, but you may help the helpless, also. In this one village of Muck-otey-pokee are many old and many very young. The Spotted Adder was the oldest man I ever knew, and though he has died just now, there are others almost of his age. They ought to die, too, and not burden better people. But nobody dies who should while those who should not are snatched away like a feather on the breeze." Here Wahneenah became absorbed in her own reflections, and was so long silent that Kitty stole her arms about the woman's neck and kissed the dark face to remind her that they were still listening. "Yes, beloved, Child of the Sunshine and Love! You do well to call me back. Let the dead rest. You are the living. I will remember only you," and she laid the little one against her heart. "Gaspar, too, Other Mother," suggested the loyal little maid. But Gaspar was quite able to speak for himself. "No decent white person would wish the old to die!" he exclaimed, hotly. "There was a grandmother at our Fort, and she was the best loved, the best cared for, of all the women. That is what a white boy thinks, even if he is an Indian's prisoner!" "Ugh! So? You are an odd youth, Dark-Eye. As timid as a wild pigeon one minute, and the next--flouting your chief's sister." "I don't mean that, Wahneenah. I--I only--I don't just know what I do mean, except that it seems cowardly to wish the old should die. If you should grow very, very old some day, and Kitty and I should not be--be nice to you, then you would understand what I feel, if I cannot say it rightly." Wahneenah laughed. "Your halting speech makes me happy, Dark-Eye. Kitty and you and I; still all together, even when age shall have dimmed my sight and dulled my hearing. It is well. I am satisfied. But hear me. Herein lies the trouble: when folks are young they forget that they will ever be old. That is a mistake. One should remember that youth flies away, fast, fast. They should teach themselves wisdom. They should learn to be skilled in the things which will make them lovely when they are old. For, despite your judgment, there are some among us whom we would keep till all generations are past. Katasha, the One-Who-Knows; and the Snake-Who-Leaps--why, he is older even than Katasha. Yet there is nobody can ride a horse, or shoot a flying bird, or bring in the game that he can. He is the friend of his chief. He is the most honored one in our whole village. Why? Because he makes few promises, and breaks none. He has never lowered his manhood by drinking the fire-water that addles one's brains and sets the limbs a-tremble. He has talked little and done much. He is One-To-Be-Trusted. That was his name in his youth, when he began to practise all his virtues. The other name came afterward, because of the swift punishment he can also inflict upon his enemies. You would do well to pattern after your teacher, Dark-Eye." Gaspar listened respectfully; but this sounded so very much like the "lectures" he had received at the Fort that it had less originality than most of Wahneenah's conversations; and, besides that, he had just espied, approaching over the village street, a tall Indian leading the black gelding and Snowbird. Behind this man walked Osceolo; but greatly changed from the bullying youth whom Gaspar had met on the previous day. Whatever had occurred in the closed tepee of Black Partridge, when its door flaps fell behind himself and the lad he had ordered to accompany him, nobody knew; but, whatever it was, Osceolo was certainly--at least for the time being--a changed young person. He walked along behind the Snake-Who-Leaps in a meek, subdued manner quite new to him, but which immediately impressed Dark-Eye as being a vast improvement on his former bearing. He paused, when ordered to "Halt!" by the old man, as if he had been stricken into a wooden image, and only when requested to take the Snowbird's bridle did he make any other motion. "Why, Osceolo! What's the matter?" asked the Sun Maid, running toward him in surprise. But he did not answer, and she was hastily snatched back by the strong hand of the foster-mother. "The Girl-Child speaks to none who is in disgrace." "But I will speak to anybody who is unhappy, Other Mother! I cannot help that, can I? One day, Osceolo was all laughing and clapping; and now--now he looks like Peter Wilson did after his father had whipped him with a musket. Did anybody whip you with a musket, poor, poor Osceolo?" Not a sign from the disgraced youth. "Has you lost your tongue, too? Well as your eyes, that you can't look up? Never mind, Osceolo. Kitty is sorry for you. Some day Kitty will let you ride her beau'ful White Snowbird; some day." "The Sun Maid will first learn to ride the Snowbird, herself," corrected the Snake-Who-Leaps. "She will begin now." With unquestioning confidence, a confidence that Gaspar did not share, she ran back to the old warrior's side, and stood on tiptoe to be lifted into place. "Ugh!" he grunted in satisfaction. "That is well. The one who has no fear has already conquered the wildest animal. But the White Snowbird is not wild. She has been given an evil name, and it has clung to her as evil always clings," and the One-To-Be-Trusted turned to give his silent attendant a meaning glance. But Osceolo had not yet raised his gaze from the ground, and the reproof fell pointless. Nobody had observed that, from another direction, another youth had quietly led up a beautiful chestnut horse, whose cream-colored mane and tail would have made it a conspicuous object anywhere; but Wahneenah had expected this addition to their equestrian party and, as she turned to look for it, exclaimed in pleasure at its prompt appearance. The Snake-Who-Leaps heard her ejaculation, and evinced his disgust. "Ugh! Is it to teach a lot of women and a worthless pale-faced lad that I have left the comfort of my own lodge this hot summer day?" "The old forget. It was long ago, when I was no bigger than the Sun Maid here, that the One-To-Be-Trusted took me behind him on a wild ride over the prairie. It was the only lesson he ever gave--or needed to give--_me_. I will show him that I am still young enough to remember!" cried Wahneenah, with all the gayety of girlhood, and with so complete a change in her appearance that it was easy to see how she had come to be named The Happy. Even before the teacher had settled the Sun Maid in her tiny blanket saddle, Wahneenah had sprung upon the chestnut's back. As she touched it, a clear, determined, if very youthful voice, shouted behind her: "I am a white man! No Indian shall ever teach me a thing that I can learn for myself!" For suddenly Gaspar remembered the wrongs he had suffered at the red men's hands, and leaped to Tempest's back unaided. Another instant, and the trio of riders dashed away from Muck-otey-pokee in a mad rush that left their disgruntled instructor in doubt which was the better pupil of them all. "Who begins slow finishes fast; but who begins fast may never live to finish slow," he remarked, sententiously; then observing that Osceolo had, for the first time, raised his eyes, he promptly laid a heavy hand upon the youth's shoulder and wheeled him about. "To my wigwam--march!" And Osceolo marched--exactly as if all his limbs were sticks and his joints mechanical. "Ugh! So? Like the jointed dolls of the papooses, eh? Very good. Keep at it. From now till those three return, dead or alive, my fine young warrior, you shall be my pupil. You have set me the pace you like. You may keep at it. From the locust tree east of my lodge to the pawpaw on the west, as the branch swings in the wind, so shall you swing. Ugh! May they ride far and long. One--two--commence!" It was noonday when he began that weary, weary automatic "step, step"; but when the last rays of the sun had disappeared beyond the prairie, Osceolo was still enduring his discipline, and making his pendulum-like journey from locust-tree to pawpaw, from pawpaw to locust. His head swam, his sight dimmed, but still sat stolid Snake-Who-Leaps in the entrance of his tepee, "instructing" the only pupil fate had left him. CHAPTER VIII. AN ISLAND RETREAT. Under the incentive of love and excitement--heightened by a tinge of jealousy--all Wahneenah's former skill in horsemanship returned to her. When the Snake-Who-Leaps lifted the Sun Maid to the back of the Snowbird the woman felt an unreasoning anger against him. She could not patiently endure to have any other hand than her own touch the small body of her adopted child, upon whom had now centred all the pent-up affection of her starved heart. "If my darling must be taught, I will teach her myself!" she suddenly resolved, and promptly acted upon the resolution. Previously, and when she ordered the chestnut to be brought to her tepee, she had merely intended to ride in company with the others and in a limited circle about the village. Now a mad impulse seized her to be off over the prairie, farther than sight could reach, and on half-forgotten trails once familiar to her. It was the first time she had mounted any animal since her widowhood. When she heard Gaspar's daring declaration, she thrilled with delight. All the savage in her nature roused to enjoy this wild escapade, and, catching firm hold of the Sun Maid's bridle rein, she nodded over her shoulder to the lad, and led the way northward. "It's like that strange fairy story, in the book given Peter Wilson, that came from way over in England, and was the only one in the world, I guess. Was the only one at our Fort, anyway," thought Gaspar, as he followed in equal speed, and at imminent risk of his life. For a night's rest had restored the black gelding to all his spirit, and had the boy attempted to guide or control him there would have been serious trouble. As it was, Gaspar confined his efforts to just sticking on, and had all he could do at that; but after a short distance, the three horses broke into an even lope, keeping well together, and all under the command of the Indian woman. "Oh, I love it!" she cried, the rich blood flaming under her dusky skin, her eyes sparkling, and her long black hair streaming on the wind which their own motion created. "Kitty loves it--too--Kitty guesses!" echoed the child, entering into the other's mood with quick sympathy. Indeed, she was the safer of the three. There is a hidden understanding between horses and children, and numberless instances prove how carefully even an untamed beast will treat a little child--if nobody interferes. But let an adult attempt to avert a seeming danger, and the animal will promptly throw the responsibility on human shoulders, and act out its own mood at its own will. Wahneenah understood this, and, simply leaving her hand upon the Snowbird's rein, but quite without any pressure, rode where that frolicsome creature chose to lead. A strap, which the Snake-Who-Leaps had fastened around the waist of the Sun Maid, held her securely to her saddle, though her small hands clutched the flying mane of her mount so tightly that she could not well have been shaken off. It was a rough school in which to learn so dangerous an art, but it sufficed; and that one day's ride did more to help Gaspar and Kitty to good horsemanship than all the instruction they afterward received. "How far--nice Other Mother?" asked the little girl, when the three horses of their own accord began to slacken speed. "Not far now, papoose. See yonder, where the trees fringe the river? Among those trees is a wonderful spot I know. I've not seen it for years, but in its shelter my warrior and I spent many happy hours. There we used to take our son, and tell him the story of his people. It was a hiding-place, in the ancient years, when enemies of the Pottawatomies were on the war-path, and the chief would save his women and children. But nobody remembers that trail, at this late day, except those of my father's house. Besides me, not one soul lives who could find his way thither, save Black Partridge. It is even many moons since he has talked with me about it, and he may not recall it still. Though he is a man who never forgets, and the knowledge is doubtless merely sleeping in his brain." Kitty Briscoe understood but little of this speech, but Gaspar's interest was roused. Amid the discipline and routine of his old life at the Fort, his lighter, gayer qualities had lain dormant, but they were now rapidly awakening under the influence of his recent adventures. It was impossible, too, for anybody to be long with Wahneenah, in her present mood, without catching her spirit and gayety; and though the Sun Maid comprehended little save the liveliness of her companions, she could enter into that with all her heart. Therefore, it was a merry party which came at last to the river bank, where the horses were glad to pause for rest, and where they would eagerly have slaked their thirst, had they been permitted. "But that won't do, Wahneenah, will it? At our Fort we never watered a horse when it was warm. The Captain said they would be ruined, so." "You do well to remember all the wisdom you have been taught, Dark-Eye. Here, let me show you something even a white man may not know. How to tether a horse with a rope of prairie grass, made in a moment, but strong enough to last for long." "Lift me off, Other Mother," cried Kitty, from the Snowbird's back, and Wahneenah swung her down. "Now, Dark-Eye, pull as much of this rush grass as your arms can hold. It will take a heap for three ropes." "Have the pretty ponies been naughty? Must they be tied up, too?" "Not because they are bad, but because they are good, papoose! That is the way of life. It is full of contradictions. But, don't wrinkle your pretty brows puzzling what you cannot understand. Run and help the Dark-Eye pull the long grasses." It was so wonderful to see Wahneenah's skilful fingers twist and turn and thread the slender blades in and out that both children were fascinated by her deftness; and though Gaspar could not at all catch the trick of this curious weaving, he resolved to practise it in private till he could equal, or excel, this example. Again his ambition arose to prove that a pale-face was always superior to an Indian, and his dark eyes gazed so fixedly upon Wahneenah's flying fingers that she laughed, and demanded: "Are you jealous, my son? But there's no need. Nothing that I know will be hidden from you, if you choose to be taught. But, come. Take this rope that is finished. Twist it about the gelding's neck--so; now pass it downward between his front legs and hobble him by the right hind one. No, he'll not resist. Try it. Then you'll see that he'll neither nibble at his tether nor run away from us." Gaspar was too proud to show that he somewhat dreaded interfering with the restless legs of the spirited Tempest, and to his astonishment he found that the animal submitted very quietly to the tying. This may have been because Wahneenah stood by its beautiful head and murmured some soft sounds into its dainty ears. Though what the murmuring meant nobody save herself and Tempest understood. In like manner, and very quickly, all three horses were fastened in the shade of the trees, and as soon as they had cooled sufficiently, Gaspar was bidden to water them. Then the Sun Maid was called from her play among the wild flowers that fringed the bank, and made to walk behind Wahneenah's skirts. "Cling close, my Girl-Child! We're going into fairyland. Bow your pretty head till it is low--low--low down, like this"; and herself bending till her own head was very near the earth, the guide pushed forward into what appeared to be a solid tangle of bushes. "Why, Wahneenah! You can't go through there. It's a regular hedge. But if you want to try, I have a little knife in my pocket, that my Captain gave me. Let me go first--I am the man--and cut the way; though I don't see why. Isn't there a better place?" "There are many things a lad of ten cannot understand, Dark-Eye, even though he be as manly as you. Trust Wahneenah. An Indian never forgets, and never makes the haste that destroys. Watch me. Learn a lesson in woodcraft that will be useful to you more than once. Cut or broken twigs have tongues which betray. But thus--even a bird could find no trace." With infinite patience and accuracy of touch, the woman parted the slender, interwoven branches so delicately that scarcely a leaf was bruised, and little by little opened a clear passage into a downward sloping tunnel. This tunnel ran directly under the river bed, and was so steep in places that one might easily have coasted over it. "Why, how queer! It's like the underground passage from the Fort to the river, where we children used to peep, but were never allowed to enter. What is it? Why is it?" "Let your eyes ask and answer their own questions. They are safer than a tongue, my son. But fear nothing. Where Wahneenah leads the way for the children whom the Great Spirit has sent her they may safely follow." Then, without further speech, she went forward for what seemed a long distance, through the half light of the tunnel, until it opened into a wide chamber, across which trickled a clear stream and which was fanned by a strong current of air. The children were silent from curiosity, not unmixed with dread; and their guide had also become very grave and silent. Memories were crowding upon her soul, and banishing the present; but she was roused at length by the wild clutch of the Sun Maid's arms, as something winged swept by them in the twilight. "Other Mother! Other Mother! I--I don't like it! Take Kitty, quick!" "Ah! I was dreaming. My dead walked here beside me, and I forgot. But is the Sun Maid ever afraid? I did not think that. Well, it's over now. The gloomy passage, the big, dark room--See?" Suddenly, at a turn westward out of the chamber and beyond it, they entered upon what might, indeed, have been fairyland. The exit was another passage, rising gently to a rock- and tree-sheltered nook in the heart of a tiny island. From any outward point this retreat was invisible, and when they had emerged upon it the Indian woman's spirits rose again. She caught up the Sun Maid and tossed her lightly upon a bending branch, that seemed to have grown expressly for a child's swing. "My warrior trained that bough for our son's pleasure, and from it he rocked and danced as a tiny papoose. Now--in you, he lives again. Hold, Dark-Eye! What are you seeking?" "Oh, just nothing! I was poking around to see----" "If you could find anything to eat? The wild blackberries should grow just yonder, and, wait--I'll look." "For what will you look, Other Mother? Aren't these the prettiest posies yet?" and Kitty held upward a cluster of cardinal flowers which she had pulled from a mass by the water's edge. "Ah, they are alive! They have the heart of fire. But, take care. It is always wet where they grow and small feet slip easily. If you were to soil your pretty clothes, old Katasha might be angry." "I'll take care. May I have all I can gather?" "All. Every one." Then Wahneenah returned into the cave and to a niche in its wall where, years before, she had put a store of dried corn, some salt, and a bit of tinder. The articles had been stored in earthen jugs, and it was just possible they might be found in good condition. If they were, she would show the man-child how to catch a fish out of the little stream in the cavern, where the delicate trout were apt to hide. Then they would make a fire as they had used in the old days, and she would cook for these white children such a supper as her own dear ones had enjoyed. "See, Gaspar, Dark-Eye. I will fetch you a line and hook. Sit quiet and draw out our supper--when it bites!" "But I have a far better hook than that in my pocket; and a line the Sauganash gave me, one day. I am a good fisher, Wahneenah. How many fish do you want for your supper?" "You are a good boaster, any way, pale-face, like all your race; and I want just as many fish as will satisfy our hunger. If you had your bow here, you might wing us a bird. Though that would not be wise, maybe. Keep an eye to the Sun Maid, lest she slip in the brook." "This is a funny place. It is an island, isn't it? Like the pictures in my geography; and there is a little creek through it, and another in a cave, and--I think it is beautiful. But you're funny, too, Wahneenah. You say my Kitty is a 'spirit,' and 'nothing can harm her,' yet you watch out for her getting hurt closer than the other mothers did." "You see too much, Dark-Eye. But--well, she is a spirit in a girl's body. If you let evil happen her it will be the worse for you. Hear me?" "I wouldn't let her get into trouble any sooner than you would, Wahneenah. I love her, too. She hasn't any folks, and I haven't any, except you, of course. She belongs to me." "Oh! she does? Well. Enough. We all belong to each other. We have made the bond." When the woman returned from her search in the cavern her face was very grave. Yet it should have been delighted, for she had found not only the corn and the other things she remembered, but a goodly store of articles, quite too fresh and modern to have remained there since she last visited the spot. There were dried beans, salted beef, cakes of sugar from her old maple trees--she knew her own mark upon them; and, besides these, were flour and tea in packages, such as had been distributed from Fort Dearborn among as many Indians as were entitled to receive them. It was both puzzling and disappointing to find her retreat discovered and appropriated by somebody else. "It must be that Shut-Hand has, in some way, found this cavern out. All the other people would have eaten and enjoyed their good things, and not stored them up, like this. But he is crafty and secretive, and his name is his character." Had Wahneenah hunted further she would have found, in addition to the provisions, a considerable quantity of broadcloth, calico, and paint; which articles, also, had been among those recently secured from the garrison. But she neither examined very closely nor touched anything except that for which she had come to the recess; and she even forced herself to put the matter out of mind, for the time being. "I have brought my children here to make a holiday for them. I will not, therefore, darken it by my forebodings. The young live only in the present or the future. I, too, will again become young. I will forget all that is past." From that wonderful pocket of his, Gaspar took a decent hook and line, and easily proved his skill among fish that were too seldom disturbed to have learned any fear; while Wahneenah made a tiny fire of dried twigs, in the mouth of the cavern, and boiled her prepared corn, that she had broken and ground between two stones, into a sort of mush. With Gaspar's fish, broiled upon the live coals, the pudding sweetened by a bit of honey from a close sealed crock, and a draught of water from the underground stream, the trio made a fine supper; and afterward, when she had carefully cleared away the _débris_, Wahneenah rekindled the fire, and, sitting beside it, took the Sun Maid on her knee and drew the motherless Dark-Eye within the shelter of her arm. Then she told them tales and legends of the wide prairies and distant mountains; and her own manner gave them thrilling interest, because she believed in them quite as sincerely as did her small, wide-eyed listeners. "Tell it once more, Other Mother. That beau'ful one 'bout the little papoose that hadn't any shoes, and the flowers growed her some. Just like mine"; holding up her own tiny moccasined feet, and rubbing them together in the comfortable heat. "Once upon a time a little girl papoose was lost. The enemies of her people had come to her father's village, and had scattered all her tribe. There was not one of them left alive except the little maid." "I guess that's just like Kitty, isn't it?" "No. No, it is not," replied the story-teller, quickly. For she had felt a shiver run through Gaspar's body, and pressed it close in warm protection. "No. It is not like either of you. For to you is Wahneenah, the Mother; the sister of a chief who lives and is powerful. But this was away in the long past, before even I was born. So the girl papoose found herself wandering on the prairie, and it was the time of frost. The ground was frozen beneath the grasses, which were stiff and rough and cut the tender feet that a mother's hand had hitherto carried in her own palm." "Show me how, Mother Wahneenah." "Just this way Sweetheart," clasping the tiny moccasins in a loving caress. "Tell some more. I guess the fire is going to make Kitty sleepy, by and by." "Sleep, then, if you will, Girl-Child." "And then?" "Then, when the little one was very cold and tired and lonely she remembered something: it was that she had seen her own mother lift her two hands to the sky and ask the Great Spirit for all she might need." "He always hears, doesn't He?" "He hears and answers. But sometimes the answers are what He sees is best, not what we want." "Don't sigh that way, Other Mother! S'posin' your little boy did go away. Haven't you got Gaspar and Kitty?" "Yes, little one." "Go on, then. About the little maid--just like me." "So she put her own two tiny hands up toward the sky and asked the Great Spirit to put soft shoes on her tired little feet." "And He did, didn't He?" "Surely. First the pain eased and that made her look down. And there she saw a pair of the softest moccasins that ever were made. They were of pale pink and yellow, and all dotted with dark little bead-spots; and they fitted as easily as her own dainty skin. Then the girl papoose was grateful, and she begged the Great Spirit that He would make many and many another pair of just such comfortable shoes for every other little barefoot maid in all the world. That not one single child should ever suffer what the girl papoose had suffered." "Did He?" asked Gaspar, as interested as Kitty. "Yes. Surely. The prayer of the unselfish and innocent is always granted. He sent a voice out of the sky and bade the child look all about her. So she did, and the whole wide prairie was a-bloom with more pink and yellow 'shoes' than all the children in all the earth could ever wear. They were growing right out of the hard ground, reaching up to be plucked and worn. So she cried out aloud in her gratitude: 'Oh, the moccasin flower! the moccasin flower!' and ever since then this shoe-like blossom has been beloved of all the children in the world. But, because the heat burns as well as the cold pinches, it blooms nowadays at all times and seasons of the year. A few flowers here, a few there; but quite enough for any child to find--who has the right spirit." "Kitty must have had the spirit, mustn't she, Other Mother? That day when her feets were so tired and the good Feather-man found her. 'Cause she had lots and lots of them; only she went to sleep and they all solemned down. And----" Gaspar started suddenly and held up a warning hand. His quick ear had caught the sound of approaching feet, crushing boldly through the cavern, like the tread of one who knows his way well and is coming to his own. Wahneenah had also heard, though she had continued her story, making no sign that she was inwardly disturbed. But she now paused and listened whether this footfall were one she knew, either of friend or foe. Then a bush cracked behind them, and Gaspar's heart stood still, as the tall form of an Indian warrior pushed past them into the firelight. CHAPTER IX. AT MUCK-OTEY-POKEE. Wahneenah did not lift her eyes. For the moment an unaccustomed fear held her spellbound, and it was the Sun Maid's happy cry which roused her at length, and restored them all to composure. "Black Partridge! My own dear Feather-man!" With a spring, the child threw herself upon the Indian's breast and clasped his neck with her trustful arms. It was, perhaps, this confidence of hers in the good-will of all her friends that made them in return hold her so dear. Certain it was that the chief's face now assumed that expression of gentleness which was the attribute small Kitty ascribed to him, but which among his older acquaintances was not considered a leading trait of his character. Just he always was, but rather severe than gentle; and Wahneenah marked, with some surprise, the caressing touch he laid upon the Sun Maid's floating hair as he quietly set her down and himself dropped upon a ledge to rest. "You are welcome, my brother. Though, at first, I feared it was some alien who had discovered our cave." "It is not the habit of the Happy to fear. She who forebodes danger where no danger is but paves the way to her own destruction." Wahneenah glanced at her brother sharply. "It is the Truth-Teller himself who has put foreboding into my soul. He--and the new-born love which the Sun Maid has brought." The face of Black Partridge fell again into that dignified gravity which was its habitual expression and he sat for a long time with the "dream-look" in his eyes, gazing straightforward into the embers of their little fire. "Is you hungry, Feather-man? We did have such a beau'ful supper. Nice Other Mother can cook fishes and cakes and--things. Shall she cook you some fish, Black Partridge?" "Will my chief eat the food I prepare for him?" asked Wahneenah, seconding the child's invitation. "With pleasure. For one hour he will let the cares of his life slip from him. He will have this night of peace, and while the meal is getting he will sleep." With a sigh of relief the tall Indian moved a few steps back into the cave and stretched himself at length upon the ground. His eyes closed, and before Gaspar had made ready his line to catch the fresh trout he had sunk into a profound slumber. Wahneenah put her finger to her lip to signify silence, but she need not have done so. Gaspar had long ago learned the red man's noiseless ways, and the Sun Maid immediately placed herself beside the prostrate chief, and clasping his hand that lay on his breast snuggled her cheek against it, and followed his example. The Black Partridge, like most of his race, could sleep anywhere, at any time, and for as long as he chose. He had elected to wake at the end of a half-hour, and he did so on the moment. Sitting up, he gently placed the still slumbering Sun Maid upon the ground and moved forward to the fire. While he ate the food she had provided for him, Wahneenah continued standing near, but a little behind him; ready to anticipate his needs, and with a humility of demeanor which she showed toward no other person. Gaspar watched the pair, wondering if they could really be of the same race which had destroyed his childhood's home, and now again that second home of his adoption--the Fort. He liked, and was impelled to trust them both, and was already learning to love his foster-mother. But when they began to converse in their own dialect, and with occasional glances toward himself and the sleeping Kitty, the native caution of his mind arose, and made him miserable. He remembered a byword of the Fort: "The only safe Indian is a dead one"; and with a sudden sense of danger leaped to his feet and ran to bend above the unconscious maid. "If you harm her, I'll--I'll--kill you!" he shouted fiercely. Wahneenah looked amazed, but the Black Partridge instantly comprehended the working of the boy's thoughts, and a smile of satisfaction faintly illumined his sombre features. "It is well. Let every brave defend his own. The Dark-Eye is no coward. His years are few, but he has the heart of a warrior and a chief. He must begin, at once, to learn the speech of his new tribe. He that knows has doubled the strength of his arm. Draw near. There is good and not evil in the souls of the chief and his sister. We are Truth-Tellers. We cannot lie. We have pledged our faith to the Dark-Eye and the Sun Maid--though she needs it not." The sincerity and admiration in the Indian's eyes compelled the lad's obedience; and when, as he stepped into the firelight, the chief indicated that he should sit beside himself, and also nodded to Wahneenah to take her own place opposite, his heart swelled with pride and ambition. So had the white Captain trusted and counselled with him. He had been faithful through all that dreadful day of massacre, and he had felt the man's spirit within his child-body. Now again, a commander of others, the wise leader of a different people, was honoring him with a share in his council. There must be good in him, and some sort of wisdom--even though so young--else they had paid him no heed. His cheek flushed, his breast heaved, and his beautiful eyes shone with the exultation that thrilled him. "Let the chief pardon the child--which I was, but a moment ago. I am become a man. I will do a man's task, now and forever. If I suspected evil where there was none, is it a wonder? I have told Wahneenah, the Happy, the story of my life. The Black Partridge knew it already." Quite unconsciously, Gaspar dropped into the Indian manner of speech, and he could not have done a better thing for himself had he pondered the matter for long. Black Partridge nodded approvingly, and remarked: "Another Sauganash is here! Well, while the Sun Maid sleeps, let us consider the future. The evil days are near." "What is the evil that my brother, the chief, beholds with his inner vision?" questioned the woman. "War and bloodshed. Still more of war, still more of death. In the end will our wigwams lie flat on the earth as fallen leaves, while the remnant of my people moves onward, forever onward toward the setting sun." Wahneenah kept a respectful silence, but in her heart she resented the dire forebodings of her chief. At last, when her brooding thought forced utterance, she inquired: "Can not the wisdom of the Black Partridge hinder these days of calamity? If the great Gomo, and Winnemeg, and those white braves who have lived among us, as the Sauganash, take counsel together, and compel their tribes to keep the peace, and to copy of the pale-faces the arts which have made them so powerful--will not this avert the evil? Why may there not in some time and place, a mighty grave be digged in which may be buried all the guns that kill and the knives that scalp, with the arrows which fly more swiftly than a bird? Over all may there not be emptied the casks and bottles of the fearful fire-water, that, passing through the lips of a warrior, changes him to a beast? Then the red man and his pale brother may clasp hands together and abide, each upon the earth, where the Great Spirit placed him." "It is a dream. Dreams vanish. Even as now the night speeds, and we are far from home. It avails us not to think of what might--but never will--be. Occasional friendships bridge the feud between our alien races, but the feud remains. It is eternal. Endless as the years which will witness the gradual extinction of the weaker, because smaller, race. Let us dream no more. Has Wahneenah, my sister, observed how the store she left in the old cave has grown? How the few sealed jars have become many, and how there are heaps of the good gifts which the Great Father sent to his white children at the Fort for the red children's use?" "Yes. I thought it was the miser, Shut-Hand, who had placed them here in our cave." "It was I, the Black Partridge." "For what purpose, my brother?" "Against the needs of the time I have foretold. It is a sanctuary. Here may Wahneenah, and the young son and daughter which have been given her, find shelter and sustenance." Something of her old tribal exultation seized the woman, who was a great chief's daughter. Rising to her fullest height, her fine head thrown slightly back, she demanded, indignantly: "Is the heart of my brother become like that of the papoose upon its mother's shoulders? Was it not to the red men that the victory came, but so brief time past? What were all the pale-faces, in their gaudy costumes, with their music and their guns and their childish way of battle? The arrows of our people mowed them like the grass upon the prairie when a herd of wild horses feeds upon it. But yesterday they marched in pride and insolence, scorning us. To-day, they are carrion for the crows overhead, or they flee for safety like the cowards they were born. The Black Partridge has tarried too long among such as these. He has become their blood brother." The taunt was the fiercest she could give, and she gave it from a full heart. In ordinary so gentle and peace-loving she had been roused, for a moment, to a pitch of emotion which astonished even herself. Yet when, as if she had been a fractious child, the chief motioned her to again become seated, she obeyed him at once. She had set her thoughts free, indeed; but she would never presume to fight against the conditions which surrounded her; and obedience to tribal authority was inborn. "The Snake-Who-Leaps will be at the tepee of my sister each day when the sun climbs to the point overhead. The three horses will be always ready. The children who do not know, and Wahneenah who has, maybe, forgotten how to ride, will practise as he instructs, until there will be no horse they cannot master, or no spot to which a horse may be guided that they do not know. But here first. That is why the store of food and cloths. At the first assault upon our Muck-otey-pokee, mount and ride. Ride as no squaw nor papoose ever rode before. Here the Black Partridge will seek them, and here, if the Great Spirit wills, they may be safe. Enough. Let the Dark-Eye go forward and make the horses ready." The Black Partridge rose as he spoke, and striding toward the sleeping Sun Maid, took her in his arms and left the spot. Gaspar, already darting onward toward the beloved Tempest, paused, for an instant, and regarded his chief anxiously. But when he saw that the little girl had not awakened, he sped forward again, and by the time Wahneenah had disposed of the remnants of the chief's supper and followed, he had loosed the animals and led them to the nearest point for mounting. Still holding the Sun Maid motionless upon his breast, the Black Partridge leaped to the back of his own magnificent stallion, which whinnied in affectionate welcome of his approach. Then he ordered Gaspar: "Ride behind me on Tempest, and lead the Snowbird. Wahneenah will follow all on Chestnut." By the time they were out upon the prairie the wind had risen and the sky was heavily clouded. It was so dark that the boy could not see beyond the head of his own horse, but he could hear the steady, grass-softened footfall of the stallion as, with unerring directness, the Indian chieftain led the way homeward to the village. When they rode into it, all Muck-otey-pokee seemed asleep; but the perennially young, though still venerable, Snake-Who-Leaps, had been prone before Wahneenah's wigwam, and silently rose from the ground as they drew rein beside him. "Ah, the Sleepless! The Wise Man. Did he think his pupils had ridden away to their own destruction?" asked the squaw, as she stepped down from her saddle. "No harm can happen the household of my chief save what the Great Spirit wills." "And you think He will not waste time with three wild runaways?" "Wahneenah, the Happy, is in good spirit herself. I remembered her not, save as the message may concern. That is for the ear of my friend and the father of his tribe, the Black Partridge." Handing the Sun Maid into his sister's embrace, he for whom the message waited slipped the bridles of two horses over his arm while the Snake-Who-Leaps led the others. Whatever they had to say was not begun then nor there, and if Wahneenah had any curiosity in the matter it was not to be gratified. Yet she stood, for a moment, listening to the receding sounds as the darkness enveloped the departing group; and in her heart was born a fresh anxiety because of the little one she carried, and for the orphan lad who followed so closely at her skirts as she lifted her tent curtain and entered their home. But nothing occurred to suggest that the message of the Snake-Who-Leaps had been one of warning. He was at his post of teacher exactly on the hour appointed on the following day, and this time all his pupils conducted themselves with a grave propriety that greatly pleased him; and thereafter, for many days, and even weeks, while the dry season lasted, did he instruct and they perform the marvellous feats of horsemanship which have made the red man famous the world over. "But," said Osceolo one day, tauntingly: "you were the pale-face who would learn nothing from an Indian!" "Because a person is a fool once, need he remain so always?" answered Gaspar, hotly. "You were a fool then? I thought so. Once a fool always one." "Only an Indian believes that." "How? You taunt me? Fight, then!" Gaspar Keith was a curious mixture of courage and timidity. His courage came by nature, and his timidity was the result of the terrible scenes through which he had passed now twice, young though he was. The impress of this terror would remain with him forever; and if ever he became a hero in fact, it would be because of his will and not his inclination. At present neither the one nor the other inspired him; and though he eyed the larger boy scornfully, and felt that he could easily whip the bully, if he chose, he now turned his back upon him and walked away haughtily. But Osceolo's sneer followed him: "The One-Who-Is-Afraid-Of-His-Shadow! Gaspar--Coward!" No boy could patiently endure this insult, even though it came from one much larger and stronger than himself. Gaspar's jacket was off and his arms bared on the instant; but before he could fling himself against his enemy a strong hand was laid upon his own shoulder, and he was tossed aside as lightly as a leaf. "Hold! Let there be none of this. It is a time for peace in our village. Wait in patience. The hour is coming, is almost here, when both the pale-face and the son of my tribe will have need of all their prowess. Go. Polish your arrows and point their heads, but let there be none of this." It was the great chief himself, who had separated the combatants, and as he stalked majestically onward he left behind him two greatly astonished and ashamed young warriors. In common, no grown brave bothered himself over the petty squabbles of striplings; unless, indeed, it might be to incite them to further conflicts. For the Black Partridge to interfere now was significant of something far deeper than a boyish fight. Gaspar put on his coat and walked thoughtfully home to Wahneenah and Kitty, while Osceolo slunk away to his own haunts, to lie at length upon the grass and plot with a cunning worthy of better ends the various devices by which he could torment the young white lad of whom he was so jealous. Wahneenah heard the tale with a gravity that impressed the chief's action more strongly than before upon the lad's mind; while Kitty took it upon herself to lecture him with all severity about the dreadful "naughtiness of striking that poor, dear Ossy boy." "Hmm, Sunny Maid! you needn't waste pity on him. He doesn't deserve it." "Maybe not, Dark-Eye. Maybe not. But heed you the warning. The dwellers in one village should keep that village quiet," interrupted Wahneenah. "Yes, but they don't. There are almost as many sorts of Indians here as there are people. Some of them are horrible. I see them often watching Kitty and me as if they would like to scalp us. It's been worse within a little while. It grows worse all the time." "All the more reason why you should be wise and careful. But it is dark in the tepee, and that's a sign the Dust Chief is almost ready to shut up your eyes. Run, Gaspar, son, and Girl-Child. See which will sleep the first. And to the one who does, the bigger lump of my best sugar in the morning." They ran, as she suggested, but there was to be no further haste till Kitty had made Gaspar kneel beside her and repeat with her the "Now I lay me" little prayer, which her Fort mothers had taught her. The short, simple prayer, beloved of childhood the world over, that has carried many a white soul upward to its Father. Even to Wahneenah, though her mission training had been of another creed, the childish petition was full of sacredness and beauty; and as she stood near them, she bowed her head humbly and echoed it with all her heart. Each was in bed soon after, and each with a lump of the toothsome dainty they loved. "For Gaspar must have it because he was first; and my Girl-Child because she was the last. That equals everything." They thought it did, delightfully: if they stayed awake long enough to think at all. But when they were both asleep, and the sound of their soft breathing echoed through the dusky tepee, Wahneenah took her seat at its entrance, and began to sing low and softly, with a sweetness of voice which rendered even their rudeness musical, the love songs of her girlhood. As she sang and gazed upward through the trees into the starlit sky, an infinite peace stole over her. Indeed, the joy that possessed her seemed almost startling to herself. All that was sad in her memories dropped from them, and left but their happiness; while the present closed about her as a delight that nothing could disturb. Her love for the Sun Maid had become almost a passion with her, and for her Dark-Eye there was ever an increasing and comprehending affection. She remained so long, dreaming, remembering, and planning, that the first grayness of the dawn came before she could go within and take her own bit of sleep. But Muck-otey-pokee was always early astir; and if for no other reason, because the dogs which thronged the settlement would allow no quiet after daybreak. That morning they were unusually restless. Cried Wahneenah, rising suddenly, and now feeling somewhat the effects of her late sitting: "Can it be sun-up already? The beasts are wild this morning. I have never heard them so deafening." Nor had anybody else. There was no cessation in their barking. "It's a regular 'bedlam,' isn't it? That's what the Fort mothers used to say when there was target practice, and the children cheered the shooters. What makes them bark so?" answered Gaspar. Wahneenah shivered, and suggested: "Run out and play. Eh? What's that? The Snake-Who-Leaps? So early, and with the horses, too? But mind him not. Take the Sun Maid out-of-doors, but keep close to the green before the lodge. Where I can see you now and then, while I get breakfast ready." Everybody was up; and more than one commented upon the strangeness of the three horses being brought to the tepee so early. The warning message which had come from the south, and had been delivered to his chief by the Snake-Who-Leaps, on that dark night some weeks before, was now to be verified. "What the red men have done to the pale-faces, the pale-faces will now do to them. Retaliation and revenge!" Yet not one was quite prepared for the events which followed. Followed even so swiftly that the women left their porridge cooking in their kettles and their cows half-milked; while the men of the village promptly seized the nearest weapon, and rushed to the hopeless defence. The rude sound that had startled every dweller in that pretty settlement was the report of a gun. Then came a galloping troop of cavalry--more firing--incessant, indiscriminate! There was a babel of shrieks as the women and little ones fell where they stood, in the midst of their work or play. There were the blood-curdling war-whoops of the savages, answering the random shots. Above and through all, one cry rang clear to Wahneenah's consciousness. "The horses! The horses! Ride--ride--ride--as I have taught you! For your lives--Ride!" It was but an instant. Wahneenah and her children were amount and afield. But as, in an anguish of fear for his friends, and no thought of himself, once more the Snake-Who-Leaps shouted his warning, the whistle of a death-dealing bullet came to him where he watched, and struck him down across the threshold of Wahneenah's happy home. CHAPTER X. THE CAVE OF REFUGE. Three abreast, the chestnut in the middle, the fugitives from the doomed village of Muck-otey-pokee rode like the wind in a straight, unswerving line across the prairie. After they had left a considerable distance behind them, Wahneenah turned her stern face backward, and scanned the route over which they had passed; and when her keen vision detected something like a group of glistening bayonets--to ordinary sight no larger than a point against the horizon--she abruptly doubled on her course, then made a sharp detour westward. She had early dropped her own bridle, and had since guided her horse by her low spoken commands, while in either hand she clutched a bit-ring of the Snowbird and Tempest. Her change of direction must have brought her all the more plainly into view of the pursuing soldiers, but in a few moments she had gained the shelter of a group of trees. These sprang, apparently, out of the midst of the plain, but she knew that they really concealed the entrance to the underground pathway to the cave; and once within their shelter, she paused to breathe and gaze upon the startled faces of her children. That of the Sun Maid was pale, indeed, with the excitement of this mad ride, but showed no fear; while Gaspar's, alas! wore an expression of abject terror. His eyes stared wildly, his teeth were set, his nostrils drawn and pinched. He was, his foster-mother saw, already on the verge of a collapse. She leaped from her horse, and caught the fainting boy in her arms while she directed the Sun Maid: "Jump down and tie the horses, as the Snake-Who-Leaps showed you, by their long bridles. In any case, there is little fear but they will stand. Then follow me." "But what ails my Gaspar, Other Mother?" asked the child, as she sprang from her saddle. "Did somebody hurt him when the guns fired?" "No. Tie the horses. He will be right soon. It is the fright. Make haste, make haste!" "Yes, yes, I will. My dear old Feather-man taught Kitty everything. Every single thing about my Snowbird. I can fasten her all tight so she will never, never get away, unless I let her. I will tie Gaspar's, too; and shall your Chestnut stay here with them two?" But for once Wahneenah did not stop to hear her darling out. She had seen the deftness with which the little girl's small fingers had copied the instructions of her riding-master, and had wondered at it many times. She trusted it now, knowing that the lad needed her first care, and meaning to carry him through the passage into the cave, then return for the other. She knew, also, that if the soldiers she had seen following them should come upon the tethered horses, the fact of their presence would betray her own. But from this possibility there was no escape; and, had she known it, no need for such. She had scarcely laid the unconscious boy down upon the floor of her retreat when Kitty came flying down the tunnel, her task completed. "So quick, papoose?" "Yes. Every one is fastened to a pretty tree, and every one is glad. Why did we ride so fast, Wahneenah? It 'most took Kitty's breath out of her mouth. But I did like it till my Gaspar looked so queer. Is he sick, Other Mother? Why doesn't he speak to me?" "He is ill, in very fact, Girl-Child. Ill of terror. Young as he is, he has seen fearful sights, and they have hurt his tender heart. But he will soon be better; and when he is you must not talk to him of our old home, or of our ride, or of anything except that we are making another little festival here in our cave. One more cup of water, papoose, but take care you do not slip when you dip it from the spring. We will bathe his face and rub his hands, and by and by he will awake and talk." Then, leaving the lad to the ministrations of the child, and under pretence of making "all cosy for the picnic," Wahneenah sped cautiously back through the passage to the edge of the little grove, casting a searching glance in each direction. To her infinite relief, the glistening speck had vanished from the landscape, and she concluded that the white soldiers had ridden but a short distance north of the village, and then returned to it. She noticed with pride how the little maid had fastened each of the brave animals that had served them so well in a spot where the grass was still green and plentiful, and that there was no need of her refastening the straps which held them. "Surely, her wisdom is more than mortal!" she exclaimed in delight; such as more cultured mothers feel when they discover that their little ones are really gifted with the common intelligence that to them seems extraordinary. Gaspar was awake, and looking about him curiously, when she got back into the cavern; and, in response to his silent inquiry, she drew a tree-branch before the opening and nodded smilingly: "That is to keep the sunshine out of the Dark-Eyes." "But--where are we? Why--oh! I remember! I remember! Must I always, always see such awful things? Is there no place in this world where I can hide?" "Why, yes, Dark-Eye. There is just such a place; and we have found it. Don't you remember our sanctuary? Where the Black Partridge came to eat the fish you caught? Where we have such a store of good things put aside. Rest now, after your ride, and the White Papoose shall make a pillow for you of the rushes I will pull. Then we'll shut the branch in close, like the curtain of our wigwam, and be as safe and happy as a bird in its nest." Wahneenah's assumed cheerfulness did not deceive, though it greatly comforted, the terrified boy; and the quietude of the sheltered spot, added to its dimness and his own exhaustion, soon overcame him again, and his eyelids closed. But the sleep into which he drifted now was a natural and restful one, and he roused from it, at Kitty's summons, with something of his old courage--the courage which had made him a hero that day when he first rode the black gelding, and had used his boyish strength to do a man's work. "When Other Mother did make a fire and cook us such a nice breakfast, we must eat it quick. Kitty's ready. Kitty's dreadful hungry, Kitty is. Is you hungry, too, Dark-Eye?" He had not thought that he was. But now that she mentioned it, he realized the fact. Fortunately, he was so young and healthy that the scenes through which he seemed destined to pass at such frequently-recurring intervals could not really affect his physical condition for any length of time. To see Wahneenah moving about the little cavern as calmly as if it were her daily habit to be there, and to catch the sound of the Sun Maid's joyous laughter, was to make the present seem the only reality. "Why, it's another picnic, isn't it? Did the things actually happen back there as I thought? Were we here all night? I used to have such terrible dreams, when I lived at the Fort, that, when daylight came, I could not forget them. I get confused between the dreams and the true things." "An empty stomach makes a foolish head. Many a squaw is afraid of her warrior before he breaks his morning fast, and finds him a lamb after it is eaten," said Wahneenah, sententiously. "Gaspar is my warrior, Other Mother; but I am never afraid of him." "You are afraid of nothing, Kitty!" reproved the boy. "But I am! I am afraid I shall get nothing to eat at all, if you don't come!" So the children ate, and Wahneenah served them. She was herself too anxious to partake of any food, and under her placid exterior she was straining every nerve to listen for any outward sounds which might prove that their refuge had been discovered. But no sounds came to disturb them, and as the hours passed hope returned to her; and when the Sun Maid had fallen asleep, weary of frolic, and Gaspar again questioned her concerning the morning, she answered, in good faith: "Probably, it was not half so bad as it seemed. There were many bad Indians in the village, and it is likely for them that the white soldiers were searching. They must have gone away long since. By and by, if nothing happens, we will return to our own tepee, and forget this morning's fright. The Snake-Who-Leaps will be proud of his pupils for the way they rode at his bidding." A shiver ran through the lad's frame, and he crept within the shelter of Wahneenah's arm. "But did you not see what happened to him? He lies beneath the curtains of your lodge, and he will teach us no more. A white soldier shot him. I saw him fall." The woman herself had not seen this, and she now sprang to her feet in a fury of indignation. "A white man killed him! That grand old brave, who should have lived to be a hundred years! It cannot be." "But it was." She was the daughter of a mighty chief. Her blood was royal, and she gloried in it. All the race-hatred in her nature roused, and, for the moment only, she glowered upon the pale-faced youth before her, as if he represented, in his small person, all the sins of his own people. Then the paroxysm passed, and her nobler self triumphed. Sitting down again, she sought to draw the boy back into her embrace, but he held himself aloof, and would not. So she began to talk with him there, with a simple wisdom and dignity that she had learned from nature itself. "Why should we be angry, one with another, my son? The Great Spirit is our Father. No man comes into life nor leaves it by a chance. What the Mighty One decrees, that it is befalls. Between His red-skinned children and His pale-faced ones He has put an undying enmity. I have not always so believed. I have hoped and pleaded for the peace which should glorify the world, even as the sun is glorifying the wide land outside of this dim cavern. But it is not so to be. Even as the chief, the Black Partridge, said: there is a feud which can never be overcome, for it is of the Great Spirit's own planting. He that made us all permits it. Let us, then, in our small place, cease to fight against the inevitable. We have made the compact. We will abide by it. In a tiny corner of the beautiful world we three will live in harmony. Let the rest go. Put away your anger against my people, as I now put aside mine against yours. The Sun Maid is of both races, it seems to me. She is our Bond, our Peace-maker, our Delight. Behold! She wakes. Before her eyes, let no shadow of our mutual trouble fall. I go outside to watch. If all seems well, we may ride home at nightfall." Save for the danger to her young charges, she would have done so even then. Far superior though she had always been to them, her heart yearned over the helpless women of her tribe whom she had left behind. "But that cannot be. They were tied fast by their motherhood to the homes wherein they may have perished, even as I am tied here by my adopted ones. The beasts, too, are tied; but they, at least, may have a moment's freedom." So she loosed them, and guided them to the pool where they could drink, and watched them curiously, to see if they would avail themselves of the liberty she had thus offered. But they did not. They quaffed the clear water, then tossed their velvet nostrils about its depths till it was soiled and worthless; yet they turned of their own accord away from the wind-swept prairie into the shelter of the trees, and grouped themselves beneath one, as if uniting against some common, unseen enemy. "They are wiser than their masters," said Wahneenah, patting her Chestnut's beautiful neck; and seeing a deeper glade, where they might spend the night even more safely, she led them thither and fastened them again. Under ordinary circumstances she would have left them untethered; but she knew not then at what moment she might again need them, as they had been needed earlier in the day. When the darkness fell, Wahneenah put aside the brushwood door which she had placed before the entrance to the cave, and sat down upon the withering branch to watch and wait. The children were both asleep, and she knew that if the Black Partridge were still alive and able he would seek her there, as he had promised on that day in the past when they had discussed the possibility of what had really now occurred. She was not to be disappointed. While she sat, contrasting the happiness that had been hers on just the night before with the uncertainty of this, there sounded in the sloping tunnel the tread of a moccasined foot. Also, she could hear the crowding of a stalwart figure against its sides, and there was something in both sounds which told her who was coming. "My brother is late." "It is better thus, it may be, than not at all." "The voice of the Black Partridge is sorrowful." "The heart of the chief is broken within him." For a space after that neither spoke. Then Wahneenah rose and set a candle in a niche of the wall and lighted it. By its flame she could see to move about and she presently had brought some food in a dish and placed a gourd of water by the chief's side. The water he drank eagerly and held the cup for more; but the food he pushed aside, relapsing into another silence. Finally, Wahneenah spoke. "Has the father of his tribe no message for his sister?" "Over what the ear does not hear, the heart cannot grieve." "That is a truth which contradicts itself." "The warrior of Wahneenah judged well when he chose this cavern for a possible home." "It is needed, then? As the Black Partridge foretold." "It is needed. There is no other." The words were quietly spoken; but there was heart-break in each one. "Our village? The home of all our people? Is it not still safe and a refuge for all unfortunates among the nations?" "Where Muck-otey-pokee laughed by the waterside, there is now a heap of ruins. The river that danced in the sunlight is red with the blood of the slain and of all the lodges wherein we dwelt, not one remains!" "My brother! Surely, much brooding has made you distraught. Such cannot be. There were warriors, hundreds of them in the settlement and before their arrows the pale-faces fall like trees before the woodman's axe." "If the arrows are not in the quiver, can the warrior shoot? Against the man who steals up in the rear, can one be prepared? It was a short, sharp battle. The innocent fell with the guilty, and the earth receives them all. Where Muck-otey-pokee stood is a blackened waste. Those who survived have fled, to seek new homes wherever they may find them. In her pathways the dead faces stare into the sky as even yet, among the sandhills, lie and stare the unburied dead of the Fort Dearborn massacre. It is fate. It is nature. It is the game of life. To-day one wins, to-morrow another. In the end, for all--is death." For a while after that, Wahneenah neither moved nor spoke, and the Black Partridge lapsed into another profound silence. Finally, the woman rose, and going to the fireplace, took handsful of its ashes and strewed them upon her head and face. Then she drew her blanket over her features, and thus, hiding her sorrow even from the witness of the night, she sat down again in her place and became at once as rigid and impassive as her brother. Thus the morning found them. Despite their habit of wandering from point to point, the village of Muck-otey-pokee was the rallying-place of the Pottawatomies, their home, the ancient burial-ground of their dead. Its destruction meant, to the far-seeing Black Partridge, also the destruction of his tribe. Therefore, as he had said, his spirit was broken within him. But at the last he rose to depart, and still fasting. With the solemnity of one who parted from her forever, he addressed the veiled Wahneenah and bade her: "Put aside the grief that palsies, and find joy in the children whom the Great Spirit has sent you. They also are homeless and orphaned. There are left now no white soldiers to harry and distress. This cavern is warmer than a wigwam, and there is store of food for many more than three. Remain here until the springtime and by then I may return. I go now to my brother Gomo, at St. Joseph's, to counsel at his fireside on what may yet be done to save the remnant of our people. You are safer here than in any village that I know. Farewell." But, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, the Black Partridge for once forgot his native caution; and without waiting to reconnoitre, he mounted his horse and rode boldly away from the shelter of the brush into the broad light of the prairie and so due north toward the distant encampment of his tribesmen. Yet the glittering eyes of a jealous Indian were watching him as he rode. An Indian who had been sheltered by the hospitality of the great chief, and for many months, in Muck-otey-pokee; but who had neither gratitude nor mercy in his heart, wherein was only room for treachery and greed. As Black Partridge rode away from the cave by the river, the other mounted his horse and rode swiftly toward it. CHAPTER XI. UNDER A WHITE MAN'S ROOF. The log cabin of Abel and Mercy Smith stood within a bit of forest that bordered the rich prairie. As homes went in those early days, when Illinois was only a territory, and in that sparsely settled locality, it was a most roomy and comfortable abode. The childless couple which dwelt in it were comfortable also, although to hear their daily converse with one another a stranger would not so have fancied. They had early come into the wilderness, and had, therefore, lived much alone. Yet each was of a most social nature, and the result, as their few neighbors said, of their isolated situation was merely "a case of out-talk." When Mercy's tongue was not wagging, Abel's was, and often both were engaged at the same moment. Her speech was sharp and decisive; his indolent, and, to one of her temperament, exceedingly aggravating. But, between them, they managed to keep up almost a continuous discourse. For, if Abel went afield, Mercy was sure to follow him upon various excuses; unless the weather were too stormy, when, of course, he was within doors. However, there were times when even their speech lagged a little, and then homesickness seized the mistress of the cabin; and after several days of preparation she would set out on foot or on horseback, according to the distance to be traversed, for some other settler's cabin and a wider exchange of ideas. On a late November day, when the homesickness had become overpowering, Mercy tied on her quilted hood and pinned her heavy shawl about her. She had filled a carpet bag with corn to pop and nuts to crack, for the children of her expected hostess and had "set up" a fresh pair of long stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stable into the living room to hear her last remarks. "If I should be kep' over night, Abel, you'll find a plenty to eat. There's a big pot of baked beans in the lean-to, and some apple pies, and a pumpkin one. The ham's all sliced ready to fry, and I do hope to goodness you won't spill grease 'bout on this rag carpet. I'm the only woman anywhere 's round has a rag carpet all over her floor, any way, and the idee of your sp'ilin' it just makes me sick. I----" "But I hain't sp'iled it yet, ma. You hain't give me no chance. If you do--" "If I do! Ain't I leavin' you to get your own breakfast, in case I don't come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an' then where'd I be?" "Right where you happened to be at, I s'pose," returned Abel, facetiously. But it was wasted wit. The idea of being storm-stayed now filled the housewife's mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption; but her husband "was a born botch." True, he could split a log, or clear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richly fertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified to his ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman's work to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboard when she should return and the amount of cream he would probably spill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgave her and she began slowly to untie the great hood. "I believe I won't go after all." "Won't go, ma? Why not?" "I'm afraid you'll get everything upset." "I won't touch a thing more 'n I have to. I'll set right here in the chimney-corner an' doze an' take it easy. The fall work's all done, an' I'd ought to rest a mite." "Rest! Rest? Yes. That's what a man always thinks of. It's a woman who has to keep at it, early an' late, winter an' summer, sick or well. If I should go an' happen to take cold, I don't know what to the land would become of you, Abel Smith." "I don't either, ma." There was a long silence, during which Mercy tied and untied her bonnet-strings a number of times; and each time with a greater hesitancy. Finally, she pulled from her head the uneasy covering and laid it on the table. Then she unpinned her shawl, and Abel regarded these signs ruefully. But he knew the nature with which he had to deal; and the occasional absences that were so necessary to Mercy's happiness were also seasons of great refreshment to himself. During them he felt almost, and sometimes quite, his own master. He loafed, and smoked, and whittled, and even brought out his old fiddle and just "played himself crazy"--so his wife declared. Even then he was already recalling a tune he had heard a passing teamster whistle and was longing to try it for himself. He abruptly changed his tactics. Looking into Mercy's face with an appearance of great gladness, he exclaimed: "Now ain't that grand! Here was I, thinkin' of myself all alone, and you off havin' such a good time, talkin' over old ways out East an' hearin' all the news that's going. There. Take right off your things an' I'll help put 'em away for you. You've got such a lot cooked up you can afford to get out your patchwork, and I'll fiddle a bit and----" "Abel Smith! I didn't think you'd go and begrudge me a little pleasure. Me, that has slaved an' dug an' worked myself sick a help-meetin' an' savin' for you. I really didn't." "Well, I'm not begrudging anybody. An' I don't s'pose there is much news we hain't heard. Though there was a new family of settlers moved out on the mill-road last week, I don't reckon they'd be anybody that we'd care about. Folks have to be a mite particular, even out here in Illinois." Mercy paused, with her half-folded shawl in her hands. Then, with considerable emphasis, she unfolded it again, and deliberately fastened it about her plump person. "Well, I'm goin'. It's rainin' a little, but none to hurt. I've fixed a dose of cough syrup for Mis' Waldron's baby, an' I'd ought to go an' give it to her. Them new folks has come right near her farm, I hear. If you ain't man enough to look out for yourself for a few hours, you cert'nly ain't enough account for me to worry over. But take good care of yourself, Abel. I'm goin'. I feel it my duty. There's a roast spare-rib an' some potatoes ready to fry; an' the meal for the stirabout is all in the measure an'--good-by. I'll likely be back to-night. If not, by milkin' time to-morrow morning." Abel had taken down the almanac from its nail in the wall and had pretended to be absorbed in its contents. He did not even lift his eyes as his wife went out and shut the door. He still continued to search the "prognostics" long after the cabin had become utterly silent, not daring to glance through the small window, lest she should discover him and be reminded of some imaginary duty toward him that would make her return. But, at the end of fifteen minutes, since nothing happened and the stillness remained profound, he hung the almanac back in its place, clapped his hands and executed a sort of joy-dance which was quite original with himself. Then he drew his splint-bottomed chair before the open fire, tucked his fiddle under his chin, and proceeded to enjoy himself. For more than an hour, he played and whistled and felt as royal and happy as a king. By the end of that time he had grown a little tired of music, and noticed that the drizzle of the early morning had settled into a steady, freezing downpour. The trees were already becoming coated with ice and their branches to creak dismally in the rising wind. "Never see such a country for wind as this is. Blows all the time, the year round. Hope Mercy'll be able to keep ahead of the storm. She's a powerful free traveller, Mercy is, an' don't stan' for trifles. But--my soul! Ain't she a talker? I realize _that_ when her back's turned. It's so still in this cabin I could hear a pin drop, if there was anybody round hadn't nothin' better to do than to drop one. Hmm, I s'pose I could find some sort of job out there to the barn. But I ain't goin' to. I'm just goin' to play hookey by myself this whole endurin' day, an' see what comes of it. I believe I'll just tackle one of them pumpkin pies. 'Tain't so long since breakfast, but eatin' kind of passes the time along. I wish I had a newspaper. I wish somethin' would turn up. I--I wouldn't let Mercy know it, not for a farm; but _'tis_ lonesome here all by myself. I hain't never noticed it so much as I do this mornin'. Whew! Hear that wind! It's a good mile an' a half to Waldron's. I hope Mercy's got there 'fore this." Abel closed the outer door, and crossed to the well-stocked cupboard. As he stood contemplating its contents, and undecided as to which would really best suit his present mood, there came a sound of somebody approaching the house along the slippery footpath. This was so unexpected that it startled the pioneer. Then he reflected: "Mercy. She's come back!" and remained guiltily standing with his hand upon the edge of a pie plate, like a school-boy pilfering his mother's larder. "Rat-a-tat-a-tat!" "Somebody knockin'! That ain't Mercy! Who the land, I wonder!" He made haste to see and opened the heavy door to the demand of a young boy, who stood shivering before it. At a little distance further from the house was, also, a woman wrapped in a blanket that glistened with sleet, and which seemed to enfold besides herself the form of a little child. "My land! my land! Why, bubby! where in the world did you drop from? Is that your ma? No. I see she's an Indian, an' you're as white as the frost itself. Come in. Come right in." But the lad lingered on the threshold and asked with chattering teeth, which showed how chilled he was: "Can Wahneenah come too?" "I don't know who in Christendom Wahneeny is, but you folks all come straight in out of the storm. 'Twon't do to keep the door open so long, for the sleet's beating right in on Mercy's carpet. There'd be the dickens to pay if she saw that." Gaspar, for it was he, ran quickly back toward the motionless Wahneenah, and, clutching the corner of her blanket, dragged her forward. She seemed reluctant to follow, notwithstanding her half-frozen condition and she glanced into Abel's honest face with keen inquiry. Yet seeing nothing but good-natured pity in it, she entered the cabin, and herself shut the door. Yet she kept her place close to the exit, even after Gaspar had pulled the blanket apart and revealed the white face of the Sun Maid lying on her breast. "Why, why, why! poor child! Poor little creatur'. Where in the world did you hail from to be out in such weather? Didn't you have ary home to stay in? But, there. I needn't ask that, because there's Mercy off trapesing just the same, an' her with the best cabin on the frontier. I s'pose this Wahneeny was took with a gossipin' fit, too, an' set out to find her own cronies. But I don't recollect as I've heard of any Indians livin' out this way." By this time the water that had been frozen upon the wanderers' clothing had begun to melt, and was drip-dripping in little puddles upon Mercy's beloved carpet. Abel eyed these with dismay, and finally hit upon the happy expedient of turning back the loose breadth of the heavy fabric which bordered the hearth. Upon the bare boards thus revealed he placed three chairs, and invited his guests to take them. Gaspar dropped into one very promptly, but the squaw did not advance until the boy cried: "Do come, Other Mother. Poor Kitty will wake up then, and feel all right." The atmosphere of any house was always uncomfortable to Wahneenah. Even then, she felt as if she had stepped from freedom into prison, cold though she was and half-famished with hunger. Personally, she would rather have taken her bit of food out under the trees; but the thought of her Sun Maid was always powerful to move her. She laid aside the wet blanket, and carried the drowsy little one to the fireside, where the warmth soon revived the child so that she sat up on her foster-mother's lap, and gazed about her with awakening curiosity. Then she began to smile on Abel, who stood regarding her wonderful loveliness with undisguised amazement, and to prattle to him in her accustomed way. "Why, you nice, nice man! Isn't this a pretty place. Isn't it beau'ful warm? I'm so glad we came. It was cold out of doors, wasn't it, Other Mother? Did you know all the time what a good warm fire was here? Was that why we came?" "I knew nothing," answered Wahneenah, stolidly. "But I did!" cried Gaspar. "As soon as I saw the smoke of your chimney I said: 'That is a white man's house. We will go and stay in it.' It's a nice house, sir, and, like Kitty, I am glad we came. Do you live here all alone?" "No. My wife, Mercy, has gone a visitin'. That's why I happen to be here doin' nothin'. I mean--I might have been to the barn an' not heard you. You're lookin' into that cupboard pretty sharp. Be you hungry? But I needn't ask that. A boy always is." "I am hungry. We all are. We haven't had anything to eat in--days, I guess. Are those pies--regular pies, on the shelves?" "Yes. Do you like pies?" "I used to. I haven't had any since I left the Fort." "Left what?" "The Fort. Fort Dearborn. Did you know it?" "Course. That is, about it. But there ain't no Fort now. Don't tell stories." "I'm not. I'm telling the truth." If this was a refugee from that unhappy garrison, Abel felt that he could not do enough for the boy's comfort. He could not refrain his suspicious glances from Wahneenah's dark face, but as she kept her own gaze fixed upon the ground, he concluded she did not see them. In any case, she was only an Indian, and therefore to be treated with scant courtesy. Mercy would have been surprised to see with what handiness her husband played the host in her absence and now he whipped off the red woollen cover from the table and rolled it toward the fireplace. But she would not have approved at all of the lavishness with which he set before his guests the best things from her cupboard. There was a cold rabbit patty, the pot of beans, light loaves of sweet rye bread, and a pat of golden butter. To these he added a generous pitcher of milk, and beside Gaspar's own plate he placed both a pumpkin and a dried-apple pie. "I'd begin with these, if I was you, sonny. Baked beans come by nature, seems to me, but pies are a gift of grace. Though I must say my wife don't stint 'em when she takes it into her head to go gallivantin' an' leaves me to housekeep. 'Pears to think then I must have somethin' sort of comfortin'. I'd start in on pie, if I was a little shaver, an' take the beans last." This might not have been the best of advice to give a lad whose fast had been so long continued as Gaspar's, but it suited that young person exactly. Indeed, in all his life he had never seen so well spread a table, and he lost no time in obeying his entertainer's suggestion. But he noticed with regret that his foster-mother did not touch the proffered food, and that she ministered even gingerly to Kitty's wants. Yet there was nobody, however austere or unhappy, who could long resist the happy influence of the little girl, and least of all the woman who so loved her. As the Sun Maid's color returned to her face, and her stiffened limbs began to resume their suppleness, something of the anxiety left Wahneenah's eyes, and she condescended to receive a bowl of milk and a slice of bread from Abel's hand. The fact that she would at last break her own fast made all comfortable; and as soon as Gaspar's appetite was so far appeased that he could begin upon the beans, the settler demanded: "Now, sonny, talk. Tell me the whole endurin' story from A to Izzard. Where'd you come from now? Where was you bound? What's your name? an' her's? an' the little tacker's? My! but ain't she a beauty! I never see ary such hair on anybody's head, black or white. It's gettin' dry, ain't it; an' how it does fly round, just like foam." "I'm not 'sonny,' nor 'bubby.' I'm Gaspar Keith. I was brought up at Fort Dearborn. After the massacre, I was taken to Muck-otey-pokee. I--" But the lad's thoughts already began to grow sombre, and he became so abruptly silent that Abel prompted him. "Hmm, I've heard of that--that--Mucky place. Indian settlement, wasn't it? Took prisoner, was you?" "No. I wasn't a prisoner, exactly. I was just a--just a friend of the family, I guess." "Oh? So. A friend of an Indian family, sonny?" "If you'd rather not call me Gaspar, you can please say 'Dark-Eye.' That's my new Indian name; but I hate those other ones. They make me think I am a baby. And I'm not. I am a man, almost." "So you be. So you be," agreed Abel, admiring the little fellow's spirit. "I 'low you've seen sights, now, hain't you?" "Yes, dreadful ones; so dreadful that I can't talk about them to anybody. Not even to you, who have given us this nice food and let us warm ourselves. I would if I could, you see; only when I let myself think, I just get queer in the head and afraid. So I won't even think. It doesn't do for a boy to be afraid. Not when he has his mother and sister to take care of." There was the faintest lightening of the gloom upon the Indian woman's face as Dark-Eye said this. But he was, apart from his terror of bloodshed and fighting, a courageous lad, and had, during their past days of wandering, proved the good stuff of which he was made. Many a day he had gone without eating that the remnant of their food might be saved for the Sun Maid; and though it was, of course, Wahneenah who had taken all the care of the children, if it pleased him to consider their cases reversed he should be left to his own opinion. "You're right, boy. I'll call you Gaspar, easy enough. Only, you see, I hain't got no sons of my own an' it kind of makes things seem cosier if I call other folkes's youngsters that way. Every little shaver this side of Illinois calls me 'Uncle Abe,' I reckon. But go on with your yarn. My, my, my! Won't Mercy be beat when she comes home an' hears all that's happened whilst she was gone. Go on." So Gaspar told all that had occurred since the Black Partridge parted from his sister in the cavern and rode away toward St. Joseph's. How that very day came one of the visiting Indians who had been staying at Muck-otey-pokee and whose behavior toward the neighboring white settlers had been a prominent cause of bringing the soldiers' raid upon the innocent and friendly hosts who had entertained him. The wicked like not solitude, and in the train of this traitor had followed many others. These had turned the cave into a pandemonium and had appropriated to their own uses the stores which Black Partridge had provided for Wahneenah. When to this robbery they had added threats against the lives of the white children, whose presence at the Indian village they in their turn declared had brought destruction upon it, the chief's sister had taken such small portion of her own property as she could secure and had set out to find a new home or shelter for her little ones. Since then they had been always wandering. Wahneenah now had a fixed dread of the pale-faces and had avoided their habitations as far as might be. They had lived in the woods, upon the roots and dried berries they could find and whose power to sustain life the squaw had understood. But now had come the cold of approaching winter and the Sun Maid had shown the effects of her long exposure. Then, at Gaspar's pleading, Wahneenah had put her own distrust of strangers aside and had come with him to the first cabin of white people which they could find. "And now we're here, what will you do with us?" concluded the lad, fixing his dark eyes earnestly upon his host's face. Abel fidgetted a little; then, with his happy faculty of putting off till to-morrow the evil that belonged to to-day, he replied: "Well, son--bub--I mean, Gaspar; we hain't come to that bridge yet. Time enough to cross it when we do. But, say, that little creatur' looks as if she hadn't known what 'twas to lie on a decent bed in a month of Sundays. She's 'bout dried off now; an' my! ain't she a pretty sight in them little Indian's togs! S'pose your squaw-ma puts her to sleep on the bed yonder. Notice that bedstead? There ain't another like it this side the East. I'll just spread a sheet over the quilt, to keep it clean, an' she can snooze there all day, if she likes. I'll play you an' Wahneeny a tune on my fiddle if you want me to." Gaspar was, of course, delighted with this offer but the chief's sister was already tired of the hot house and had cast longing glances through the small window toward the barn in the rear. That, at least, would be cool, and from its doorway she calculated she could keep a close watch upon the door of the cabin, and be ready at a second's notice to rush to her children's aid should harm be offered them. Meanwhile, for this dark day, they would have the comfort to which their birthright entitled them. So she went out and left them with Abel. The hours flew by and the storm continued. Abel had never been happier nor jollier; and as the twilight came down, and he finally gave up all expectation of Mercy's immediate return, he waxed fairly hilarious, cutting up absurd antics for the mere delight of seeing the Sun Maid laugh and dance in response, and because, under these cheerful conditions, Gaspar's face was losing its premature thoughtfulness and rounding to a look more suited to his years. "Now, I'll dance you a sailor's hornpipe, and then I must go out and milk. If ma'd been home, it would have been finished long ago. But when the cat's away the mice will play, you know; so here goes." Unfortunately, at that very moment the "cat" to whom he referred, Mercy, in fact, approached the cabin from a direction which even Wahneenah did not observe, and opened a rear door plump upon this unprecedented scene. Abel stopped short in his jig, one foot still uplifted and his fiddle bow half drawn, while the Sun Maid was yet sweeping her most graceful curtsey; and even the serious Gaspar had left his seat to prance about the room to the notes of Abel's music. Mercy also remained transfixed, utterly dumfounded, and doubting the evidence of her own senses; but after a moment becoming able to exclaim: "So! This is how lonesome you be when I leave you, is it?" CHAPTER XII. AFTER FOUR YEARS. Despite a really warm and hospitable heart, it was not pleasant for Mercy Smith to find that her submissive husband had taken upon himself to keep open house in this fashion for all who chose to call; and, as she often expressed it, the settler's wife "hated an Indian on sight." Upon her unexpected entrance, there had ensued a brief silence; then the two tongues which were accustomed to wag so nimbly took up their familiar task and a battle of words followed. Its climax came rather suddenly, and was not anticipated by the housewife who declared with great decision: "I say the children may stay for a spell, till we can find a way to dispose of 'em. The boy's big enough to earn his keep, if he ain't too lazy. Male creatur's mostly are. An' the girl's no great harm as I see, 'nless she's too pretty to be wholesome. But that red-face goes, or I do. There ain't no room in this cabin for me an' a squaw to one time. You can take your druther. She goes or I do"; and she glanced with animosity toward Wahneenah, who, when hearing the fresh voice added to the other three, had come promptly upon Mercy's return to take her stand just within the entrance. There she had remained ever since, silent, watchful, and quite as full of distrust concerning Mercy as Mercy could possibly have been toward herself. "Well," said Abel, slowly, and there was a new note in his voice which aroused and riveted his wife's attention. "Well--you hear me. I don't often claim to be boss, but when I do I mean it. Them children can stay here just as long as they will. For all their lives, an' I'll be glad of it. The Lord has denied us any little shavers of our own, an' maybe just because in His providence He was plannin' to send them two orphans here for us to tend. As for the squaw, she's proved her soul's white, if her skin is red, an' she stays or goes, just as she elects--ary one. That's all. Now, you'd better see about fixing 'em a place to sleep." Because she was too astonished to do otherwise, Mercy complied. And Wahneenah wisely relieved her unwilling hostess of any trouble concerning herself. She followed Abel to the barn, to attend him upon his belated "chores," and to beg the use of some coarse blankets which she had found stored there. Until she could secure properly dressed skins or bark, these would serve her purpose well enough for the little tepee she meant to pitch close to the house which sheltered her children. "For I must leave them under her roof while the winter lasts. They are not of my race, and cannot endure the cold. But I will work just so much as will pay for their keep and my own. They shall be beholden to the white woman for naught but their shelter. For that, too, I will make restitution in the days to come." "Pshaw, Wahneeny! I wouldn't mind a bit of a sharp tongue, if I was you. Ma don't mean no hurt. She's used to bein' boss, that's all; an' she will be the first to be glad she's got another female to consort with. I wouldn't lay up no grudge. I wouldn't." But the matter settled itself as the Indian suggested. It was pain and torment to her to hear Mercy alternately petting and correcting her darlings, yet for their sakes she endured that much and more. She even failed to resent the fact that, after a short residence at the farm, the Smiths both began to refer to her as "our hired girl, that's workin' for her keep an' the childern's." It did not matter to her now. Nothing mattered so long as she was still within sight and sound of her Sun Maid's beauty and laughter; and by the time spring came she had procured the needful skins to construct the wigwam she desired. Her skill in nursing, that had been well known among her own people, she now made a means of sustaining her independence. Such aid as she could render was indeed difficult to be obtained by the isolated dwellers in that wilderness; and having nursed Abel through a siege of inflammatory rheumatism, as he had never been cared for before, he sounded her praises far and near, and to all of the chance passers-by. For her service among those who could pay she charged a very moderate wage, but it sufficed; and, for the sake of pleasing her children, she adopted a dress very like that worn by all the women of the frontier. Kitty, also, had soon been clothed "like a Christian" by Mercy's decision; but Wahneenah still carefully preserved the dainty Indian costume Katasha had given the child; along with the sacred White Bow and the priceless Necklace. As for the three horses on which she and the two children had stolen away from their enemies in the cave of refuge, Abel had long ago decided that they were but kittle cattle, unfitted for the sober work of life which his own oxen and old nag Dobbin performed so well. So they were left in idleness, to graze where they pleased, and were little used except by their owners for a rare ride afield. The Chestnut, however, carried Wahneenah to and fro upon her nursing trips; for, unless the case were too urgent to be left, she always returned at nightfall to her own lodge and the nearness of her Sun Maid. Thus four uneventful years passed away, and it had come to the time of the wheat harvest. "And it's to be the biggest, grandest frolic ever was in this part of the country," declared the settler, proudly. Whereupon, days before, Mercy began to brew and bake, and even Wahneenah condescended to assist in the household labor. But she did this that she might if possible lighten that of her Sun Maid, who had now grown to a "real good-sized girl an' just as smart as chain lightning." This was Abel's description. Mercy's would have been: "Kitty's well enough. But she hates to sew her seam like she hates poison. She'd ruther be makin' posies an' animals out my nice clean fresh-churned butter than learn cookin'. But she's good-tempered. Never flies out at all, like Gaspar, 'cept I lose patience with Wahneeny. Then, look sharp!" "Well, I tell you that out in this country a harvestin' is a big institution!" cried Abel to Gaspar as, early on the morning of the eventful day, they were making all things ready for the accommodation of the people who would flock to the Smith farm to assist in the labor and participate in the fun. "If there's some things we miss here, we have some that can't be matched out East. Every white settler's every other settler's neighbor, even though there's miles betwixt their clearin's. All hands helpin' so makes light work of raisin' cabins or barns, sowin', reapin', or clearin'. I--I declare I feel as excited as a boy. But you don't seem to. You're gettin' a great lad now, Gaspar, an' one these days I'll be thinkin' of payin' you some wages. If so be I can afford it, an'----" "And Mercy will let you!" "Hi, diddle diddle! What's struck you crosswise, sonny?" "I'm tired of working so hard for other people. I want a chance to do something for myself. I'm not ungrateful; don't think it. But see. I am already taller than you and I can do as much work in a day. Where is the justice, then, of my labor going for naught?" "Why, Gaspar. Why, why, why!" exclaimed the pioneer, too astonished to say more. Gaspar went on with his task of clearing the barn floor and arranging tying places for the visitors' teams; but his dark face was clouded and anxious, showing little of the anticipation which Abel's did. "I'm going to ask you, Father Abel, to let me try for a job somewhere else; that is, if you can't really pay me anything, as your wife declares. Then, by and by, when I can earn enough to get ahead a little, I'd pay you back for all you've spent on us three." Abel's face had fallen, and he now looked as if he might be expecting some dire disaster rather than a frolic. But it brightened presently. "Yes, Gaspar; I know you're big, and well-growed. But you're young yet--dreadful young----" "I'm near fifteen." "Well, you won't be out your time till you're twenty-one." "What 'time'?" asked the lad, angrily, though he knew the answer. "Hmm. Of course, there wasn't no regular papers drawed, but it was understood; it was always understood between ma and me that if we took you all in, and did for you while you was growin' up, your service belonged to us. Same's if you'd been bound by the authorities." "Get over there, Dobbin!" "Pshaw! You must be real tried in your mind to hit a four-footed creatur' like that. I hain't never noticed that you was short-spoke with the stock--not before this morning. I wish you wouldn't get out of sorts to-day, boy! I--well, there's things afoot 'at I think you'd like to take a share in. There. That'll do. Now, just turn another edge on them reapin' knives, an' see that there's plenty o' water in the troughs, an' feed them fattin' pigs in the pen, an'--Shucks! He's off already. I wonder what's took him so short! I wonder if he's got wind of anything out the common!" The latter part of Abel's words were spoken to himself, for Gaspar had taken his knives to the grindstone in the yard and was now calling for Kitty to turn the stone for him, while he should hold the blades against its surface. But it was Mercy who answered his summons, appearing in the doorway with her sleeves rolled up, her apron floured, and her round face aglow with haste and excitement. "Well? well, Gaspar Keith? What you want of Kit?" "To help me." "Help yourself. I can't spare her." "Then I can't grind the knives. That's all." He tossed them down to wait her pleasure, and Mercy groaned. "If I ain't the worst bestead woman in the world! Here's all creation coming to be fed, an' no help but a little girl like Kit an' a grumpy old squaw 't don't know enough to 'preciate her privileges. Hey! Gaspar! Call Abel in to breakfast. An' after that maybe sissy can turn the stun. Here 'tis goin' on six o'clock, if it's a minute, an' some the folks'll be pokin' over here by seven, sure!" Then Mercy retreated within doors and directed the Sun Maid to: "Fly 'round right smart now an' set the house to one side. Whisk them flapjacks over quicker 'an that, then they'll not splish-splash all over the griddle. When I was a little girl nine years old I could fry cakes as round as an apple. No reason why you shouldn't, too, if you put your mind to it." The Sun Maid laughed. No amount of fret or labor had ever yet had power to dim the brightness of her nature. Was it the Sun Maid, though? One had to look twice to see. For this tall, slender girl now wore her glorious hair in a braid, and her frock was of coarse blue homespun. Her feet were bare, and her plump shoulders bowed a little because of the heavy burdens which her "mother Mercy" saw fit to put upon them. "But I guess I don't want to put my mind to it. I can't see anything pretty in 'jacks which are to be eaten right up. Only I like to have them taste right for the folks. That's all." Abel and Gaspar came in, and Kitty placed a plate of steaming cakes before them. Mercy hurried to the big churn outside the door and began to work the dasher up and down as if she hadn't an ounce of butter in her dairy and must needs prepare this lot for the festival. As she churned she kept up a running fire of directions to the household within, finally suggesting, in a burst of liberality due to the occasion: "You can fry what flapjacks you want for yourself, Wahneeny. An' I don't know as I care if you have a little syrup on 'em to-day--just for once, so to speak." However, Wahneenah disdained even the cakes, and the syrup-jug was deposited in its place with undiminished contents. "Be you all through, then? Well, Kit, fly 'round. Clear the table like lightning, an' fetch that butter bowl out the spring, an' see if the salt's all poun' an' sifted; an' open the draw's an' lay out my clothes, an'--Dear me! Does seem 's if I should lose my senses with so much to do an' no decent help, only----" "Hold on, Mercy! What's the use of rushin' through life 's if you was tryin' to break your neck?" "Rushin'! With all that's comin' here to-day!" "Well, let 'em come. We'll be glad to see 'em. Nobody gladder 'n you yourself. But you fair take my breath away with your everlastin' hurry-skurry, clitter-clatter. Don't give a man a chance to even kiss his little girl good-mornin'. Do you know that, Sunny Maid? Hain't said a word to your old Daddy yet!" The child ran to him and fondly flung her arms as far as they would go around the settler's broad shoulders. It was evident that there was love and sympathy between these two, though they were to be allowed short space "for foolin'" that day, and Mercy's call again interrupted them: "Come and take this butter down to the brook, Kit, an' wash it all clean, an' salt it just right--here 'tis measured off--an' make haste. I do believe you'd ruther stand there lovin' your old Abel--homely creatur'!--than helpin' me. Yet, when I was a little girl your age, I could work the butter over fit to beat the queen. Upon my word, I do declare I see a wagon movin' 'crost the prairie this very minute! Oh! what shall I do if I ain't ready when they get here!" Catching at last something of the pleasurable excitement about her, Kitty lifted the heavy butter-tray and started for the stream. The butter was just fine and firm enough to tempt her fingers into a bit of modelling, such as she had picked up for herself; and very speedily she had arranged a row of miniature fruits and acorns, and was just attempting to copy a flower which grew by the bank when Wahneenah's voice, close at hand, warned her: "Come, Girl-Child. The white mistress is in haste this morning. It is better to carry back the butter in a lump than to make even such pretty things and risk a scolding." "But father Abel would like them for his company. He is very fond of my fancy 'pats'." "But not to-day. Besides, if there is time for idleness, I want you to pass it here with me, in my own wigwam." The Sun Maid looked up. "Shall you not be at the feasting, dear Other Mother? You have many friends among those who are coming." "Friendship is proved by too sharp a test sometimes. The way of the world is to follow the crowd. If a person falls into disfavor with one, all the rest begin to pick flaws. More than that: the temptation of money ruins even noble natures." "Why, Wahneenah! You sound as if you were talking riddles. Who is tempted by money? and which way does the 'crowd' you mean go? I don't understand you at all." "May the Great Spirit be praised that it is so. May He long preserve to you your innocent and loyal heart." With these words, the Indian woman stooped and laid her hand upon the child's head; then slowly entered her lodge and let its curtains fall behind her. There was an unusual sternness about her demeanor which impressed Kitty greatly; so that it was with a very sober face that she herself gathered up her burdens and returned to the cabin. Yet on the short way thither she met Gaspar, who beckoned to her from behind the shelter of a haystack, motioning silence. "But you mustn't keep me, Gaspar boy. Mother Mercy is terribly hurried this morning, and now, for some reason, Other Mother has stopped helping and has gone home to the tepee. If I don't work, it will about crush her down, Mercy says." "Hang Mercy! There. I don't mean that. I wish you wouldn't always look so scared when I get mad. I am mad to-day, Kit. Mad clear through. I've got to be around amongst folks, too, for a while; but the first minute you get, you come to that pile of logs near Wahneenah's place, and I'll have something to tell you." "No you won't! No you won't! I know it already. I heard father Abel talking. There is to be a horse race, after the harvesting and the supper are over. There is a new man, or family, moved into the neighborhood and he is a horse trader. I heard all about it, sir!" "You heard that? Did you hear anything else? About Wahneenah and money?" "Only what she told me herself"; repeating the Indian woman's words. "Then she knows, poor thing!" cried Gaspar, indignantly. CHAPTER XIII. THE HARVESTING. Kitty had no time to ask further explanation. Already there was an ox team driving up to the cabin and, scanning the prairies, she saw others on the way, so merely stopped to cry, eagerly: "They've come! The folks have come!" before she hastened in with the butter and to see if she could in any way help Mercy dress for the great occasion. She was just in time, for the plump housewife was vainly struggling to fasten the buttons of a new lilac calico gown which she had made: "A teeny tiny mite too tight. I didn't know I was gettin' so fat, I really didn't." "Oh! it's all right, dear Mother Mercy. It looked just lovely that day you tried it on. I'll help you. You're all trembling and warm. That's the reason it bothers." She was so deft and earnest in her efforts that Mercy submitted without protest, and in this manner succeeded in "making herself fit to be seen by folks" about the moment that they arrived to observe. Then everything else was forgotten, amid the greetings and gayety that followed. For out of what purported to be a task the whole community was making a frolic. While the men repaired to the golden fields to reap the grain the women hurried to the smooth grassy place where the harvest-dinner was to be enjoyed out-of-doors. Most of the vehicles--which brought whole families, down to the babe in long clothes--were drawn by oxen, though some of the pioneers owned fine horses and had driven these, groomed with extraordinary care and destined, later on, to be entered in the races which should conclude the business and fun of the day. Both horses and oxen were, for the present, led out to graze upon a fine pasture and were supposed to be under the care, while there, of the young people. These were, however, more deeply engaged in playing games than in watching, and for once their stern parents ignored the carelessness. "Oh, such bright faces!" cried the Sun Maid to Mercy. "And yours is the happiest of all, even though you did have such a terrible time to get ready. See, they are fixing the tables out of the wagon boards, and every woman has brought her own dishes. They're making fires, too, some of the bigger boys. What for, Mother Mercy?" "Oh! don't bother me now. It's to boil the coffee on, and to bake the jonny-cakes. 'Journey-cakes,' they used to call them. Mis' Waldron, she's mixin' some this minute. Step acrost to her table an' watch. A girl a'most ten years old ought to learn all kinds of housekeepin'." Kitty was nothing loath. It was, indeed, a treat to see with what skill the comely settler of the wilderness mixed and tossed and patted her jonny-cake, famous all through that countryside for lightness and delicacy; and as she finished each batch of dough, and slapped it down upon the board where it was to cook, she would hand it over to Kitty's charge, with the injunction: "Carry that to one of the fires, an' stand it up slantin', so 's to give it a good chance to bake even. Watch 'em all, too; an' as soon as they are a nice brown on one side, either call me to turn 'em to the other, or else do it yourself. As Mercy Smith says, a girl can't begin too early to housekeep." "But this is out-door keep, isn't it?" laughed the Sun Maid, as, with a board upon each arm, she bounded away to place the cakes as she had been directed. In ordinary, Mercy Smith was not a lavish woman; but on such a day as this she threw thrift to the wind and, brought out the best she could procure for the refreshment of her guests; and everybody knows how much better food tastes when eaten out-of-doors than in regular fashion beside a table. The dinner was a huge success; and even Gaspar, whom Kitty's loving watchful eyes had noticed was more than usually serious that day, so far relaxed his indignation as to partake of the feast with the other visiting lads. But, when it was over and the women were gathering up the dishes, preparatory to cleansing them for their homeward journey, the child came to where Mercy stood among a group of women, and asked: "Shall I wash the dishes, Mother Mercy?" "No, sissy, you needn't. We grown folks'll fix that. If you want something to do, an' are tired of out-doors, you can set right down yonder an' rock Mis' Waldron's baby to sleep. By and by, Abel's got a job for you will suit you to a T!" Kitty was by no means tired of out-doors, but a baby to attend was even a greater rarity than a holiday; so she sat down beside the cradle, which its mother had brought in her great wagon, and gently swayed the little occupant into a quiet slumber. Then she began to listen to the voices about her, and presently caught a sentence which puzzled her. "Fifty dollars is a pile of money. It's more 'n ary Indian ever was worth. Let alone a sulky squaw." "Yes it is. An' I need it. I need it dreadful," assented Mercy, forgetful of the Sun Maid's presence in the room. "Well, I, for one, should be afraid of her," observed another visitor, clattering the knives she was wiping. "I wouldn't have a squaw livin' so near my door, an' that's a fact." Kitty now understood that these people were speaking of Wahneenah, and listened intently. "Oh! I ain't afraid of her. Not that. But I never did like her, nor she me. She's sullen an' top-lofty. Why, you'd think I wasn't no better than the dirt under her feet, to see her sometimes. She was good to the childern, I'll 'low, afore me an' Abel took 'em in. But that's four years ago, an' I've cared for 'em ever since. Sometimes I think she's regular bewitched 'em, they dote on her so. If you believe me, they'll listen to her leastest word sooner 'n a whole hour of my talk!" "I shouldn't be surprised," quietly commented one young matron, who was jogging her own baby to sleep by tipping her chair violently back and forth upon its four legs. Continued Mercy: "She wouldn't eat a meal of victuals with me if she was starvin'. Yet I've treated her Christian. Only this mornin' I give her leave to fry cakes for herself, an' even have some syrup, but she wouldn't touch to do it. Yes; fifty dollars of good government money would be more to me 'n she is, an' she'd be took care of, I hear, along with all the rest is caught. It's time the country was rid of the Indians an' white folks had a chance. There's all the while some massacrein' an' fightin' goin' on somewhere." "Oh! I guess the government just puts 'em under lock an' key, in a guard-house, or some such place, till it gets enough to send away off West somewheres. I'd get the fifty dollars, if I was you, and march her off. She'll be puttin' notions into the youngsters' heads first you see an' makin' trouble." "I don't know just how to manage it. Abel, he's queer an' sot. He's gettin' tired, though, of some things, himself." "Manage it easy enough. Like fallin' off a log. My man could do you that good turn. She could be took along in our wagon as far as the Agency. Then, next time he comes by with his grist on his road to mill, he could fetch you the money. I'd do it, sure. I only wish I had an Indian to catch as handy as she is." Having given this advice, Mercy's guest sat down. There was a rush of small feet and the Sun Maid confronted them. Her blue eyes blazed with indignation, her face was white, and her hair, which the day's activity had loosed from its braid, streamed backward as if every fibre quivered with life. With heaving breast and clenched hands, she faced them all. "Oh, how dare you! How dare you! You are talking of my Wahneenah; of selling her, of selling her like a pig or a horse. Even you, Mrs. Jordan, though she nursed your little one till it got well, and only told you the truth: that if you'd look after it more and visit less it wouldn't have the croup so often. You didn't like to hear her say it, and you do not love her. But she is good, good, good! There is nobody so good as she is. And no harm shall come to her. I tell you. I say it. I, the Sun Maid, whom the Great Spirit sent to her out of the sky. I will go and tell her at once. She shall run away. She shall not be sold--never, never, never!" The women remained dumfounded where she left them, watching her skim the distance between cabin and wigwam, scarcely touching the earth with her bare feet in her haste to warn her friend of this new danger which threatened her and her race. For it was quite true, this matter that had been discussed. The Indians had given so much trouble in the sparsely settled country that the authorities had offered a price for their capture; and it was this price which money-loving Mercy coveted. Like a flash of a bird's wing, Kitty had darted into the lodge and out again, with an agony of fear upon her features; and then she saw Gaspar beckoning. As she reached him he motioned silence and drew her away into the shadow of the forest, that just there fringed the clearing behind the tepee. "But--Wahneenah's gone!" she whispered. "Don't worry. She's safe enough for the present. Listen to me. Do you remember the horse-racing last year?" "Course. I remember I got so excited over the horses, and so sorry for the boys that rode and didn't win. But what of that? Other Mother has gone!" "I tell you she's safe. Safer than you or me. Listen. Abel says _we_, too, will have to ride a race to-day! On Tempest and Snowbird. Even if we win, the money will belong to him; and if we lose--he's going to sell one of our horses to pay his loss. I heard him say it." "But they are ours!" "He's kept them all these years, he says. He claims the right to do with them as he chooses. Bad as that is, it isn't the worst. Though Wahneenah is safe, still she will not be always. You and I will have to ride this race--to save her life, or liberty!" "What do--you--mean?" "I haven't time to explain. Only--will you do as I say? Exactly?" "Of course." Kitty looked inquiringly into her foster-brother's face. Didn't he know she loved him better than anybody and would mind him always? "When we are on the horses if I say to you: 'Follow me!' will you?" "Of course. Away to the sky, over yonder, if you want me." "Even if any grown folks should try to stop you? Even if Abel or Mercy?" "Even"--declared the little girl, sincerely. "Now go back to the house, or anywhere you please till Abel calls you, or I do. Then come and mount. And then--then--do exactly as I tell you. Remember." He went away, back to the group of men about the barn, and Kitty sat down in the shady place to wait. But it was not for long. Presently she heard Mercy calling her, and saw Abel, with Gaspar, leading the black gelding and pretty Snowbird out of the stable toward a ring of other horses. She got up and passed toward the cabin very slowly. Oddly enough, she began to feel timid about riding before all those watching, strange faces; yet did not understand why. Then she thought of Wahneenah, and her returning anger made her indifferent to them. "Abel wants you, Kit!" cried Mrs. Smith, quite ignoring the child's recent outbreak, and the girl walked quietly toward him. But it was Gaspar who helped to swing her into her saddle, where she settled herself with an ease learned long ago of the Snake-Who-Leaps. The lad, also, found time to whisper: "Remember your promise! We are to ride this race for Wahneenah's life--though nobody knows that save you and me. So ride your best. Ride as you never rode before--and on the road I lead you!" The sons of the new settler and horse dealer were to ride against these two. There were three of these youths, all well mounted, and the course was to be a certain number of times around the great wheat field so freshly reaped. It was a rough route, indeed, but as just for one as another, and in plain sight of all the visitors. The five horses ranged in a row with their noses touching a line, held by two men, that fell as the word was given: "One--two--three--GO!" They went. They made the circuit of the field in fair style, with the three strangers a trifle ahead. On the completion of the second heat, the easterners passed the starting-point alone. "Why, Gaspar! Why, Kitty!" shouted Abel reprovingly. "How's this?" "Maybe they don't understand what's meant," suggested somebody. Seemingly, they did not. For neither at the third round did they appear in leading. On the contrary, they had started off at a right angle, straight across the prairie; but now so fast they rode, and so unerringly, that long before their deserted friends had ceased to stare and wonder they had passed out of sight. CHAPTER XIV. ONCE MORE IN THE OLD HOME. "We can rest a little now, Kit. We are so far away that nobody could catch us if they tried. They won't try, any way, I guess. They'll think we'll go back." "Didn't the horses do finely, Gaspar! I never rode like that, I guess. Where are we going? What did you mean about saving Wahneenah's life? Where is she?" "Don't ask so many questions. I've got to think. I've got to think very hard. I'm the man of our family, you know, Sun Maid. Wahneenah and you are my women." "Oh! indeed!" said the girl, moving a little nearer her foster-brother on the grassy hillock where they had slipped from their saddles, to rest both themselves and the beasts. "You see: we've all run away." "Pooh! That's nothing. I've always been running away. Black Partridge said I began life that way." "You're about ten years old, Kit. You're big enough to be getting womanly." "Father Abel said I was. I can sew quite well. If I'm very, very good, I'm to be let stitch a dickey all alone, two threads at a time, for him. Mercy said so." "Do you like stitching shirts for that old man?" "No. I hate it." "Poor little Sun Maid. You were made to be happy, and do nothing but what you like all day long. Well, I'll be a man some day, and build a cabin of my own for you and Wahneenah." "That will be nice. Though I'll be of some use some way, even if I don't like sewing. Where shall we go when we get rested, boy?" "To the Fort." "The--Fort! I thought it was all burned up." "There is a new one on the same old ground. It is our real home, you know. We will be refugees. When we meet Wahneenah, we'll go and claim protection." "Oh! Gaspar, where is she? I want her terribly. I am afraid something will happen to her." In his heart the lad was, also, greatly alarmed; but he felt it unwise to show this. So he answered, airily: "Oh! she's on, a piece. I pointed her the road, and told her where to meet us. At the top of the sandhills, this side the Fort." "The sandhills! That dreadful place. You must be getting a real 'brave,' Gaspar boy, if you don't mind going there again. I've heard you talk--" "I don't want to talk even now, Kit. But I had to have some spot we both knew, where we could meet, and we chose that. I expect she'll be there waiting, and as soon as the horses get cooled a little, and we do, we'll go on." "I'm hungry. I wish we had brought something to eat." "I did. It's here in my blouse. I noticed at the dinner that you did more serving than eating. There's water yonder, too; in that clump of bushes must be a spring," and the prairie-wise lad was right. The supper he produced was an indiscriminate mixture of meats and sweets and, had Kitty not been so really in need of food she would have disdained what she promptly pronounced "a mess." But she ate it and felt rested by it; so that she began to remember things she had scarcely noticed earlier in the day. "Gaspar, Wahneenah must have known about this--this money being offered for her and other Indians. She had taken everything out of her wigwam. I thought she was terribly grave this morning, and she kept looking at me all the time. Do you think she knew she was going to run away as she was?" "Course. She's known it some days." "And didn't tell me!" "She couldn't, because she loves you so. She wouldn't do a thing to put you in danger. So I thought the matter over, and I tell you I've just taken the business right out their hands. I was tired, any way. I'm glad we came. I'm almost a man, Kit; and I won't be scolded by any woman as Mercy has scolded me. And when I found Abel was getting stingy, too, and claiming our horses for their keep, when they've really just kept themselves out on the prairie, or anywhere it happened, I--" "Boy, you talk too fast. I--I don't feel as if I was glad. Except when I remember Other Mother. They were horrid, horrid about her. I hate them for that, though I love them for other things. I wonder what Mother Mercy will say when we don't come home!" "She'll have a chance to say a lot of things before we do, I guess. Well, we'll be going. I wouldn't like to miss Wahneenah, and I don't know but they close the Fort gates at night." "Did she ride Chestnut?" "Course. What a lot of questions you ask!" The Sun Maid looked into the boy's face. It was too troubled for her comfort, and she exclaimed: "Gaspar Keith! There's more to be told than you've told me. What is it you are keeping back?" "I--I wonder if you can understand, if I do tell you?" "I think I can understand a good many things. One is: you are making me feel very unhappy." "Well, then, I'm going to take Wahneenah to the Fort, and give her up myself!" They had remounted their horses, and were pacing leisurely along toward the rendezvous, keeping a sharp lookout for the Indian woman; but at this startling statement the Sun Maid reined up short, and demanded: "What--do--you--mean?" "Just exactly what I say. I'm going to give her up and get the money." Kitty could not speak; and with a perplexity that was not at all comfortable to himself, the lad returned her astonished gaze. "Then--you--are--just--as--mean--as--Mercy--Smith!" "I am not mean at all! Don't you say it. Don't you understand? I do--or I thought I did. It's this way. She can't be given up but once, can she? Well, I'll do it, instead of an enemy." "You--wicked--boy! I can't believe it! I won't! You shall not do it; never!" "Oh, don't be silly! Of course, I'll not keep the money. I'll give it right back to her. Then she can do what she likes with it--make a nice new wigwam near the Fort, and she can get lots of skins, or even canvas, there. Come, let's ride on." But there was a silence between them for some time, and the scheme that had seemed so brilliant, when it had originated in Gaspar's mind, began to lose something of its glitter under the clear questioning gaze of the Sun Maid. It was fast falling twilight when they came to the sandhills; and though, by all reckoning, Wahneenah should have been long awaiting them there was no sign of the familiar Chestnut or its beloved rider. "Gaspar, will Wahneenah understand it? Will she believe it is right for you to do what is wrong for another to do? Will the soldier men pay you--just a boy, so--the money, real money, for her, anyway?" Gaspar lost his patience, with which he was not greatly blessed. "Kit, I wish you wouldn't keep thinking of things. I didn't tell Other Mother, of course. She might--she might not have been pleased. I acted for the best. That's the way men always have to do." The argument was not as convincing to the Sun Maid as she herself would have liked; but she trusted Gaspar, and tried to put the money question aside, while she strained her eyes to search the darkening landscape for the missing one. But there was no trace of her anywhere; even though Gaspar dismounted and scanned the sward for fresh tracks, as his Indian friends had taught him; and when, at length, he felt compelled to hasten to the Fort and seek its shelter for the Sun Maid, his young heart was heavy with foreboding. However, he put the cheerful side of the subject before the little girl, observing: "It's the very easiest thing in the world for people to make mistakes in meeting this way. What seems a certain point to one person may look very different to another. I've noticed that." "Oh! you have!" commented Kitty. "I think you've noticed almost too much, Gaspar. I--I think it's awful lonely out here, and I don't believe Abel would have let anybody hurt Wahneenah, even if Mercy would. And--I want her, I want her!" "Sun Maid! Are you afraid?" "No, I am not. Not for myself. But if some of those dreadful white people whom Wahneenah thought were her friends should overtake her on their way home, and--and--take her prisoner! I can't have it,--I must go back, and search again and again." "Sing, Kit! If she's anywhere within hearing, she'll come at the sound of your voice. Sing your loudest!" Obediently, the Sun Maid lifted her clear voice and sang, at the beginning with vigor and hope in the notes, but at the end with a sorrowful trembling and pathos that made Gaspar's heart ache. So, to still his own misgivings, he commanded her, also, to be silent. "It's no use, girlie. She's out of hearing somewhere. Maybe she has gone to the Fort already. Any way, it's getting very dark, and the clouds are awful heavy. I believe there's a thunder-shower coming, and if it does, it will be a bad one. They always are worse, Mercy says, when they come this time of year. We would better hurry on to shelter ourselves. If she isn't there, we can look for her in the morning." "I like a thunder-storm. I believe it would be fine to go under that clump of trees yonder and watch it. I have to go to bed so early, always, that I think it is just grand to be up late and out-of-doors, too." "You are not afraid of anything, Kitty Briscoe! I never saw a girl like you!" cried the lad, reproachfully. "But you don't know other girls, boy. Maybe they are not afraid, either. I can't help it if I'm not, can I?" Gaspar laughed. "I guess I'm cross, child, that's all. Of course I wouldn't want you to be a scared thing. But, let's hurry. The later we get there the more trouble we may have to get in." "Why--will there be trouble? If there is, let's go home." "We can't go home. We've run away, you know. Besides, there would be the same anxiety about Wahneenah. All 's left for us is to go on." So the Sun Maid settled herself firmly in her saddle and followed Tempest's rather reckless pace forward into the darkness. Memory made the dim road familiar to Gaspar, and soon the garrison lights came into sight. But martial law is strict and the gates had been closed for the night, as the lad had feared. The sentinel on duty did not respond to his first summons with the promptness which the boy desired, so, springing to his feet upon the gelding's back, he shouted, over the stockade: "Entrance for two citizens of the United States! In the name of its President!" "Ugh. There is no need for such a noise, pale-face." These words fell so suddenly upon Gaspar's ears that he nearly tumbled backward from his perch. He was further amazed to see the Sun Maid leap from her horse, straight through the gloom into the arms of a tall Indian who seemed to have risen out of the ground beside them. In fact, he had merely stepped from a canoe at the foot of the path and his moccasined feet had made no sound upon the sward as he approached. He received the girl's eager spring with grave dignity, and immediately replaced her upon the Snowbird's back. [Illustration: GASPAR AND KITTY REACH THE FORT. _Page 188._] "Why, Black Partridge! Don't you know me? Aren't you glad to see me? Four years since we said good-by, that day at poor Muck-otey-pokee." "I remember all things. Why is the Sun Maid here, at this hour?" Gaspar had recovered himself and now broke into a torrent of explanation, which the chief quietly interrupted as soon as he had gathered the facts of the case. "But don't you think, dear Feather-man, that our Wahneenah will soon come?" demanded Kitty, anxiously. "The gates are open. Let us enter," he answered evasively; and the novelty of her surroundings so promptly engrossed the girl's mind that she forgot to question him further then. Somewhere on the dimly lighted campus a bugle was sounding; and it awakened sleeping memories of her earliest childhood. So did the regular "step-step" of soldiers relieving guard. A new and delightful sense of safety and familiarity thrilled her heart, and she exclaimed, joyfully: "Oh, Gaspar! it is home! it is home! More than the cabin, more than Other Mother's tepee, this is home!" "I hope it will prove so." "Do you suppose I will find any of the dear white 'mothers' who were so good to me? Or Bugler Jim, who used to play me to sleep under the trees in the corner? I wish it wasn't so dark. I wish----" "It's all new, Kit. They are all strangers. The rest, you know--well, none of them are here. But these will be kind, no doubt. Yet to me, even in this dark, it seems--it seems horrible! It all comes back: that morning when I first rode Tempest. The massacre----" The tone of his voice startled her, and she begged at once: "Let us go right away again. I am not afraid of the storm, nor the darkness, and nothing can harm us if we pray to be taken care of. The Great Spirit always hears. Let us go." "It is too late. It's beginning to rain and that man is ordering us to dismount, that he may put the horses in the stables. Jump down." There were always some refugees at the Fort. Just then there were more than ordinary; or, if all were not such, there were many passing travellers, journeying in emigrant trains toward the unsettled west, to make their new homes there, and these used "Uncle Sam's tavern" as an inn of rest and refreshment. Amid so many, therefore, small attention was paid to the arrival of these two young people. They were furnished with a plain supper, in the main living room of the building which seemed a big and dreary place, and immediately afterward were dismissed to bed. Kitty was assigned a cot among the women guests and Gaspar slept in the men's quarters. But neither had very comfortable thoughts, and the talk of her dormitory neighbors kept the Sun Maid long awake. Here, as in Mercy's cabin, the dominant subject was the reward offered for the capture of the Indians, and a fresh fear set her trembling as one indignant matron exclaimed: "There's one of those pesky red-skins in this very Fort this night. He came with that girl yonder, but I hope he won't be let to get away as easy. The country is overrun with the Indians, and is no place for decent white folks. They outnumber us ten to one. That's why I've got my husband to sell out. We're on our way back East, to civilization." "Well, if one's come here to-night, I reckon he'll be taken care of! Massacres are more plenty than money, and some man or other'll make out to claim the prize. What sort of Indian was he?" "Oh, like them all. All paint and feather and wickedness. I wish somebody'd take and hang him to the sally-port, just for an example." This was too much for loyal Kitty Briscoe. She could no more help springing up in defence of her friends than she could help breathing. "You women must not talk like that! There are good Indians, and they are the best people in the world. They won't hurt anybody who lets them alone. That Indian you're talking against is the Black Partridge. He is splendid. He is my very oldest friend, except Gaspar. He wouldn't hurt a fly, and he'd help everybody needed help. It's this horrible offer of money for every Indian caught that has set my precious Other Mother wandering over the country this dark night, and made Gaspar and me homeless runaways." There was instant hubbub in the room, and no more desire for sleep on anybody's part until Kitty had been made to tell her story, the story of her life as she remembered it, over and over again; and when finally slumber overtook her, even in the midst of her narrative, her dreams were filled with visions of Wahneenah fleeing and forever pursued by uniformed soldiers with glistening bayonets, who fired after her to the merry sound of a bugle and drum. In the morning she found Gaspar and related her night's experience. He received it gravely, without the sympathy she expected. "Kit, I don't understand. What you said was true, and right enough for me to say. But it's not like you to be so bold. Yesterday, you were saucy to the harvest-women and now again to these. Is it because you are growing up so fast, I wonder? All women are not like Other Mother. They might get angry with you, and punish you. If I should go----" "If what, Gaspar Keith?" "Kitty, _I can't stay here_. It would kill me. I must get out into the open. I am going away. Right away. Now. This very hour even. You must be brave, and understand." "Go away? I, too? All right. Only don't look so sober. I don't care. I promised to go anywhere you wished and I will. I'm ready." "But--but--It's only I, my Kit. Not you." "You would go away, and--leave me here? Just because you don't like it?" All the color went out of her fair, round face, and she caught his head between her hands, and turned it so that she could look into his dark eyes, which could not bear to look into her own startled and reproachful ones. CHAPTER XV. PARTINGS AND MEETINGS. Gaspar's courage returned, and he led her to a sheltered place under the stockade, where he made her sit beside him for the brief time that was his. "Not all because I do not like it; but because I am almost a man and I have found the chance of my life. There is one here, a _voyageur_, with his boat. The finest vessel I ever saw, though they've not been so many. He is going north into the great woods; will sail this morning. He is a great trader and hunter and he has asked me to apprentice myself to him. He promises he will make my fortune. He has taken as great a liking to me, I reckon, as I have to him. We shall get on famously together. In that broad, free life I shall grow a full man, and soon. I can earn money, and make a home for you and Wahneenah, and many another lonely, helpless soul. Yes, I must go. I can't let the chance pass. And you must be brave, and the Sun Maid still, and forever. I shall want to think of you as always bright and full of laughter. Like yourself. But you are not like yourself now, Girl-Child. Why don't you speak? Why don't you say something?" "I guess there isn't any 'say' left in me, Gaspar," answered the girl, in a tone so hopelessly sad that it almost made the lad waver in his determination. Only that wavering had no portion in the character of the ambitious youth, and he looked far forward toward a great good beyond the present pain. When the day was well advanced, the schooner sailed away, from the dock at the foot of the path from fort to lake, with Gaspar upon her deck, trying to look more brave and manly than he really felt. But a forlorn little maid watched with eyes that shed no tears, and a pitiful attempt at a smile upon her quivering lips till the vessel became a mere speck, then disappeared. After a long while, she was aroused by something again moving over the water. "He's coming back! My Gaspar's coming back!" she cried, and tossed back the hair which the wind blew about her face that she might see the clearer. A moment later her disappointment found words: "It's nothing but a common Indian canoe!" However, she remembered her foster-brother had set her a task to do. She must begin it right away. She was to be as helpful to everybody she ever should meet as it was possible. Here might be one coming who hadn't heard about that dreadful fifty-dollar prize money. She must call out and warn him. So she did, and never had human voice sounded pleasanter to any wayfarer. But her own intentness discovered something familiar in the appearance of the young brave, paddling so cautiously toward her and keeping so well to the shore. She began to question herself where she had seen him, and in a flash she remembered. Then, indeed, did she shout, and joyfully: "Osceolo! Osceolo! Don't you know me? Kitty? The Sun Maid? The daughter of your own tribe? Osceolo!" "By the moccasins of my grandfather! You here? How? When? No matter. The brother of the Sun Maid rejoices. Never a friend so convenient. Run around to the edge of the wharf. There must be talk between us, and at once." He pushed his little boat close under the shadow of the pier that had long since been deserted of those who had come down to watch, as Kitty had done, the sailing of the northern-bound schooner. There was none to hear them, yet Osceolo chose to muffle his tones and to make himself mysterious. In truth, he was fleeing from justice, having been mixed up in a raid upon a settler's homestead a few miles back; in which, fortunately, there had been no bloodshed, though a deal of thieving and other dirty work which would make it uncomfortable for the young warrior should he be caught just then. The story he was prepared to tell was true as far as it went; and the Sun Maid was too innocent to suspect guile in others. She thought he was referring to the prize money when he spoke of quite other matters; and after the briefest inquiry and answer as to what had befallen either since their parting at doomed Muck-otey-pokee, he concluded: "Now, Sister-Of-My-Heart, Blood-Daughter-Of-My-Chief, you must help me. You must give me, or lend me, a horse; and you must bring me food. Then I will ride to fetch you back Wahneenah." "Oh! You know where she is? Can you do it and not be taken?" "Is not the Brother of the Sun Maid now become a mighty warrior?" "You--you don't look so very mighty," returned the girl, truthfully. Osceolo frowned. "That is as one sees. Fetch me the horse and the meat, if you would have your Other Mother restored." "I will. I will!" she cried, and ran back to the Fort. She went first to the kitchen, and begged a meal "for a stranger that's just come," and the food was given her without question. Strangers were always coming to be fed; herself, also, no longer ago than the last evening. From the kitchen to the stables, where a bright thought came to her. She would lead the Tempest to Osceolo, and herself ride the Snowbird. Together they would go to find Wahneenah. "The black gelding?" asked the soldier of whom she sought assistance. "The hostler can maybe tell you. But I think the Black Partridge rode away on him before daybreak." "The Black Partridge! Oh! I had forgotten him in my trouble about Gaspar. Did any harm come to him, sir?" "No. What harm should? If every red-skin in Illinois was like him there'd be little need of us fellows out here in this mud-hole. But you look disappointed. If you want to take a ride, there's the white mare you came on. But you'd better not go far away. It isn't safe for a child like you." "I'm not afraid, but--Well, if Tempest's gone, I can't. That's all." So the Snowbird was brought out, and she led the pretty creature away behind the shelter of the few trees which hid the spot where Osceolo had bade her meet him. "I tried to get Tempest for you, but the Chief has ridden him away. I meant to go with you. But you'll have to go alone. Tell my darling Other Mother that I am here, and waiting. Tell her about Gaspar, and that he said he had found out she would be quite safe here. Why, so, I suppose, would you. I didn't think." "No, I shouldn't," returned the young Indian hastily. Then, noting her surprise, explained: "I'm a warrior, you see. That makes a difference." "It will be all right, though, I think. And if you cannot come back with Wahneenah, do hurry and send her by herself. Will you?" "Oh, I'll hurry!" answered the youth, evasively, and leaped to the Snowbird's back. The food he had stuffed within his shirt till a more convenient season, and with a cry that even to Kitty's trusting ears sounded in some way derisive, he was off out of sight along the lakeside. As the Snowbird disappeared, Kitty felt that the last link between herself and her friends had been severed, and for a moment the tears had sway. Then, ashamed of her own weakness and remembering her promise to Gaspar that she would be "just the sunniest kind of a girl, and true to her name," she brushed them away and entered the busy Fort, to proffer her services to the women in charge. These had already learned her story and had reprimanded her for running away from her protectors, the Smiths; but it was nobody's business to return her and, meanwhile, she was safe at the Fort until they should choose to call for her. "Well, there is always plenty of work in the world for the hands that will do it," said an officer's wife, with a kindly smile. "You seem too small to be of much practical use; but, however, if you want a task, there are some little fellows yonder who need amusing and comforting. Their mother has died of a fever, and their father is more of a student and preacher than a nurse. I guess his wife was the ruling spirit in the household, and now that she has left him, he is sadly unsettled. He doesn't know whether to go on and take up the claim he expected or not. He and you, and the oddly-named little sons, may all yet have to become wards of the Government." "I'm very sorry for him." "You well may be. Yet he's a gentle, blessed old man. No more fit to marry and bring that flock of youngsters out here into the wilderness than I am to command an army. She was much younger than he, and felt the necessity of doing something toward providing for their children and educating them. But the more I talk, the more I puzzle you. Run along and lend them a hand. The very smallest Littlejohn of the lot has filled his mouth with dirt, and is trying to squall it out. See if a drink of water won't mend matters." Kitty hastened to the child, and begged; "My dear, don't cry like that. You are disturbing the people." "Don't care. I ain't my dear; I'm Four." "You're what?" "Just Four. Four Littlejohns. What pretty hair you've got. May I pull it?" "I'd rather not. Unless it will make you forget the dirt you ate." But the permission given, the child became indifferent to it. He pointed to three other lads crouching against the door-step, and explained: "They're One, Two, and Three. My father, he says it saves trouble. Some folks laugh at us. They say it's funny to be named that way. I was eating the dirt because I was--I was mad." "Indeed! At whom?" "At everybody. I'm just mis'able. I don't care to live no longer." The round, dimpled face was so exceedingly wholesome and happy, despite its transient dolefulness, that Kitty laughed and her merriment brought an answering smile to the four dusty countenances before her. "Wull--wull--I is. My father, he's mis'able, too. So, course, we have to be. He's a minister man. He can't tell stories. He just tells true ones out the Bible. Can you tell Bible stories?" "No. I--I'm afraid I don't know much about that book. Mercy had one, but she kept it in the drawer. She took it out on Sundays, though. She didn't let Gaspar nor me touch it. She said we might spoil the cover. That was red. It was a reward of merit when she was a girl. It had clasps, and was very beautiful. It had pictures in it, too, about saints and dead folks; but I never read it. I couldn't read it if I tried, you know, because I've never been taught." This was amazing to the four book-crammed small Littlejohns. One exclaimed, with superior disgust: "Such a great big girl, and can't read your Bible! You must be a heathen, and bow down to wood and stone." "Maybe I am. I don't remember bowing down to anything, except when I say my prayers." "Your prayers! Then you can't be a real heathen. Heathens don't say prayers, not our kind. Hmm. What lovely eyes you've got and how pretty you are! All the women never saw such wonderful hair as yours, nor the men either. I heard them say so. If I had a sister, I'd like her to look just like you. But it's wicked to be vain." "What do you mean, you funny boy?" "I'm not funny. I'm serious. My mother--my mother said--my mother--Oh! I want her! I want her!" Religion, superiority, priggishness, all flew to the winds as his real and fresh grief overcame him; and it was a heart-broken lad that hurled himself against the shoulder of this sympathetic-looking girl who, though so much taller, was not so very much older than he. The Sun Maid's own heart echoed the cry with a keen pain, and she received the orphan's outburst with exceeding tenderness. Now, whatever One, the eldest, did the other young numerals all imitated, so that each was soon weeping copiously. Yet, from very excess of energy, their grief soon exhausted itself and they regarded each other with some curiosity. Then Three began to smile, in a shamefaced sort of way, not knowing how far his recovery of composure would be approved by sterner One. After a habit familiar to him the latter opened his lips to reprove but, fortunately, refrained, as he discovered a tall, stoop-shouldered man crossing the parade-ground. This gentleman seemed oddly out of place amid that company of immigrants and soldiers. Student and bookworm was written all over his fine, intellectual countenance, and his eyes had that absent expression that had made the commandant's wife call him a "dreamer." His bearing impressed the Sun Maid with reverent awe; a feeling apparently not shared by his sons. For Three ran to him and shook him violently, to secure attention, as he eagerly exclaimed: "Oh, father! We've found one of 'em already! A heathen. Or, any way, a heatheny sort of a girl, but not Indian. She doesn't know how to read, and she hasn't any Bible. Come and give her one and teach her quick!" "Eh? What? A heathen? My child, where?" "Right there with my brothers. That yellow-headed girl. She's nice. Are all the heathen as pretty as she is?" "My son, that young person? Surely, you are mistaken. She must be the daughter of some resident at the Fort, or of some traveller like ourselves." "I don't believe she is. She's been taking care of herself all day. I haven't heard anybody tell her 'Don't' once. If she belonged to folk they'd do it wouldn't they?" "Very likely. Parents have to discipline their young. Don't drag me so. I'm walking fast enough." "That's what I say, father. 'Don't' shows I belong to you. But I do wish you'd come. She might get away before you could catch her." "Catch her, Three? I don't understand." "I know it. My mother used to say you never did understand plain every-day things. That's why she had to take care of you the same as us. Oh! I wish we'd never come to this horrid place." The reference to his wife and the child's grief roused the clergyman more completely than even an appeal for the heathen. Laying his thin hand tenderly upon the small rumpled head, he stroked it as he answered: "In my flesh I echo that wish, laddie; but in my spirit I am resigned to whatever the Lord sends. If there is a heathen here, there is His work to do, and in that I can forget my own distress. I will walk faster if you wish." The other small Littlejohns, with Kitty, now joined their father and Three, the girl regarding him with some curiosity, for he was of a stamp quite different from any person she had ever seen. But he won her instant love as, holding out his hands in welcome, he exclaimed: "Why, my daughter! Surely the lads were jesting. You look neither ignorant nor heathen, and in personal gifts the Lord has been most kind to you." "Has He? But I am rather lonely now." "And so am I. Therefore, we will be the better friends. Why, sons, this is just what we need to make our group complete. Maybe, lassie, your parents will spare you to us, now and then." "I have no parents. I am a ward of Government, though I don't understand it. I wish--are you too busy to hear my story, and will you advise me? Gaspar told me some things, but he's not old and wise like you, dear sir." "Old I am, indeed, but far from wise. Though, so well as I know I will most gladly counsel you. Let us go yonder, to that shady place beside the great wall, where there are benches to rest on and quiet to listen in." Now small Four Littlejohns had heard a deal about heathen. They had been the dearest theme of all the stories told him, and he caught his father's hand with a detaining grasp: "She might eat you all up, father!" "Boy, what are you saying?" "She isn't like the picture in my story-book of the heathen that lived in India, and all the people worshipped, that was named a god, One told me when I asked him; but I guess heathens can change like fairies; and, please don't go, father, don't!" "Nonsense, Four. What trash are you talking? It is you who are the heathen now." "I, father? _I!_" In horror of a possible change in his person, the child began to feel of his plump face and pinch his fat body. He even imagined he was stiffening all over. Suddenly, he drew his wide mouth into a grotesque imitation of the engraving as he remembered it, planting his feet firmly and setting up a tragic wail. "I'm not like him. I won't be. I won't, I won't, I won't!" Kitty understood nothing but the evident distress, which she attempted to soothe and merely aggravated. "Get away! Don't you touch me! You go away home and sit on a table with your legs all crooked up--so; and stop playing you're a regular girl. Leave go my father's hand, I say!" Then One came to the rescue. As soon as he could stop laughing, he explained the situation to the others, and though the incident seemed a trivial one to the younger people to the good Doctor it was weighty with reproach for the ignorance he had permitted in his own household. It also had its far-reaching results; for it led him to observe the Sun Maid critically, and, when he had heard her simple story, to ask out of the fulness of his own big heart: "Will you come and share our home with us, my daughter? Surely, you have much good sense and many wonderful gifts. The Lord has thrown us into one another's company, and I believe you can, in large measure, take their mother's place to these sons of mine. Will you come and live in our home, dear Sun Maid?" "Indeed, I will! And love you for letting me!" cried the grateful girl, catching the Doctor's hand and kissing it reverently. But it did not occur to either of these innocents that there was, at that time, no home existing for them. CHAPTER XVI. THE SHUT AND THE OPEN DOOR. "They are all unfitted to take care of themselves, though the girl has the best sense of the lot. The Fort is always overfull. They would be happier by themselves, and it will be a blessing to have such a good man among us. Let us build them a log cabin and instal them in it." Such was the Fort commandant's decision and, as he suggested, it was quickly done. The old maxim of many hands and light work was verified, for in a magically short time the little parsonage was reared and the few belongings of the household moved into it. "That's what it seems to me,"--cried the Sun Maid, as the last stroke was given, and a soldier climbed to the roof-peak to thrust a fresh green branch into the crevice,--"as if yesterday we dreamed we wanted a home, and now it's ours. If only Wahneenah and Gaspar were here, I should be almost too happy to live. Yes, and poor Mercy Smith, who says she never did have a good time in her life; and Abel, and Black Partridge; and----" "Everybody! I guess you're wanting," reproved the elder son of the minister. For, during the time of building, short though it was, the orphan girl had become wholly identified with the Littlejohns' household and felt as full a right to the cabin as if it had been her own especial property. Now, suddenly, as she stood in the doorway there came into her mind the prophecy of old Katasha; and she looked afar, as if she saw visions and heard voices denied to the others. So rapt did her gaze become that little Four stole his pudgy hand into hers and inquired, beneath his breath: "What is it, Kitty? What do you see?" "I see crowds and crowds of people. Of all sorts, all forms, all colors, all races. Crowding, crowding, and yet not crushing. Only coming, more--and more--and more. I see strange buildings. Bigger than any pictures in that book you showed me yesterday. They keep rising and spreading out on every side. I see ships on the lake; curious ones, with tall masts, a hundred times taller than that in which my Gaspar sailed away. They are so laden with people and stuff that I--I--it seems to choke me!" She did not notice that the Doctor had drawn near and was listening intently; and even when his hand touched her shoulder she found it difficult to comprehend what he was saying. "Wake up, lassie! Why, what is this? My practical new daughter growing a star-gazer, like the foolish old man? That won't do for our little housekeeper." "Won't it, sir? I guess I've been dreaming. But I know I shall see all that some day, right here in this spot. This is the lake where the big ships sail, and this the ground where the houses stand." One was at hand with his ever-ready reproof. "That's all nonsense, Kitty Briscoe. A person can't see more than a person can. There are neither houses nor ships, such as you talk about, and you are sillier than any fairy story I ever read." Yet long afterward he was to remember that first hour in the new home, and the rapt face of the girl gazing skyward. Then they all went in to supper, which had been provided by the thoughtful friends at the Fort across the river; but which, the Sun Maid assured the busy women there, must be the only meal supplied that was ready prepared. "For, if I'm to be housekeeper I mean to learn all about that, even before I do the books, which the Doctor will teach me and that I am so eager to study. But I'll be his home-maker first, and I'll give them jonny-cake for breakfast. Mercy said it was cheap and wholesome, and we have to be very careful of the Doctor's little money." How wholesome, rather how most unwholesome, that first jonny-cake proved, Kitty never after liked to recall; but she was not the only young house mistress who has made mistakes; and, fortunately, the master of the house was not critical. And how far the study-craving girl would have carried out her own plan of housewifery before reading is not known; for, having done the best she could, and having, at least, swept and dusted the rooms carefully she took little Four by the hand and set out to ask instruction of her Fort friends against the dinner-getting. Now the fascinating dread and interest of this little fellow was an Indian; and, trudging along through the dirt, he scanned the horizon critically, then suddenly gripped her hand hard and tight. "Kitty! I do believe--there are--some coming! Run! Run!" "Why should I run? The Indians are my best and oldest friends. It might even be----" She paused so long, shading her eyes from the sunlight and gazing fixedly across the landscape with a gathering surprise and delight upon her face, that the child clutched her frock, demanding: "What is it, Kitty? What do you see? What do you see?" "The horses! White, black, and--Chestnut! It's Wahneenah! Wahneenah!" Four watched her disappear behind a clump of bushes that hid the sandhills from his lower sight, then hurried back to the new cabin, crying out: "Father, father! She's run away again! We've lost her!" Before the minister could be made to comprehend his son's excited story, voices without drew him to the entrance. Even to him the name of Indian had, in those days, a sinister significance. Yet, as he reached the threshold, there were the Sun Maid's arms about his neck and her ecstatic declaration: "It's my darling Other Mother! She's come! She'll live with us! And the Black Partridge; and Osceolo, and Tempest, and Snowbird, and the Chestnut! Oh, all together again; how happy we shall be!" "Eh? What? Yes, yes, of course," assented the Doctor, though he cast a rather perplexed glance about his limited apartments. "Well, if it's to be part of my work, I am ready," he added resignedly, and not without thought of the quiet study which would be out of the question in a tenement so crowded. The chief and the clergyman had met before, during the former's last visit to the Fort, and they greeted each other suavely, as would two white gentlemen of culture and unquestioned standing. Then, while the Sun Maid drew Wahneenah aside and exhibited the cabin, the two men talked together and rapidly became friends. "The Lord never shuts one door but He opens another. I came here to instruct, hoping to pass far onward into the wilderness. Behold! the heathen are at my very threshold. He took away my wife and sent me a daughter. Now, at her heels, follows a woman of the race I came to help, who looks more noble than most of her white sisters. As the Sun Maid said, shall we not do? Only--where to house them?" "That is soon settled. Neither the chief's daughter nor the youth, Osceolo, could sleep beneath the tight roof of the pale-face. Their wigwams shall be pitched behind this cabin, and there will they abide. So will I arrange with the people at the Fort, who are my friends. Yet, let the great medicine-man keep a sharp eye to the young brave, Osceolo. He is my kinsman. There is good in the youth, and there is, also, evil--much evil. He lies upon the ground to dream wild schemes, then rises up to practise them. He is like the pale-faces--by birth a liar. He is not to be trusted. Only by fear does he become as clay in the hands of the potter. If my brother, the great medicine-man, will accept this charge I ask of him there shall be always venison in plenty, and bear's meat, and the flesh of cattle, at his door. He shall have corn from the fields of the scattered Pottawatomies, and the fuel for his hearth-fire shall never waste. How says my brother, the wise medicine-man?" "What can I say but that the Black Partridge is as generous as he is brave, and that his readiness to support a minister of the gospel amazes me? In that more settled East, from which I came, the rich men gave grudgingly to their pastor of such things as themselves did not need, and I was always in poverty. Therefore, for the sake of my sons, I came hither. Truly, in this wilderness, I have received evil at the hand of the Lord; but I have, also, received much good. If He wills, from this humble tenement shall go forth a blessing that cannot be measured. Leave the woman and the undisciplined youth with me. I will deal with them as I am given wisdom." This was the beginning of a new, rich life for the Sun Maid. It opened to Wahneenah, also, a period of unbroken happiness. The minister, over whose household affairs she promptly assumed a wise control, honored her with his confidence and abided by her clear-sighted counsel. She was constantly associated with her beloved Girl-Child, and could watch the rapid development of her intellect and all-loving heart. Indeed, Love was the keynote to Kitty Briscoe's character; and out of love for everybody about her, and especially in hope to be of use to her Indian friends, sprang the greatest incentive to study. "The more I know, the better I can help them to understand," she said to Wahneenah, who agreed and approved. The years sped quietly and rapidly by, as busy years always do. Some changes came to the little settlement of Chicago, but they were only few; until, one sunny day in spring, there reached the ears of the Sun Maid a sudden cry that seemed to turn all the months backward, as a scroll is rolled. Bending above her table, strewn with the Doctor's notes which she was copying, in the pleasant room of a big frame house that was one of the few new things of the town, she heard the call; dimly at first, as an out-of-door incident which did not concern herself. When it was repeated, she started visibly, and cried out: "I know that voice! That's Mercy Smith! There was never another just like it!" She sprang up and ran to answer, shouting in return: "Halloo! What is it?" "Help!" A few rods' run beyond the clump of trees that bordered the garden revealed the difficulty. A heavy wagon, loaded with bags of grain, was mired in the mud of the prairie road. A woman stood upright in the vehicle, lashing and scolding the oxen, which tried, but failed, to extricate the wheels from the clay that held them fast. "I'm coming! I'm Kitty! And, Mercy--is it really you?" "Well, if I ain't beat! You're Kitty, sure enough! But what a size!" "Yes. I'm a woman now, almost. How glad I am to see you! How's Abel? Where is he?" "Must be glad, if you'd let so many years go by without once comin' to visit me." "I didn't know that you'd be pleased to have me. I didn't treat you well, to leave you as I did. But where's Abel?" "Home. Trying to sell out. My land! How pretty you've growed! Only that white dress and hair a-streamin'; be you dressed for a party, child?" "Oh, no, indeed! I'll run and get something to help you out with, if you'll be patient." "Have to be, I reckon, since I'm stuck tight. No hurry. The oxen'll rest. I've heard about you, out home--how 't you'd found a rich minister to take you in an' eddicate you, an' your keepin' half-Indian still. Might have taught you to brush your hair, I 'low; an' from appearances you'd have done better to have stayed with me. You hain't growed up very sensible, have you?" The Sun Maid laughed, just as merrily and infectiously as when she had first crept for shelter into Mercy Smith's cabin. "Maybe not. I'm not the judge. I'll test my wisdom, though, by trying to help you out of that mud. I'll be back in a moment." She turned to run toward the house, but Mercy remonstrated: "You can't help in them fine clothes. Ain't there no men around?" "A few. Most of them are out of the village on a big hunting frolic. We'll manage without." "Humph! They'd better be huntin' Indians." The girl looked up anxiously. "Is there any trouble?" "Always trouble where the red-skins are." Kitty departed, and the settler's wife watched her with feelings of mingled admiration, anger, and astonishment. "She's grown, powerful. Tall an' straight as an Indian, an' fair as a snowflake. Such hair! I don't wonder she wears it that way, though I wouldn't humor her by lettin' on. I've heard she did it to please her 'tribe' an' the old minister. Well, there's always plenty of fools. They're a crop 'at never fails." The Sun Maid reappeared. She had not stopped to change her white gown, but she brought a pair of snow-shoes, and carried three or four short planks across her strong, firm shoulder. "My sake! Ain't you tough! I couldn't lift one them planks, rugged as I call myself, let alone four. But--snow-shoes in the springtime?" "Yes. I've learned a way for myself of helping the many who get mired out here. See how quickly I can set you free." Putting on the shoes, the girl walked straight over the mud, and throwing down the planks before the animals, encouraged them to help themselves. "What are their names? Jim and Pete? Come on, my poor beasts; and, once clear, you shall have a fine rest and feed." "Shucks! There! Go on! Giddap! Gee! Haw!" There followed a time of suspense, but at last the oxen gained a little advance, when Kitty promptly moved the planks forward, and in due time the wagon rolled out upon a firmer spot. "Well, Kitty girl, you may not have sense, but you've got what's better--that's gumption. And that's Chicago, is it?" "Yes. I hope you like it." "I've got to, whether or no. I'm in awful trouble, Kitty Briscoe, an' it's all your fault." "What can you mean?" "Abel--Abel----" "Yes--yes! What is it?" "Ever sence you run away he's been pinin' to run after you. Said the house wasn't home no more. 'Twasn't; though I wouldn't let on to him. We've kept gettin' comfortabler off, an' I jawed him from mornin' to night to make him contented. But he wouldn't listen. Got so he wouldn't work home if he could help it, but lounged round the neighbors'. Got hankerin' to go somewheres, an' keep tavern, like his father afore him. Now, we've got burnt out----" "Burned out! Oh, Mercy, that _is_ trouble, indeed! Tell me--No, wait. Let us go and get something to eat first; and what were you intending to do with that load of stuff?" "Ship it East, if I can. I've heard there was consid'able that business bein' done. Or sell it to the Fort folks." "I think they'll be glad of it; they are always needing everything. I'll go with you there, and your team can be left there, too, till Abel comes." "Abel! You don't think I'd leave him to manage _business_, do you?" "I thought you said he was now staying behind to sell out--to 'manage.'" "He's stayin' to try. There's a big difference 'twixt tryin' an' doin'. He can't sell, not easy. And some day, when this whim of his is over, we'll go back an' settle again, or move farther on. It's gettin' ruther crowded where we be for comfort, these days." "Crowded? Are there many new neighbors?" "Lots. Some of 'em ain't more 'n a mile away, an' I call that too close for convenience. Don't like to have folks pokin' their noses into my very door-yard, so to speak." "How will you endure it here, where, according to your ideas, the houses are so very close?" "I don't expect to like it. But, pshaw! They be thick, ain't they? I declare it makes me think of out East, an' our village; only that wasn't built on the bottomless pit, like this." "This is the Fort. After you've finished your business with the officer in charge, we'll go home and get our dinner." The stranger observed with surprise and some pride the great respect with which this girl, who had once been under her own care, was treated by all she met. The few soldiers on duty that morning saluted her with a smile and military precision, while the women hailed her coming with exclamations of: "Oh, Kitty! You here? I'm so glad; for I wanted to ask you about my work"; or: "Say, Kit! There are a lot of new newspapers, only a week old, that I've hidden for you to read first before the others get hold of them." One called after her, as they started homeward: "How are the sick ones to-day?" "What did she mean?" demanded Mercy. "Oh, that house on the edge of the village is a sort of hospital and school combined. I am there most of the time, though my real home is with the Littlejohns, just as it has always been; though the Doctor is not rich, as you fancied, in anything save wisdom and goodness." "You're a great scholar now, Kitty, I s'pose--could even do figurin' an' writin' letters." "I can do that much without being a 'scholar.' I've learned all sorts of things that came my way, from civil engineering--enough to survey lots for people--to a little Greek. The surveying was taught me by a man who was in our sick-room, and in gratitude for the care we gave him. It's very useful here." "Can you sing, or play music?" "I always sang, you know; and I can play the violin to guide the hymns 'in meeting.'" "What's that? A fiddle--to hymns!" "Yes. Why not, since it's the only instrument we have?" "My land! You'll be dancin' at worship next!" "Maybe. There _are_ religious people who dance at their services. But here we are. This is the Doctor's house, and you'll meet Wahneenah." "Wahneeny! You don't tell me that good, pious parson is consortin' with that bad-tempered Indian squaw!" "Wait, Mercy. You must not speak like that of her, nor think so. She is as my very own mother. She is nobility itself. Everybody acknowledges that. I want there should be peace, even if there can't be love, between you two. It's better, isn't it, to understand thing in the beginning?" "Hmm! You can speak your mind out yet, I see. But that's all right. I don't care, child. I don't care. It does my old eyes good just to look at you; an', for once, I'll 'low Abel was right in wantin' to move out here. I'm lookin' for him 'fore night, by the way. But hold on! Who's that out in the back yard, with feathers in his hair, an' a blue check shirt, grinnin' like a hyena, an' a knife stickin' out his pocket? Wait till I get hold of him, my sake!" Mercy's words poured out without breathing-space or stop, and the Sun Maid laughed as she replied: "Why, that's only Osceolo. Do you know him?" "Kitty Briscoe! All the wild horses in Illinois can't make me believe no different but 'twas him set our barn afire!" "When? He's not been away--for some days." "Wait till he catches sight of me!" But when the young Indian did turn around, and saw the pair watching him, he coolly walked toward them, regarding Mercy as if she were an utter stranger, and one whom he was rather pleased to meet. "Friend of yours, Sun Maid? Glad to see her." "Glad to see me, be you? Wait till Abel Smith comes an' identifies you. Then see which side the laugh's on, you--you----" "Osceolo is my name, ma'am." Foreseeing difficulties, the girl guided her guest into the kitchen, where Wahneenah was preparing dinner, and where the Indian woman greeted her old acquaintance with no surprise and, certainly, without any of the effusiveness that, for once, rather marked Mercy's manner toward her former "hired girl." "Well, it's a real likely house, now, ain't it? I'd admire to see the minister. It's years since I saw one. Is he about?" Kitty answered: "Yes. He is studying. I rather hate to disturb him; but at dinner you will meet him." "Studying! Studying what? Why, I thought he was an old man." "He is. So old, I sometimes fear we will not have him with us long." "What's the use learnin' anything more, then?" "One can never know too much, I fancy. Just at present he is writing a dictionary of the Indian dialects, so far as he has been able to obtain them." "The--Indian--language! He wouldn't be so silly, now come!" "He is just so wise. It is a splendid work. I am proud to be his helper, even by just merely copying his papers." "Well! You could knock me down with a feather! One thing--I sha'n't never set under his preachin'. I wouldn't demean myself. The idee!" "Mercy, do you remember the red-covered Bible? Have you it still?" "Course. I wouldn't let anything happen to that. It was a reward of merit. It's wrote in the front: 'To Mercy Balch, for being a Good Girl.' That was me afore I was married. It's in my carpet-bag. I mean to have it buried with me. I wouldn't never spile it by handlin'." "I hope you'll use it now, for it's so easy to get another. The Doctor will give you one at any time. The Bible Society in the East furnishes all he needs." Dinner was promptly ready, and, after it was over, the Sun Maid carried her old friend away with her to the government building, which was not only hospital, but schoolhouse and land-office all in one. Everything here was so new and interesting to Mercy that surprise kept her silent; until, happening to glance through the window, she beheld a rough-looking man approaching on horseback. "Pshaw! there's Abel! Wait an' see him stick where I stuck!" she chuckled. "Well, he sold out sudden, didn't he? He'd better come in the wagon, but he 'lowed he'd enjoy a ride all by himself. I reckon he's had it. See him stare and splash! There he goes! See that old nag flounder!" Kitty sprang up and ran to welcome him, the heartiest of love in her clear tones. "Why, bless my soul! If I thought it could be, I should say it was my own lost little Kit!" As he gazed his rugged face grew beautiful in its wondering joy. "Oh, Abel! That's the way Chicago receives her new citizens! She plants them so deep in the mud that they can't get away! But wait. I'll help you out the same way I did Mercy, and then I'll get my arms about your neck, you dear old Abel!" "Help me out? Not much! Not when there's such a pretty girl a few feet away waitin' to kiss my homely face!" and, with a spring that was marvellous to see, the woodsman leaped from his horse and landed on the higher sod beside his "Kit." "Well, well! To think it! Just to think it once! Well, well, well! How big you are, Kit! My, my, my; and as sweet to look at as a locust tree in bloom, with your white frock, an' all. I've got here at last! I can't scarce believe it. And, lassie, are you as close-mouthed as you used to be when you made a promise? Then--don't tell Mercy; but--_I done it a-purpose_!" "Did what? Let us get the poor horse out of the mud before we talk." "Shucks! He ain't worth pullin' out. If he ain't horse enough to help himself, let him stay there a spell, an' think it over. He'll flounder round----" "You don't know our mud, Abel." "He's all right. He's helpin' himself. He's makin' a genu_ine_ effort. A man--or horse--that does that is sure to win. That's how I put it to myself. After I'd wrastled with the subject up hill an' down dale, till I couldn't see nothin' else in the face of natur', I done it. Out in the East, where I come from, they'd 'a' had me up for it; an' I don't know but they will here. But I had to, Kit, I had to. I was dead sick an' starvin' for a sight of you an' the boy, an' mis'able with blamin' myself that I hadn't treated you different when I had you, so you wouldn't have run away. You was a master hand at that business, wasn't you, girl? I hope you've quit now, though." "I think so. Here I was born, and here I hope to stay. All my runnings have begun and ended here. But what did you do, Father Abel?" "Oh, Sis! that name does me good. Promise you'll never tell,--not till your dyin' day." "I can't promise that; but I'll not tell if I can help it." "Well, you always had a tender conscience. Yet I can trust your love better 'n ary promise. Well--_I--burnt--it!_" "Burned it? Your house? Your home? Yours and Mercy's? Why--Abel!" The pioneer squared his mighty shoulders, and faced her as a defiant child might an offended mother. "Yes, I did. The house, the bed-quilts, the antiquated bedstead, the whole endurin' business. It was the only way. Year after year she'd keep naggin' for me to move on further into the wilderness. _Me_, that was starvin' for folks, an' knew she was! It was just plumb lonesomeness made her what she is: a nagger. So, at last--you've heard about worms turnin', hain't you? I watched, an' when she'd gone trudgin' off on a four-mile tramp, pretendin' somebody's baby was sick, but really meanin' she was that druv to hear the sound of another woman's voice, I took pity on her--an' myself--an' set fire to that hateful old heirloom of a bedstead; an' whilst it was burnin' I just whipped out the old fiddle, an' I played--my! how I played! Every time a post fell into the middle, I just danced. 'So much nearer folks!' I thought. And the rag-carpet an' the nineteen-hunderd-million-patch-bedspread--Kit, I've set there, day after day, an' seen Mercy cuttin' up whole an' decent rags, an' sewin' 'em together again, till I've near gone stark mad. Fact. I used to wonder if it wasn't a sort of craziness possessed her to do that foolishness. Now, it's all over. She lays the fire to an Indian feller that I've spoke fair to, now an' again, an' that had been round our way huntin' not long before. I don't know where he come from, an' I never asked him. He never told. Pretended he couldn't talk Yankee. Don't know as he could, but he could talk chicken or little pig fast enough. Leastways, I missed such after he'd been there. Well, it wasn't him. _It was--me!_ I burnt the bedstead, an' now we're free folks!" "But, Abel, why not have brought the bedstead with you, if she loved it so? Why destroy----" "Sissy, you don't know Mercy--not as I do. It was that furniture kept her. So long as she had it, so long as she could kind of boast it over her neighbors, there she'd set. We couldn't have moved it. She near worried herself into her grave gettin' it into the wilderness, first off, an' she ain't so young now as she was then. She'd ruther lost a leg than had it scratched. I saved that load of feed, an' the ox team, an' the old horse. Yes, an' my fiddle. Mercy's got money. She had it hid. I'm goin' to settle here an' keep tavern, if I can. If not here, then somewheres else. Anywhere where there's folks. Trees are nice; prairies are nice; a clearin' of your own is nice; but human natur' is nicer. Don't tell Mercy, though, or there'll be trouble! Now, Kit, where's Gaspar?" "_Oh, Abel! Only the dear Lord knows!_" CHAPTER XVII. A DAY OF HAPPENINGS. "Abel! Abel Smith! Here I am. Right here, in our little Kitty's own house. How'd you get along? Did the man buy?" "Shucks!" groaned the pioneer, as these words reached him where he stood beside the Sun Maid, eager to hear what she could tell him of the lad Gaspar. "Shucks! I've had a right peaceful sort of day, me and old Dobbin, and I'd most forgot it couldn't last. Say, Kit, you look like a girl could do a'most ary thing she tried to. Just put your shoulder to the wheel, won't you, and shut the power off Mercy's tongue. Tell her 'tain't the fashion for women to talk much or loud, not in big settlements like this. She's death on the fashion, Mercy is. Why, that last gown of hers, cut out a piece of calico a neighbor brought from the East--you'd ought to see it. She got hold a picture-book, land knows when or where, and copied one the pictures. Waist clean up to her neck, it's so short, and sleeves big enough to make me a suit of clothes. Fact! Wait till you see it. She's a sight, I tell you. But so long 's she thinks it's a touch beyond, why she's happy. But don't let her talk so much. 'Tain't proper; not in settlements." The Sun Maid set her head on one side and regarded her old friend critically; then frankly, if laughingly, remarked: "Abel, you dear, you can beat Mercy talking, by a great length. It's funny to hear you blaming her for the very thing you do. But I like it. You can't guess how I like it, and how it brings back my childish days in the forest. Now come in and get something to eat. Then we can have another talk." "I ain't hungry. I had some doughnuts in my saddle-bags, and I munched them along the road. Say, Kit. Don't tell Mercy; but I didn't try to sell. Just put the question once, so to satisfy her when she asked. We hain't no need. She's got a lot of money in a buckskin bag tied round her waist. The land's all right. It's a good investment. I'll let it stand. This country is bound to grow. Some day it will be worth a power, and then I'll sell out, if I'm livin'; and if I ain't, you can. One of the reasons I came was to fix things up for you. I always meant to make you my legatee. We've no kith nor kin nigh enough to worry about, Mercy an' me; an' I 'low she'd be agreeable. So we'll let the land lie. Oh, bosh! There she is, calling again. May as well go in for she won't stop till we do." After all, there was real pleasure in the faces of both husband and wife at their reunion, short though their separation had been, and bitter though their words sounded to a stranger; and, already, there was a personal pride in Mercy's tones as she exhibited the house over which the Sun Maid presided, and explained the details--supplied by her own imagination--of its purposes. "But about Gaspar, Mercy. Has she told you anything about him yet? I'm 'lowing to have him help me keep tavern if he's grown up as capable as he promised when he was a little shaver." "No. She hain't said a word. Fact is, I hain't asked. We've been too busy with other things. Likely he's round somewheres. Maybe off hunting with them lazy soldiers. Shame, I think. The Government keepin' 'em just to loaf away their time." "Hmm! What on earth else could they do with it? I met a man, coming along, said there'd been a right sharp lot of wolves prowlin' this winter an' spring. They're gettin' most too neighborly for comfort for the settlers across the prairies, so the military are trying to clear them out. That's not a bad idee. But don't it beat all! That little sissy, that used to have to stand on a three-legged stool to turn the stirabout, grown like she has? I never saw a finer woman, never; and her hair's the same dazzlin' kind it always was. I 'low I'm proud of her, and no mistake. Hello! What's yonder? An Indian, on horseback, a-stoppin' to this place! What's he after? His face is painted black, too. There's Sunny Maid going out to talk with him, and Wahneeny, too. Must be somethin' up." "There's always somethin' up, where there's an Indian. I hate 'em, an' they know it." "I guess they do, ma. Wahneeny, for instance, and--Shucks! That long, lanky, copper-face out back there, settin' flat on the ground, trying to pitch jack-knives with a lot of other boys, white ones; he's the chap that hung around our place so much--the chicken-stealer. I'm going to speak to him." "And I'm going to get him took up, just as soon as the Captain gets back, for setting our house afire. It wouldn't have happened if I'd been home; but you never could be trusted to look after things." Abel thought it time to change the subject, and retreated, while Mercy's attention became riveted upon the group before the house. The faces of all three were very grave, and Wahneenah, who had come across to nurse a sick child, paid no heed to its fretful calls for her. The Indian horseman tarried but a brief time, then wheeled about and rode westward over the prairie, avoiding the regular road and the mud where the Smiths had suffered such annoyance. Wahneenah returned to her charge, and the Sun Maid disappeared in the direction of the Fort. Before Mercy could decide whether to follow or not, the girl reappeared, and her old friend viewed her with amazement. She had mounted the Snowbird, which looked no older than when Mercy had watched her gallop away across the prairie, and had slung the famous White Bow upon her saddle horn. About her floating hair she had wound a fillet of white beads and feathers, and fastened the White Necklace of Lahnowenah, the Giver, around her fair throat. She sat her horse as only one trained to the saddle from infancy could have done, and her commanding figure seemed perfect in every outline. "To the land's sake! Ain't she splendid! I never saw such a sight. Never. Never. Abel! Abel! A-b-e-l!!" "Yes, yes; what? Mercy, Mercy Smith, hold your tongue! Don't you know folks can't bawl in a settlement as they do in the backwoods? What ails you? I'm coming as fast as a man in reason can. Hey? Kitty? Well, why didn't you say so? Where? Out front? My--land! Well, well, well! It ain't--it can't be--it is! Well, Kitty girl, you beat the Dutch!" The young horsewoman rode up to the front door of her house, and paused to let her old friends admire her to their satisfaction. But their admiration aroused neither surprise nor vanity in her simple, straightforward mind. Years before, the old clergyman had said to her, upon their first meeting, that the Lord had been very good to her in giving her a beauty so remarkable and impressive; and under his wise instruction she had accepted the fact as she did all the others of her life. Only she had striven to keep her soul always worthy of the glorious form in which it was housed and to use all her gifts and graces for good. So she stood a while, letting the honest couple inspect and comment, and finally answering Abel's curiosity, in honest modesty. "Why am I so dressed up? Because I have a mission to perform, and I need to make myself as beautiful as possible." "Kit--ty Bris--coe! I've read in my red Bible that 'favor is deceitful and beauty is vain.' I'm amazed at you. Livin' with a minister, too. Well, _he_ can't preach to _me_. I'd despise to set under him." Abel's eyes twinkled, but the gravity of the Sun Maid's face did not lessen. She explained gently, yet with unshaken decision, that her self-adornment was right, and gave her reasons. "You will remember, dears, that I am a 'Daughter of the Pottawatomies.' They believe that I have supernatural gifts, and that I am a spirit living in a human form." "And you let 'em, Kit, you let 'em?" "I couldn't prevent it if I tried. And I do not try. That idea of theirs is far too powerful a factor for good. Even Wahneenah, who knows better and is to me as a real mother, even she treats me a little more deferentially when I attire myself like this." "Put on your war paint, eh?" "No, indeed: my peace paint," laughed the girl. "The messenger you saw talking with Wahneenah and me is from an encampment a dozen miles or so to the westward. There are about five hundred Indians in the camp, and they are getting restless. They are always restless, it seems to me," and she sighed profoundly. "It is such a problem, isn't it? They think they have right on their side, and the whites think _they_ have; and there is so much that is good, so much that is evil, on both. Well, the red people are planning treachery. The brave you saw is a real friend to the pale-faces, and one of my closest confidants. He came to warn me. His tribe, or the mixed tribes in the camp, are getting ready for an attack upon us, or some other near-by settlement. I must go out and stop it,--find out their grievance and right it if I can. If not--Well, I must make peace. I may be gone for several days, and I may be back before morning. You must make yourselves comfortable somewhere. Ask Doctor Littlejohn. If he is too absorbed in his studies, then talk with One, his eldest son. He is a fine fellow, and knows everything about this village. Good-by." "But, child alive! You ain't going alone, single-handed, to face five hundred bloody Indians! You must be crazy!" "Oh, no, I'm not. It is all right. I am not afraid. There isn't an Indian living who would harm a hair of my head, if he knew me; and almost all in Illinois do know me, either by sight or reputation. I am very happy with them and shall have a pleasant visit; that is, after I have dissuaded them from this proposed attack." "Kit, you couldn't do it. 'Tain't in nature. A young girl, alone, pretty as you are--You _sha'n't_ do it,--not with my consent; not while I'm alive and can set a horse or handle a gun. No, sirree. If you go, I go, and that's the long and short of it." "No, dear Father Abel; you must not go; indeed you must not. It would ruin everything. It makes me very sad to have these constant broils and ill-feelings coming up between my white-faced and red-faced friends; yet the Lord permits it, and I try to be patient. But I tell you again, and you must believe it, that I am as safe out yonder in that camp of savages as I am here, this minute, with you. I am the Sun Maid, the Unafraid, the Daughter of Peace, the Snowflake. They have as many names for me as I am years old, I fancy. Each name means some noble thing they think they see in my character, and so I try to live up to it. It's hard work, though, because I'm--well, I'm so quick-tempered and full of faults. But I suppose if God didn't mean me to do this work, be a sort of peacemaker, He wouldn't have made me just as I am or put me in just this place. That's what the Doctor says, and so I do the best I can. After all, it's a great honor, I think, to be let to serve people in this way, and so--Good-by, good-by!" The Snowbird sprang forward at a word and, by experience trained to shun the sloughs and mud-holes, skimmed lightly across the prairie and out of sight. The Smiths stood and watched its disappearance, and the erect white figure upon its back, till both became a speck in the distance. Then, completely dumfounded by the incident, Abel sat down near the door-step to reflect upon it, while the more energetic Mercy departed for the Fort, declaring: "I'll see what that all means, or I'll never say another word's long as I live! The idee! _Men_--folks calling themselves _men_--and wearing government breeches, as I suppose they do, letting a girl like that go to destruction without a soul to stop her! But, my land! she was a sight to see, and no mistake!" Meanwhile that was happening down at the little wharf which set all tongues a-chatter and fascinated all eyes. "A fleet is coming in! A regular fleet of schooners, from the north and the upper lakes!" Those who had not gone hunting crowded to the shore, and even the women caught their babies up and followed the men, Abel among the others, roused from his anxious brooding over the Sun Maid's daring and catching the excitement. "Shucks! Something must be up down that direction. Beats all. Here I've been only part of a day, and more things have gone on than would at our clearing in a month of Sundays. I--I'm all of a fluster to kind of keep my head level an' my judgment cool. 'Twouldn't never do to let on to ma how stirred up I be. Dear me! Seems as if I wouldn't never get there. I do hope they'll wait till I do." After all, it was the quietest and drowsiest of little hamlets, dropped down in the mud beside a great waterway; and the "fleet," which had roused so much interest, was but a modest one of a half-dozen small schooners, laden with furs and peltries and manned by the smallest of crews. However, to Abel, and to many another, it was a memorable event; and he made a pause at the Fort, which in itself was an object of great interest to him, to inform Mercy of the spectacle she was losing. "Come on, ma! It's a regular show down there. Real sailors and ships--we hain't seen the like since we left the East and the coast of old Massachusetts." "Ships? My heart! I never expected to look upon another. Just to think it!" The foremost vessel came to shore and was made fast; and there upon its deck stood a tall, dark-bearded man, who appeared what he was--the commander of the fleet; and he gave his orders in a clear, ringing voice that was instantly obeyed. His manner was grave, even melancholy; and his interest in the safe landing seemed greater than in any person among the expectant groups. He had tossed his hat aside and waited bareheaded in the sunshine till all was ready, when he stepped quietly ashore. Then, indeed, he cast an inquiring glance around, in the possibility, though not probability, of meeting a familiar face. All at once, his dark eyes brightened and his bearing lost its indifference. Pushing his way rapidly through the crowd, he approached Abel and Mercy and extended his hands in greeting. "Hail, old friends! Well met!" "Hey? What? Ruther think you've got the better of me, stranger," said the pioneer, awkwardly extending his own hardened palm. "Probably the years since we met have made a greater change in me than in you. You both look exactly as you did that last day I saw you at the harvesting." "Hey? Which? When? I can't place you, no how. I ain't acquainted with ary sailor, so far forth as I remember." "But Gaspar, Father Abel? Surely, you and Mercy remember Gaspar Keith, whom you sheltered for so many years, and who treated you so badly at the end?" "Glory! It ain't! My soul, my soul! Why, Gaspar--_Gaspar!_ If it's you, I'm an old man. Why, you was only a stripling, and now----" "Now, I'm a man, too. That's all. We all have to grow up and mature. I feel older than you look. And Mercy, the years have certainly used you well. It is good, indeed, to see your faces here, where I looked for strangers only." "Them's us, lad. Them's us. _We're_ the strangers in these parts. Just struck Chicago this very day. Got stuck in the mud, and had to be fished out like a couple of clams. And who do you think done the fishing? Though, if you hadn't spoke that odd way just now, I'd have thought you would have known first off. Who do you suppose?" "Oh, he'll never guess. A man is always so slow," interrupted Mercy, eagerly. "Well, 'twas nobody but our own little Kit! The Sun Maid, and looking more like a child of the sunshine even than when you run off with her so long ago." "The--Sun--Maid! _Kit-ty, my Kitty?_" Gaspar's face had paled at the mention of the Sun Maid to such a grayness beneath its brown that Mercy reached her hand to stay him from falling; but at his second question her womanly intuition told her something of the truth. "Yes, Gaspar, boy. Your Kitty, and ours. We hadn't seen her till to-day, neither; not since that harvestin'. But the longing got too strong and, when we was burnt out, we came straight for her. Didn't you know she was here yet? Or didn't you know she was still alive?" "No. No, I didn't. That very next winter after I went away--and that was the next day after we came here together--an Indian passed where I was hunting with my master and told me she had died. He was one we had known at Muck-otey-pokee--the White Pelican. He said a scourge of smallpox had swept the Fort and this settlement and that my little maid had passed out of the world forever. But you tell me--_she is alive_? After all these years of sorrow for her, she is still alive? I--it is hard to believe it." Mercy laid her hand upon the strong shoulder that now trembled in excitement. "There, there, son; take it quiet. Yes, she's alive, and the most beautiful woman the good Lord ever made. Never, even in the East, where girls had time to grow good-looking, was there ever anybody like her. I ain't used to it myself, yet. I can't realize it. She's that well growed, and eddicated, and masterful. Why, child, the whole community looks up to her as if she were a sort of queen. I've found that out in just the few hours I've been here, and from just the few I've met. Even Wahneeny--she's here, too; has been most all the time. The Black Partridge, Indian chief, he that was her brother, that took care of you two children when the massacre was, he didn't expect she'd ever come again; but still, it appears, just on the chance of it, he rode off up country somewhere, and he happened to strike her trail, and that Osceolo's--the scamp--that had run off with Kitty's white horse, and fetched 'em all back. The women in the Fort was tellin' me the whole story just now. I hain't got a word out of Wahneeny, yet. She's as close-mouthed as she ever was; but there's more to hear than you could hark to in a day's ride, and--Where you going, Gaspar?" "To find my Kitty." "Well, you needn't. And I don't know as she's any more yours than she is ours, seein' we really had the credit of raisin' her. For she's took her life in her hand, and has gone alone, without ary man to protect her, out across the prairie to face five hunderd Indians on the war-path, and--Hold on! What you up to?" The sailor, or hunter, whichever he might be, had started along the footpath to the Fort, and halted, half angrily, at this interruption. "Well? What? I'll see you by and by. I must find Kitty!" "Right you are, lad. Find her, and fetch her back. And, say! Mercy says your own old Tempest horse is in the stable at the Fort; that it now belongs to the Sun Maid, and she's the only one who ever rides it. The Captain gave it to her because she grieved so about you. I wouldn't wonder if he'd travel nigh as fast as he used--when he run away before. I never saw the beat of you two young ones! As fast as a body catches up to you, off you run!" Even amid the anxiety now renewed in Abel's mind regarding Kitty, the humorous side of the situation appealed to him; but there was no answering smile on Gaspar's face; only an anxiety and yearning beyond the comprehension of either of these honest, simple souls. "Well, go on, then. Run your beatingest, in a bee line, due west. That's the way she took, and that's the trail you'll find her on, if so be you find her at all." Those at the Fort looked, wondered, but did not object, as this dark _voyageur_ strode straight into the stables and to a box stall where Tempest enjoyed a life of pampered indolence. They realized that this was no stranger, but one to whom all things were familiar--even the animal which answered so promptly to the cry: "Tempest, old fellow!" It was a voice he had never forgotten. The black gelding's handsome head tossed in a thrill of delight, and the answering neigh to that love call was good to hear. In a moment Gaspar had found a saddle, slipped it into place, and, scarcely waiting to tighten its girth, had leaped upon the animal's back. "Forward, Tempest! Be true to your name!" Those who saw the rush of the gallant creature through the open gates of the stockade acknowledged that he would be. CHAPTER XVIII. WESTWARD AND EASTWARD OVER THE PRAIRIE. "Fast, Tempest, fast!" The sunshine was in his eyes, and a warmer sunshine in his heart, as Gaspar urged the gelding forward. Fast it was. The faithful creature recognized the burden he carried, and his clean, small feet reeled off the distance like magic, till the village by the lake was left far behind, and only the limitless prairie stretched beyond. Yet still there was no sign of the Snowbird along the horizon, nor any point discernible where an Indian encampment might be. At length the rider paused to consider the matter. "It's strange I don't see her. If she were crossing the level, anywhere, I should, for my eyes are trained to long distances. It must be that Abel gave me the wrong direction. I'll turn north, and try." But, keen-sighted though he was, for once the woodsman blundered. Between him and the lowering sun the prairie dipped and rose again, the two borders of the hidden valley seeming to meet in one unbroken plain. It was in this little depression that the wigwams were pitched, and among them the Sun Maid was already moving and pleading with her friends for patience and peace. Meanwhile, Gaspar continued on his chosen route, at a direct right angle from that he should have followed, till the twilight came down and the whole landscape was swathed in mist. For there had been heavy rains of late, and the vapor rose from the soaked and sun-warmed earth like a great white pall, filling the hunter's nostrils and blinding his sight. "Well, this is hopeless. I might ride over her and not find her in this fog. But I can't stay here. It's choking. Heaven grant my Kitty's safe under shelter somewhere. My own safety is to keep moving. Good boy, Tempest! Take it easy, but don't stop." After that, there was nothing to do but trust the horse's instinct to find a path through the mist and to be grateful that the ground was so level. "It's a long lane that has no turning. It must be that we'll strike something different after a while; if not a settler's house, at least a clump of trees. Any shelter would be better than none, in this creeping moisture. It would be easy to get lost; and what a situation! Oh! if I knew that she was out of it. A messenger to the Indians, eh? My little Kit, my dainty foster-sister!" The gelding's nose was to the ground and, as a dog would have done, he picked his way, cautiously, yet surely, straight north where lay, though Gaspar did not know it, a settler's clearing and comfortable cabin. The rider's thoughts passed from his present surroundings back to the past and forward to the future; and when there sounded, almost at his feet, a cry of distress he did not hear it in his absorption. But Tempest did. At the second wail he stopped short, and it was this that roused Gaspar from his reverie. "Tired, old Tempest, boy? It won't do to rest here. Take a breath, if you like, and get on again. Keeping at it is salvation." "Mamma! I want--my--mamma!" "Whew! What's that? Hello!" The sound was not repeated, and yet Tempest would not advance. "Hello!" shouted Gaspar; and after a moment of strained listening, again he caught the echo of a child's sob. "My God! A baby--here! Lost in this fog!" He was off his horse and down upon his knees, reaching, feeling, creeping--calling gently, and finally touching the cold, drenched garment of the child he could not see. In its terror at this fresh danger the little one shrieked and rolled away; but the man lifted it tenderly, and soothed it with kind words till its shrieks ceased and it clung close to its rescuer. "There, there, poor baby! How came you here? Don't be afraid. I'll take you home. Tempest will find the way. Feel--the good horse knows. It was he that found you; we'll get on his back and ride straight to mamma, for whom you called." Climbing slowly back into his saddle, because of the little one he held so carefully, Gaspar laid its cold hand upon the gelding's neck, but it slid listlessly aside and he realized that he had come not a moment too soon. All night they wandered, the child lying on Gaspar's breast wrapped in his coat, while the mist penetrated his own clothing and seemed to creep into his very thoughts, numbing them to a sort of despair that no effort could cast off. The wail of the child lost in that dreariness had brought back, like a lightning's flash, the earliest memories of his life and revived his never-dying hatred of his parent's slayers. "An Indian's hand was in this work!" he mused. "Doubtless, the mother for whom it grieved has met the fate which befell my own. And Abel said that it was among such as these my Sun Maid had gone!" Then justice called to mind his knowledge of Wahneenah, of the Black Partridge, old Winnemeg, and others, and his mood softened somewhat; but still memory tormented him and the white fog seemed a background for ghastly scenes too awful for words. Above all and through all, one consciousness was keener and fiercer than the others: "My Kitty is among them at this moment! O, God, keep her!" It was the strongest cry of his yearning heart; yet underneath lay an impotent rage at his own powerlessness to help in this preservation. "For what is my manhood or my courage worth to her now? And even the Deity seems veiled by this deadening, suffocating mist!" But Tempest moved steadily on once more, and the little child warmed to life on his breast; and by degrees the man's self-torment ceased. Then he lifted his eyes afresh and struggled to pierce the gloom. What was that? A light! A little yellow spot in the gray whiteness, which the horse was first to see and toward which he now hastened with a firmer speed. "It's a fire. No, a lamp in a house window. There, it's gone. A will-o'-the-wisp by some hidden pool. It shines again. Well, Tempest sees it and believes in it." The man lacked the animal's faith, and even when they had come to within a short distance of the glow, the clouds of vapor swept between it and them and Gaspar checked Tempest's advance. But at last a slight wind rose, and the mist which rolled toward them was tinged with the odor of smoke, so the rider knew that his first surmise had been correct. "It is a fire. A settler's cabin, probably once this lost child's home. The red man's work!" When he reached the very spot there were, indeed, the remnants of a great burning, yet in the circle of the light Gaspar saw a house still standing. He was at its threshold promptly, and entered through its open door upon a scene of desolation. A woman crouched by the hearth that was strewn with ashes, and her moans echoed through the gloom with so much of agony in them that the stranger's worst fears were confirmed. Then he caught her murmured words, and they were all of one tenor: "My baby! my baby! my baby! My one lost little child! The wolves--my little one--my all!" Gaspar strode into the room, lighted only by the fitful glare from the ruins without, and gently spoke: "Don't grieve like that! The child is safe. It is here in my arms." "What? Safe! safe!" The mother was up, and had caught the little one from him before the words had left her lips, and the passion of her rejoicing brought the tears to the man's eyes as her sorrow had not done. After a moment, she was able to speak clearly and to demand his story. Then she gave hers. "I was here alone. My husband had gone hunting, and I went into the barn to seek for eggs. The loft was dark----" "Spare yourself. I can guess. The Indians." "The Indians? No, indeed. Myself. My own carelessness. I carried a candle, and dropped it. The hay caught. I barely escaped from having my clothing burned on me; but I did. Then I forgot everything except my terrible loss and my husband's anger when he returns. I began to fight the fire. I remember my little one crying with fright, but I paid no attention, and when at length I realized that it was too late for me to save our stock I stopped to look for him. Fortunately, the cabin was too far from the barn to catch easily, and there was a wind blowing the other way. That's all that saved the home; yet, when I missed my baby, I wished that it would burn, too, and me with it. Life without him would be a living death. And he would have died, any way. The wolves are awful troublesome this spring. We've lost more than twenty of our hogs and the only pair of sheep we had. So husband joined a party and went out to hunt them. What will he say, what will he say, when he comes back!" In Gaspar's heart there sprang up a great happiness. The ill which had happened here was so much less than he had anticipated that he took courage for himself. After all, the Sun Maid might be safe, as Abel had declared she said she should be. He remembered, at last, that not all men are evil, even red ones; and in the reaction of his own feelings, he exclaimed: "What can he say, but give thanks that no worse befell him!" However, now that her child was safe within her arms, the woman began to suffer in advance the torment she would have to undergo when she faced her indignant husband; and she retorted sharply: "Worse! Well, I suppose so. But I don't see why in the name of common sense I was let to be such a fool in the first place. He won't, neither. It's all very well when you've lost half your property to give thanks for not losing your life, too; but I don't see any cause for losing ary one." This sounded so like Mercy and her philosophy that Gaspar threw back his head and laughed; which angered his new friend first, and then affected her, also, with something of his mirth. "I can't see a thing to laugh at, I, for one," she remarked, trying to be stern. "Oh! but I can. And I'm not a laughing man, in ordinary. But there's one thing I know--I'm powerful hungry. Can't we make another fire, one that we can control, and get a bit of supper? If there's anything in the house to cook, I can cook it while you tend baby. Then we'll talk over your affairs." "There's plenty to cook, but you'll not cook it, sir. I owe you my child's life, and now things are getting straighter in my muddled mind. I lost the barn for Jacob, and I must help replace it. I've been a hard worker always, but I can stretch another point, I guess. Pshaw! I believe it's getting daylight. It'll be breakfast instead of supper, this time." It was daylight, indeed; and in a half-hour the simple meal was smoking on the table, and Gaspar sitting to eat it with the hearty appetite of a man who has lived always out-of-doors. But he could talk as fast as eat, when he was anxious as on that morning; and before he had drained his last cup of the "rye coffee" he had learned from his hostess that the Indian encampment he sought lay well to the southwestward of her cabin, and that by a way she could direct him he could reach it easily in a two-hours' ride. This to Tempest, who had rested and fed, would be nothing, if he was anything the horse he used to be, and Gaspar believed, from the past night's experience, that sometimes even a horse can improve with age. "Well, I'll be off, then. I'm anxious to get there. If all goes well I'll get around this way again before long. Thank you for my entertainment, and here's a trifle for the baby." He tossed a gold piece on the table and was leaving the cabin. But she restrained him. "No, sir, I can't take that, nor let the little one. And as for thanking me, I shall never cease to thank you, and the Lord for you, that you lost your way last night. But let me beg you, sir, to take a second thought. Jacob says the Indians are getting ready for an outbreak. It is like running your neck into a halter to go among them just now. I--I wish you wouldn't. I couldn't bear to have harm come to you after what you've done for me." "Thank you, but I must go. I am not much afraid for myself at any time, for I've known the red-skins always and--trusted them never! But a girl--did you ever hear of the Sun Maid?" "Hear of her? Her? Well, I guess so! Who hasn't, in these parts? Why?" "It was to find her and protect her that I started last night from the Fort." "To _protect_ her? Well, you could have saved your trouble. I wish that I was as safe in this wild country as she is. There is an old saying that her life is charmed; that nothing evil can ever happen to her; and so far it has proved true. As for the Indians, even the wickedest in the whole race would die to save her life. I hope you'll find her, sir, all right; but if there's any protecting to be done, she'll protect you, not you her. Well, good-by, and good luck!" Gaspar bared his head and rode away, on a straight trail this time, and with the exhilaration of the morning tingling through his healthful veins. On every side the great clouds of white mist rose and rolled apart. Blue violets and white windflowers began to peep upward at him from his path, and he remembered Kitty's love for them. Then the sun broke through, and only those who have thus ridden across a dew-drenched prairie, at such an hour in such a season, can picture what that ride was like. The spirit of life and love and that glorious morning thrilled both horse and master as they leaped forward and still forward till, on the top of a grassy rise, a sudden halt was made. For what was this coming out of the west?--this fair white creature on her snowy mount, with the golden sunlight on her yellow hair, her glowing face, her modest maiden breast. Flowers wreathed her all about and a White Bow gleamed at her saddle horn. Behind her, and one on either side, rode dusky warriors, brave in their finest trappings and turning a reverent, attentive ear to the Maid's words. Their horses' footfalls deadened by the sodden grass, slowly they came into fuller view, as a picture grows under the painter's brush. Still the man on the black horse facing them sat still, spellbound. Could this be Kitty, his Kitty; to whom his thoughts had turned as to a half-grown, playful child, and over whom he had domineered with the masterful pride of boyhood? He was a man now, boyhood was past; but he had quite forgotten that girlhood also passes and the child becomes a woman. He had grown rich and strong. After her supposed death he had devoted himself wholly to money-getting with the singleness of purpose that never fails of its object. He had come back to his old home to spend the fortune he had gained, feeling himself a master among men and his strength that of wisdom as well as wealth. Now all his pride and arrogance passed from him before the nobility of this woman approaching. For on her youthful face sat the dignity which is higher than pride and from her beautiful eyes gleamed the beneficent love more far-reaching than wealth. After a moment Gaspar rode slowly forward again, and soon espying, but not recognizing, him, the Sun Maid advanced. Then all at once the black horse and the white galloped to a meet. "Kitty! My Kitty!" [Illustration: "KITTY! MY KITTY!" _Page 258_.] "Gaspar!" Their hands closed in a clasp that banished years of separation, and the black eyes searched the blue, questioning for the one sweet answer that rules all the world. There was a swift self-revelation in both hearts; a consciousness that this was what the God who made them had meant from the beginning. With a grave exaltation too deep and too high for words, the pure man and the pure woman came to their destiny and accepted it. Then their hands fell apart, the black Tempest wheeled into place beside the white Snowbird, and, as on a day long in the past, the pair passed swiftly and lightly eastward toward the lakeside village and their home. "Ugh! The Sun Maid has found her mate!" muttered the foremost warrior grimly, and followed with his company at a soberer pace. CHAPTER XIX. THE CROOKED LOG. "I tell you what, Chicago's a-growing. First _we_ come; then Gaspar; then Kitty and him get married; and I go to keeping tavern in the parson's house; and his son, One, goes up north to take a place in Gaspar's business; and Gaspar sends Two and Three east to study law and medicine; and Four and his pa come to board in our tavern; and Osceolo----" "For the land's sake, Abel Smith, do hold your tongue. Here you've got to be as big a talker as old Deacon Slim, that I used to hear about, who begun the minute he woke up and never stopped till his wife tied his mouth shut at night. Even then----" "Mercy, Mercy! Take care. Set me a good example, if you can; but don't go to denying that this is a growin' village." "I've no call to deny it. Why should I? But, say, Abel, just step round to the store, won't you, an' buy me some of that turkey red calico was brought in on the last team from the East. I'd admire to make Kitty a rising sun quilt for her bedroom. 'Twould be so 'propriate, too." "Fiddlesticks! Not a yard of stuff will I ever buy for you to set an' snip, snip, like you used to in the woods. We've got something else to do now. As for Kit, between the Fort folks and the Indians, she's had so many things give her a'ready, she won't have room to put 'em. The idee! Them two children gettin' married. Seems just like play make believe." "Well, there ain't no make believe. It's the best thing 't ever happened to Chicago. Wonderful how they both 'pear to love the old hole in the mud," answered Mercy. "Yes, ain't it? To hear Gaspar talk, you'd think he'd been to Congress, let alone bein' President. All about the 'possibilities of the location,' the 'fertility of the soil,' the 'big canawl,' and the whole endurin' business; why, I tell you, it badgers my wits to foller him." "Wouldn't try, then, if I was you. Poor old wits 'most wore out, any how, and better save what's left for this tavern business. Between you and your fiddle, thinkin' you've got to amuse your guests, I'm about beat out. All the drudgery comes on _me_, same's it always did." "Drudgery, Mercy? Now, come. Take it easy. Hain't Kitty fetched you a couple of squaws to do your steps and dish washin'? All you have to do is to cook and----" "Oh! go along, Abel, and get me that calico. Don't set there till you take root. I ain't a-complainin', an' I 'low I'm as much looked up to here in Chicago without my bedstead as I was in the woods with it." "Looked up to? I should say so. There ain't a woman in the settlement holds her head as top-lofty as you do. And with good reason, I 'low. I don't praise you often, ma, but when I do, I mean it. If you hadn't been smarter 'n the average, and had more gumption to boot, you'd never been asked in to help them army women cook Kitty's weddin' supper. By the way, where are the youngsters now? I hain't seen 'em to-day." "Off over the prairie on their horses, just as they used to be when they were little tackers. I never saw bridal folks like them; from the very first not hangin' round by themselves, but mixing with everybody, same's usual, and beginning right away to do all the good they can with Gaspar's money. Off now to see some folks burned their own barn up----" "W-H-A-T?" demanded Abel, with paling face. "What ails you? A fool of a woman took a lighted candle into her hay loft and ruined herself. That happened the night Gaspar found Kitty; and they call it part of their weddin' tower to go there and lend the farmer the money to replace it. Gaspar was for giving it outright, though he's a shrewd feller too, but Kit wouldn't. 'They aren't paupers, and it would hurt their pride,' she said. 'Lend it to them on very easy terms, and they'll respect themselves and you.'" "Well, of course he done it." "Sure. When a man gets a wife as wise as Kitty he'd ought to hark to her." "I'll go and get the calico now, Mercy," said Abel, and left rather suddenly. At nightfall the young couple rode homeward once more, facing the moonlight that whitened the great lake and touched the homely hamlet beside it with an idealizing beauty; and looking upon it, the Sun Maid recalled her vision concerning it and repeated it to her husband. "Ever since then, my Gaspar, the dream comes back to me in some form or shape. But it is always here, right here, that the crowds gather and the great roar of life sounds in my ears. In some strange way we are to be part of it; part of it all. In the dream I see the tall spires of churches, thick and shouldering one another like the trees in the forest behind us." "But, my darling, you have never seen a church of any sort. How, then, can you dream of them?" "That I don't know, unless it is from the pictures in the good Doctor's books. I have learned so much from the pictures always. But, oh! I wish I could make you know some of the delight I felt when first I could read!" "I do know it, sweetheart. I, too, craved knowledge and dug it out for myself, up there in the northern forests, from the few books that came my way and the rare visit of a man who could teach. The first dollar I had that was all my own I put aside for you. That was the beginning of our fortune. The second I invested in a spelling-book. The study, dear, was all that helped me bear the pain of your death. But you are not dead! Rather the most alive of any human being whom I ever saw." "That is true, Gaspar. I _am_ alive. I just quiver with the force that drives me on from one task to another, from one point reached to one beyond. And now, with you beside me, there is no limit, it seems, to the help we can be to every single person who will come within our reach. Wasn't the woman glad and grateful; and don't you see, laddie, that it is better as I planned? You say you have been penurious, saving every cent not expended for your books and necessaries: and yet, now that you are happy again, you are ready to rush to the other extreme and throw your money away in thoughtless charity." She looked so young, so childlike, in the glimmering moonlight that the tall woodsman laughed. "To hear my little Kit teaching her elders!" "The elders must listen. It is for our home. You must spend every dollar you have, but you must do it in such a way that somebody will be helped. We don't want money, just money, for itself. To hold it that way would make us ignoble. It's the wealth we spend that will make us rich." "Kit, there's some dark scheme afloat in that fair head of yours. Out with it!" "Just for a beginning of things--this: There was a family came to the Fort to-day. The father is a skilled wood-carver. He is not over strong and his wife is frailer than he. They have a lot of little children and he must earn money. It has cost them more than they expected to get as far as this, even, and they should not go farther. Yet he is a man, a master workman. It would be an insult to offer him money. But give him work and you feed his soul as well as his body." "How, my love? Who that dwells in a log cabin needs fine carvings or would appreciate them if they had them?" "Educate them to want and appreciate them. Open a school for just that branch. I myself will be his pupil. I remember with what delight I used to mould Mercy's butter. Well, I've been moulding something ever since." "Your husband, for instance." "He's a little difficult material; but time will improve him! Then there are the Doctor's botanical treatises and specimens. Open a school. If you have to begin with a few only, still _begin_. Lay the seed. From our little workroom and classroom may grow one of those mighty colleges that have made Englishmen great and are making Americans their equals." "Hello there, child! Hold on a bit. Their equals? And you a soldier's daughter!" "Since I am a soldier's daughter, I can afford to be just, and even generous. It is all nonsense, because we have gained our independence, to say we are better than our fathers were. For they were our fathers, surely; and they had had time in their rich country, with their ages of instruction, to grow learned and great. But we Americans are their children, and, just as is already proving, each generation is wiser than the one which went before. So presently we shall be able to do even better than they----" "Give them another dose of Yankee Doodle?" "If they require it, yes. But come back to just right here in this little town. Besides the schools for white children, can't we have those for the Indians?" "No, dear; not here. Not anywhere, I fear, that will ever result in permanent good. At least, the time is not yet ripe for that part of your dreaming to come true." "But think of Wahneenah. She is teachable and there is none more noble. Yet she is an Indian." "She is one, herself. In all her race I have seen none other like her. There is Black Partridge, too, and Gomo, and old Winnemeg. They are exceptions. But, my love, there are, also, the Black Hawk and the Prophet." He did not add his opinion, which agreed with that of the wisest men he knew, that Illinois would know no real prosperity till the savages, which disturbed its peace, were removed from its borders. For she loved them, hoped for them, believed in them; even though her own common sense forced her to agree with him that the time was not ripe then, if it ever would be, for their civilization. So he held his peace and soon they were at home. "Heigho! There are lights in our cabin. Hear me prophesy: Mother Mercy has come over with a roast for our supper and Mother Wahneenah has quietly set it aside to wait until her own is eaten. Ho there within!" he called merrily. "Who breaches our castle when its lord is absent?" Mercy promptly appeared in the doorway. She was greatly excited and hastily led them to the rear of the house, pointing with both hands to an animal fastened behind it. "There's your fine Indian for you! See that?" "Indeed I do!" laughed Kitty. "An ox, Jim, isn't it? with the Doctor's saddle on his back and his botanizing box, and--What does it mean? I knew he was absent-minded, but not like this." "Absent-minded. Absent shucks! That's Osceolo--_that_ is!" in a tone of fiercest indignation. "He's such a crooked log he can't lie still." "Is that his work? He dared not play his tricks on the dear Doctor!" "Yes, it's his'n. The idee! There was Abel went and gave old Dobbin to the parson, to save his long legs some of their trampin' after weeds and stuff and 'cause he was afraid to ride ary other horse in the settlement. And there was Osceolo, that for a feller's hired out to a regular tavern-keeper like us, to be a hostler and such, he don't earn his salt. All the time prankin' round on some tomfoolery. And Abel's just as bad. A man with only two or three little weeny tufts o' hair left on his head and mighty little sense on the inside, at his time of life, a-fiddlin' and cuttin' up jokes, I declare--I declare, I'm beat, and I wish----" "But what is it?" demanded Kitty, bringing her old friend back to facts. "Why, nothing. Only when the dominie came home and stopped here, as he always does after he's been a-prairieing, to show you his truck and dicker, Osceolo happens along and is took smart! The simpleton! Just set old Dobbin scamperin' off back into the grass again and clapped the saddle and tin box and what not on to the ox's back. Spected he'd see the parson come out and mount and never notice. 'Stead of that, along comes Abel--strange how constant he has to visit to your house!--and sees the whole business. Well, he'd caught some sort of a wild animal, and--say, Kitty Briscoe, I mean Keith!--_that Indian'd drink whiskey, if he got a chance_, just as quick as one raised in the woods, instead of one privileged to set under such a saint as the Doctor all his days. I tell you--Well, what you laughing at, Gaspar Keith? Ain't I tellin' the truth?" "Yes, Mother Mercy, doubtless you are. But it isn't so long back, as Abel says, that you objected to 'setting under' the Doctor yourself." "Suppose it wasn't? I didn't know him then, not as I do now. He's orthodox, I found out, and that's all I wanted. But I know what I'm talkin' about. Osceolo, he's always beggin' for Abel to keep liquor: an' we teetotallers! An' he's teased so much that the other day Abel thought he'd satisfy him. So he got an old bottle, looked as if some tipsy Indian had thrown it away, and filled it with a dose of boneset tea. He made a terrible mystery of the whole matter, pretendin' to be sly of me, and took it out from under his coat and gave it to Ossy out behind in the stable, like it was a wonderful secret. Do you know, that Indian hain't never let on a single word about that business yet? Oh! he's a master hand for bein' close-mouthed. They all be. They just _do_--but don't talk." "Mercy, if _you_ were only a little more talkative, you'd be better company!" teased Gaspar, who was eager for the finish of the story and his supper. "Now--you! Well, laugh away. I don't mind. All is, when Abel saw the trick Ossy had played on the Doctor, he plays one on Ossy. He'd caught a queer sort of animal, as I said, and he was fetchin' it to Kit. Everybody brings her everything, from rattlesnakes up. But when he saw that ox, he just opens the tin box and claps the creature inside and then hunts up Ossy. He says: 'There's something in that box pretty suspicious, boy. You might look an' see what 'tis but don't let on.' He's that curiosity, Osceolo has, that he forgot everything else and stuck his hand in sly. I expect he thought it was something to eat, or likely to drink, and he got bit. Hand's all tore and sore, and now Abel's scared and gone off with him to the surgeon at the Fort, and there'll be trouble. Ossy was muttering something about the 'Black Hawk coming and that he'd had enough of the white folks. He was born an Indian, and an Indian he'd die'; and to the land! I hope he will! He makes more mischief in this settlement than you can shake a stick at!" "'It's hard for a bird to get away from its tail,'" quoted Gaspar, lightly. "Osceolo began life wrong and his reputation clings to him. I'll take the saddle off Jim, and let's go in to supper. None of my Sun Maid's tribe is to be feared, I think, no matter how direly they may threaten." Yet the young husband glanced toward his wife with an anxiety that he would not have liked her to see. During the weeks since his return to the village he had learned much more than he had told her of a movement far beyond the Indian encampments she was accustomed to visit, which would bring serious trouble, if not complete disaster, upon their beloved home. Osceolo was the Sun Maid's devoted follower; yet the prank he had played upon the old Doctor, whom she so reverenced, showed that he was already throwing aside the restraints of his enforced civilization; and the sign was ominous. CHAPTER XX. ENEMIES, SEEN AND UNSEEN. But the time passed on and the rumors died away, or ended in nothing more serious than had always disturbed the dwellers in that lonely land. Now and again a friendly, peace-loving chief would ride up to the door of the Sun Maid's home, and, after a brief consultation she would put on her Indian attire and ride back with him across the prairies. As of old, she went with a heart full of love for her Indian friends, but it was not the undivided love that she had once been able to give them. Over her beautiful features had settled the brooding look which wifehood and motherhood gives; and though she listened as attentively as of old and counselled as wisely, she could not for one moment forget the little children waiting for her by her own hearthside or the brave husband who was so often away on his long journeys to the north; and the keen intelligence of the red men perceived this. "She is ours no longer," said a venerable warrior, after one such visit. "She has taken to herself a pale-face, he who met her on the prairie in the morning light, and her heart has gone from her. It is the way of life. The old passes, the new comes to reign. We are her past. Her Dark-Eye is her present. Her papooses are her future. The parting draws near. She is still the Sun Maid, the White Spirit, the Unafraid. As far as the Great Spirit wills, she will be faithful to us; but now when she rides homeward from a visit to our lodge it is no longer at the easy pace of one whose life is all her own, but wildly, swiftly, following her heart which has leaped before." Each morning, nearly, as the Sun Maid ministered to her little ones or busied herself among the domestic duties of her simple home she would joyfully exclaim to Wahneenah: "I don't believe there was ever a woman in the world so happy as I am!" And the Indian foster-mother would gravely reply: "Ask the Great Spirit that the peace may long continue." Till, on one especial day, the younger woman demanded: "Well, why should it not, my Mother? It is now many weeks since I have been called to settle any little quarrel among our people. Surely they are learning wisdom fast. Do you know something? I intend that some of the squaws who are idle shall make my baby, Gaspar the Second, a little costume of our own tribe. It shall be all complete; as if he were a tiny chief himself, with his leggings and head-dress, and--yes, even a little bow and quiver. I'll have it finished, maybe, before his father comes down from this last trip into the far-away woods. Oh! I shall be glad when my 'brave' can trust all his business of mining and fur-buying and lumbering to somebody else. I miss him so. But won't he be pleased with our little lad in feathers and buckskin?" Wahneenah's dark eyes looked keenly at her daughter's face. "No, beloved; he will not be pleased. In his heart of hearts, the white chief was ever the red man's enemy. Me he loves and a few more. But let the White Papoose" (Wahneenah still called her foster-child by the old love names of her childhood) "let the White Papoose hear and remember: the day is near when the Dark-Eye will choose between his friends and the friends of his wife. It is time to prepare. There is a distress coming which shall make of this Chicago a burying-ground. Our Dark-Eye has bought much land. He is always, always buying. Some day he will sell and the gold in his purse will be too heavy for one man's carrying. But first the darkness, the blood, the death. Let him choose now a house of refuge for you and the little children; choose it where there are trees to shelter and water to refresh. Let him build there a tepee large enough for all your needs,--a wigwam, remember, not a house. Let him stock it well with food and clothing and the guns which protect." "Why, Other Mother! What has come over you? Such a dismal prophecy as that is worse than any which old Katasha ever breathed. Are you ill, Wahneenah, dearest?" "There is no sickness in my flesh; yet in my heart is a misery that bows it to the earth. But I warn you. If you would find favor in the eyes of your brave, clothe not his son in the costume of the red man." Kitty was unaccountably depressed. Hitherto she had been able to laugh aside the sometimes sombre auguries of the chief's sister; but now something in the woman's manner made her believe that she knew more than she disclosed of some impending disaster. However, it was not in her nature, nor did she believe it right, that she should worry over vague suggestions. So she answered once more before quite dismissing the subject: "Well, we were already discussing the comfort of having another home out in the forest, and Abel has suggested that we build it on the land which was his farm and which Gaspar has bought. We both liked that; to have our own children play where we played as children. I want my little ones to learn about the wild things of the woods, and the dear old Doctor is still alive to teach them. You will like it, too, Other Mother. When the days grow hot and long we will ride to the 'Refuge'; and I think the wigwam idea is better, after all, than the house; though I do not know what my husband will decide." "Before the days grow long, the 'Refuge' must be finished, and the earlier the better. It is rightly named, my daughter, and the time is ripe." Ere many hours had passed, and most unexpectedly to his wife, Gaspar returned. In the first happiness of welcoming him she did not observe that his face was stern and troubled; but she did notice, when bedtime came, that he did what had never before been done in their home: he locked or bolted the doors and stoutly barred the heavy wooden shutters. He had also brought Osceolo with him, from Abel's tavern, and had peremptorily bidden the Indian to "Lie there!" pointing to a heap of skins on the floor beside the fire. Toward morning Kitty woke. To her utter amazement, she saw in her living room her Gaspar and Osceolo engaged in what seemed a battle to the death. Then she sprang up and ran toward them, but her husband motioned her back. [Illustration: OSCEOLO AND GASPAR. _Page 276_.] "Leave him to me. I'll fix him so that he'll do no more mischief for the present." "But, Gaspar! What is it?" "Treachery, as usual. Get into your clothes, my girl, and call Wahneenah. Let the children be dressed,--warmly, for the air is cool and we may have to leave suddenly." "_What_ is it?" "An outbreak! The settlers are flocking into the Fort in droves. Black Hawk and his followers have come too close for comfort. This miserable fellow has been tampering with the stores. He couldn't get at the ammunition, but he's done all the evil he could. I caught him hobnobbing with a low Sac; a spy, I think. There. He's bound, and now I'll fasten him in the wood-shed. He knows too much about this town to be left in freedom." Yet, after all, they did not have to flee from home, as Gaspar had feared, though the Sun Maid put on her peace dress and unbound her glorious hair, ready at any moment to ride forth and meet the Indians and to try her powers of promoting good-feeling. The Snowbird stood saddled for many days: yet it was only upon errands of hospitality and charity that he was needed. Gaspar, however, was always in the saddle. When he was not riding far afield, scouting the movements of the Black Hawk forces, he was searching the countryside for provisions and himself guiding the wagons that brought in the scant supplies. One evening he returned more cheerful than he had seemed for many days and exclaimed as he tossed aside his cap: "This has been a good trip, for two reasons." "What are they, dear?" "Starvation is staved off for a while and the Indians are evidently in grave doubts of their own success in this horrid war." "Starvation, Gaspar? Has it been as bad as that?" "Pretty close to it. But I've found a couple of men who had about a hundred and fifty head of cattle, and they've driven them here into the stockade. As long as they last, we shall manage. The other good thing is--that the Black Hawks are sacrificing to the Evil Spirit." "They are! That shows they are hopeless of their own success." "Certainly very doubtful of it. It is the dog immolation. I saw one instance myself and met a man who had come from the southwest. He has passed them at intervals of a day's journey; always the same sort. The wretched little dog, fastened just above the ground, the nose pointing straight this way and the fire beneath." "Oh, Gaspar, it's dreadful!" "That they are discouraged? Kit, you don't mean that?" "No. No, no! You know better. But that they are such--such heathen!" Another voice broke in upon them: "Heathen! Heathen, you say? Well, if ever you was right in your life, you're right now. I never saw such folks. Here I've been cookin' and cooking till I'm done clean through myself; and in there's come another lot, just as hungry as t'others. Dear me, dear me! Why in the name of common sense couldn't I have stayed back there in the woods, and not come trapesing to Chicago to turn head slave for a lot of folks that act as if I'd ought to be grateful for the chance to kill myself a-waitin' on them. And say, Gaspar Keith, have you heard the news? When did you get home?" It was Mercy, of course, who had rushed excitedly into the house, yet had been able to rattle off a string of sentences that fairly took her hearers' breath away, if not her own. But Kitty was at her side at once, tenderly removing the great sun-bonnet from the hot gray head and offering a fan of turkey wings, gayly decorated with Indian embroideries of beads and weavings. "No, Kit. No, you needn't. Not while I know myself; there ain't never no more red man's tomfoolery going to be around me! Take that there Indian contraption away. I'd rather have a decent, honest cabbage-leaf any day. I'm beat out. My, ain't it hot!" "Yes, dear, it is awfully hot. Sit here in the doorway, in this big chair, and get what little breeze there is. Here's another fan, which I made myself; plain, good Yankee manufacture. Try that. Then, when you get cooled off, tell us your 'news.'" "Cooled off? That I sha'n't never be no more; not while I've got to cook for all creation." "Mother Mercy, Mother Mercy! You are a puzzler. You won't let the people go anywhere else than to your house as long as there's room to squeeze another body in; and----" "Ain't it the tavern?" "Of course. But people who keep taverns usually take pay for entertaining their guests." "Gaspar Keith! You say that to me, after the raisin' I gave you? The idee! When not a blessed soul of the lot has got a cent to bless himself with." "But I have cents, plenty of them; and I want you to let me bear this expense for you. I insist upon it." "Well, lad, I always did think you was a little too sharp after the money. But I didn't 'low you'd begrudge folks their _blessings_, too." "Blessings? Aren't you complaining about so much hard work, and haven't you the right? I know that no private family has cared for so many as you have, and----" "Oh, do drop that! I tell you _I_ ain't a private family; I'm a tavern. Oh! I don't know what I am nor what I'm sayin'. I--I reckon I'm clean beat and tuckered out." "So you are, dear. But rest and I'll make you a cup of tea. If you leave those people to themselves and they get hungry again they'll cook _for_ themselves. They'll have to. But to a good many of these refugees this is a sort of picnic business. They have left their homes, it's true; but they haven't seen so many human faces in years and----" "They haven't had such a good time! I noticed that. They seemed as bright as children at a frolic. Well, we ought to help them get what fun they can out of so serious a matter," commented Gaspar. "Serious! I should say so. That's what sent me here. Abel, he was on the wharf, and he says the ships are coming down the lake full of soldiers; and what with them and the folks already here and only a hundred and fifty head to feed 'em with, and some of these refugees eat as much as ary parson I ever saw, and the old Doctor trying to preach to 'em, sayin' it's the best opportunity--my land! The way some folks can get sweet out of bitter is a disgrace, I declare. And as for that Ossy, the dirty scamp, he's broke more dishes, washing them, than I've got left. And I run over to see if you'd let me have ary dish you've got, or shall I give 'em their stuff right in their hands? And how long have I got to go on watchin' that wild Osceolo? I wish you'd take him back and shut him up in your wood-shed again." "But, Mother Mercy, it was you who begged his release. And I'm sure it's better for him in your kitchen, working, than lying idle in an empty building, plotting mischief. Hello, here's Abel. And he seems as excited as--as you were," said Gaspar. "Glory to government, youngsters! The military is coming! The General's in sight! Now hooray! We'll show them pesky red-skins a thing or two. If they ain't wiped clean out of existence this time my name's Jack Robinson. Say, Kit, don't look so solemn. Likely they'll know enough to give up licked without getting shot; and they're nothin' but Indians, any how." The Sun Maid came softly across and held up her little son to be admired. Her face was grave and her lips silent. All this talk of war and bloodshed was awful to her gentle heart, that was torn and distracted with grief for both her white and her red-faced friends. But there was only grim satisfaction on the countenance of her young husband; and he turned to Abel, demanding: "Are you sure that this good news is true? Are the soldiers coming? Who saw them?" "I myself, through the commandant's spy-glass. They're aboard the ships, and I could almost hear the tune of _Yankee Doodle_. They're bound to rout the enemy like chain lightning. Hooray!" The soldiers were coming indeed; but alas! an enemy was coming with them far more deadly than the Indians they meant to conquer. CHAPTER XXI. FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. "Oh, Kit; I can't bear to leave you behind! It breaks my old heart all to flinders!" lamented Abel, laboriously climbing into the great wagon which Jim and Pete were now to draw back to their old home and wherein were already seated Mercy, with Kitty's children. "If it wasn't for these babies of yourn, I'd never stir stick nor stump out this afflicted town." "Well, dear Abel, the babies _are_, and must be cared for. I know that you and Mother Mercy will spoil them with kindness; but I hope we'll soon be all together again. Good-by, good-by." The Sun Maid's voice did not tremble nor the light in her brave face grow dim, though her heart was nearer breaking than Abel's; in that she realized far more keenly than he the peril in which she was voluntarily placing herself. "Well, Kitty, lamb, do take care. Take the herb tea constant and keep your feet dry." "That will be easy to do, if this heat remains," answered the other quietly, looking about her as she spoke upon the sun-parched ground and the hot, brazen sky. "And you must not worry, any of you. Gaspar says the tepees are as comfortable as the best log cabins, though so hastily put up. You will have plenty of air and the delicious shade of the trees; the blessed spring water, too; and if you don't keep well and be as happy as kittens, I--I'll be ashamed of you. I declare, Mercy dear, your face is all a-beam with the thought of the old clearing, and the bleaching ground, and all. So you needn't try to look grave, for, as soon as we can, Wahneenah and I will follow." Then she turned to speak to Gaspar, who sat on Tempest close at hand, his handsome face pale with anxiety and divided interests, but stern and resolute to do his duty as his young wife had shown it to him. And what these two had to say to one another is not for others to hear; for it was a parting unto death, it might be, and the hearts of the twain were as one flesh. Also, if Mercy's face was alight with the glow of her home returning, it was moved by the sight of the two women--Wahneenah and her daughter--who were taking their lives in their hands for the service of their fellow-men. Never had the Indian woman's comeliness shown to such advantage; and her bearing was of one who neither belittled nor overrated the dignity of the self-sacrifice she was making. She wore a white cotton gown, which draped rather than fitted her tall figure, and about her dark head was bound a white kerchief that seemed a crown. With an impulse foreign to her, Mercy held out her hand; because in ordinary she "hated an Indian on sight." "Well, Wahneeny, I'd like to shake hands for good-by. There hain't never been no love lost 'twixt you an' me, but I 'low I might have been more juster than I was. I think you're--you're as good as ary white women I ever see, savin' our Kit, of course; an'--an'--I--I wish you well." There was a moment's hesitation on Wahneenah's part; then her slim brown hand was extended and closed upon Mercy's fat palm with a friendly pressure. "In the light of the Unknown Beyond, the little hates and loves of earth must disappear. You have judged according to the wisdom that was in you, and if I bore you a grudge, it is forgotten. Farewell." Then the foster-mother slipped her arm about the waist of her beloved Sun Maid and supported her firmly as the oxen moved slowly forward, the heavy wheels creaking and the three children shouting and clapping their hands in innocent glee, quite unconscious of the tragedy of the parting they had witnessed. Abel gee-ed and haw-ed indiscriminately and confusingly, then belabored his patient beasts because they did not understand conflicting orders. Mercy sat twisted around upon the buffalo-covered seat, her arms holding each a child as in a vise and her neck in danger of dislocation, as long as her swimming eyes could catch one glimpse of the two white-robed women left on the dusty road. "They look as pure as some them Sisters of Charity I've seen in Boston city. And they won't spare themselves no more, neither. Poor Gaspar boy! How'll he ever stand it without his Kit, and if--ah, if--she should catch--Oh, my soul! oh--my--soul! I wonder if he's takin' it terrible hard!" But though she brought her body back to a normal poise, her morbid curiosity was doomed to disappointment, for Tempest had already borne his master out of sight at a mad pace across the prairie. The enemy which had come with the infantry over the great water was the most terrible known,--a disease so dread and devastating that men turned pale at the mere mention of its name--the Asiatic cholera. When it appeared, the garrison was crowded with the settlers who had fled before the anticipated attacks of the Indians and, as has been said, every roof in the community sheltered all it could cover. But when the soldiers began to die by dozens and scores the refugees were terrified. Death by the hand of the red man was possible, even probable; but death of the pestilence was certain. The town was now emptied far more rapidly than it had filled; and early in this new disaster Gaspar had hastened to the old clearing of the Smiths and had made Osceolo, aided by a few more frightened, willing men, toil with himself to erect wigwams enough to accommodate many persons. He had then returned for his household and had been met by his wife's first resistance to his will. "No, Gaspar, I cannot go. I have no fear. I am perfectly 'sound.' Probably no healthier woman ever lived than I am. I have learned much of nursing from Wahneenah, and my place, my duty, is here. I cannot go." "Kit! my Kitty! Are you beside yourself? Where is your duty, if not to me and to our children?" "Here, my husband, right here; in our beloved town, among the lonely strangers who have come to save it from destruction and have laid their lives at our feet." "That is sheer nonsense. Your life is at stake." "Is my life more precious than theirs?" "Yes. Infinitely so. It is mine." "It is God's--and humanity's--first, Gaspar." "Your children, then; if you scorn my wishes." "Don't make it hard for me, beloved; harder than God Himself has made it. Do you take Mother Mercy and Abel and go to the place you have prepared. The children will be as safe with her as with me; safer, for she will watch them constantly, while I believe in leaving them to grow by themselves. Between them and us you may come and go--up to a certain point; but not to the peril of your taking the disease. The Indians are no less on the war-path because the cholera has come. _Your_ duty is afield, guarding, watching, preventing all the evil that a wise man can. Mine is here, using the skill I have learned from Wahneenah and faithfully at her side." "Wahneenah? Does she wish to stay too; to nurse the pale-faces, the men who have come here to fight her own race?" "Yes, Gaspar, she is just so noble. Can I do less? I, with my education, which the dear Doctor has given me, and my youth, my perfect health, my entire fearlessness. You forget, sweetheart; I am the Unafraid. Never more unafraid than now, never more sure that we will come out of this trouble as we have come out of every other. Why, dear, don't you remember old Katasha and her prophecy? I am to be great and rich and beneficent. I am to be the helper of many people. Well, then, since I am not great, and rich only through you, let me begin at the last end of the prophecy, and be beneficent. Wait; even now there is somebody coming toward us asking me for help." "Kit, I can't have it. I won't. You are my wife. You shall obey me. You shall stop talking nonsense. You may as well understand. Pick together what duds you need and let's get off as soon as possible. Every hour here is fresh danger. Come. Please hurry." But she did not hurry, not in the least. Indeed, had she followed her heart wholly, she would never have hastened one degree toward the end she had elected. But she followed it only in part; so she stole quietly up to where the man fumed and flustered and clasped her arms about his neck and laid her beautiful face against his own. "Love: this is not our first separation, nor our longest. Many a month have you been away from me, up there in the north, getting money and more money, till I hated its very name,--only that I knew we could use it for others. In that, and in most things, I will obey you as I have. In this I must obey the voice of God. Life is better than money, and to save life or to comfort death is the price of this, our last separation." After that he said no more; but recognizing the nobility of her effort, even though he still felt it mistaken, and with a credulous remembrance of Katasha's saying, he made her preparations and his own without delay and parted from her as has been told. "Well, my dear Other Mother, there is one thing to comfort! Hard as it was to see them all go, we shall have no time to brood. And we shall be together. Let us get on now to our work. There were five new cases this morning; and time flies! Oh, if I were wiser and knew better what to do for such a sickness! The best we can--that's all." "What the Great Spirit puts into our hands, that we can always lift," replied Wahneenah, and, with her arm still about her darling's waist, they walked together Fortward. It may be that in the Indian's jealous, if devoted, heart there was just a tinge of thankfulness for even an evil so dire, since it gave her back her "White Papoose" quite to herself again. "Well, I can watch her all I choose, and no burden shall fall to her share that I can spare her. The easy part--the watching and the soothing and the Bible reading--that shall be hers. Mine will be the coarsest tasks," she thought, and--as Gaspar had done--reckoned without her host. "It is turn and turn about, Other Mother, or I will drive you out of the place," Kitty declared; and after a few useless struggles, which merely wasted the time that should have been given their patients, it was so settled; and so continued during the dreadful weeks that followed. Until just before midsummer the nurses were almost wholly at the Fort, where it seemed to Kitty that a "fresh case" and a "burial" alternated with the regularity of a pendulum; and then a little relief was gained by taking their sick across to Agency House and its ampler accommodations. But even these were meagre compared to the needs; and more and more as the days went by did the Sun Maid long for greater wisdom. "That is one of the things Gaspar and I must do. We must have a regular hospital, such as are in Eastern cities; and there must be men and women taught to understand all sorts of diseases and how to care for them. I know so little--so little." But experience taught more than schools could have done; and many a poor fellow who had come from a far-away home sank to his last rest with greater confidence because of the ministrations of these two devoted women. And at last, very suddenly, there appeared one among them whom both Wahneenah and her daughter recognized with a sinking heart. "Doctor! Oh, Doctor Littlejohn! I thought you were safe at the 'Refuge' with Mercy and Abel. How came you here? and why? You must go away at once. You must, indeed. Where is the horse you rode?" "I rode no horse, my dear. If I had asked for one, I should have been prevented,--even forcibly, I fear. So I walked." "Walked? In this heat, all that distance? Will you tell me why?" But already, before it was spoken, the Sun Maid guessed the answer. "Because, at length, through all the shifting talk about me, it penetrated to my study-dulled brain that there was a need more urgent than that the Indian dialects should be preserved; that I, a minister of the gospel, was letting a woman take the duty, the privilege, that was mine. I have come, daughter of my old age, to encourage the sufferers you relieve and bury the dead you cannot save." "But--for _you_, in your feebleness----" He held up his thin white hand that trembled as an aspen leaf. "It is enough, my dear. Consider all is said. I heard a fresh groan just then. Somebody needs you--or me." Wahneenah now had two to watch, and she did it jealously, at the cost of the slight rest she had heretofore allowed herself. The result of overstrain, in the midst of such infection, was inevitable. One evening she crept languidly toward the empty house which had been her darling's home and behind which still stood her own deserted lodge. She was a little wearier than usual, she thought, but that was all. To lie down on her bed of boughs and draw her own old blanket over her would make her sleep. She longed to sleep--just for a minute; to shut out from her eyes and her thoughts the scenes through which she had gone. How long ago was it since the wagon and the fair-haired babies went away? She was a little confused. She was falling asleep, though, despite the agony that tortured her. _Her?_ She had always hated pain and despised it. It couldn't be Wahneenah, the Happy, crouching thus, in a cramped and becrippled attitude. It was some other woman,--some woman she had used to know. Why, there was her warrior: her own! And the son she had lost! And now--what was this in the parting of the tent curtains? The moonlight made mortal? No. Not a moon-born but a sun-born maiden she, who stooped till her white garments swept the earth and her beautiful, loving face was close, close. Even the glazing eyes could see how wondrously fair it was in the sight of men and spirits. Even the dulled ears could catch that agonized cry: "Wahneenah! Wahneenah! My Mother! Bravest and noblest! and yet--a savage!" "Who called her so knew not of what he spake. From one God we all came and unto Him we must return. Blessed be His Name!" answered the clergyman who had followed. Then the frail man, who had so little strength for himself, was given power to lift the broken-hearted Maid and carry her away into a place of safety. CHAPTER XXII. GROWING UP. "Well, I'm beat! I don't know what to do with myself. Out there to the clearing I was just crazy wild to get back to town; and now I'm here I'm nigh dead with plumb lonesomeness. My, my, my! Indians licked out of their skins, about, and cleared out the whole endurin' State. Old Black Hawk marched off to the East to be shown what kind of a nation he'd bucked up against, the simpleton! And Osceolo takin' himself and his pranks, with his tribe, clear beyond the Mississippi; an' me an' ma lived through watchin' them little tackers of Kit's--oh, hum! I'd ought to take some rest; but somehow I 'low I can't seem to." Mercy looked up from the unbleached sheet she was hemming and smiled grimly. "Give it up, pa. Give it up. I've been a-studyin' this question, top and bottom crust and through the inside stuffin', and I sum it this way: _It's in the soil!_" "What's in the soil? The shakes? or the homesickness when a feller's right to home? or what in the land do you mean?" "The restlessness. The something that gets inside your mind and keeps you movin'. I've noticed it in everybody ever come here. Must be doin'; can't keep still; up an' at it, till a body's clean wore an' beat out. Me, for one. Here I've no more need to hem sheets than I have to make myself a pink satin gown, which I never had nor hope to have even----" "The idee! I should hope not, indeed. You in a pink satin gown, ma; 'twould be scandalous!" "Didn't I say I wasn't thinkin' of gettin' one, even so be I could, in this hole in the mud? I was talkin' about Chicago. It ain't a town to brag of, seein' there ain't two hundred left in it after the ravagin' of the cholera; an' yet I don't know ary creature, man, woman, or child, ain't goin' to plannin' right away for something to be done. I've heard more talk of improvements and hospitals and schools an' colleges and land knows what more truck an' dicker--Pshaw! It takes my breath away." "It does mine, ma." "Well,--_that's_ Chicago! You can always tell by a child when it's a baby what it's goin' to be when it's a man. Chicago's a baby now, an' a mighty puny one, too; but it's kickin' like a good feller, an' it's gettin' strong; an', first you know, folks will be pourin' in here faster 'n the Indians or cholera carried 'em off, ary one." "Them ain't your own idees; they're Gaspar's and Kit's. He's gone right to work, an' so has she; layin' out buildin' sites an' sendin' East for any poor man that's had hard luck and wants to begin all over again. Say--do you know--I--believe--that our Gaspar writes for the newspapers. _Our Gaspar, ma! Newspapers! Out East!_" "Well, I don't know why he shouldn't. Didn't I raise him?" "Where do I come in, Mercy?" "Wherever you can catch on, Abel. The best place I can see for you to take hold is to start in an' build a new tavern,--a tavern big enough to swing a cat in. Then I'll have a place to keep my sheets an' it'll pay me to go and make 'em." "How'd you know what was in my mind, Mercy?" "Easy enough. Ain't I been makin' stirabout for you these forty years? Don't I know the size of your appetite? Can't I cal'late the size of your mind the same way? Why, Abel, I can tell by the way you brush your wisps----" "Ma, I'll send East an' buy me a wig. I 'low when a man's few hairs can tattle his inside thoughts to the neighbors, it's time I took a stand." "Well, I think you might 's well. I think you'd look real becomin' in a wig. I'd get it red and curly if I was you; and you'd ought to wear a bosomed shirt every day. You really had." "Mercy Smith! Are you out your head?" "No. But when a man's the first tavern-keeper in this risin' town he ought to dress to fit his station. I always did like you best in your dickeys." "Shucks! I'll wear one every day." "I'm goin' to give up homespun. Calico's a sight prettier an' we can afford it. We're real forehanded now, Abel." "Hello! Here comes Kit. Let's ask her about the tavern. She's got more sense in her little finger than most folks have in their whole bodies. She's a different woman than she was before Wahneeny died. I shall always be glad you an' her was reconciled when you parted. Hum, hum. Poor Wahneeny! Poor old Doctor! Well, it can't be very hard to die when folks are as good as they was. Right in the line of duty, too." "Yes, Abel; but all the same I'm satisfied to think _our_ duty laid out in the woods, takin' care Kit's children, 'stead of here amongst the sickness. Wonderful, ain't it, how our girl came through?" "She'll come through anything, Sunny Maid will; right straight through this open door into her old Father Abel's arms, eh? Well, my dear, what's the good word? How's Gaspar and the youngsters?" "Well, of course. We are never ill; but, Mother Mercy, I heard you were feeling as if you hadn't enough to do. I came in to see about that. It's a state of things will never answer for our Chicago, where there is more to be done than people to do it. Didn't you say you had a brother out East who was a miller?" "Yes, of course. Made money hand over fist. He's smarter 'n chain lightning, Ebenezer is, if I do say it as hadn't ought to, bein' I'm his sister." "Well, I'd like his address. Gaspar wants him here. We must have mills. The idea of our using hand-mills and such expedients to get our flour and meal is absurd for these days." "Pshaw, Kit! 'Tain't long since I had to ride as far as fifty miles to get my grist ground, and when I got there there'd be so many before me, I'd have to wait all night sometimes. 'First come first served' is a miller's saying, and they did feel proud of the row of wagons would be hitched alongside their places. I----" "Come, Abel, don't reminisce. If there's one thing more tryin' to a body's patience than another, it's hearin' about these everlastin' has-beens." Abel threw back his head and laughed till the room rang. "Hear her, my girl! Just hear her! That's ma! That's Mercy! She's caught the fever, or whatever 'tis, that ails this town. She's got no more time to hark back. It's always get up and go ahead. What you think? She's advising me to build a new tavern. _Me! Mercy_ advising it! What do you think of that?" "That it's a capital idea. We shall need it. We shall need more than one tavern if all goes well. And it will. Now that the Indians are gone forever,"--here Kitty breathed a gentle sigh,--"the white people are no longer afraid. They have heard of our wonderful country and our wonderful location,--right in the heart of the continent, with room on every side to spread and grow eternally, indefinitely." "Kitty, I sometimes think you an' Gaspar are a little _off_ on the subject of your native town; for 'twasn't his'n; seein' what a collection of disreputable old houses an' mud holes an' sloughs of despond there's right in plain sight. But you seem to think something's bound to happen and you two'll be in the midst of it." The Sun Maid laughed, as merrily as in the old days, and answered promptly: "_I've_ never found any sloughs of despond and something _is_ bound to happen. Katasha's dreams, or prophecies, whichever they were, are to come true. There is something in the very air of our lake-bordered, wind-swept prairie that attracts and exhilarates, and binds. That's it,--_binds_. Once a dweller here by this great water, a man is bound to return to it if he lives. Those soldiers who have gone away from us, a mere handful, so to speak, will spread the story of our beautiful land and will come again--a legion. It is our dream that this little pestilence-visited hamlet will one day be one of the marvels of the world; that to it will assemble people from all the nations, to whom it will be an asylum, a home, and a treasure-house for every sort of wealth and wisdom. In my fancies I can see them coming, crowding, hastening; as in reality I shall some day see them, and not far off. And in the name of all that is young and strong and glorious--I bid them welcome!" She stood in the open doorway and the sunlight streamed through it, irradiating her wonderful beauty. The two old people, types of the past, regarded her transfigured countenance with feelings not unmixed with awe, and after a moment Abel spoke: "Well, well, well! Kitty, my girl. Hum, hum! You yourself seem all them things you say. Trouble you've had, an' sorrow; the sickness an' Wahneeny; an' growin' up, an' love affairs; an' motherhood, an' all; yet there you be, the youngest, the prettiest, the hopefullest, the courageousest creature the Lord ever made. What is it, child; what is it makes you so different from other folks?" "Am I different, dear? Well, Mother Mercy, yonder, is looking mystified and troubled. She doesn't half like my prophetic moods, I know. I merely came, for Gaspar, to inquire about the miller. But I like your own idea of the new tavern, and you should begin it right away. Gaspar will lend you the money if you need it; and if you have time for more sheets than these, Mercy dear, I'll send you over some pieces of finer muslin and you might begin on a lot for our hospital." "Your hospital? 'Tain't even begun nor planned." "Oh, yes, it is planned. From my own experience and from books I can guess what we will need. But there are doctors and nurses coming after a time--There, there, dear. I will stop. I won't look ahead another step while I'm here. But--it's coming--all of it!" she finished gayly, as she turned from the doorway and passed down the forlorn little street. Was it "in the air," as the Sun Maid protested, that indomitable courage and faith to do and dare, to plan, to begin, and to achieve? Certain it is that in five years from that morning when Kitty Keith had lingered in Mercy's doorway foretelling the future some, at least, of her prophecies had materialized. Where then had been but two hundred citizens were now more than twenty times that number. The "crowding" had begun; and there followed years upon years of wonderful growth; wherein Gaspar's cool head and shrewd business tact and ever-deepening purse were always to the fore, at the demand of all who needed either. In an unswerving singleness of purpose, he devoted his energy and his ambition toward making his beloved home, as far as in him lay, the leading home and mart of all the civilized world. And the Sun Maid walked steadfastly by his side, adding to his efforts and ambitions the sympathy of her great heart and cultured, ever-broadening womanhood. Thus passed almost a quarter-century of years so full and peaceful that nothing can be written of them save the one word--happy. Yet at the end of this long time, wherein Abel and Mercy had quietly fallen on sleep and "Kit's little tackers" had grown up to be themselves fathers and mothers, the Sun Maid's joy was rudely broken. Not only hers, but many another's; for a drumbeat echoed through the land, and the sound was as a death-knell. Kitty looked into her husband's face and shivered. For the first time in all his memory of her the Unafraid grew timid. "Oh, Gaspar! War? Civil War! A family quarrel, of all quarrels the most bitter and deadly. God help us!" CHAPTER XXIII. HEROES. The Sun Maid's gaze into her husband's face was a prolonged and questioning one. Before it was withdrawn she had found her answer. There was still a silence between them, which she broke at last, and it touched him to see how pale she had become and yet how calm. "You are going, Gaspar?" "Yes, my love; I am going. Already I have pledged my word, as my arm and my purse." "But, my dear, do you consider? We are growing old, even we, who have never yet had time to realize it--till now. There are younger men, plenty of them. Your counsels at home----" "Would be empty words as compared to my example in the field. The young of heart are never old. Besides, do you remember that once, against my stubborn will, you resisted for duty's sake? We have never regretted it, not for a day. More than that, when our first-born came to us, do you remember how we clasped his tiny hand and resolved always to lead it onward to the right? _Lead_ it, sweetheart. We vowed never to say to him: 'Go!' to this or that high duty; but rather, still holding fast to him, say: 'Come.' There is such a wide, wide difference between the two." Then, indeed, again she trembled. The mother love shook her visibly and a secret rejoicing died a sudden death. "'Come,' you say. But they are not here, in our own unhappy land. Gaspar in Europe, Winthrop in South America, and Hugh in Japan. They are better so." "Are they better there? You will be the first to say 'no' when this shock passes. A telegram will summon each as easily as we could call them from that other room--supposing that they, your sons, wait for the call. But they'll not. I know them and trust them. They are already on the railways and steamships that will bring them fastest; and it will truly be the 'Come with me!' that we elected, for we shall all march together." So they did; and it was the Sun Maid herself, standing proudly among her daughters and daughters-in-law, yet more beautiful than any, who fastened the last glittering button over each manly breast and flicked away an imaginary mote from the spotless uniforms. Then she stood aside and let them go; two by two, "step," "step"--as if in echo to the first sound which had greeted her own baby ear. But as they passed out of sight, transgressing military discipline Gaspar turned; and once more the black eyes and the blue read in each other's depths the unfathomable love that filled them. Then he was gone and the younger Gaspar's wife lifted to her own aching bosom the form that had sunk unconscious at her feet. For the too prescient heart of the Sun Maid had pierced the future and she knew what would befall her. Yet before the gray shadow had quite left her face she rallied and again smiled into the anxious countenances bending over her. "Now, my dears, how foolish I was and how wasteful of precious time! There is so much to be done for them and for ourselves. Gaspar's business must not suffer, nor Son's (as she always called her eldest), nor his brothers'. There are new hospitals to equip and nurses to secure. Alas! there should be a Home made ready, even so soon, for the widows and orphans of our soldiers. Let us organize into a regular band of workers; just ourselves, as systematically as your father has trained us to believe is best. There are six of us, a little army of supplies and reinforcements. Though, Honoria, my daughter, shall I count upon you?" "Surely, Mother darling, though not here. Thanks to the hospital course you let me enjoy, I can follow my father and brothers to the front. I am a trained nurse, you know, and some will need me there." The Sun Maid caught her breath with a little gasp. Then again she smiled. "Of course, Honoria; if you wish it. It is only one more to give; yet you will be in little danger and your father in so much the less because of your presence. Now let us apportion the other duties and set about them." This was quickly done; and to the mother herself remained the assumption of all monetary affairs in her husband's private office in their last new home; where, when they had removed to it, she had inquired: "Why such a palace, Gaspar, for two plain, simple folk like you and me? It is big enough for a barrack, and those great empty 'blocks' on every side remind me of our old days in Mercy's log cabin among the woods." "I like it, dear. There will be room in this big house to entertain guests of every rank and station as they should be entertained in our dear city. These empty squares about us shall keep their old trees intact, but the grounds shall be beautified by the highest landscape art, to which the full view of our grand lake will give crowning charm. When we have done with it all we will give it to the little children for a perpetual playground. Even the proposed new enlargement of the city limits will hardly encroach upon us here." "But it will, Gaspar, it surely will! When I hark back, as Abel used to say, I find Katasha's prophecies and my old dreams more than fulfilled. But the end is not yet, nor soon." Now that her daughters were scattered to their various points of usefulness and the Sun Maid was left alone with Hugh's one motherless child--another Kitty--the great house seemed more empty than ever; and its brave mistress resolved to people it with something more substantial and needy than memories. So she gathered about her a host to whom the cruel war had brought distress of one form or another; while out among the trees of the park she erected a great barrack, fitted with every aid to comfort and convalescence. This, like the mansion, was speedily filled, and the "Keith Rest" became a household word throughout the land. The war which wise folk augured at its beginning, would be over in a few days dragged its weary length into the months, and though for a time there were many and cheerful letters, these ceased suddenly at the last, giving place to one brief telegram from Honoria: "Mother, my work here is ended. I am bringing home your heroes--four." Upon the hearth-rug, Kitty the younger, lay stretched at her ease, toying with the sharp nose of her favorite collie. She had the Sun Maid's own fairness of tint and the same wonderful hair; but her eyes were dark as her grandsire Gaspar's and saw many things which they appeared not to see; for instance, that one of the numerous telegrams her busy grandmother was always receiving had been read and dropped upon the floor. Yet this was a common circumstance, and though she felt it her duty to rise and return the yellow paper to the hand which had held it, she delayed a moment, enjoying the warmth and ease. Then Bruce, the collie, sat up and whined,--dolefully, and so humanly, it seemed, that the girl also sprang up, demanding: "Why, Bruce, old doggie, what do you hear? What makes you look so queer?" Then her own gaze followed the collie's to her grandmother's face and her scream echoed through all the house. "Grandmother! My darling Grandmother! Are you--are you dead--dying--what----" She picked up the telegram and read it, and her own happy young heart faltered in its rhythm. "Oh! awful! 'Bringing'--those precious ones who cannot come of themselves. This will kill her. I believe it will kill even me." But it did neither. After a space the rigidity left the Sun Maid's figure and her staring eyes that had been gazing upon vacancy resumed intelligence. Rising stiffly from her seat, she put the younger Kit aside, yet very gently and tenderly, because of all her race this was the dearest. Had not the child Gaspar's eyes? "My girl, you will know what to do. I am going to my chamber, and must be undisturbed." Then she passed out of the cheerful library into that "mother's room," where her husband and her sons had gathered about her so often and so fondly and in which she had bestowed upon each her farewell and especial blessing. As the portiere fell behind her it seemed to her that already they came hurrying to greet her, and softly closing the door she shut herself in from all the world with them and her own grief. For the first time in all her life the Sun Maid considered her own self before another; and for hours she remained deaf to young Kitty's pleading: "Let me come in, Grandmother. Let me come in. I am as alone as you--it was my father, too, as well as your son!" It was the dawn of another day before the door did open and the mourner came out. Mourner? One could hardly call her that; for, though the beautiful face was colorless and the eyes heavy with unshed tears, there was a rapt, exalted look upon it which awed the grandchild into silence. Yet for the first time she was startled by the thought: "We have lived together as if we were only elder and younger sister, for she has had the heart of a child. But now I see--she is, indeed, my grandmother--and she is growing old." "Let all things be done decently and in order when Gaspar and the boys come home," was all the direction the Sun Maid gave, and it was well fulfilled. Yet, because she could not bear to be far apart from them, she sat out the hours of watching in the little ante-room adjoining the great parlor where her heroes lay in state, while all Chicago gathered to do them reverence. There was none could touch her grief, not one. It was too deep. It benumbed even herself. Perhaps in all the land, during all that dreadful time, there was no person so afflicted as she, who had lost four at a blow. But she rose from her sorrow with that buoyant faith and hopefulness which nothing could for long depress. "There is unfinished work to do. Gaspar left it when he went away, knowing I would take it up for him if he could never do it for himself. There is no time in life for unavailing sorrow. Come, Kitty, child. Others have their dead to bury, let us go forth and comfort them." Obedient Kitty went, her thoughts full of wonder and admiration: "By massacre, famine, pestilence, and the sword! How has my dear 'Sun Maid' been chastened, and how beautifully she has come through it all! She could not have been half so lovely as a girl, when Grandfather met and wooed her that morning on the prairie. I wonder have her trials ended? or are there more in store before she is made perfect? I cannot think of anything still which could befall her, unless I die or her beloved city come to ruin. Well, I'll walk with her, hand in hand, and if I live, I'll be as like her as I can." CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION. "What shall we do to celebrate your birthday, my child?" asked Grandmother Kitty, early in that first week of October on whose Saturday the young girl would reach to the dignity of sixteen years. "All the conditions of your life are so different from mine at your age: seeming to make you both older and younger--if you understand what I mean--that I would like to hear your own wishes." "They shall be yours, Grandma dearest. You always have such happy ideas. I'd like yours best." "No, indeed! Not this time. I want everything to be exactly as you like this year; especially since you are now to assume the main charge of some of our charities." "I feel so unfitted for the responsibility you are giving me, Sun Maid. I'm afraid I shall make many blunders." "Doesn't everybody? And isn't it by seeing wherein we blunder and avoiding the pitfall a second time that we learn to walk surely and swiftly? You have been well trained to know the value of the money which God has given you so plentifully and of that loving sympathy which is better and richer than the wealth. I am not afraid for you, though it is an excellent sign that you are afraid for yourself. Now a truce to sermons. Let's hear the birthday wish. I am getting an old lady and don't like to be kept waiting." "Sunny Maid! you are not old, nor ever will be!" "Not in my heart, darling. How can I feel so when there is so much in life to do and enjoy? I have to bring myself up short quite often and remind myself how many birthdays of my own have gone by; though it seems but yesterday that Gaspar and I were standing by the Snake-Who-Leaps and learning how to hold our bows that we might shoot skilfully, even though riding bareback and at full speed, yet----" "I believe that you could do the very same still; and that there isn't another old lady----" "Let me interrupt this time. Aren't you contradicting yourself? Were you speaking of 'old' ladies?" "You funny Grandma! Well, then, I don't believe there's another young-old person in this great city can sit a horse as you do. If you would only ride somewhere besides in our own park and just for once let people see you! How many Snowbirds have you owned in your lifetime, Grandmother?" "One real Snowbird, with several imitations. Still, they have been pretty fair, for Gaspar selected them and he was a fine judge of horseflesh. You must remember that as long as he was with me we rode together anywhere and everywhere he wished. He was a splendid horseman." "He was 'splendid' in all things, wasn't he, Sun Maid?" asked the girl, with a lingering tenderness upon the other's Indian name and knowing that it still was very pleasant in the ears of her who owned it. "He was a man. He had grown to the full stature of a man. That covers all. But let's get back to birthday wishes. What are they?" "They're pretty big; all about the new 'Girls' Home' where I am to work for you. I think if the girls knew me, not as just somebody who is richer than they and wants to do them good, but as an equal, another giddy-head like themselves, it would make things ever so much easier for all of us. I would like to go through all the big stores and factories and places and find out every single girl who is sixteen and have them out to Keith House for a real delightful holiday. And because I like boys, and presume other girls do, too--Don't stiffen your neck, please, Grandmother; remember there were you and Gaspar----" "But we were different." "Maybe; yet these girls have brothers, and I wish I had. Never mind, though. I'd like to invite them all out here for Saturday and Sunday. On Saturday evening we'd have an old-fashioned young folks' party, with games and frolics such as were common years and years ago. Then, for Sunday, there'd be the ministers who are to stop here during that convention that's coming, and they'd be glad, I know, to speak to us young folks. It's perfect weather, and all day these young things who are shut up all the week could roam about the park, or read, or rest in the picture-gallery or library, and--eat." The Sun Maid laughed. "Do you really stop to think about the eating? How many do you imagine would have to be fed? And I assure you, my young dreamer, that, though it doesn't sound especially well, the feeding of her guests is one of the most important duties of every hostess. But I'll take that part off your hands. You attend to the spiritual and moral entertainment and I'll order the table part. Yet your plan calls for many sleeping accommodations. How about that?" "I thought, Grandmother, maybe you'd let me open the 'Barrack' again. That would do for the boys, and there's surely room enough in this great house for all the girls who'd care to stay." A shadow passed over the Sun Maid's face, but it--_passed_. In a moment she looked up brightly and answered as, a few hours later, she was to be most thankful she had done: "Very well. After the war was over and I closed it I felt as if I could never reopen the place. Though Gaspar and my boys never saw it, somehow it seemed always theirs. I suppose because it had been built for the benefit of those who had fought and suffered with them. Now I see that this was morbid; and I am glad I have never torn the building down, as I have sometimes thought I would. You may have it for your friends and should set about airing and preparing it at once. Also, if you are to give so many invitations, you would better start upon them." "Couldn't I just put an advertisement in the papers? That's so easy and short." "And--rude!" "Rude?" "Yes. There would be no compliment in a newspaper invitation. Would you fancy one for yourself?" "No, indeed, I should not. That rule of yours, to 'put yourself in his place,' is a pretty good one, after all, isn't it?" "Yes. Now order the carriage and I'll go with you on your rounds and make a list as we do so of how many will need to be provided for. We shall have a busy week before us." "But a happy one, Grandmother. Your face is shining already, even more than usual. I believe in your heart of hearts you love girls better than anything else in this world." "Maybe. Except--boys." "And flowers, and animals. How they will enjoy the conservatories! And it wouldn't be wrong, would it, to have out the horses between times on Sunday and let these young things, who'd never had a chance, see how glorious a feeling it is to ride a fine horse? Just around the park, you know." "Which would be quite as far as most of them would care to ride, I fancy, for there are very few people who call their first experience on horseback a 'glorious' one." It was a busy week indeed, but a joyful one, full of anticipation concerning the coming festivities. Never had the Sun Maid appeared younger or gayer or entered more heartily into the preparations for entertainment. A dozen times, maybe, during those mornings of shopping and ordering and superintending, did she exclaim with fervor: "Thank God for Gaspar's money, that makes us able to give others pleasure!" "Grandmother, even for a foreign nobleman you wouldn't do half so much!" "Foreign? No, indeed. To all their due; and to our own young Americans, these toilers who are the glory of our nation, let every deference be paid. Did you write about the orchestra? That was to play during Saturday's supper?" "Yes, indeed. I believe nothing is forgotten." To the guests, who came at the appointed time, it certainly did not seem so; and almost every one was there who had been asked. "I did not believe that there could be found so many working girls in Chicago who are just sixteen," cried the gay young hostess, standing upon the great stair and looking down across the wide parlor, crowded with bright, graceful figures. "I did. My Chicago is a wonderful city, child. But I do not believe that in any other city in the world could be gathered another such assemblage. Typical American girls, every one. May God bless them! Their beauty, their bearing, even their attire, would compare most favorably with any company of young women who are far more richly dowered by dollars. And the boys; even with their greater shyness, how did they ever learn to be so courteous, so----" "Oh, my Sun Maid! Answer yourself, in your own words. 'It's in the air. It's just--Chicago!'" When the fun was at the highest, there came a belated guest who brought news that greatly disquieted the elder hostess, though none of the merrymakers about her seemed to think it a matter half as important as the next game on the list. "A fire, broken out in the city? That is serious. The season is so dry and there are many buildings in Chicago that would burn like kindlings. However, let us hope it will soon be subdued; and there is somebody calling you, I think." Although anything which menaced the prosperity of the town she loved so well always disturbed the Sun Maid, she put this present matter from her almost as easily as she dismissed the youth who had brought the bad tidings. The housing and entertaining of Kitty's guests was an engrossing affair; and all Sunday was occupied in these duties; but on Sunday night came a time of leisure. It was then, while resting among her girls and discussing their early departure in the morning--which their lives of labor rendered necessary--that a second messenger arrived with a second message of disaster. "There's another fire downtown, and it's burning like a whirlwind!" "We have an excellent fire department," answered the hostess, with confident pride. "It can't make much show against this blaze. I think those of us who can should get home at once." The Sun Maid's heart sank. The coming event had cast its shadow upon her and, foreseeing evil, she replied instantly: "Those who must go shall be conveyed at once; but I urge all who will to remain. Keith House is as safe as any place can be if this fire continues to spread. It is not probable, even at the best, that any of you will be wanted at your employers' in the morning. The excitement will not be over, even if the conflagration is." The company divided. There were many who were anxious about home friends and hastened away in the vehicles so hastily summoned; but there were also many whose only home was a boarding-house and who were thankful for the shelter and hospitality offered. Among these last were some of the young men, and the Sun Maid summoned them to her own office and discussed with them some plans of usefulness to others. "We shall none of us be able to sleep to-night. I have a feeling that we ought not. I wish, therefore, you would go out and engage all the teams you possibly can from this neighborhood; and go with them and their drivers to the threatened districts, as well as those already destroyed. Our great house and grounds are open to all. Bring any who wish, and assure them that they will be cared for." "But there may be thieves among them," objected one lad, who had a keener judgment of what might occur. "There is always evil amid the good; but not for that reason should any poor creature suffer. Remember I am able to help liberally in money, and never so thankful as now that this is so. Go and do your best." They scattered, proud to serve her, and thrilled with the excitement of that awful hour; but many were amazed to find that after a brief time she had followed them herself. The younger Kitty pleaded, though vainly, to prevent her grandmother's departure, for the Sun Maid answered firmly: "You are to take my place as mistress here. I will have the old coachman drive me in the phaeton to the nearest point advisable. I must be on the spot, but I will not recklessly risk myself. Only, my dear, it is _our city_, Gaspar's and mine; almost a personal belonging, since we two watched its growth from a tiny village to the great town it has become. Gaspar would be there with his aid and counsel. I must take his place." There were many who saw her, and will forever remember the noble woman, standing upright in the low vehicle at a point where two ways met; with the light of the burning city falling over her wonderful hair, that had long since turned snowy white, and bringing out the beauty of a face whose loveliness neither age nor sorrow could dim. The sadness in her tender eyes deepened as she could see the cruel blaze sweeping on and on, wiping out home after home and hurling to destruction the mighty structures of which she had been so personally proud. "Oh, I have loved it, I have loved it! Its very paving-stones have been dear to me, and it is as if all these fleeing, homeless ones were my own children. Well, it is--Chicago,--a city with a mission. It cannot die. Let the fire do its worst; not all shall perish. There are things which cannot burn. Again and again and again I have thanked God for the wealth he led my Gaspar, the penniless and homeless, to gain--for His own glory. Let the flames destroy unto the limit He has set. Out of their ruins shall rise another city, fairer and lovelier than this has been; richer because of this purification and far more tender in its broad welcome to humanity." Hour after hour she waited there, directing, comforting, assisting; giving shelter and sustenance, and, best of all, the influence of her high faith and indomitable courage. As it had done before, her clear sight gazed into the future and beheld the glory that should be; and, like every prophecy her tongue had ever uttered, this, spoken there in the very light of her desolation, as it were, has already been more than verified. This all who knew the Beautiful City as it was and now know it as it is will cheerfully attest; and some there are among these who deem it their highest privilege to go sometimes to a stately mansion, set among old trees, where in a sunshiny chamber sits an old, old lady, who yet seems perennially young. Her noble head still keeps its heavy crown of silver, her eye is yet bright, her intellect keen, and her interest in her fellow-men but deepens with the years. Very like her is the younger Kitty, who is never far away; who has grown to be a person of influence in all her city's beneficence; and who believes that there was never another woman in all the world like her grandmother. "Yes," she assures you earnestly, "she is the Sun Maid indeed,--a fountain of delight to all who know her. She has still the heart of a child and a child's perfect health. I confidently expect to see her round her century." * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
39898	----	[Illustration: TORTURING A CAPTIVE] WESTERN SCENES AND REMINISCENCES: TOGETHER WITH THRILLING LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE RED MEN OF THE FOREST. TO WHICH IS ADDED SEVERAL NARRATIVES OF ADVENTURES AMONG THE INDIANS. AUBURN: DERBY & MILLER. BUFFALO: DERBY, ORTON & MULLIGAN. 1853. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by GEO. H. DERBY & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Northern District of New York. CONTENTS. PAGES. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES, 5 to 40 Scenes and Adventures in the Ozark Mountains, 41 " 63 Personal Incidents and Impressions of the Indian Race, 64 " 77 TALES OF A WIGWAM-- The White Stone Canoe, 79 " 81 The Lynx and the Hare--Fable from the Odjibwa-Algonquin, 81 The Worship of the Sun, an Ottowa Tradition, 82 " 84 Shingebiss, 85 " 86 Wasbashas, or the Tribe that Grew out of a Shell, 95 " 97 The Boy who set a Snare for the Sun, 97 " 99 Ampata Sapa, or, The First Wife, 99 " 100 Mukakee Mindemoea, or, The Toad Woman, 101 " 103 The Quadruped with the Hair blown off its Skin, 106 " 109 The Traditionary Story of Red Head and his Two Sons, 109 " 115 The Swing on the Lake Shore, 116 " 117 Takozid, or the Short-Foot, 118 " 121 Machinito, the Evil Spirit, by Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, 121 " 126 The Little Spirit, or Boy-Man, an Odjibwa Fairy Tale, 127 " 130 Aingodon and Naywadaha--story of a family of Nadowas, 130 " 133 The Rabid Wolf, a Village Tradition, 158 " 163 Moowis, or the Man made up of Rags and Dirt, 164 " 167 The Lone Lightning, an Odjibwa Tale, 168 POETRY-- To Health, 183 The Bird, 63 "The Loon upon the Lake, 404 Odjibwa Song, 405 Niagara, an Allegory, 407 Traditionary War Songs of the Odjibwa Algonquins, 410 " 416 SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF NOTED RED MEN AND WOMEN-- Wabojeeg, or the White Fisher, 134 " 145 Brant, Red Jacket, Uncas, Miontonimo, 146 " 157 Confessions of Catherine Ogee Wyan Akwut Okwa, 169 " 174 Andaig Weos, or Crows-Flesh, 192 " 195 Early Indian Biography--Piskaret, an Algonquin Chief, 87 " 90 Early Sketches of Indian Women, 95 The Magician of Lake Huron, 75 " 178 Venerable Indian Chief, 365 Indian Women, their Dispositions, Employments, &c., 399 " 401 ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE RACE-- Wyandot Traditions of the Creation, and other Epochs, 196 " 200 Traditions of the Arctides, 201 " 203 Historical Traditions of the Chippewas, Odjibwas, &c., 203 " 206 Mythology, Superstition, and Religion of the Algonquins, 206 " 217 Indian Arrow Heads, &c., 218 " 220 The Manito Tree, 78 The Era of the Arrival of the French in the Upper Lakes, 289 " 290 Shingaba-Wossins, or Image Stones, 291 " 293 Mnemonic Symbols of the North American Indians, 293 " 300 Grave Creek Mound, 301 Names of the American Lakes, 302 " 303 Letters on the Antiquities of the Western Country, 309 " 328 Era of the Settlement of Detroit, &c., 328 " 330 The Choctaw Indians, 330 A Synopsis of Cartier's Voyages of Discovery, 331 " 352 Influence of Ardent Spirits on the Condition of Indian 353 " 365 Fate of the Red Race in America, 366 " 389 Pawnee Barbarity, 402 " 403 Indian Possessions, 163 Ruling Chief of the Miamis, 174 Repose of the Soul, 127 Corn Planting and its Incidents, 179 " 183 Domestic and Social Manners of the Indians, 184 " 187 Pugasaing, or the Game of the Bowl, 188 " 190 Reverence and Affection for Parents, 191 Chronology, 288 The Origin of the Wyandot and Seneca Tribes, 91 " 94 The Flight of the Shawnees from the South, 104 " 105 ETHNOLOGY-- Schoolcraft's Cyclopædia--History, Geography, &c., 131 " 165 LANGUAGE-- Grammatical Structure of the Indian Language, 266 " 288 Nursery and Cradle Songs of the Forest, 390 " 398 Mode of Writing an Indian Language, 145 Languages of the Pacific Islands, 398 Indian Music, Songs, and Poetry, 221 " 229 Geographical Terminology, from the Indian Language 304 " 308 Names of the Seasons, 308 Chant to the Fire-fly, 230 A Psalm, or Supplication for Mercy, &c., 408 " 409 APPENDIX-- Narrative of the Captivity of Alexander Henry, Esq. 417 " 462 Narrative of the Captivity of Frances Noble, 463 " 469 Narrative of the Captivity of Quintin Stockwell, 470 " 478 Narrative of the Captivity of Peter Williamson, 479 " 487 Narrative of the Captivity of Jonathan Carver, 488 " 493 Narrative of the Captivity of Mrs. Scott, 494 " 495 PERSONAL REMINISCENCES. It is now twenty-six years since I first entered the area of the Mississippi valley, with the view of exploring its then but imperfectly known features, geographical and geological. Twenty-two years of this period have elapsed since I entered on the duties of an Executive Agent for the United States Government in its higher northern latitudes among the Indian tribes in the west. Having devoted so large a portion of my life in an active sphere, in which the intervals of travel left me favourable opportunities of pursuing the languages and history of this branch of the race, it appears to be a just expectation, that, in sitting down to give some account of this people, there should be some preliminary remarks, to apprise the reader how and why it is, that his attention is recalled to a topic which he may have supposed to be well nigh exhausted. This it is proposed to do by some brief personal reminiscences, beginning at the time above alluded to. The year 1814 constituted a crisis, not only in our political history, but also in our commercial, manufacturing, and industrial interests. The treaty of Ghent, which put a period to the war with England, was a blessing to many individuals and classes in America: but, in its consequences, it had no small share of the effects of a curse upon that class of citizens who were engaged in certain branches of manufactures. It was a peculiarity of the crisis, that these persons had been stimulated by double motives, to invest their capital and skill in the perfecting and establishment of the manufactories referred to, by the actual wants of the country and the high prices of the foreign articles. No pains and no cost had been spared, by many of them, to supply this demand; and it was another result of the times, that no sooner had they got well established, and were in the high road of prosperity than the peace came and plunged them headlong from the pinnacle of success. This blow fell heavier upon some branches than others. It was most fatal to those manufacturers who had undertaken to produce fabrics of the highest order, or which belong to an advanced state of the manufacturing prosperity of a nation. Be this as it may, however, it fell with crushing force upon that branch in which I was engaged. As soon as the American ports were opened to these fabrics, the foreign makers who could undersell us, poured in cargo on cargo; and when the first demands had been met, these cargoes were ordered to be sold at auction; the prices immediately fell to the lowest point, and the men who had staked in one enterprise their zeal, skill and money, were ruined at a blow. Every man in such a crisis, must mentally recoil upon himself. Habits of application, reading, and an early desire to be useful, had sustained me at a prior period of life, through the dangers and fascinations of jovial company. There was in this habit or temper of room-seclusion, a pleasing resource of a conservative character, which had filled up the intervals of my busiest hours; and when business itself came to a stand, it had the effect to aid me in balancing and poising my mind, while I prepared to enter a wider field, and indeed, to change my whole plan of life. If it did not foster a spirit of right thought and self-dependence, it, at least, gave a degree of tranquillity to the intervals of a marked pause, and, perhaps, flattered the ability to act. Luckily I was still young, and with good animal spirits, and a sound constitution I resolved I would not go down so. The result of seven years of strenuous exertions, applied with persevering diligence and success, was cast to the winds, but it was seven years of a young man's life, and I thought it could be repaired by time and industry. What the east withheld, I hoped might be supplied by another quarter. I turned my thoughts to the west, and diligently read all I could find on the subject. The result of the war of 1812, (if this contest had brought no golden showers on American manufacturers, as I could honestly testify in my own case,) had opened to emigration and enterprise the great area west of the Alleghanies. The armies sent out to battle with Indian, and other foes, on the banks of the Wabash, the Illinois, the Detroit, the Raisin and the Miami of the Lakes, had opened to observation attractive scenes for settlement; and the sword was no sooner cast aside, than emigrants seized hold of the axe and the plough. This result was worth the cost of the whole contest, honour and glory included. The total prostration of the moneyed system of the country, the effects of city-lot and other land speculations, while the system was at its full flow, and the very backward seasons of 1816 and 1817, attended with late and early frosts, which extensively destroyed the corn crop in the Atlantic states, all lent their aid in turning attention towards the west and south-west, where seven new states have been peopled and organized, within the brief period to which these reminiscences apply: namely, Indiana, Illinois, Mississippi, Missouri, Alabama, Arkansas and Michigan, besides the flourishing territories of Wisconsin and Iowa, and the more slowly advancing territory of Florida. It appeared to me, that information, geographical and other, of such a wide and varied region, whose boundaries were but ill defined, must be interesting at such a period; and I was not without the hope that the means of my future advancement would be found in connexion with the share I might take in the exploration of it. With such views I resolved to go west. This feeling I find to be expressed on the back of an old slip of an account of the period: "I will go by western fountain, I will wander far and wide; Till some sunny spot invite me, Till some guardian bid me bide. "Snow or tempest--plain the drearest Shall oppose a feeble bar, Since I go from friends the dearest, 'Tis no matter then how far. "On!--'tis useless here to dally; On!--I can but make or mar; Since my fortune leads to sally, 'Tis no matter then how far." Of the "seven years" to which allusion has been made I had spent four in New England, a land which is endeared to me at this distance of time, by recollections of hospitality, virtue, and manly intelligence. While engaged in the direction of the business above named, I had prepared the notes and materials for my first publication, in which I aimed to demonstrate the importance of an acquaintance with Chemistry and Mineralogy in the preparation and fusion of numerous substances in the mineral kingdom, which result in the different conditions of the various glasses, enamels, &c. I had, from early youth, cultivated a taste for mineralogy, long indeed it may be said, before I knew that mineralogy was a science; and, as opportunities increased, had been led by my inquiries, (which I followed with ardour but with very slight helps,) to add to this some knowledge of elementary chemistry and experimental philosophy, and to supply myself, from Boston and New York, with books, apparatus, and tests. I do not know that there were any public lectures on mineralogy, &c. at this time, say from 1810 to '16; certainly, there were none within my reach. I gleaned from the best sources I could, and believe that the late Professor Frederick Hall was the only person to whom I was indebted even for occasional instructions in these departments. He was a man strongly devoted to some of the natural sciences, particularly mineralogy; and was erudite in the old authors on the subject, whom he liked to quote; and I may say that I continued to enjoy his confidence and friendship to the time of his death, which happened in 1843. From such sources, from the diligent reading of books, and from experiments, conducted with the advantage of having under my charge extensive works, at various times, in the states of New York, Vermont and New Hampshire, I drew the principles which formed the basis of my treatise on Vitreology. With this work in hand, I left Keene, in New Hampshire, early in the winter of 1817; and, crossing the Connecticut river at Brattleboro, proceeded over the Green Mountains, by the route of Bennington, to Albany, and thence returned to my father's house in western New York. No time was lost in issuing proposals for the work; and I had the satisfaction to find that the portions published, and the entire plan and merits of it were warmly approved by the pen of the late Mr. Maynard of Utica, and by several liberal minded and intelligent persons. Before quitting New England, I had determined to go to the Mississippi valley, and had begun to study its geography; and I now resolved to proceed, without unnecessary delay. Means constitute the first object of solicitude in all such undertakings. The ebbing tide of manufacturing prosperity to which I have referred, had left me very poor. From the fragments of former acquisitions, for which, however, I was exclusively indebted to my own industry, I raised a small sum of money--much smaller I think than most men would be willing to start with, who had resolved to go so far. I had, in truth, but sixty dollars in the world; but I possessed a very good wardrobe, and some other personal means, such as it may be supposed will adhere to a man who has lived in abundance for many years. I put up a miniature collection of mineralogical specimens, to serve as a standard of comparison in the west, a few implements for analysis, some books which I thought it would be difficult to meet with in that region, and some drawing materials. I had connected these things in some way with my future success. In other respects, I had the means, as above hinted, of making a respectable appearance. Thus prepared, I bade adieu to my father and mother, and also to three sisters and a brother, all younger than myself, and set forward. The winter of 1818 had opened before I reached my brother's house at Geneva, in western New York. From this point I determined to leave the main track, through the Genessee county west, and to strike the head waters of the Alleghany river, so as to descend that stream with the spring flood. My brother drove me in his own sleigh, as far as Angelica. By the time we reached that place, being no traveller and much fatigued with the intricacies and roughness of the road, he was fain to give over his undertaking, and I parted from him, sending back the sleigh from Olean, to take him home. The Alleghany river was locked with ice when I reached it. I had an opportunity to cross it on foot, and to examine in the vicinity those evidences of the coal formation which are found in masses of bituminous shale, slaty coal and petroleum. The river began to open about the middle of March. I left Olean in the first ark for the season, borne onwards down the sweeping Alleghany at the top of the flood, often through winding channels, and once in danger of being precipitated over a mill dam, by taking the wrong channel. On another occasion, just as we were coming to the division of the channel, at the head of a group of islands, a tall Seneca Indian, standing in the bow of a very long pine canoe, cried out, in a tone of peculiar emphasis, "Keep to the right--I speak it." This direction we followed, and were saved from another mishap. We tied the ark to the shore at night, built a fire on the bank and cooked a supper. On passing the Conowonga, it was at the height of its flood, and appeared to bring in as much water as the Allegheny. We stopped at the noted chief Cornplanter's village, and also to gratify a reminiscent curiosity, at the mouth of French Creek, connected with Washington's perilous adventure in visiting Fort de Boef, now Erie. At Kittaning, a great scow ferry boat was rowed and managed by two women or girls with a degree of muscular exertion, or rather ease, which would put to the blush many a man east or west of the Alleghanies. The tone, air, and masculine strength of these girl-boatmen, reminded me of nothing this side of Rollin's description of the Amazons--save that the same provision was not apparent for drawing the bow. Bold hills line both banks of the river along its upper parts, and continue, indeed, at farther intervals apart, to very near the junction of the Monongahela; but long before this point, the stream is one of noble dimensions, clear, broad, and strong. After a voyage of exciting and vivid interest, I reached and landed at Pittsburgh. NO. II. It is Dr. Johnson, I think, who says, that we take slight occasions to be pleased. At least, I found it so, on the present occasion; the day of my arrival was my birth day, and it required but little stretch of imagination to convert the scene upon which I had now entered, into a new world. It was new to me.--I was now fairly in the great geological valley of the west, the object of so many anticipations. The ark, in which I had descended the Alleghany, put ashore near the point of land, which is formed by the junction of the Monongahela with this fine clear stream. The dark and slowly moving waters of the one, contrasted strongly with the sparkling velocity of the other. I felt a buoyancy of spirits as I leapt ashore, and picked up some of its clean pebbles to see what kind of geological testimony they bore to the actual character of their parent beds in the Appalachian range. "What shall I pay you, for my passage, from Olean," said I, to the gentleman with whom I had descended, and at whose ark-table I had found a ready seat with his family. "Nothing, my dear sir," he replied with a prompt and friendly air,--"Your cheerful aid in the way, taking the oars whenever the case required it, has more than compensated for any claims on that score, and I only regret that you are not going further with us." Committing my baggage to a carman, I ascended the bank of diluvial earth and pebbles with all eagerness, and walked to the point of land where Fort Pitt (old Fort Du Quesne) had stood. It is near this point that the Alleghany and Monongahela unite, and give birth to the noble Ohio. It is something to stand at the head of such a stream. The charm of novelty is beyond all others. I could realize, in thought, as I stood here, gazing on the magnificent prospect of mingling waters, and their prominent and varied shores, the idea, which is said to be embodied in the old Mingo substantive-exclamation of O-he-o! a term, be it remembered, which the early French interpreters at once rendered, and truly, it is believed, by the name of _La Belle Rivière_. So far, I said to myself, all is well,--I am now west of the great spinal chain. All that I know of America is now fairly _east_ of me--bright streams, warm hearts and all. I have fairly cast myself loose on the wide waters of the west. I have already come as many hundred miles, as there are days in the week, but I begin my travels here. I have, as it were, taken my life in my hand. Father and mother, I may never see more. God wot the result. I go to seek and fulfil an unknown destiny. Come weal or woe, I shall abide the result. All the streams run south, and I have laid in, with "time and chance" for a journey with them. I am but as a chip on their surface--nothing more! Whether my bones are to rest in this great valley, or west of the Cordilleras, or the Rocky Mountains, I know not. I shall often think of the silver Iosco, the farther I go from it. To use a native metaphor, My foot is on the path, and the word, is onward! "The spider taketh hold with her hands," Solomon says, "and is in king's palaces." Truly, a man should accomplish, by diligence, as much as a spider. Pittsburgh was, even then, a busy manufacturing town, filled with working machinery, steam engines, hammers, furnaces, and coal smoke. I visited Mr. O'Hara, and several other leading manufacturers. They made glass, bar iron, nails, coarse pottery, castings, and many other articles, which filled its shops and warehouses, and gave it a city-like appearance. Every chimney and pipe, perpendicular or lateral, puffed out sooty coal smoke, and it required some dexterity to keep a clean collar half a day. I met ladies who bore this _impress_ of the city, on their morning toilet. I took lodgings at Mrs. McCullough's, a respectable hotel on Wood street, and visited the various manufactories, for which the place was then, and is now celebrated. In these visits, I collected accurate data of the cost of raw material, the place where obtained, the expense of manufacture, and the price of the finished fabric. I had thus a body of facts, which enabled me, at least to converse understandingly on these topics, to give my friends in the east, suitable data, and to compare the advantages of manufacturing here with those possessed by the eastern and middle states. Every thing was, in the business prospects of the west, however, at a comparatively low ebb. The prostrating effects of the war, and of the _peace_, were alike felt. We had conquered England, in a second contest, but were well exhausted with the effort. The country had not recovered from the sacrifices and losses of a series of military operations, which fell most heavily on its western population. Its agricultural industry had been crippled. Its financial affairs were deranged. Its local banks were broken: its manufactories were absolutely ruined. There was little confidence in business, and never was credit, public and private, at a lower ebb. There was however, one thing, in which the west held out a shining prospect. It had abundance of the finest lands in the world, and in fact, it promised a happy home to the agricultural industry of half the world. It was literally the land of promise, to the rest of the union, if not to Europe. Having seen whatever I wished in Pittsburgh, I hired a horse and crossing the Monongahela, went up its southern banks, as high as Williamsport. I found the country people were in the habit of calling the city "Pitt" or "Fort Pitt," a term dating back doubtless to the time of the surrender, or rather taking possession of Fort Du Quesne, by Gen. Forbes. Mineral coal (bituminous) characterizes the entire region, as far as my excursion reached. By a happy coincidence in its geological structure, iron ores are contained in the series of the coal deposits. On returning from this trip, night set in, very dark: on the evening I approached the summit of the valley of the Monongahela, called Coal Hill. The long and winding road down this steep was one mass of moving mud, only varied in its consistence, by sloughs, sufficient to mire both man and horse. I was compelled to let the animal choose his own path, and could only give him aid, when the flashes of lightning lit up the scene with a momentary brilliance, which, however, had often no other effect but to remind me of my danger. He brought me, at length, safely to the brink of the river, and across the ferry. To be at the head of the Ohio river, and in the great manufacturing city of the West, was an exciting thought, in itself. I had regarded Pittsburgh as the alpha, in my route, and after I had made myself familiar with its characteristics, and finding nothing to invite my further attention, I prepared to go onward. For this purpose, I went down to the banks of the Monongahela, one day, where the arks of that stream usually touch, to look for a passage. I met on the beach, a young man from Massachusetts, a Mr. Brigham,--who had come on the same errand, and being pleased with each other, we engaged a passage together, and getting our baggage aboard immediately, set off the same evening. To float in an ark, down one of the loveliest rivers in the world, was, at least, a novelty, and as all novelty gives pleasure, we went on charmingly. There were some ten or a dozen passengers, including two married couples. We promenaded the decks, and scanned the ever changing scenery, at every bend, with unalloyed delight. At night we lay down across the boat, with our feet towards the fire-place, in a line, with very little diminution of the wardrobe we carried by day,--the married folks, like light infantry in an army, occupying the flanks of our nocturnal array. The only objection I found to the night's rest, arose from the obligation, each one was tacitly under, to repair on deck, at the hollow night-cry of "oars!" from the steersman. This was a cry which was seldom uttered, however, except when we were in danger of being shoved, by the current, on the head of some island, or against some frowning "snag," so that we had a mutual interest in being punctual at this cry. By it, sleep was to be enjoyed only in sections, sometimes provokingly short, and our dreams of golden vallies, studded with pearls and gems, were oddly jumbled with the actual presence of plain matter of fact things, such as running across a tier of "old monongahela" or getting one's fingers trod on, in scrambling on deck. We took our meals on our laps, sitting around on boxes and barrels, and made amends for the want of style or elegance, by cordial good feeling and a practical exhibition of the best principles of "association." There was another pleasing peculiarity in this mode of floating. Two or more arks were frequently lashed together, by order of their commanders, whereby our conversational circle was increased, and it was not a rare circumstance to find both singers and musicians, in the moving communities for "the west," so that those who were inclined to, might literally dance as they went. This was certainly a social mode of conquering the wilderness, and gives some idea of the buoyancy of American character. How different from the sensations felt, in floating down the same stream, by the same means, in the era of Boon,--the gloomy era of 1777, when instead of violin, or flageolet, the crack of the Indian rifle was the only sound to be anticipated at every new bend of the channel. Off Wheeling the commander of our ark made fast to a larger one from the Monongahela, which, among other acquaintances it brought, introduced me to the late Dr. Sellman of Cincinnati, who had been a surgeon in Wayne's army. This opened a vista of reminiscences, which were wholly new to me, and served to impart historical interest to the scene. Some dozen miles below this town, we landed at the Grave Creek Flats for the purpose of looking at the large mound, at that place. I did not then know that it was the largest artificial structure of this kind in the western country. It was covered with forest trees of the native growth, some of which were several feet in diameter, and it had indeed, essentially the same look and character, which I found it to present, twenty-five years afterwards, when I made a special visit to this remarkable mausoleum to verify the character of some of its antiquarian contents. On ascending the flat summit of the mound, I found a charming prospect around. The summit was just 50 feet across. There was a cup-shaped concavity, in its centre, exciting the idea that there had been some internal sub-structure which had given way, and caused the earth to cave in. This idea, after having been entertained for more than half a century, was finally verified in 1838, when Mr. Abelard Tomlinson, a grandson of the first proprietor, caused it to be opened. They discovered two remarkable vaults, built partly of stone, and partly of logs, as was judged from the impressions in the earth. They were situated about seventeen feet apart, one above the other. Both contained bones, the remains of human skeletons, along with copper bracelets, plates of mica, sea shells, heads of wrought conch, called "ivory" by the multitude, and some other relics, most of which were analogous to articles of the same kind occurring in other ancient mounds in the west. The occasion would not indeed have justified the high expectations which had been formed, had it not been for the discovery, in one of the vaults, of a small flat stone of an oval form, containing an inscription in ancient characters. This inscription, which promises to throw new light on the early history of America, has not been decyphered. Copies of it have been sent abroad. It is thought by the learned at Copenhagen, to be Celtiberic. It is not, in their view Runic. It has, apparently, but one hieroglyphic, or symbolic figure. A good deal of historical interest clusters about this discovery of the inscribed stone. Tomlinson, the grandfather, settled on these flats in 1772, two years before the murder of Logan's family. Large trees, as large as any in the forest, then covered the flats and the mound. There stood in the depression I have mentioned, in the top of the mound, a large beech tree, which had been visited earlier, as was shewn by several names and dates cut on the bark. Among these, there was one of the date of A. D. 1734. This I have seen stated under Mr. Tomlinson's own hand. The place continued to be much visited from 1770 to 1790, as was shewn by newer names and dates, and indeed, continues to be so still. There was standing at the time of my first visit in 1818, on the very summit of the mound, a large dead or decayed white oak, which was cut down, it appears, about ten years afterwards. On counting its cortical layers, it was ascertained to be about 500 years old. This would denote the desertion of the mound to have happened about the commencement of the 13th century. Granting to this, what appears quite clear, that the inscription is of European origin, have we not evidence, in this fact, of the continent's having been visited prior to the era of Columbus? Visited by whom? By a people, or individuals, it may be said, who had the use of an antique alphabet, which was much employed, (although corrupted, varied and complicated by its spread) among the native priesthood of the western shores and islands of the European continent, prior to the introduction of the Roman alphabet. The next object of antiquarian interest, in my descent, was at Gallipolis--the site of an original French settlement on the west bank, which is connected with a story of much interest, in the history of western migrations. It is an elevated and eligible plain, which had before been the site of an Indian, or aboriginal settlement. Some of the articles found in a mound, such as plates of mica and sea shells, and beads of the wrought conch, indicated the same remote period for this ancient settlement, as the one at Grave Creek Flats; but I never heard of any inscribed articles, or monuments bearing alphabetic characters. All other interest, then known, on this subject, yielded to that which was felt in witnessing the antique works at Marietta. Like many others who had preceded me and many who have followed me, in my visit, I felt while walking over these semi-military ruins, a strong wish to know, who had erected works so different from those of the present race of Indians, and during what phasis of the early history of the continent? A covered way had, evidently, been constructed, from the margin of the Muskingum to the elevated square, evincing more than the ordinary degree of military skill exercised by the Western Indians. Yet these works revealed one trait, which assimilates them, in character, with others, of kindred stamp, in the west. I allude to the defence of the open gate-way, by a minor mound; clearly denoting that the passage was to be disputed by men, fighting hand to hand, who merely sought an advantage in exercising manual strength, by elevation of position. The Marietta tumuli also, agree in style with others in the Ohio valley. A leaden plate was found near this place, a few years after this visit, of which an account was given by Gov. Clinton, in a letter to the American Antiquarian Society, in 1827, but the inscription upon it, which was in Latin, but mutilated, proved that it related to the period of the French supremacy in the Canadas. It appeared to have been originally deposited at the mouth of the river Venango, A. D. 1749, during the reign of Louis XV. While at Marietta, our flotilla was increased by another ark from the Muskingum, which brought to my acquaintance the Hon. Jesse B. Thomas, of Illinois, to whose civilities I was afterwards indebted, on several occasions. Thus reinforced, we proceeded on, delighted with the scenery of every new turn in the river, and augmenting our circle of fellow travellers, and table acquaintance, if that can be called a table acquaintance which assembles around a rustic board. One night an accident befel us, which threatened the entire loss of one of our flotilla. It so happened, at the spot of our landing, that the smaller ark, being outside, was pressed by the larger ones, so far ashore, as to tilt the opposite side into the stream below the caulked seam. It would have sunk, in a few minutes, but was held up, partly by its fastening to the other boats. To add to the interest felt, it was filled with valuable machinery. A congress of the whole travelling community assembled on shore, some pitching pebble-stones, and some taking a deeper interest in the fate of the boat. One or two unsuccessful efforts had been made to bail it out, but the water flowed in faster than it could be removed. To cut loose the rope and abandon it, seemed all that remained. "I feel satisfied," said I, to my Massachusetts friend, "that two men, bailing with might and main, _can_ throw out more water, in a given time, than is let in by those seams; and if you will step in with me, we will test it, by trying again." With a full assent and ready good will be met this proposition. We pulled off our coats, and each taking a pail, stepped in the water, then half-leg deep in the ark, and began to bail away, with all force. By dint of determination we soon had the satisfaction to see the water line lower, and catching new spirit at this, we finally succeeded in sinking its level below the caulked seam. The point was won. Others now stepped in to our relief. The ark and its machinery were saved. This little incident was one of those which served to produce pleasurable sensations, all round, and led perhaps, to some civilities at a subsequent date, which were valuable to me. At any rate, Mr. Thomas, who owned the ark, was so well pleased, that he ordered a warm breakfast of toast, chickens, and coffee on shore for the whole party. This was a welcome substitute for our ordinary breakfast of bacon and tea on board. Such little incidents serve as new points of encouragement to travellers: the very shores of the river looked more delightful, after we put out, and went on our way that morning. So much has a satisfied appetite to do with the aspect of things, both without, as well as within doors. The month of April had now fairly opened. The season was delightful. Every rural sound was joyful--every sight novel, and a thousand circumstances united to make the voyage one of deep and unmixed interest. At this early season nothing in the vegetable kingdom gives a more striking and pleasing character to the forest, than the frequent occurrence of the celtis ohioensis, or Red Bud. It presents a perfect bouquet of red, or rose-coloured petals, while there is not a leaf exfoliated upon its branches, or in the entire forest. No incident, further threatening the well being of our party, occurred on the descent to Cincinnati, where we landed in safety. But long before we reached this city, its _outliers_, to use a geological phrase, were encountered, in long lines and rafts of boards and pine timber, from the sources of the Alleghany, and arks and flat-boats, from all imaginable places, with all imaginable names, north of its latitude. Next, steamboats lying along the gravel or clay banks, then a steam-mill or two, puffing up its expended strength to the clouds, and finally, the dense mass of brick and wooden buildings, jutting down in rectangular streets--from high and exceedingly beautiful and commanding hills in the rear. All was suited to realize high expectations. Here was a city indeed, on the very spot from which St. Clair set out, on his ill-fated expedition in 1791, against the hostile Indians. Twenty-five years had served to transform the wilderness into scenes of cultivation and elegance, realizing, with no faint outlines, the gay creations of eastern fable. NO. III. Cincinnati had, at this time, (1818,) the appearance of a rapidly growing city, which appeared to have, from some general causes, been suddenly checked in its growth. Whole rows of unfinished brick buildings had been left by the workmen. Banks, and the offices of corporate and manufacturing companies, were not unfrequently found shut. Nor did it require long looking or much inquiry to learn that it had seen more prosperous times. A branch bank of the U. S. then recently established there, was much and bitterly, but I know not how justly, spoken against. But if there was not the same life and air in all departments, that formerly existed, there was abundant evidence of the existence of resources in the city and country, which must revive and push it onward in its career and growth, to rank second to no city west of the Alleghanies. This city owes its origin, I believe, to John Cleves Symes, father-in-law of the late President Harrison, a Jerseyman by birth, who, in planning it, took Philadelphia as his model. This has imparted a regularity to its streets, and squares, that visitors will at once recognize, as characteristic of its parentage. It stands on a heavy diluvial formation of various layers of clay, loam, sand, and gravel, disposed in two great plateaux, or first and second banks, the lowest of which is some thirty or forty feet above the common summer level of the Ohio. Yet this river has sometimes, but rarely, been known to surmount this barrier and invade the lowermost streets of the city. These diluvial beds have yielded some curious antiquarian relics, which lead the mind farther back, for their origin, than the Indian race. The most curious of these, if the facts are correctly reported to me, was the discovery of a small antique-shaped iron horse-shoe, found twenty-five feet below the surface in grading one of the streets, and the blunt end, or stump of a tree, at another locality, at the depth of ninety-four feet, together with marks of the cut of an axe, and an iron wedge. I have had no means to verify these facts, but state them as credible, from the corroborative testimony afforded them by other discoveries in the great geological basin of the west, examined by me, which denote human occupancy in America prior to the deposition of the last of the unconsolidated and eocene series. Our flotilla here broke up, and the persons who had formed its floating community separated, each to pursue his several way, and separate views. I made several acquaintances, whose names are recollected with pleasure. Dr. S. invited me to dine with him, introduced me to his young partner, Dr. Moorhead, and put me in the way of obtaining eligible private lodgings. The three weeks I spent in this city were agreeably passed, varied as they were, by short excursions in the vicinity, including the Licking valley--a stream which comes in on the Kentucky side, directly opposite the city. I went, one day, to see an experimental structure, built at the foot of the Walnut hills, with a very long pipe, or wooden chamber leading up their sides, and rising above their tops. This was constructed by an ingenious person, at the expense of the late Gen. Lyttle, under the confident hope of his realizing a practical mechanical power from the _rarifaction of atmospheric air_. There was confessedly _a power_, but the difficulty was in multiplying this power, so as to render it practically applicable to the turning of machinery. The ratio of its increase, contended for, namely, the length of the pipe, appeared to me to be wholly fallacious, and the result proved it so. The thing was afterwards abandoned. There was an ancient mound here, which had not then been opened, but which has since yielded a curious ornamented stone, bearing a kind of arabesque figures, not dissimilar, in the style of drawing, to some of the rude sculptured figures of Yucatan, as recently brought to light by Mr. Stephens and Mr. Catherwood. I received, one day, a note from one of the directors of the White Lead Works, above the city, requesting me to visit it, and inspect in detail the processes of the manufacture. The latter I found to be defective in the mode of corroding the lead by the acetic acid; there was also an unnecessary complication and amount of machinery in bringing the oxide into the condition of a good pigment, and putting it into kegs, which had been very onerous in its cost, and was perpetually liable to get out of order. It was during my stay here that I first felt the effects of the western limestone waters in deranging the stomach and bowels, and paid for my initiation into the habit, as all strangers must, by some days confinement. Dr. M. brought me about, and checked the disease, without any permanently injurious effects on my general health. When I was ready to proceed down the river, I went to seek a passage along the landing, but found no boat (steamboats were few and far between in those days). While pacing the beach, I met a man of gentlemanly appearance, who had experienced the same disappointment, and was desirous to go forward in his journey. He told me, that he had found a small row boat, well built, and fitted with seats, which could be purchased for a reasonable sum; that it would hold our baggage very well, and he thought we could make a pleasant trip in it as far as Louisville at the Falls, where the means of communication by steamboats were ample. On examining the boat, and a little inquiry, I acceded to this proposition, and I had no cause to regret it. This gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, but which is somewhere among my papers, was a native of the city of Nancy, but a resident of Baltimore. He was, like the city itself I believe, Franco-German, speaking the two languages very well, and the English with peculiarities. He had a benevolent and honest countenance and social, agreeable manners, not too free, nor stiffly reserved; and we performed the trip without accident, although we had a narrow escape one day from a sawyer, one of that insidious cast of these river pests, called in western parlance, a sleeping sawyer. It was now the month of May; the atmosphere was mild and balmy, loaded with the perfumes of opening vegetation; we took the oars and the helm alternately; we had a constant succession of pretty views; we put ashore to eat and to sleep, and the whole trip, which occupied some three or four days at the farthest, was perfectly delightful. We put ashore at Vevay, where the Swiss had then newly introduced the cultivation of the vine, to see the vineyards and the mode of cultivation. I have since witnessed this culture on the banks of the Rhine, and found it to be very similar. The vines are closely pruned and kept from becoming woody, and are trained to slender sticks, which, are arranged with the order of a garden bean-bed, which at the proper season, they much resemble. We also tasted the wine, and found it poor. On the last day of the voyage, we took into our boat a young physician--a Hollander, recently arrived in the country, telling him, that by way of equivalent, we should expect him to take his turn at the oars. He was a man of small stature--well formed, rather slovenly, yet pretty well dressed, with blue eyes, a florid face, and very voluble. Of all that he said, however, by far the most striking part, was his account of his skill in curing cancer. It was clear that he was an itinerating cancer-doctor. He said, amid other things, that he had received an invitation to go and cure the Governor of Indiana. We now had Indiana on our right hand, and Kentucky on our left. These are the principal incidents of the trip. We reached our destination in safety, and landed on the superb natural sylvan wall, or park, which is formed by the entrance of Beargrass Creek with the Ohio, just in front of, or a little above, Louisville. Here we sold our boat, took separate lodgings, and parted. I found in a day or two, that my friend from Nancy had a flourishing school for military tactics and the sword exercise, where, at his invitation, I went to visit him. From this man, I learned, as we descended the Ohio, that the _right_ and _left_ banks of a river, in military science, are determined by the supposed position of a man standing at its head, and looking _downwards_. I found in the limestone rocks which form the bed of the river between the town and Corn Island, the cornu ammonis and some other species of organic remains; and while I remained here, which was several weeks, I wrote a notice for one of the papers, of a locality of manganese on Sandy river, Ky., and others of some other objects of natural history in the west, which I perceived, by their being copied at the eastward, were well taken. It was my theory, that there was a general interest felt in the Atlantic States for information from the west, and this slight incident served to encourage me. The steamboat canal since constructed around the falls at this place, was then a project only spoken of, and is here alluded to for no higher purpose than to mention, that in its actual subsequent execution, we are informed the workmen came, at the depth of fourteen feet below the surface of the _calcareous rock_, to a brick hearth, covered with what appeared to be the remains of charcoal and ashes. I took walks almost daily, on the fine promenade, shaded with lofty trees, festooned with their native vines, along the Beargrass Creek, which is the common place of landing for arks and boats. On one of these occasions, there came in a large ark, which had been freighted at Perryopolis, on the Yioughagany, some thirty miles from Pittsburgh. The two proprietors were K. and K., Marylanders, both young men, or verging to middle life, who had clubbed together the necessary funds, and in the spirit of adventure, resolved on a trading voyage. There was something in the air and manners of both, which I thought I could trust in for an agreeable voyage, especially as they saw in me, not a rival in commerce of any kind, but a mere observer,--a character which I found, on more than one occasion, placed me on grounds of neutrality and advantage. Steamboats are the worst vehicles ever invented by the ingenuity of man to make observations on a country, always excepting the last improvement on locomotive rail-roads. To a naturalist, especially, they are really horrible. Not a tree or plant can be examined; not a shell, or a rock certainly identified. Hundreds of miles are passed in a few hours; the effect of speed is to annihilate space; town succeeds town, and object object, with such rapidity, that there is no distinct time left for observation or reflection; and after the voyager has reached his point of destination, he is often seriously in doubt, what he has seen, and what he has not seen, and is as much puzzled to put together the exact feature of the country's geography, as if he were called to re-adjust the broken incidents of a night's dream. I had yet another objection to this class of boats, at the era mentioned. Their boilers and machinery were not constructed with elaborate skill and strength; their commanders were often intemperate, and a spirit of reckless rivalry existed, whose results were not infrequently exhibited in exploded, sunk, or grounded boats, and the loss of lives. It is a regulation of law that pilots are provided for all boats, descending the falls--a descent, by the way, which can only be made on the Indiana side. When this officer came on board, the owners thought best to go by land to Shippingport. I had less at stake in its safety than they, yet felt a desire to witness this novel mode of descent; nor did the result disappoint me. Standing on the deck, or rather flat roof of the ark, the view was interesting and exciting. The first point at which the mass of water breaks was the principal point of danger, as there is here a powerful reflux, or eddy current, on the right hand, while the main velocity of the current drives the vessel in a direction which, if not checked by the large sweeps, would inevitably swamp it. The object is to give this check, and shoot her into the eddy water. This was done. The excitement ceased in a few moments, and we passed the rest of the way with less exertion to the men, and got down the remainder of the falls in perfect safety. All this danger to the growing commerce of the west, is now remedied by the Louisville canal, which, by a work of but two miles in length, which holds the relative position of a string to the bow, connects the navigable waters above and below those falls, and permits all river craft of the largest burden to pass. It was about the falls of the Ohio, or a little above, that I first saw the gay and noisy paroquet, or little parrot of the west; a gregarious bird, whose showy green and yellow plumage makes it quite an object to be noticed and remembered in a passage on the lower Ohio. One of these birds, which had been wounded, was picked up out of the river, a few miles below the falls. It was evident, from the occurrence of this species, and other features in the natural history of the country, that we were now making a rapid southing. The red-bud, the papaw, the buckeye, and the cucumber tree, had all introduced themselves to notice, among the forest species, below Pittsburgh; although they are all, I think, actually known to extend a little north of that latitude; and we now soon had added to the catalogue, the pecan and cypress, and the cane, with the constant attendant of the latter, the green briar. I had no opportunity to examine the pecan, until we reached the mouth of the Wabash and Shawneetown, where I went on a shooting excursion with a young Kentuckian, who gave me the first practical exhibition of bringing down single pigeons and other small game with the rifle, by generally striking the head or neck only. I had heard of this kind of shooting before, and witnessed some capital still shots, but here was a demonstration of it, in brush and brier--catching a sight as best one could. The ball used on these occasions was about the size of a large buckshot. Shawneetown is a word which brings to mind one of the North American tribes, who, between 1632 and the present time, figure as one of the frontier actors in our history. They have, in this time, with the ubiquity of one of their own genii, skipped over half America. They were once, certainly dwellers on the Savannah, if not, at a still earlier day, on the Suanee, in Florida; then fled north, a part coming down the Kentucky river, and a part fleeing to the Delaware, and thence west. They are now on the Konga, west of the Missouri. So much for the association of names. History never remembers any thing which she can possibly forget, and I found at least, one high-feeling personage here, who did not like the manner in which I associated the modern town with reminiscences of the savages. "Why, sir," said he, as we walked the deck of the ark, floating down the Ohio, and getting nearer the place every moment, "we have a bank there, and a court house; it is the seat of justice for Gallatin county;--and a printing press is about to be established;--it is a very thriving place, and it bids fair to remain second to none below the Wabash." "All this, truly," I responded, willing to reprove pride in an easy way, "is a great improvement on the wigwam and the council-fire, and wampum coin-beads." It is sometimes better to smile than argue, and I found it so on the present occasion. I did not wish to tread on the toes of rising greatness, or pour upon a love of home and locality, honorable and praise-worthy in my fellow traveller, the chilling influence of cold historical facts. My allusions were the mere effect of the association of ideas, resulting from names. If the residents of Shawneetown do not like to be associated with the native race, who would not have exchanged a good bow and arrows for all the court houses in Christendom, they should bestow upon the place some epithet which may sever the tie. NO. IV. After stopping a day or more at Shawneetown, and reconnoitering its vicinity, I proceeded to the mouth of the Cumberland, and from thence, after many days detention at that point waiting for a boat, to the mouth of the Ohio. I found this to be a highly interesting section of the river, from its great expanse and its fine water prospects. The picturesque calcareous cliffs on the west banks, display a novel and attractive line of river scenery. The Ohio had, from its commencement, well sustained the propriety of its ancient appellation of the Beautiful River; but it here assumed something more than beautiful--it was majestic. Let it be borne in mind that this stream, in the course of some seven or eight hundred miles flow from Pittsburgh to Shawneetown, had been swelled on the right and left hand by the Scioto, the Muskingum, the Kentucky, the Miami, Green River, Wabash, and other rivers of scarcely inferior size. It is still further augmented, from the left bank, with those noble tributaries, the Cumberland and Tennessee, which bring in the gathered drain of the middle ranges of the Alleghanies. It is below Shawneetown, too, that the cliffs of the Cave-in-Rock-Coast present themselves on the west shore--with their associations of the early robber-era which has been commemorated by the pen of fiction of Charles Brockden Brown. These cliffs are cavernous, and assume varied forms. They rise in bold elevations, which bear the general name of the Knobs, but which are well worthy of the name of mountains. Distinct from the interest they have by casting their castle-like shadows, at sunset, in the pure broad stream, they constitute a kind of Derbyshire in their fine purple spars, and crystalized galena and other mineralogical attractions. I was told that a German of the name of Storch, who pretended to occult knowledge, had, years before, led money and mineral diggers about these Knobs, and that he was the discoverer of the fine fluates of lime found here. One can hardly pass these broken eminences, with the knowledge that they tally in their calcareous structure and position with the rock formation of the Missouri state border, lying immediately west of them, without regarding them as the apparent monuments of some ancient geological change, which affected a very wide space of country north of their position. A barrier of this nature, which should link the Tennessee and Missouri coasts, at Grand Tower, would have converted into an inland sea the principal area of the present states of Illinois, Indiana, and Southern Ohio. The line of separation in this latitude is not great. It constitutes the narrowest point between the opposing rock formations of the east and west shores, so far as the latter rise through and above the soil. I was still in a floating Monongahela ark as we approached this coast of cliffs. The day was one of the mildest of the month of June, and the surface of the water was so still and calm that it presented the appearance of a perfect mirror. Our captain ordered alongside the skiff, which served as his jolly boat, and directed the men to land me at the Great Cave. Its wide and yawning mouth gave expectations, however, which were not realized. It closes rapidly as it is pursued into the rock, and never could have afforded a safe shelter for gangs of robbers whose haunts were known. Tradition states, on this point, that its mouth was formerly closed and hid by trees and foliage, by which means the unsuspecting voyagers with their upward freight were waylaid. We overtook the slowly floating ark before it had reached Hurricane Island, and the next land we made was at Smithfield, at the mouth of the Cumberland. While here, several discharged Tennessee militiamen, or volunteers from the still unfinished Indian war in the south, landed on their way home. They were equipped after the fashion of western hunters, with hunting shirts and rifles, and took a manifest pride in declaring that they had fought under "old Hickory"--a term which has, since that era, become familiar to the civilized world. I here first saw that singular excrescence in the vegetable kingdom called cypress knees. The point of land between the mouth of the Cumberland and Ohio, was a noted locality of the cypress tree. This tree puts up from its roots a blunt cone, of various size and height, which resembles a sugar loaf. It is smooth, and without limb or foliage. An ordinary cone or knee would measure eight inches in diameter, and thirty inches high. It would seem like an abortive effort of the tree to put up another growth. The paroquet was exceedingly abundant at this place, along the shores, and in the woods. They told me that this bird rested by hooking its upper mandible to a limb. I made several shooting excursions into the neighbouring forests, and remember that I claimed, in addition to smaller trophies of these daily rambles, a shrike and a hystrix. At length a keel boat came in from the Illinois Saline, commanded by a Captain Ensminger--an Americo-German--a bold, frank man, very intelligent of things relating to river navigation. With him I took passage for St. Louis, in Missouri, and we were soon under weigh, by the force of oars, for the mouth of the Ohio. We stopped a short time at a new hamlet on the Illinois shore, which had been laid out by some speculators of Cincinnati, but was remarkable for nothing but its name. It was called, by a kind of bathos in nomenclature, "America." I observed on the shores of the river at this place, a very recent formation of pudding-stone, or rather a local stratum of indurated pebbles and clay, in which the cementing ingredient was the oxyde of iron. Chalybeate waters percolated over and amongst this mass. This was the last glimpse of consolidated matter. All below, and indeed far above, was alluvial, or of recent origin. Nothing could exceed the fertile character of the soil, or its rank vegetation and forest growth, as we approached the point of junction; but it was a region subject to periodical overflows, the eras of which were very distinctly marked by tufts and bunches of grass, limbs, and other floating matter which had been lodged and left in the forks and branches of trees, now fifteen or twenty feet above our heads. It was now the first day of July, and I felt the most intense interest as we approached and came to the point of confluence. I had followed the Ohio, in all its sinuosities, a thousand miles. I had spent more than three months in its beautiful and varied valley; and I had something of the attachment of an old friend for its noble volume, and did not well like to see it about to be lost in the mighty Mississippi. Broad and ample as it was, however, bringing in the whole congregated drain of the western slopes of the Alleghanies and the table lands of the Great Lakes, the contest was soon decided. The stream had, at that season, sunk down to its summer level, and exhibited a transparent blue volume. The Mississippi, on the contrary, was swelled by the melting snows of the Rocky Mountains, and was in its vernal flood. Coming in at rather an acute angle, it does not immediately arrest the former, but throws its waters along the Tennessee shores. It runs with prodigious velocity. Its waters are thick, turbid, and replete with mingled and floating masses of sand and other comminuted rock and floating vegetation, trees, and rubbish. For miles the line of separation between the Ohio and Mississippi waters was visible by its colour; but long before it reaches the Iron Banks, the modern site of Memphis--the Father of Waters, as it is poetically, not literally, called--had prevailed, and held on its way to make new conquests of the St. Francis, the White, the Arkansas, and other noble streams. Our captain, although he had no lack of self-confidence, did not seem to be in haste to grapple with this new foe, by plunging at once into the turbid stream, but determined to try it next morning. This left me, a good part of the day, in a position where there was not much to reward inquiry. I fished awhile from the boat's side, but was rewarded with nothing besides a gar, a kind of sword, or rather billed fish, which appears to be provided with this appendage to stir up its food or prey from a muddy bottom. Its scales and skin are nearly as hard and compact as a shark's, and its flesh is equally valueless. It is at this point that the town of Cairo has since been located. There were, at the period mentioned, several arks and flat-boats lying on the higher banks, where they had been moored in high water. These now served as dwellings, and by cutting doors in their sides they formed rude groceries and provision stores. Whatever else, however, was to be seen at so low and nascent a point, the mosquito as night came on, soon convinced us that he was the true magnate of those dominions. The next morning at an early hour our stout-hearted commander put his boatmen in motion, and turned his keel into the torrent; but such was the velocity of the water, and its opacity and thick turbidness, that I thought we should have been precipitated down stream, and hurled against sunken logs. Those who have ascended this stream in the modern era of steamboats, know nothing of these difficulties. It seemed impossible to stem the current. A new mode of navigation, to me at least, was to be tried, and it was evidently one which the best practised and stoutest-hearted men by no means relished. These boats are furnished with a plank walk on each side, on which slats are nailed to give a foothold to the men. Each man has a pole of ash wood about 16 feet long, with a wooden knob at the head to rest against the shoulder, and a blunt point at the other end shod with iron. Planting these upon the bottom near shore, with their heads facing down stream, the men bend all their force upon them, propelling the boat by their feet in the contrary direction. This is a very laborious and slow mode of ascent, which has now been entirely superseded on the main rivers by the use of steam. Such is the fury and velocity of the current, that it threatens at every freshet to tear down and burst asunder its banks, and run lawless through the country. Often whole islands are swept away in a short time. We had an instance of this one night, when the island against which we were moored, began to tumble into the channel, threatening to overwhelm us by the falling earth and the recoil of the waves, and we got away to the main shore with much effort, for night was set in, the current furious, and the shore to which we were going entirely unknown. To have struck a sunken log on such a traverse, under such circumstances, must have been fatal. We got at length upon a firm shore, where we moored and turned in at a late hour; but a curious cause of alarm again roused us. Some animal had made its appearance on the margin of the stream, not far below us, which in the dimness of the night appeared to be a bear. All who had arms, got them, and there was quite a bustle and no little excitement among the cabin passengers. The most knowing pronounced it to be a white bear. It produced a snorting sound resembling it. It seemed furious. Both _white_ and _furious_ it certainly was, but after much delay, commendable caution, and no want of the display of courage, it turned out to be a large wounded hog, which had been shot in the snout and head, and came to allay its fevered and festered flesh, by night, in the waters of the Mississippi. To stem the current along this portion of the river required almost superhuman power. Often not more than a few miles can be made with a hard day's exertions. We went the first day six miles, the second about the same distance, and the third eight miles, which brought us to the first cultivated land along a low district of the west shore, called the Tyewapety Bottom. There were six or eight small farms at this spot; the land rich, and said to be quite well adapted for corn, flax, hemp, and tobacco. I observed here the papaw. The next day we ascended but three miles and stopped, the crew being found too weak to proceed. While moored to the bank, we were passed by several boats destined for St. Louis, which were loaded with pine boards and plank from Olean, on the sources of the Alleghany. They told us that sixty dollars per thousand feet could be obtained for them. Additional men having been hired, we went forward the next day to a point which is called the Little Chain of Rocks, where, from sickness in some of the hands, another halt became necessary. It is at this point that the firm cherty clay, or diluvial soil of the Missouri shore, first presents itself on the banks of the river. This soil is of a sterile and mineral character. I noticed beneath the first elevated point of it, near the river's edge, a locality of white compact earth, which is called chalk, and is actually used as such by mechanics. On giving a specimen of it, after my return to New York in 1819, to Mr. John Griscom, he found it completely destitute of carbonic acid; it appears to be a condition of alumine or nearly pure clay. Large masses of pudding-stone, disrupted from their original position, were seen lying along the shore at this locality, being similar in their character to that seen on approaching the mouth of the Ohio. We ascended the river this day ten miles, and the next five miles, which brought us to Cape Girardeau, at the estimated distance of fifty miles above the mouth of the Ohio. At this place I was received with attention by one of the principal residents, who, on learning that my object was to examine the natural history of the country, invited me to his house. In rambling the vicinity, they showed me a somewhat extra but dilapidated and deserted house, which had been built by one Loramee, a Spanish trader, who has left his name on one of the branches of the river St. Mary's of Indiana. This old fabric excited a strong interest in my mind as I walked through its open doors and deserted rooms, by a popular story, how true I know not, that the occupant had been both a rapacious and cruel man, siding with the Indians in the hostilities against our western people; and that he had, on one occasion, taken a female captive, and with his own hands cut off her breasts. The journey from Cape Girardeau to St. Louis occupied nineteen days, and was fraught with scenes and incidents of interest, which I should detail with pleasure were it compatible with my limits. Indeed, every day's voyage along this varied and picturesque shore presented objects of remark, which both commended themselves to my taste, and which the slow mode of ascent gave me full means to improve. This might be said particularly of its geological structure and its mineralogical productions--themes which were then fresh and new, but which have lost much of their attractions by the progress which natural science has made in the country during six and twenty years. To these topics it is the less necessary to revert, as they were embraced in the results of my tour, given in my "_View of the Mines_," published in 1819. The article improperly called pumice, which floats down the Missouri during its floods, from the burning coal banks in the Black Hills, I first picked up on the shore in the ascent above Cape Girardeau, and it gave me an intimation that the waters had commenced falling. We came to, the same night, at a well known fountain, called the Moccasin Spring, a copious and fine spring of crystal water, which issues from an elongated orifice in the limestone rock. While lying at the mouth of the river Obrazo, where we were detained on account of hands, several boats touched at the place, carrying emigrants from Vermont and New York, whose destination was the most westerly settlements on the Missouri. At higher points in the ascent we encountered emigrants from Maine, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and Kentucky, which denotes the wide range of the spirit of migration at the era. The ends of the Union seemed to be brought together by this general movement towards the west. It was not uncommon to find representatives from a great number of the states in these accidental meetings; they were always of a social and highly friendly character, and the effect of such a system of intercommunication and residence, from districts widely separated, could not but be highly auspicious in promoting uniformity of manners and opinions, and assimilating customs, dress, and language. If long continued it must destroy provincialisms, and do much to annihilate local prejudices. Every one who has ascended this stream will recollect the isolated cliff, standing in its waters, called Grand Tower, with the corresponding developments of the coast on the contiguous shores, which tell the traveller plainly enough that here is the site of some ancient disruptive process in the physical history of the valley. The current has an increased velocity in sweeping around this obstacle; and we found, as the waters fell, that there were numerous eddies and strong jets or currents along this precipitous coast, which it required extra force to surmount. We saw one day a number of pelicans standing on a sand bar. The wild turkey and quail were daily encountered on shore. Our approach to St. Genevieve was preceded by a sight of one of those characteristic features in all the early French settlements in this quarter--the great public field extending several miles, five miles I think, along the banks of the river. St. Genevieve itself lies about a mile from the river, and is concealed by irregularities in the surface. It is a highly characteristic antique French town, and reminds one strongly of the style and manner of building of the provincial villages and towns of the parent country, as still existing. Three miles above this place we came to a noted point of crossing called the Little Rock Ferry; a spot worthy of note at that time as the residence of a very aged Frenchman, called _Le Breton_. Statements which are believed to be true, made him 109 years old. From his own account he was at the siege of Bergen-op-zoom, in Flanders; at the siege of Louisburg; at the building of Fort Chartres, in Illinois; and at Braddock's defeat. After his discharge, he discovered those extensive lead mines in Washington county, about forty miles west of the river, which still bear his name. The coast between St. Genevieve and Herculaneum is almost one continuous cliff of precipitous rocks, which are broken through chiefly at the points where rivers and streams discharge. Herculaneum itself is seated on one of these limited areas, hemmed in by cliffs, which, in this case, were rendered still more picturesque by their elevated shot towers. I landed at this place about noon of my twenty-second day's ascent, and finding it a convenient avenue to the mine district, determined to leave my baggage at a hotel till my return from St. Louis, and pursue the rest of the journey to that place on foot. It was at this point that I was introduced to Mr. Austin, the elder, who warmly approved my plan of exploring the mines, and offered every facility in his power to further it. Mr. Austin was, he informed me at a subsequent stage of our acquaintance, a native of Connecticut. He had gone early into Virginia and settled at Richmond, where his eldest son was born, and afterwards removed to Wythe county. In 1778 he went into Upper Louisiana, enduring severe sufferings and the risk of life, in crossing the country by way of Vincennes to St. Louis, where he was well received by the Spanish local governor. He obtained a grant of land in the present area of Washington county, the principal seat of the older mines. About the time I went to Missouri, or soon after it, he resolved to visit San Antonio, in Texas, with a view of introducing a colony of Americans into that quarter. This plan he carried into execution, I think, in 1820, and returned with an ample grant; but he did not live to carry its stipulations into effect, having died suddenly after his return, at the house of his daughter, Mrs. Bryant, at Hazel Run. Mr. Austin was a man of great zeal and fervour of imagination, and entered very warmly into all his plans and views, whatever they were. He was hospitable, frank, intelligent, and it is with feelings of unmixed pleasure, that I revert to my acquaintance with him, no less than with his talented son, Stephen, and the excellent, benign, and lady-like Mrs. Austin, and other members of this intelligent family. NO. V. Herculaneum had nothing in common with its sombre Italian prototype, which has been dug out of dust and ashes in modern times, but its name. Instead of buried palaces and ruins of a luxurious age of marble, bronze and silver, most of the houses were built of squared oak logs, and had bulky old fashioned chimneys, built outside with a kind of castelated air, as they are seen in the old French and Dutch settlements in Canada, and along the vallies of the Hudson and Mohawk. The arts of painting and gilding and cornices, had not yet extended their empire here. Mr. Austin's residence, was the only exception to this remark, I remember. The Courts of Justice were content to hold their sessions in one of the oaken timber buildings named; the county jail had a marvellous resemblance to an ample smoke-house, and my kind host, Ellis, who was a native of South Carolina, was content to serve up substantial and good cheer in articles, not exhumed from a city buried in volcanic ashes, but in plain fabrics of Staffordshire and Birmingham. In addition to the host-like and agreeable resort, which travellers unexpectedly found at his hands, in a mansion whose exterior gave no such signs, he presided over the department of a public ferry, established at this place, across the wild and fluctuating Mississippi; and had he kept note book, he could have given account of many a one, from other lands, with golden hopes of the far west, whom he had safely conducted, against the most adverse floods, to the Missouri shore. I found a few old books at his house, which showed that there had been readers in his family, and which helped to while away moments, which every traveller will find on his hands. I have intimated that there was nothing in the way of the antique, in Herculaneum, but its name. To this I might add, that there was no exception, unless it be found in the impressions of objects, in the structure, of the rocks, in this quarter, denoting a prior age of existence. I was shown an impression, in the surface of a block of limestone, quarried here, which was thought to resemble a man's foot. It did not appear to me to bear this similitude, but was rather to be referred to some organic extinct forms, which are not yet well understood. Having passed a couple of days here, I set out early one morning, on foot, for St. Louis, accompanied by two young men from Pennsylvania, with whom I had become acquainted on prior parts of my route. They had come with an adventure of merchandize from the waters of the Yioughagany, and were desirous of seeing the (then) capitol of the Territory. Nothing untoward occurred, until we reached and crossed the river Merrimack, where night overtook us, and set in with intense darkness, just as we reached the opposite shore. There was but one house in the vicinity; and not distant more than a mile, but such was the intensity of the darkness, owing to clouds and a gathering storm, that we lost the road, wandered in the woods for some hours, during which the rain commenced, and were at length directed to the house we sought, by the faint and occasional tinkling of a cow bell. We travelled the next morning twelve miles, to breakfast at the antique looking village of Carondalet. The route lies over an elevated tract of uplands, eligibly situated on the right bank of the Mississippi, in which a growth of wild prairie grass and flowers, filled up the broad spaces between the trees. There was no habitation visible on the route--a standing spring under a ledge of rocks, about halfway, was the only spot where we could get a drop of water to allay our thirst--for it was a hot August day. We encountered several deer, and from the frequent occurrence of their tracks, deemed such an occurrence to be common. It is on this elevated and airy tract, that the site of Jefferson Barracks, has since been judiciously established by the government. Beyond Carondalet, the country has the appearance of a grown-up heath. It is a bushy uninviting tract, without mature forest trees. The most interesting feature we saw, consisted of a number of regular depressions, or cup-shaped concavities in the soil, caused by the passage of springs over a clay basis, upon which there is deposited a heavy diluvial stratum of sand, mixed earth and pebbles. Within about three miles of the city, this heathy and desolate tract began to assume a cultivated character; dwellings and gardens soon succeeded, and we found ourselves, by almost imperceptible grades, introduced into the city, which we reached about four o'clock in the afternoon. On entering its ancient Spanish barriers, we noticed one of the old stone towers, or defences, which constituted a part of the enclosure. This town, I afterwards learned, had been regularly walled and fortified, during the possession of the country by the Spanish crown. As soon as I had taken lodgings, I called on R. Pettibone Esq., a friend formerly of Vernon, in western N. Y. who had established himself in this central city of the west, in the practice of the law; he was not in, at the moment, but his family received me with cordiality. He returned my visit in the evening, and insisted on my taking up my quarters at his house. The time that I spent here, was devoted to the most prominent objects which the town and its vicinity presented to interest a stranger, such as the private museum of the late Gen. Wm. Clark, containing many articles of rich and valuable Indian costume; the large natural mounds above the city, and the character of the rock formation along the shores of the river, which was said to have had the impressions of human feet, on its original surface. The latter I did not see till the summer of 1821, when the block of stone containing them was examined in Mr. Rapp's garden, at Harmony, on the Wabash. My inclinations having led me, at this time, to visit the extensive lead mines, south-west of this city, on the waters of the Merrimack, I lost no time in retracing my way to Herculaneum, by descending the Mississippi. When I was prepared to descend the river, the two gentlemen who had been my travelling companions, on the journey up, had completed the business of their adventure, and offered me a seat, in a small boat, under their control. It was late in the afternoon of the day that this arrangement was proposed, and it was dusk before we embarked; but it was thought the village of Cahokia, some five or six miles below, could be reached in good season. A humid and misty atmosphere rendered the night quite dark, and we soon found ourselves afloat on the broad current of the stream, without knowing our position, for it was too intensely dark to descry the outlines of either shore. Being in a light open boat, we were not only in some peril, from running foul of drifting trees, but it became disagreeably cold. On putting in for the Illinois shore, a low sandy bar, or shoal was made, but one of my companions who had landed came running back with an account of a bear and her cub, which caused us to push on about a mile further, where we passed the night, without beds or fire. Daylight disclosed to us the fact that we had passed Cahokia; we then crossed over to the Missouri shore, and having taken breakfast at Carondalet, continued the voyage, without any further misadventure, and reached Herculaneum at noon. I lost no time in preparing to visit the mines, and having made arrangements for my baggage to follow, set out on foot for Potosi. The first day I proceeded eighteen miles, and reached Steeples, at the head of the Zwoshau, or Joachim river, at an early hour. The day was excessively hot, and the road lay for the greater part of the distance, over a ridge of land, which afforded no water, and very little shelter from the sun's rays. I met not a solitary individual on the route, and with the exception of the small swift footed lizard, common to the way side, and a single wild turkey, nothing in the animal kingdom. The antlers of the deer frequently seen above the grass, denoted it however to abound in that animal. I was constrained while passing this dry tract, to allay my thirst at a pool, in a rut, not, however, without having disconcerted a wild turkey, which had come apparently for the same purpose. Next day I crossed the valley of Grand or _Big_ river, as it is commonly called, and at the distance of twelve miles from the Joachim, I entered the mining village of Shibboleth--the feudal seat, so to say, of the noted "John Smith T." of whose singularities rumour had already apprized me. Here was a novel scene. Carts passing with loads of ore--smelting furnaces, and fixtures, and the half-hunter, half-farmer costumes of the group of men who were congregated about the principal store, told me very plainly, that I was now in the mining region. Lead digging and discovering, and the singular hap-hazards of men who had suddenly got rich by finding rich beds of ore, and suddenly got poor by some folly or extravagance, gave a strong colouring to the whole tone of conversation at this spot, which was carried on neither in the mildest or most unobtrusive way; quite a vocabulary of new technical words burst upon me, of which it was necessary to get the correct import. I had before heard of the pretty term, "mineral blossom," as the local name for radiated quartz, but here were tiff (sulphate of barytes), glass-tiff (calcareous spar), "mineral sign," and a dozen other words, to be found in no books. At the head of these new terms stood the popular word "mineral," which invariably meant galena, and nothing else. To hunt mineral, to dig mineral, and to smelt mineral, were so many operations connected with the reduction of the ores of galena. I soon found the group of men about the village store, was a company of militia, and that I was in the midst of what New Yorkers call a "training," which explained the hunter aspect I had noticed. They were armed with rifles, and dressed in their every day leather or cotton hunting shirts. The officers were not distinguished from the men, either because swords were not easily procured, or more probably, because they did not wish to appear with so inefficient and useless an arm. "Food for powder," was the first term that occurred to me on first surveying this group of men, but nothing could have been more inapposite; for although like "lean Jack's" men, they had but little skill in standing in a right line, never were men better skilled for personal combat,--from the specimens given, I believe there was hardly a man present, who could not drive a bullet into the size of a dollar at a hundred yards. No man was better skilled in this art, either with rifle or pistol, than the Don of the village, the said John Smith T, or his brother, called "the Major," neither of whom travelled, or eat, or slept, as I afterwards witnessed, without their arms. During my subsequent rambles in the mine country, I have sat at the same table, slept in the same room, and enjoyed the conversation of one or the other, and can say, that their extraordinary habit of going fully armed, was united in both with courteous manners, honourable sentiments, and high chivalric notions of personal independence; and I had occasion to notice, that it was none but their personal enemies, or opponents in business, that dealt in vituperation against them. John Smith T. was doubtless a man of singular and capricious humours, and a most fiery spirit, when aroused; of which scores of anecdotes are afloat. He was at variance with several of his most conspicuous neighbours, and, if he be likened to the lion of the forest, it will be perfectly just to add, that most of the lesser animals stood in fear of him. My stop here had consumed some time, but thinking I could still reach _Minè a Burton_, I pushed on, but had only proceeded a couple of miles when I was hastily compelled to seek shelter from an impending shower. As it was late, and the storm continued, I remained at a farm house, at Old Mines during the night. They gave me a supper of rich fresh milk and fine corn bread. In the morning, a walk of three miles brought me to Potosi, where I took lodgings at Mr. Ficklin's, proprietor of the principal inn of the place. Mr. F. was a native of Kentucky, a man of open frank manners, and most kind benevolent feelings, who had seen much of frontier life, had lived a number of years in Missouri, and now at a rather advanced period of life, possessed a fund of local knowledge and experience, the communication of which rendered the time I spent at his house both profitable and pleasing. I reached Potosi on the second of August. The next day was the day of the county election[1], which brought together the principal miners and agricultural gentlemen of the region, and gave me a favourable opportunity of forming acquaintance, and making known the object of my visit. I was particularly indebted to the civilities of Stephen F. Austin, Esq. for these introductions. During my stay in the country he interested himself in my success, omitted no opportunity of furthering my views, and extending my acquaintance with the geological features and resources of the country. He offered me an apartment in the old family mansion of Durham Hall, for the reception and accumulation of my collections. Mr. Bates and sons, Mr. Jones and sons, Mr. Perry and brothers, Mr. Elliot, Mr. Brickey, Mr. Honey and others, seconded these civilities. Indeed the friendly and obliging disposition I uniformly met with, from the inhabitants of the mines, and the mine country generally, is indelibly impressed on my memory. I was now at the capital of the mines, and in a position most favourable for obtaining true information of their character and value. Three months devoted to this object left scarcely a nook of the country which I had not either personally explored, or obtained authentic information of. I found forty-five principal mines, or mineral _diggings_ as some of them are called, within a circumference of less than forty miles. Potosi, and its vicinity yielded annually about three millions of pounds of lead, and furnished employment to the estimated number, of eleven to twelve hundred hands. The business was however depressed, like almost every other branch of domestic arts or industry, after the peace of 1814, owing to the great influx and low prices of foreign products, and the general derangement of currency and credit. Prepared ore, delivered at the furnaces, was worth two dollars per cwt., paid chiefly in merchandize. Pig lead sold at four dollars, at the mines; and but half a dollar higher on the banks of the Mississippi, and was quoted at seven dollars in the Atlantic cities. Judged from these data, there appeared no adequate cause for the alleged depression; for in addition to the ordinary merchant's profit, in the disposition of his stock to the operative miner or digger of ore, a profit of one cent and a half per pound was left, over and above the cost of transportation to an eastern market; besides, the difference in exchange, between the south-western and eastern cities. And it was evident, from a view of the whole subject, that the business could not only be profitably pursued, with economical arrangements, but that the public domain, upon which most of the mines are seated, might be made to yield a revenue to the treasury, at least equal to the amount of this article required for the national consumption, over the expenses, the superintendence and management. Besides which, there was great room for improved and economical modes of mining; and there was hardly one of the manipulations, from the making of a common drill or pick, to the erection of a smelting furnace, which did not admit of salutary changes for the better. The recovery of the mere waste lead, in its sublimated form, around the open log furnaces of the country, promised to add a valuable item to the profit of the business. The most wasteful, hurried, and slovenly of all systems is pursued in exploring and raising the ore, by which the surface of the country is riddled with pit holes, in the most random manner; the loose and scattered deposits in the soil hastily gathered up, and the real lead and veins of metal left, in very many cases, untouched. Thousands of square acres of land were thus partially rifled of their riches, and spoiled, and condemned, without being exhausted. By having no scientific knowledge of mineral veins and geological structure, as practically adopted in Europe, all rule in the process of mining and raising the ore had degenerated into mere guess work, and thousands of dollars had been wasted, in some places, where the application of some of the plainest mining principles, would not have warranted the removal of a shovel full of earth. In short, there was here observed, a blending of the miner and farmer character. Almost every farmer was a miner. Planters who had slaves, employed them part of the year in mining; and every miner, to some extent was a farmer. Because the ore found in the clay beds did not occur in east and west, or north and south lines, or its rules of deposition had not been determined by careful observation, all success in the exploration was supposed to be the result of chance. And whoever surveys the mineral counties of Missouri, will be ready to conclude, that more labour has been thrown away in the helter-skelter system of digging, than was ever applied to well directed or profitable mining. Had an absolute monarch called for this vast amount of labour from his people to build some monument, he would have been declared the greatest tyrant. Indeed, I know of no instance in America, of the misapplication of so great an amount of free labour--labour cheerfully bestowed, and thrown away without a regret. For the losers in mining, like the adventurers in a lottery, have no one to blame but themselves. It appeared to me that a statement of the actual condition of the mines, would be received with attention at Washington, and that a system for the better management of them could not but be approved, were it properly brought forward. I determined to make the attempt. It did not, however, appear to me, that nature had limited the deposits of ore to one species, or to so limited an area, and I sought means to extend my personal examinations farther west and south. To bring this about, and to collect the necessary information to base statements on, in a manner correspondent to my wishes, required time, and a systematic mode of recording facts. To this object, in connexion with the natural history of the country, I devoted the remainder of the year, and a part of the following year. I soon found, after reaching the mines, that I had many coadjutors in the business of collecting specimens, in the common miners, some of whom were in the habit of laying aside for me, any thing they found, in their pits and leads, which assumed a new or curious character. Inquiries and applications relative to the mineralogy and structure of the country were made, verbally and by letter, from many quarters. I established my residence at Potosi, but made excursions, from time to time, in various directions. Some of these excursions were fruitful of incidents, which would be worth recording, did the cursory character of these reminiscences permit it. On one occasion, I killed a horse by swimming him across the Joachim river, at its mouth, whilst he was warm and foaming from a hard day's ride. He was put in the stable and attended, but died the next day, as was supposed, from this sudden transition. There was scarcely a mine or digging in the country, for forty miles around, which I did not personally examine; and few persons, who had given attention to the subject, from whom I did not derive some species of information. The general hospitality and frankness of the inhabitants of the mine country could not but make a favourable impression on a stranger. The custom of riding on horseback, in a region which affords great facilities for it, makes every one a horseman and a woodsman, and has generated something of the cavalier air and manners. But nothing impressed me more, in this connexion, than the gallant manner, which I observed here, of putting a lady on horseback. She stands facing you, with the bridle in her right hand, and gives you her left. She then places one of her feet in your left hand, which you stoop to receive, when, by a simultaneous exertion and spring, she is vaulted backwards into the saddle. Whether this be a transmitted Spanish custom, I know not, but I have not observed it in the French, or American settlements west of the Alleghanies. The earthquakes of 1812, which were so disastrous in South America, are known to have propagated themselves towards the north, and they exerted some striking effects in the lower part of the valley of the Mississippi, sending down into the channel of the latter, large areas of diluvial earth, as was instanced, in a remarkable manner, at New Madrid. Portions of the forest, back of this town, sunk, and gave place to lakes and lagoons. These effects were also witnessed, though in a milder form, in the more solid formations of the mine country. Soon after reaching Potosi, I visited the Mineral Fork, a tributary of the Merrimack, where some of these effects had been witnessed. I descended into the pit and crevices of the Old Mines. These mines were explored in the metalliferous rock. Every thing had an old and ruinous look, for they had been abandoned. Large quantities of the ore had been formerly raised at this mine, which was pursued into a deep fissure of the limestone rock. I descended into this fissure, and found among the rubbish and vein stones, large elongated and orbicular masses of calc spar, the outer surfaces of which bore strong marks of geological abrasion. They broke into rhombs very transparent, and of a honey-yellow colour. Mr. Elliot, the intelligent proprietor of this mine, represented the indications of ore to have been flattering, although every thing was now at a stand. Masses of sulphuret of zinc, in the form of blende, were noticed at this locality. Mr. Elliot invited me to dine, and he filled up the time with interesting local reminiscences. He stated, among other facts, that a copious spring, at these mines, dried up during the remarkable earthquakes of 1812. These earthquakes appear to have discharged their shocks in the direction of the stratification from the south-west to the north-east, but they spent their force west of the Mississippi. Their chief violence was at Natchitoches and New Madrid, at the latter of which they destroyed an immense area of alluvial land. Their effects in the Ohio valley, lying exactly in the direction of their action, were slight. A Mr. Watkins, of Cincinnati, accompanied me on this examination, and rode back with me to Potosi. On the 9th of August, I had dined with Samuel Perry, Esq., at Mine á Burton, one of the principal inhabitants of the county, and was passing the evening at Mr. Austin's, when Mr. and Mrs. Perry came suddenly in. They had hardly taken seats, when a rabble of persons with bells and horns surrounded the house, and kept up a tumult that would have done honor to one of the wildest festivals of St. Nicholas, headed by Brom Bones himself. This, we were told, was a Chiraviri. And what is a Chiraviri? I am not deep enough read in French local customs to give a satisfactory answer, but the custom is said to be one that the populace may indulge in, whenever a marriage has taken place in the village, which is not in exact accordance with their opinions of its propriety. I was, by this incident informed of Mr. Perry's recent marriage, and should judge, moreover, that he had exercised both taste and judgment in his selection of a partner. The affair of the Chiraviri is said to have been got up by some spiteful persons. Towards the middle of the month (12th,) I set out, accompanied by Mr. James B. Austin, on horseback, for Herculaneum, by the way of Hazel Run, a route displaying a more southerly section of the mine country than I had before seen. A ride on horseback over the mine hills, offers one of the most delightful prospects of picturesque sylvan beauty that can be well conceived of. The hills are, with a few exceptions, not precipitous enough to make the ride irksome. They rise in long and gentle swells, resembling those of the sea, in which the vessel is, by an easy motion, alternately at the top of liquid hills, or in the bottom of liquid vales. From these hills the prospect extends over a surface of heath-grass and prairie flowers, with an open growth of oaks; giving the whole country rather the aspect of a _park_ than a _wilderness_. Occasionally a ridge of pine intervenes, and wherever there is a brook, the waters present the transparency of rock crystal. Sometimes a range of red clay hillocks, putting up rank shrubs and vines of species which were _unknown before_, indicates an abandoned digging or mine. Farms and farm houses were then few; and every traveller we met on horseback, had more or less the bearing of a country cavalier, with a fine horse, good equipments, perhaps holsters and pistols, sometimes a rifle, and always something of a military air, betokening manliness and independence. Wherever we stopped, and whoever we met on the way, there was evinced a courteous and hospitable disposition. We did not leave Potosi till afternoon. It was a hot August day, and it was dusk before we entered the deep shady valley of Big River. Some delay arose in waiting for the ferryman to put us across the river, and it was nine o'clock in the evening when we reached Mr. Bryant's, at Hazel Run, where we were cordially received. Our host would not let us leave his house, next morning, till after breakfast. We rode to McCormick's, on the Platten, to dinner, and reached Herculaneum before sunset. The distance by this route from Potosi is forty-five miles, and the road, with the exception of a couple of miles, presented a wholly new section of the country. The Mississippi was now low, displaying large portions of its margin, and exhibiting heavy deposits of mud and slime, which broke into cakes, as they dried in the sun. I know not whether these exhalations affected me, but I experienced a temporary illness for a few days during this visit. I recollect that we had, during this time, some severe and drenching rain storms, with vivid and copious lightning, and heavy pealing thunder. These drenching and rapid showers convert the brooks and rills of the mine country to perfect torrents, and this explains one cause of the washing away and gullying of roads and streets, so remarkable on the west bank of the Mississippi. My illness induced me to give up returning on horseback; and I set out, on the 18th of the month, in a dearborn, accompanied by Mrs. Austin. On descending the long hill, near Donnell's, beyond the Joachim, the evening was so dark that I became sensible I must have got out of the road. I drove with the more care a few moments, and stopped. Requesting Mrs. Austin to hold the reins, I jumped out and explored the ground. I found myself in an abandoned, badly gullied track, which would have soon capsized the wagon; but leading the horse by the bridle, I slowly regained my position in the direct road and got down the hill, and reached the house without further accident. Next day we drove into Potosi by four o'clock in the afternoon. This was my second visit, and I now accepted a room and quarters for my collection, at their old homestead called Durham Hall. From this period till the middle of September, I pursued with unremitting assiduity, the enquiry in hand, and by that time had made a cabinet collection, illustrating fully the mineralogy, and, to some extent, the geological structure of the country. I erected a small chemical furnace for assays. Some of the clays of the country were found to stand a high heat, and by tempering them with pulverized granite, consisting largely of feldspar, I obtained crucibles that answered every purpose. Some of the specimens of lead treated in the dry way, yielded from 75 to 82 per cent. Accident threw in my way, on the 25th of August, a fact which led to the discovery of a primitive tract, on the southern borders of the mine country, the true geological relation of which to the surrounding secondary formations, formed at the outset rather a puzzle. I rode out on horseback on that day, with Mr. Stephen F. Austin, to Miller's, on the Mineral Fork, to observe a locality of manganese, and saw lying, near his mills, some large masses of red syenitic granite, which appeared to have been freshly blasted. He remarked that they were obtained on the St. Francis, and were found to be the best material at hand for millstones. On examination, the rock consisted almost exclusively of red feldspar and quartz. A little hornblende was present, but scarcely a trace of mica. This species of syenitic granite, large portions of which, viewed in the field, are complete syenite, and all of which is very barren of crystals, I have since found on the upper Mississippi, and throughout the north-western regions above the secondary latitudes. The hint, however, was not lost. I took the first opportunity to visit the sources of the St. Francis: having obtained letters to a gentleman in that vicinity, I set out on horseback for that region, taking a stout pair of saddle-bags, to hold my collections. I passed through Murphy's and Cook's settlements, which are, at the present time, the central parts of St. Francis county. _Mine a la Motte_ afforded some new facts in its mineralogical features. I first saw this red syenite, in place, on Blackford's Fork. The westernmost limits of this ancient mine extends to within a mile or two of this primitive formation. The red clay formation extends to the granitic elevations, and conceals their junction with the newer rock. The nearest of the carboniferous series, in place, is on the banks of Rock Creek, at some miles' distance. It is there the crystalline sand stone. How far this primitive district of the St. Francis extends, has not been determined. The St. Francis and Grand rivers, both have their sources in it. It is probable the Ozaw Fork of the Merrimack comes from its western borders. Not less than twenty or thirty miles can be assigned for its north and south limits. The Iron mountain of Bellvieu is within it. The vicinity of the pass called the Narrows, appears to have been the locality of former volcanic action. A scene of ruder disruption, marked by the vast accumulation of broken rock, it would be difficult to find. Indeed the whole tract is one of high geological, as well as scenic interest. Had the observer of this scene been suddenly dropped down into one of the wildest, broken, primitive tracts of New England, or the north-east angle of New York, he could not have found a field of higher physical attractions. Trap and greenstone constitute prominent tracts, and exist in the condition of dykes in the syenite, or feldspathique granite. I sought in vain for mica in the form of distinct plates. Some of the greenstone is handsomely porphyritic, and embraces green crystals of feldspar. Portions of this rock are sprinkled with masses of bright sulphuret of iron. Indeed iron in several of its forms abounds. By far the largest portion of it is in the shape of the micaceous oxyde. I searched, without success, for the irridescent specular variety, or Elba ore. In returning from this trip, I found Wolf river greatly swollen by rains, and had to swim it at much hazard, with my saddle-bags heavily laden with the results of my examination. It was dark when I reached the opposite bank: wet and tired I pushed for the only house in sight. As I came to it the doors stood open, the fences were down, a perfect air of desolation reigned around. There was no living being found; and the masses of yawning darkness exhibited by the untenanted rooms, seemed a fit residence for the genius of romance. Neither my horse nor myself were, however, in a temper or plight for an adventure of this kind, and the poor beast seemed as well pleased as I was, to push forward from so cheerless a spot. Four miles' riding through an untenanted forest, and a dark and blind road, brought us to a Mr. Murphy's, the sponsor of Murphy's settlement. FOOTNOTES: [1] About 70 votes were polled in the town of Potosi. Mr. Austin, the younger, was returned by the county to the Territorial Legislature. SCENES AND ADVENTURES IN THE OZARK MOUNTAINS. A. D. 1818 AND 1819. FROM THE ORIGINAL NOTES AND JOURNAL. PRELIMINARY REMARKS. Very little, it is conceived, is necessary to enable the reader to determine the writer's position on the extreme south-western frontiers, in the year 1818. He had spent the summer of that year in traversing the mine district, which extends along the right bank of the Mississippi, between the mouth of the Maromeg and the diluvial cliffs south of Cape Girardeau, extending west and south-westward to the sources of the St. Francis. In these mineralogical rambles, which were pursued sometimes on foot, and sometimes on horseback, or wheels, he made acquaintance with many estimable men, amongst whom he may name the Austins, father and son, the late Col. Ashley, John Rice Jones, Esq., and many others who are still living, by all whom, his object in visiting the country was cordially approved and encouraged, at all times. He also became acquainted with practical miners, and persons of enterprize who were not only familiar with the settled frontiers, but who had occasionally penetrated beyond them, into the broad expanse of highlands, now geographically known under the term of, the Ozark Chain. Geologically considered, the mine country is but the eastern flanks of this chain, which extends flush to the banks of the Mississippi, and has its terminus in that elevated range of mural cliffs, which form so striking and often picturesque a display, between St. Genevieve and St. Louis. There was, at the time, a general apprehension felt and expressed, by hunters and others who had penetrated those wilds in quest of deer and buffalo, or of saltpetre-earth in the limestone caves, of the predatory tribe of the Osages,--a people who had for years enjoyed the bad reputation of being thieves and plunderers. All concurred, however, in the interesting character of the country extending in a general course, south-westwardly, from the junction of the Missouri with the Mississippi. He felt an ardent desire to penetrate this terra incognita. He could not learn that any exploratory journey had been made towards the Rocky Mountains, since the well known expeditions of Lewis and Clark, up the Missouri, and of Lieut. Pike, across the upper region of the Arkansas, to Sande Fe and Chihuahua. Breckenridge had subsequently published an account of a trip to Council Bluffs.[2] But neither of these routes crossed the wide and mountainous tracts referred to, or gave any definite information respecting them. Viewed on the map, these routes formed the general exterior outlines, but they left the interior filling up to be supplied,--or, if supplied at all, it was too often with such vague phrases as these--"Here are salt mountains." "The ---- is supposed to take its rise here." "Volcanic hills," and so forth. The geology of the country furnished no indications whatever of the probability of the latter remark. The kind of pseudo-pumice found floating down the Missouri, in high water, had been stated by Lewis and Clarke, to have a far more remote, and local origin. The description of rock salt, in mountain mass, had long been numbered by popular belief, among the fanciful creations of an exciting political era; and together with western volcanoes, had settled down among those antiquarian rumours, which hold up, as their prime item, the existence of the living mammoth "beyond the big lakes." If the writer of the notes and journal which furnish these sketches, was not swayed by any particular theories of this nature, yet was he not free from the expectation of finding abundant materials, in the natural productions and scenery and incidents of the journey, to reward him amply for its perils. He had received from hunters several objects of the mineralogical and geological collection which he made, while living at Potosi, and _Mine à Burton_: from these wild borders, and, without pretending to estimate the force of each particular object which made up the sum of his motives, he resolved to organize an expedition, with all the means he could muster, and explore the region. The Austins, who had treated him with marked kindness and attention, from the hour of his first landing in Missouri, were then preparing to make their first movement into Texas, and held out to him a fine theatre for enterprise; but it was one not suited to his particular means or taste. He recoiled from the subtlety of the Spanish character; and is free to confess, that he deemed it a far more attractive latitude for the zea maize and the cotton plant, than for those pursuits which led him to prefer the more rugged eminences of the Ozarks. They, in the end, founded a republic, and he only made an adventurous journey. Having thus recalled the era and the motive of the following sketches, the purport of these remarks is accomplished. _New York_, 1844. CHAPTER I. Things to be thought of before plunging into the woods--Composition of the party, and reasons why it was not more numerous--First night's encampment--Preliminaries--Sleep in a deserted Indian lodge--A singular variety of the Fox Squirrel--The Pack Horse escapes--Cross the elevation called the Pinery--Reach the outskirts of the settlements in the valley of the Fourche A'Courtois. Whoever would venture into the wilderness, should provide himself with such articles of personal comfort or safety, as habits, forecast, or the particular object of pursuit or observation, require. Every one will think of arms and ammunition, but there are other things required to make life pleasant, or even tolerable in the woods. This, prior excursions had already taught me, but the lesson was repeated by those of greater experience. There were two persons who had agreed to go with me, and stick by me, to the end,--the one a native of Massachusetts, and the other, of Connecticut, both like myself, new in the field, and unacquainted with life in the woods. What they lacked in this art, they more than made up, I thought, in intelligence, enterprise and resource. The name of the first was Brigham. The other, I shall allude to, under the name of Enobitti. Some three or four other persons, natives of the region, had consented to go as hunters, or adventurers into a new field for emigration, but it so happened, that when all was ready--when every objection to the tour had been obviated, and every want supplied, and when my two eastern friends came on to the ground, these persons all quietly, and with an easy flow of reasons, backed out. In fact, my friend Brigham, was also obliged to relinquish the journey, after he had reached the point of rendezvous, i.e. Potosi. A residence on the American bottom, in Illinois, the prior summer, had exposed him to the malaria of that otherwise attractive agricultural area, and an intermittent fever, which he had thus contracted, forbade his venturing beyond the settlements. So that when the appointed day arrived, Enobitti and myself and my good landlord, Ficklin--a warm hearted Kentuckian, who had been a hunter and border spy in his youth, were all the persons I could number, and the latter, only went a short distance, out of the goodness of his heart, and love of forest adventure, to set us, as it were, on the way, and initiate us into some necessary forest arts. It was a bright balmy day,--the 6th of November, 1818. The leaves were rapidly falling from the trees, and strewed the road and made a musical rustling among the branches, as we passed the summits of the mine hills, which separated the valley of Mine à Burton from the next adjoining stream. The air had just enough of the autumn freshness in it, to make it inspiring; and we walked forward, with the double animation of health and hope. As we passed through forests where the hickory abounded, the fox and grey squirrel were frequently seen preparing their winter's stores, and gave additional animation to the scene. It was early in the afternoon when we came into the valley of Bates' Creek--it was indeed but a few miles from our starting point, where our kind Mentor told us, it was best to encamp; for, in the first place, it was the only spot where we could obtain _water_ for a long distance, and secondly, and more important than all, it was necessary that we should re-arrange the load of our pack-horse, take a lesson in the art of encamping, and make some other preparations which were proper, before we plunged outright into the wilderness. This was excellent advice, and proper not only to novices, but even to the initiated in the woodsman's art. It is always an object, to make, by this initiatory movement, what is technically called _a start_. I had purchased at Potosi, a horse--a low priced animal, rather old and bony, to carry our blankets, some light cooking utensils and a few other articles of necessity, and some provisions. He bore the not very appropriate name of "Butcher," whether from a former owner, or how acquired I know not, but he was not of a sanguinary temper, or at least, the only fighting propensity he ever evinced was to get back to Potosi, as quick as possible, for he ran off the very first night, and frequently, till we got quite far west, repeated the attempt. The poor beast seemed to know, instinctively, that he was going away from the land of corn fodder, and would have to sustain himself by picking up his meals out of sere-grass, often in stony places, or in some dense and vine-bound cane bottom, where his hind legs would often be bound fast by the green briar, while he reached forward in vain, to bite off a green leaf. Here we took the first lesson in duly hobbling a horse--a very necessary lesson: for if not _hobbled_, he will stray away, and cause great detention in the morning, and if not _well_ hobbled he will injure his legs. We found, near the banks of the stream, a deserted Indian lodge, which appeared susceptible, by a little effort, of affording us a very comfortable night's lodging, and would furthermore, should it rain, prove an effectual shelter. This arrangement we immediately set about: the horse was unpacked, his burden stowed in the lodge, the horse hobbled and belled, and a fire lit. While my companion arranged the details of the camp, and prepared to boil a cup of tea, I took my gun, and, with but little ado, shot a number of fine fox and grey squirrels--being the first fruits of our exertions in the chace. Among them, there was one of decidedly mongrel species. If not, the variety was peculiar. He had a grey body, and a red foxy tail, with the belly, nose, and tips of the ears black, thus uniting characteristics of three varieties. One or two of these were added to our supper, which we made with great satisfaction, and in due time spread out our blankets, and slept soundly till day break. On sallying out, I found the horse was gone, and set out in pursuit of him. Although his fore feet were tethered, so that he must lift up both together, he made his way back, in this jumping manner, to his former owner's door, in the village of Mine à Burton. He had not, however, kept the path, all the way, and losing his track after he got on the herbage, my ear caught the sound of a bell far to the left, which I took to be his, and followed. I pursued the sound of this bell, which was only heard now and then, till after crossing hill and dale, without deviation from the line of sound, I came out at a farm yard, four miles below Potosi; where I found the bell to be attached to the neck of a stately penned ox. The owner, (who knew me and the circumstance of my having set out on the expedition,) told me, that Butcher had reached the mines, and been sent back, by a son of his former owner, to my camp. I had nothing left, but to retrace my way to the same spot, where I found the fugitive, and sat down to a breakfast of tea, bread, ham and squirrel. The whole morning had been lost by this misadventure. It was ten o'clock before we got the animal packed and set forward. Our second day's journey yielded but little to remark. We travelled diligently along a rough mountainous path, across a sterile tract called the Pinery. This tract is valuable only for its pine timber. It has neither farming land nor mineral wealth. Not a habitation of any kind was passed. We saw neither bird nor animal. The silence of desolation seemed to accompany us. It was a positive relief to the uniform sterility of the soil, and monotony of the prospect, to see at length, a valley before us. It was a branch of the Maromeg, or Merrimack, which is called by its original French term of _Fourche á Courtois_. We had travelled a distance of fourteen miles over these flinty eminences. The first signs of human habitation appeared in the form of enclosed fields. The sun sunk below the hills, as we entered this valley, and we soon had the glimpse of a dwelling. Some woodcock flew up as we hastened forward, and we were not long in waiting for our formal announcement in the loud and long continued barking of dogs. It required the stern commands of their master, before they slunk back and became quiet. It was a small log tenement of the usual construction on the frontiers, and afforded us the usual hospitality and ready accommodation. They gave us warm cakes of corn bread, and fine rich milk. We spread our blankets before an evening's fire, and enjoyed a good night's rest. Butcher here, I think, had his last meal of corn, and made no attempt to return. With the earliest streaks of day light, we re-adjusted his pack, and again set forward. CHAPTER II. Reach a hunter's cabin on the outskirts of the wilderness--He agrees to accompany us--Enter the Ozark Hills--Encounter an encampment of the Delaware Indians--Character of the country--Its alpine air, and the purity of its waters.--Ascend to the source of the Merrimack--Reach a game country--Deserted by the hunter and guide, and abandoned to individual exertions in these arts. Every joint labour, which proceeds on the theory, that each person engaged in it is to render some personal service, must, in order that it may go on pleasantly and succeed well, have a definite order, or rule of progress; and this is as requisite in a journey in the wilderness as any where else. Our rule was to lead the pack horse, and to take the compass and guide ahead, alternately, day by day. It was thought, I had the best art in striking and making a fire, and when we halted for the night, always did this, while my companion procured water and put it in a way to boil for tea. We carried tea, as being lighter and more easy to make than coffee. In this way we divided, as equally as possible, the daily routine of duties, and went on pleasantly. We had now reached the last settlement on the frontier, and after a couple of hours' walk, from our last place of lodging, we reached the last house, on the outer verge of the wilderness. It was a small, newly erected log hut, occupied by a hunter of the name of Roberts, and distant about 20 miles from, and south-west of Potosi. Our approach here was also heralded by dogs. Had we been wolves or panthers, creeping upon the premises at midnight, they could not have performed their duty more noisily. Truly this was a very primitive dwelling, and as recent in its structure as it was primitive. Large fallen trees lay about, just as the axeman had felled them, and partly consumed by fire. The effect of this partial burning had been only to render these huge trunks black and hideous. One of them lay in front of the cottage. In other places were to be seen deer skins stretched to dry; and deers' feet and antlers lay here and there. There was not a foot of land in cultivation. It was quite evident at first sight, that we had reached the dwelling of a border hunter, and not a tiller of the ground. But the owner was absent, as we learned from his wife, a spare, shrewd dark-skinned little woman, drest in buckskin, who issued from the door before we reached it, and welcomed us by the term of "Strangers." Although this is a western term, which supplies the place of the word "friend," in other sections of the union, and she herself seemed to be thoroughly a native of these latitudes, no Yankee could have been more inquisitive, in one particular department of enquiry, namely the department relative to the chace. She inquired our object--the course and distance we proposed to travel, and the general arrangements of horse-gear, equipage, &c. She told us of the danger of encountering the Osages, and scrutinized our arms. Such an examination would indeed, for its thoroughness, have put a lad to his trumps, who had come prepared for his first quarter's examination at a country academy. She told us, con amore, that her husband would be back soon,--as soon indeed as we could get our breakfast, and that he would be glad to accompany us, as far as Ashley's Cave, or perhaps farther. This was an opportunity not to be slighted. We agreed to wait, and prepare our morning's meal, to which she contributed some well baked corn cakes. By this time, and before indeed we had been long there, Roberts came in. It is said that a hunter's life is a life of feasting or fasting. It appeared to be one of the latter seasons, with him. He had been out to scour the precincts, for a meat breakfast, but came home empty handed. He was desirous to go out in the direction we were steering, which he represented to abound in game, but feared to venture far alone, on account of the rascally Osages. He did not fear the Delawares, who were near by. He readily accepted our offer to accompany us as hunter. Roberts, like his forest help-mate, was clothed in deer skin. He was a rather chunky, stout, middle sized man, with a ruddy face, cunning features, and a bright unsteady eye. Such a fellow's final destination would not be a very equivocal matter, were he a resident of the broad neighbourhood of Sing Sing, or "sweet Auburn:" but here, he was a man that might, perhaps, be trusted on an occasion like this, and we, at any rate, were glad to have his services on the terms stipulated. Even while we were talking he began to clean his rifle, and adjust his leathern accoutrements: he then put several large cakes of corn bread in a sack, and in a very short time he brought a stout little horse out of a log pen, which served for a barn; and clapping an old saddle on his back and mounting him, with his rifle in one hand, said, "I am ready," and led off. We now had a guide, as well as a hunter, and threw this burden wholly on him. Our course lay up a long ridge of hard bound clay and chert soil, in the direction of the sources of the Marameg, or, as it is now universally called and written, Merrimack. After travelling about four miles we suddenly descended from an acclivity into a grassy, woodless valley, with a brisk clear stream winding through it, and several lodges of Indians planted on its borders. This, our guide told us, was the Ozaw Fork of the Merrimack, (in modern geographical parlance Ozark.) And here we found the descendants and remainder of that once powerful tribe of whom William Penn purchased the site of Philadelphia, and whose ancient dominion extended, at the earliest certain historical era, along the banks the Lennapihittuck, or Delaware river. Two of them were at home, it being a season of the year, and time of day, when the men are out hunting. Judging from peculiarity of features, manners and dress, it would seem to be impossible that any people, should have remained so long in contact with or juxtaposition to the European races and changed so little, in all that constitutes national and personal identity. Roberts looked with no very friendly eye upon these ancient lords of the forest, the whole sum of his philosophy and philanthropy being measured by the very tangible circle of prairie and forests, which narrowed his own hunting grounds. They were even then, deemed to have been injudiciously located, by intelligent persons in the west, and have long since removed to a permanent location, out of the corporate limits of the States and Territories, at the junction of the river Konga with the Missouri. I should have been pleased to have lengthened our short halt, but the word seemed with him and Enobitti to be "onward," and onward we pushed. We were now fairly in the Ozark chain--a wide and almost illimitable tract, of which it may be said, that the vallies only are susceptible of future cultivation. The intervening ridges and mountains are nearly destitute of forest, often perfectly so, and in almost all cases, sterile, and unfit for the plough. It is probable sheep might be raised on some of these eminences, which possess a sufficiency of soil to permit the grasses to be sown. Geologically, it has a basis of limestones, resting on sand-stones. Unfortunately for its agricultural character, the surface has been covered with a foreign diluvium of red clay filled with chips of horstone, chert and broken quartz, which make the soil hard and compact. Its trees are few and stunted; its grass coarse. In looking for the origin of such a soil, it seems probable to have resulted from broken down slates and schists on the upper Missouri and below the range of the Rocky Mountains, in which these broken and imbedded substances originally constituted veins. It is only in the vallies, and occasional plains, that a richer and more carbonaceous soil has accumulated. The purest springs, however, gush out of its hills; its atmosphere is fine and healthful, and it constitutes a theatre of Alpine attractions, which will probably render it, in future years, the resort of shepherds, lovers of mountain scenery, and valetudinarians. There is another remark to be made of the highland tracts of the Ozark range. They look, in their natural state, more sterile than they actually are, from the effects of autumnal fires. These fires, continued for ages by the natives, to clear the ground for hunting, have had the effect not only to curtail and destroy large vegetation, but all the carbonaceous particles of the top soil have been burned, leaving the surface in the autumn, rough, red, dry and hard. When a plough comes to be put into such a surface, it throws up quite a different soil; and the effects of light, and the sun's heat are often found, as I have noticed in other parts of the west, to produce a dark and comparatively rich soil. We occupied the entire day in ascending and crossing the ridge of land, which divides the little valley of the Oza from that of the Merrimack. When getting near the latter, the soil exhibited traces of what appeared to be iron ore, but somewhat peculiar in its character, and of dark hue. This soon revealed itself, in passing a short distance, in an abundant locality of black and coloured oxide of manganese--lying in masses in the arid soil. The Indian trail which we were pursuing led across the valley. We forded the river on foot. No encampments of Indians were found, nor any very recent traces of them; and we began to think that the accounts of Osage depredations and plundering, must be rather exaggerated. The river pours its transparent mountain waters over a wide bed of pebbles and small boulders, and, at this season, offered but little impediment to the horses or ourselves in crossing it. The sun was getting low, by the time we reached the opposite side of the valley, and we encamped on its borders, a mile or two above. Here we took due care of our horses, prepared our evening's meal, talked over the day's adventures, enjoyed ourselves sitting before our camp fire, with the wild wide creation before us and around, and then sank to a sound repose on our pallets. Novices in the woodman's art, and raw in the business of travelling, our sleep was sounder and more death-like, than that of Roberts. His eye had shown a restlessness during the afternoon and evening. We were now in a game country, the deer and elk began to be frequently seen, and their fresh tracks across our path, denoted their abundance. During the night they ventured about our camp, so as to disturb the ears of the weary hunter, and indeed, my own. He got up and found both horses missing. Butcher's memory of Mine á Burton corn fodder had not deserted him, and he took the hunter's horse along with him. I jumped up, and accompanied him, in their pursuit. They were both overtaken about three miles back on the track, making all possible speed homeward, that their tethered fore legs would permit. We conducted them back, without disturbing my companion, and he then went out with his rifle, and quickly brought in a fine fat doe, for our breakfast. Each one cut fine pieces of steaks, and roasted for himself. We ate it with a little salt, and the remainder of the hunter's corn cakes, and finished the repast, with a pint cup each, of Enobitti's best tea. This turned out to be _a finale_ meal with our Fourche à Courtois man, Roberts: for the rascal, a few hours afterwards, deserted us, and went back. Had he given any intimation of dissatisfaction, or a desire to return, we should have been in a measure prepared for it. It is probable his fears of the then prevalent bug-bear of those frontiersmen, the Osages, were greater than our own. It is also probable, that he had no other idea whatever, in leaving the Fourche à Courtois, than to avail himself of our protection till he could get into a region where he could shoot deer enough in a single morning to load down his horse, with the choicest pieces, and lead him home. This the event, at least, rendered probable; and the fellow not only deserted us meanly, but he carried off my best new hunting knife, with scabbard and belt--a loss not easily repaired in such a place. To cloak his plan, he set out with us in the morning: it had rained a little, during the latter part of the night, and was lowering and dark all the morning. After travelling about ten miles, we left the Osage trail, which began to bear too far north-west, and struck through the woods in a south course, with the view of reaching Ashley's Cave on one of the head streams of the river currents. Soon after leaving this trail, Roberts, who was in advance on our left, about half a mile, fired at, and killed, a deer, and immediately re-loaded, pursued and fired again; telling us to continue on our course, as he, being on horseback, could easily overtake us. We neither heard nor saw more of him. Night overtook us near the banks of a small lake, or rather a series of little lakes or ponds, communicating with each other, where we encamped. After despatching our supper, and adjusting, in talk, the day's rather eventful incidents, and the morrow's plan of march, we committed ourselves to rest, but had not sunk into forgetfulness, when a pack of wolves set up their howl in our vicinity. We had been told that these animals will not approach near a fire, and are not to be dreaded in a country where deer abound. They follow the track of the hunter, to share such part of the carcass as he leaves, and it is their nature to herd together and run down this animal as their natural prey. We slept well, but it is worthy of notice, that on awaking about day break, the howling of the wolves was still heard, and at about the same distance. They had probably serenaded us all night. Our fire was nearly out; we felt some chilliness, and determined to rekindle it, and prepare our breakfast before setting forward. It was now certain, that Roberts was gone. Luckily he had not carried off our compass, for _that_ would have been an accident fatal to the enterprise. CHAPTER III. A deeper view of the Ozark Chain. Pass along the flanks of the highlands which send out the sources of the Black, Eleven points, Currents and Spring rivers. Reach a romantic glen of caves. Birds and animals seen. Saltpetre earth; stalactites. Cross the alpine summit of the western Ozarks. Source of the Gasconde river. Accident in fording the Little Osage river.--Encamp on one of its tributaries. It was found, as we began to bestir ourselves for wood to light our fire that we had reposed not far from a bevy of wild ducks, who had sought the grassy edge of the lake during the night, and with the first alarm betook themselves to flight. With not so ready a mode of locomotion, we followed their example, in due time, and also their course, which was south. At the distance of a couple of miles, we crossed a small stream, running south-east, which we judged to be the outlet of the small lakes referred to, and which is, probably the source of Black River, or the Eleven points. Our course led us in an opposite direction, and we soon found ourselves approaching the sterile hills which bound the romantic valley of the currents. There had been some traces of wheels, on the softer soil, which had been driven in this direction towards the saltpetre caves, but we completely lost them, as we came to and ascended these arid and rugged steeps. Some of these steeps rose into dizzy and romantic cliffs, surmounted with pines. We wound our way cautiously amongst them, to find some gorge and depression, through which we might enter the valley. For ourselves we should not have been so choice of a path, but we had a pack horse to lead, and should he be precipitated into a gulf, we must bid adieu to our camp equipage. Our arms and a single blanket, would be all we could carry. At length this summit was reached. The view was enchanting. A winding wooded valley, with its clear bright river, stretched along at the base of the summit. Rich masses of foliage, hung over the clear stream, and were reflected in its pellucid current, with a double beauty. The autumnal frost, which had rifled the highland trees of their clothing, appeared to have passed over this deeply secluded valley with but little effect, and this effect, was only to highten the interest of the scene, by imparting to portions of its foliage, the liveliest orange and crimson tints. And this was rendered doubly attractive by the contrast. Behind us lay the bleak and barren hills, over which we had struggled, without a shade, or a brook, or even the simplest representative of the animal creation. For it is a truth, that during the heat of the day, both birds and quadrupeds betake themselves to the secluded shades of the streams and vallies. From these they sally out, into the plains, in quest of food at early dawn, and again just before night fall. All the rest of the day, the plains and highlands have assumed the silence of desolation. Evening began to approach as we cautiously picked our way down the cliffs, and the first thing we did, on reaching the stream was to take a hearty drink of its crystal treasure, and let our horse do the same. The next object was to seek a fording place--which was effected without difficulty. On mounting the southern bank, we again found the trail, lost in the morning, and pursued it with alacrity. It was my turn this day to be in advance, as guide, but the temptation of small game, as we went up the valley, drew me aside, while Enobitti proceeded to select a suitable spot for the night's encampment. It was dark when I rejoined him, with my squirrel and pigeon hunt. He had confined himself closely to the trail. It soon led him out of the valley, up a long brushy ridge, and then through an open elevated pine grove, which terminated abruptly in a perpendicular precipice. Separated from this, at some eight hundred yards distance, stood a counter precipice of limestone rock, fretted out, into pinnacles and massy walls, with dark openings, which gave the whole the resemblance of architectural ruins. The stream that ran between these cliffs, was small, and it lay so deep and well embrowned in the shades of evening, that it presented vividly from this elevation, a waving bright line on a dark surface. Into this deep dark terrific glen the path led, and here we lit our fire, hastily constructed a bush camp, and betook ourselves, after due ablutions in the little stream, to a night's repose. The sky became rapidly overcast, before we had finished our meal, and a night of intense darkness, threatening a tempest, set in. As we sat by our fire, its glare upon huge beetling points of overhanging rocks, gave the scene a wild and picturesque cast; and we anticipated returning daylight with an anxious wish to know and see our exact locality. By the restless tramping of our horse, and the tinkling of his bell, we knew that he had found but indifferent picking. Daylight fulfilled the predictions of the evening. We had rain. It also revealed our position in this narrow, and romantic glen. A high wall of rocks, encompassed us on either hand, but they were not such as would have resulted in a volcanic country from a valley fissure. Narrow and deep as the glen was, it was at once apparent, that it was a valley of denudation, and had owed its existence to the wasting effects of the trifling stream within it, carrying away, particle by particle, the matter loosened by rains and frosts, and mechanical attrition. The cliffs are exclusively calcareous, and piled up, mason like, in horizontal layers. One of the most striking pictures which they presented, was found in the great number, size and variety of caves, which opened into this calcareous formation. These caves are of all sizes, some of them very large, and not a few of them situated at elevations above the floor of the glen, which forbade access. One of our first objects, after examining the neighbourhood, was to remove our baggage and location up the glen, into one of these caves, which at the distance of about a mile, promised us an effectual shelter from the inclemency of the storm. This done, we determined here to wait for settled weather, and explore the precincts. By far the most prominent object, among the caverns, was the one into which we had thus unceremoniously thrust ourselves. It had evidently been visited before, by persons in search of saltpetre earth. Efflorescences of nitric earth, were abundant in its fissures, and this salt was also present in masses of reddish diluvial earth, which lay in several places. The mouth of this cave presented a rude irregular arc, of which the extreme height was probably thirty feet, and the base line ninety. The floor of this orifice occurs, at an elevation of about forty feet above the stream. And this size is held for about two hundred feet, when it expands into a lofty dome, some eighty or ninety feet high, and perhaps, three hundred in diameter. In its centre a fine spring of water issues from the rock. From this dome several passages lead off in different directions. One of these opens into the glen, at an inaccessible point, just below. Another runs back nearly at right angles with the mouth, putting out smaller passages, of not much importance, however, in its progress. So splendid and noble an entrance gave us the highest hopes of finding it but the vestibule of a natural labyrinth; but the result disappointed us. These ample dimensions soon contract, and after following the main or south passage about five hundred yards, we found our further entrance barred, by masses of fallen rock, at the foot of which a small stream trickled through the broken fragments, and found its way to the mouth. Have we good reason to attribute to this small stream, a power sufficient to be regarded as the effective agent in carrying away the calcareous rock, so as to have in a long period produced the orifice? Whence then, it may be asked, the masses of compact reddish clay and pebble diluvium, which exist? These seem rather to denote that these caves were open orifices, during the period of oceanic action, upon the surface of the Ozarks, and that a mass of waters, surcharged with such materials, flowed into pre-existing caverns. This diluvium is, in truth, of the same era as the wide spread stream of like kind, which has been deposited over the metalliferous region of Missouri. If these, however, be questions for geological doubt; we had lit upon another inquiry, very prominent on our minds in making this exploration, namely, whether there were any wild beasts sheltered in its fissures. Satisfied that we were safe on this score, we retraced our footsteps to our fire, and sallied out to visit other caves. Most of these were at such heights as prevented access to them. In one instance, a tree had fallen against the face of the cliff, in such a manner that by climbing it to its forks, and taking one of the latter, the opening might be reached. Putting a small mineral hammer in my pocket, I ascended this tree, and found the cave accessible. It yielded some wax yellow and white translucent stalactites, and also very delicate white crystals of nitre. The dimensions of this cave were small, and but little higher than to enable a man to stand upright. In each of the caves of this glen which I entered, during a halt of several days in this vicinity, I looked closely about for fossil bones, but without success in any instance. The only article of this kind observed was the recent leg and foot bones and vertebra of the bos musarius, which appeared to be an inhabitant of the uppermost fissures in these calcareous cliffs, but I never saw the living species, although I ranged along their summits and bases, with my gun and hammer, at various hours. Some of the compact lime stone in the bed of the creek exhibited a striped and jaspery texture. The wood-duck and the duck and mallard sometimes frequented this secluded stream, and it was a common resort for the wild turkey, at a certain hour in the evening. This bird seemed at such times to come in thirsty, from its ranges in quest of acorns on the uplands, and its sole object appeared to be to drink. Sitting in the mouth of our cave, we often had a fine opportunity to see flocks of these noisy and fine birds flying down from the cliffs, and perching on the trees below us. If they came to roost, as well as to slack their thirst, a supposition probable, this was an ill-timed movement, so long as we inhabited the glen, for they only escaped the claw and talons of one enemy, to fall before the fire-lock of the other. This bird, indeed, proved our best resource on the journey, for we travelled with too much noise and want of precaution generally, to kill the deer and elk, which, however, were abundant on the highland plains. We passed three days at the Glen Cave, during which there were several rains; it stormed one entire day, and we employed the time of this confinement, in preparing for the more intricate and unknown parts of our journey. Hitherto we had pursued for the most of the way, a trail, and were cheered on our way, by sometimes observing traces of human labour. But, from this point we were to plunge into a perfect wilderness, without a trace or track. We had before us, that portion of the Ozark range, which separates to the right and left, the waters of the Missouri from those of the Mississippi. It was supposed, from the best reports, that by holding south-west, across these eminences, we should strike the valley of the White River, which interposed itself between our position there and the Arkansas. To enter upon this tract, with our compass only as a guide, and with the certainty of finding no nutritious grass for our horse, required that we should lighten and curtail our baggage as much as possible, and put all our effects into the most compact and portable form. And having done this, and the weather proving settled, we followed a short distance up the Glen of Caves; but finding it to lead too directly west, we soon left it and mounted the hills which line its southern border. A number of latter valleys, covered with thick brush, made this a labour by no means slight. The surface was rough; vegetation sere and dry, and every thicket which spread before us, presented an obstacle which was to be overcome. We could have penetrated many of these, which the horse could not be forced through. Such parts of our clothing as did not consist of buckskin, paid frequent tribute to these brambles. At length we got clear of these spurs, and entered on a high waving table land where travelling became comparatively easy. The first view of this vista of high land plains was magnificent. It was covered with moderate sized sere grass and dry seed pods, which rustled as we passed. There was scarcely an object deserving the name of a tree, except, now and then, a solitary trunk of a dead pine, or oak, which had been scathed by lightning. The bleached skull of the buffalo, was sometimes met, and proved that this animal had once existed here. Rarely we passed a stunted oak; sometimes a cluster of saplings crowned the summit of a sloping hill; the deer often bounded before us; we sometimes disturbed the hare from its sheltering bush, or put to flight the quail or the prairie hen. There was no prominent feature for the eye to rest upon. The unvaried prospect produced satiety. We felt in a peculiar manner the solitariness of the wilderness. We travelled silently and diligently. It was a dry and thirsty barren. From morning till sun set we did not encounter a drop of water. This became the absorbing object. Hill after hill, and vale after vale were patiently scanned, and diligently footed, without bringing the expected boon. At length we came, without the expectation of it, to a small running stream in the plain, where we gladly encamped. There was also some grass which preserved a greenish hue, and which enabled our horse also to recruit himself. Early the next morning we repacked him, and continued our course, travelling due west south-west. At the distance of five or six miles, we reached the banks of a clear stream of twenty feet wide, running over a bed of pebbles and small secondary boulders. This stream ran towards the north-west, and gave us the first intimation we had, that we had crossed the summit and were on the off drain of the Missouri. We supposed it to be the source of the Gasconade, or at farthest some eastern tributary of the Little Osage. A few hours travelling brought us to the banks of another stream of much larger size and depth, but running in the same direction. This stream we found it difficult to cross, and spent several hours in heaping piles of stone, and connecting them with dry limbs of trees, which had been carried down by floods. It had a rapid and deep current, on each side of which was a wide space of shallow water and rolled boulders of lime and sand stone. We succeeded in driving the horse safely over. Enobitti led the way on our frail bridge-work, but disturbed the last link of it as he jumped off on the south bank, so that it turned under my tread and let me in. There was no kind of danger in the fall as it was in the shallow part of the stream, but putting out my hands to break the fall, it so happened that my whole weight rested on my gun, which was supported on two stones, merely on its butt and muzzle; the effect was to wrench the barrel. I gave it a counter wrench as soon as we encamped, but I never afterwards could place full confidence in it. We had not gone over three or four miles beyond this river, when we came to the banks of a third stream, running west, but also sweeping off below, towards the north-west. This stream was smaller than the former and opposed no difficulty in fording it. Having done this we followed it up a short distance, and encamped on its south banks. CHAPTER IV. Hearsay information of the hunters turns out false--We alter our course--A bear hunt--An accident--Another rencontre with bears--Strike the source of the Great North Fork of White River--Journey down this valley--Its character and productions--A great Spring--Incidents of the route--Pack horse rolls down a precipice--Plunges in the river--A cavern--Osage lodges--A hunter's hut. It was now manifest, from our crossing the last two streams, that we were going too far north--that we were in fact in the valley of the Missouri proper; and that the information obtained of the hunters on the source of the Merrimack, was not to be implicitly relied on. It is not probable that one of the persons who gave this information had ever been here. It was a region they were kept out of by the fear of the Osages, as our own experience in the case of Roberts denoted. Willing to test it farther, however, we followed down the last named stream a few miles, in the hope of its turning south or south-west, but it went off in another direction. We then came to a halt, and after consulting together, steered our course due _south_ south-west, thus varying our general course from the caves. This carried us up a long range of wooded highlands. The forest here assumed a handsome growth. We passed through a track of the over-cup oak, interspersed with hickory, and had reached the summit of an elevated wooded ridge, when just as we gained the highest point, we discovered four bears on a large oak, in the valley before us. Three of the number were probably cubs, and with their dam, they were regaling themselves on the ripe acorns without observing us. We had sought no opportunities to hunt, and given up no especial time to it, but here was too fair a challenge to be neglected. We tied our horse securely to a sapling, and then examining our pieces, and putting down an extra ball, set out to descend the hill as cautiously as possible. An unlucky slip of Enobitti threw him with force forward and sprained his ankle. He lay for a short time in agony. This noise alarmed the bears, who one after the other quickly ran in from the extremities of the limbs to the trunk, which they descended head first, and scampered clumsily off up the valley. I pursued them without minding my companion, not knowing, indeed how badly he was hurt, but was compelled to give up the chase, as the tall grass finally prevented my seeing what course they had taken. I now returned to my companion. He could not stand at first, nor walk when he arose, and the first agony had passed. I proposed to mount him on the pack horse, and lead him slowly up the valley, and this plan was carried into effect. But he endured too much suffering to bear even this. The ankle began to inflame. There was nothing but rest and continued repose that promised relief. I selected a fine grassy spot to encamp, unpacked the horse, built a fire, and got my patient comfortably stretched on his pallet. But little provision had been made at Potosi in the medical department. My whole store of pharmacy consisted of some pills and salves, and a few simple articles. The only thing I could think of as likely to be serviceable, was in our culinary pack,--it was a little sack of salt, and of this I made a solution in warm water and bathed the ankle. I then replenished the fire and cut some wood to renew it. It was still early in the day, and leaving my companion to rest, and to the effect of the remedy offered, I took my gun and strolled over the adjoining hills, in hopes of bringing in some pigeons, or other small game. But it was a time of day when both birds and quadrupeds have finished their mornings repast, and retired to the groves or fastnesses. I saw nothing but the little grey bunting and the noisy jay. When I returned to our camp in the vale I found my companion easier. The bathing had sensibly alleviated the pain and swelling. It was therefore diligently renewed, and the next morning he was so far improved, that he consented to try the pack horse again. We had not, however, travelled far, when two large bears were seen before us playing in the grass, and so engaged in their sport, that they did not perceive us. We were now on the same level with them, and quickly prepared to give them battle. My companion dismounted as easily as possible, and having secured the horse and examined our arms, we reached a stand within firing distance. It was not till this moment that our approach was discovered by them, and the first thing they did after running a few yards, was to sit up in the grass and gaze at us. Having each singled his animal, we fired at the same instant. Both animals fled, but on reaching the spot where my mark had sat, blood was copiously found on the grass, and a pursuit was the consequence. I followed him up a long ridge, but he passed over the summit so far before me, that I lost sight of him. I came to a large hollow black oak, in the direction he had disappeared, which showed the nail marks of some animal, which I believed to be his. While examining these signs more closely my companion made his appearance. How he had got there I know not. The excitement had well nigh cured his ankle. He stood by the orifice, while I went for the axe to our camp, and when I was tired chopping, he laid hold. We chopped alternately, and big as it was, the tree at last came down with a crash that made the forest ring. For a few moments we looked at the huge and partly broken trunk as if a bear would start from it; but all was silence. We thoroughly searched the hollow part but found nothing. I went over another ridge of forest land, started a noble elk, but saw nothing more of my bear. Here terminated this adventure. We retraced our footsteps back to the valley, and proceeded on our route. This incident had led us a little south of our true course; and it so turned out that it was at a point, where a mile or two one way or the other, was calculated to make a wide difference in the place of our exit into the valley of White River; for we were on a high broken summit ridge, from which several important streams originated. The pursuit of the bear had carried us near to the head of the valley, and by crossing the intervening summit, we found ourselves at the head springs of an important stream, which in due time we learned was the Great North Fork of White River. This stream begins to develope itself in pools, or standing springs, which soak through the gravel and boulders, and it is many miles before it assumes the character of a continuous stream. Even then it proceeds in plateaux or steps, on which the water has a level, and the next succeeding level below it has its connection with it, through a rapid. In fact, the whole stream, till near its mouth, is one series of these lake-like levels, and short rapids, each level sinking lower and lower, till, like the locks in a canal, the last flows out on a level with its final recipient. But however its waters are congregated, they are all pure and colourless as rock crystal, and well vindicate the propriety of their original name of _la Rivière Blanc_. They all originate in mountain springs, are cool and sparkling, and give assurance in this feature, that they will carry health to the future inhabitants of the valley through which they flow. With the first springs begins to be seen a small growth of the cane, which is found a constant species on its bottom lands. This plant becomes high in more southern latitudes, and being intertwined with the green briar, renders it very difficult, as we soon found, to penetrate it, especially with a horse. Man can endure a thousand adventures and hardships where a horse would die; and it would require no further testimony than this journey gave, to convince me, that providence designed the horse for a state of civilization. We followed the course of these waters about six miles, and emcamped. It was evidently the source of a stream of some note. It ran in the required direction, and although we did not then know, that it was the valley of the Great North Fork of White River, we were satisfied it was a tributary of the latter stream, and determined to pursue it. This we did for twelve days, before we met with a human being, white or red. It rapidly developed itself, as we went, and unfolded an important valley, of rich soil, bearing a vigorous growth of forest trees, and enclosed on either hand, by elevated limestone cliffs. Nothing could exceed the purity of its waters, which bubbled up in copious springs, from the rock, or pebble stratum. For a long distance the stream increased from such accessions alone, without large and independent tributaries. On the second day's travel, we came to a spring, of this crystal character, which we judged to be about fifty feet across, at the point of its issue from the rock and soil. Its outlet after running about a thousand yards, joined the main stream, to which it brings a volume fully equal to it. This spring I named the Elk Spring, from the circumstance of finding a large pair of the horns of this animal, partly buried in the leaves, at a spot where I stooped down to drink. I took the horns, and hung them in the forks of a young oak tree. We found abundance of game in this valley. There was not an entire day, I think, until we got near the hunters' camps, that we did not see either the bear, elk, or deer, or their recent signs. Flocks of the wild turkey were of daily occurrence. The gray squirrel frequently sported on the trees, and as the stream increased in size, we found the duck, brant and swan. There were two serious objections, however, in travelling down a wooded valley. Its shrubbery was so thick and rank that it was next to impossible to force the pack horse through it. Wherever the cane abounds, and this comprehends all its true alluvions, it is found to be matted together, as it were, with the green briar and grape vine. So much noise attended the effort at any rate, that the game generally fled before us, and had it not been for small game, we should have often wanted a meal. With every effort, we could not make an average of more than fourteen miles a day. The river was so tortuous too, that we could not count, on making more than half this distance, in a direct line. To remedy these evils we sometimes went out of the valley, on the open naked plains. It was a relief, but had, in the end, these difficulties, that while the plains exposed us to greater heats in travelling, they afforded no water, and we often lost much time in the necessity, we were under, towards night-fall, of going back to the valley for water. Neither was it found to be safe to travel far separated, for there were many causes of accident, which rendered mutual assistance desirable. One day, while Enobitti led the horse, and was conducting him from a lofty ridge, to get into the valley, the animal stumbled, and rolled to the bottom. We thought every bone in his body had been broke, but he had been protected by his pack, and we found that he was but little injured, and when repacked, still capable of going forward. On another occasion, I had been leading him for several hours, along a high terrace of cliffs on the left banks where this terrace was, as it were, suddenly cut off by the intersection of a lateral valley. The view was a sublime one, standing at the pinnacle of junction; but there was no possible way of descent, and it was necessary to retrace my steps, a long--long way. As an instance of the very tortuous character of this stream, I will mention that a rocky peninsula, causing a bend which it took my companion some two hours to pass, with the horse, I had crossed in less than twenty minutes, with my hammer and gun. When we had, as we supposed, become familiar with every species of impediment and delay, in descending the valley, a new, and very serious and unexpected one, arose one day, in crossing the stream, from the left to the right bank. It was my turn to be muleteer that day, and I had selected a ford where the river was not wide, and the water, apparently, some two or three feet deep. I judged from the clearness of the pebbles at the bottom, and their apparent nearness to the surface. But such was the transparency of the water, that a wide mistake was made. We had nearly lost the horse, he plunged in over head, could not touch bottom, and when with great ado, we had got him up the steep bank on the other side, he was completely exhausted. But this was not the extent of the evil. Our sugar and salt were dissolved. Our meal, of which a little still remained, was spoiled. Our tea was damaged,--our blankets and clothing wetted,--our whole pack soaked. The horse had been so long in the water, in our often fruitless efforts to get him to some part of the bank depressed enough, to pull him up, that nothing had escaped its effects. We encamped on the spot, and spent the rest of the day in drying our effects, and expelling from our spare garments the superfluous moisture. The next day we struck out into the high plains, on the right bank, and made a good day's journey. The country was nearly level, denuded of trees, with sere autumnal grass. Often the prairie hen started up, but we saw nothing in the animal creation beside, save a few hares, as evening came on. To find water for the horse, and ourselves, we were again compelled to approach the valley. We at length entered a dry and desolate gorge, without grass or water. Night came on, but no sound or sight of water occurred. We were sinking deeper and deeper into the rocky structure of the country at every step, and soon found there were high cliffs on either side of us. What we most feared now occurred. It became dark, the clouds had threatened foul weather and it now began to rain. Had it not been for a cavern, which disclosed itself, in one of these calcareous cliffs, we must have passed a miserable night. On entering it, we found a spring of water. It was too high in the cliff to get the horse in, but we carried him water in a vessel. He was afterwards hobbled, and left to shift for himself. On striking a fire, in the cave, its rays disclosed masses of stalactites, and a dark avenue into the rocks back. Having made a cup of tea and finished our repast, we determined to explore the cave before lying down to rest, lest we might be intruded on by some wild animal before morning. A torch of pine wood was soon made, which guided our footsteps into the dismal recess, but we found nothing of the kind. On returning to our fire, near the mouth of the cave, we found the rain had increased to a heavy shower, and the vivid flashes of lightning, illumined with momentary brilliancy, the dark and frowning precipices of this romantic gorge. The excitement and novelty of our position, served to drive away sleep, notwithstanding a long day's march, and it was late before we sought repose. Morning brought a clear sky, but the horse was gone. He had followed on the back track, up the glen, in search of something to feed upon, and was not found till we reached the skirts of the plains. The whole morning was indeed, lost in reclaiming him, and we then set forward again and returned to the North Fork valley. We found it had assumed a greater expanse, at the point of our re-entry, which it maintained, and increased, as we pursued it down. Wide open oak plains extended on the left bank, which appeared very eligible for the purposes of settlement. On an oak tree, at this spot, we observed some marks, which had probably been made by some enterprising land explorer. With these improved evidences of its character for future occupation, we found the travelling easier. Within a few miles travel, we noticed a tributary coming in on the left bank, and at a lower point another on the left. The first stream had this peculiarity, that its waters came in at a right angle, with the parent stream, and with such velocity as to pass directly across its channel to the opposite bank. In this vicinity, we saw many of the deserted pole camps of the Osages, none of which appeared, however, to have been recently occupied. So far, indeed, we had met no hindrance, or annoyance from this people; we had not even encountered a single member of the tribe, and felt assured that the accounts we had received of their cruelty and rapacity, had been grossly exaggerated, or if not wholly overcoloured, they must have related to a period in their history, which was now well nigh past. We could not learn that they had hunted on these lands, during late years, and were afterwards given to understand that they had ceded them to the United States by a treaty concluded at St. Louis. From whatever causes, however, the district had been left free from their roving parties, it was certain that the game had recovered under such a cessation of the chase. The black bear, deer and elk, were abundant. We also frequently saw signs of the labours of the beaver along the valley. I had the good luck, one day, while in advance with my gun, of beholding two of these animals, at play in the stream, and observing their graceful motions. My position was, within point blank shot of them, but I was screened from their gaze. I sat, with gun cocked, meaning to secure one of them after they came to the shore. Both animals came out together, and sat on the bank at the edge of the river, a ledge of rocks being in the rear of them. The novelty of the sight led me to pause, and admire them, when, all of a sudden, they darted into a crevice in the rock. On the second day after re-entering the valley, we descried, on descending a long slope of rising ground, a hunter's cabin, covered with narrow oak boards, split with a frow; and were exhilarated with the idea of finding it occupied. But this turned out a delusive hope. It had been deserted, from appearance, the year before. We found, among the surrounding weeds, a few stems of the cotton plant, which had grown up from seeds, accidentally dropped. The bolls had opened. I picked out the cotton to serve as a material in lighting my camp fires, at night, this being a labour which I had taken the exclusive management of. The site of this camp, had been well chosen. There was a small stream in front, and a heavy rich cane bottom behind it, extending to the banks of the river. A handsome point of woodlands extended north of it, from the immediate door of the camp. And although somewhat early in the day, we determined to encamp, and soon made ourselves masters of the fabric, and sat down before a cheerful fire, with a title to occupancy, which there was no one to dispute. FOOTNOTES: [2] The United States government, the very next year, 1819, sent out Col. Long to the Yellow Stone. THE BIRD. VERSIFIED FROM THE GERMAN OF GESSNER: 1812. A swain, as he strayed through the grove, Had caught a young bird on a spray-- What a gift, he exclaimed, for my love, How beautiful, charming, and gay. With rapture he viewed the fair prize, And listened with joy to its chat, As with haste to the meadow he hies To secure it beneath his straw hat. I will make of yon willows so gay, A cage for my prisoner to mourn, Then to Delia, the gift I'll convey, And beg for a kiss in return. She will grant me that one, I am sure, For a present so rare and so gay, And I easily can steal a few more And bear them enraptured away. He returned: but imagine his grief, The wind had his hat overthrown, And the bird, in the joy of relief, Away with his kisses had flown. H. R. S. PERSONAL INCIDENTS AND IMPRESSIONS OF THE INDIAN RACE, DRAWN FROM NOTES OF TRAVEL AND RESIDENCE IN THEIR TERRITORIES. CHARACTER OF THE RED MAN OF AMERICA. INQUIRY I.--What kind of a being is the North American Indian?--Have we judged rightly of him?--What are his peculiar traits, his affections, and his intellectual qualities?--Is he much influenced by his religion, his mode of government, and his complicated language? My earliest impressions of the Indian race, were drawn from the fire-side rehearsals of incidents which had happened during the perilous times of the American revolution; in which my father was a zealous actor, and were all inseparably connected with the fearful ideas of the Indian yell, the tomahawk, the scalping knife, and the fire brand. In these recitals, the Indian was depicted as the very impersonation of evil--a sort of wild demon, who delighted in nothing so much as blood and murder. Whether he had mind, was governed by any reasons, or even had any soul, nobody inquired, and nobody cared. It was always represented as a meritorious act in old revolutionary reminiscences, to have killed one of them in the border wars, and thus aided in ridding the land of a cruel and unnatural race, in whom all feelings of pity, justice, and mercy, were supposed to be obliterated. These early ideas were sustained by printed narratives of captivity and hair-breadth escapes of men and women from their clutches, which, from time to time, fell into my hands, so that long before I was ten years old, I had a most definite and terrific idea impressed on my imagination of what was sometimes called in my native precincts, "the bow and arrow race." [Illustration: THE LODGE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.] To give a definite conception of the Indian man, there lived in my native valley, a family of Indians of the Iroquois stock, who often went off to their people in the west, and as often returned again, as if they were a troop of genii, or the ghosts of the departed, who came to haunt the nut wood forests, and sub-vallies of the sylvan Tawasenthaw, which their ancestors had formerly possessed, and to which they still claimed some right. In this family, which was of the Oneida tribe, and consisted of the husband and wife, with two grown up sons, I first saw those characteristic features of the race,--namely, a red skin, with bright black eyes, and black straight hair. They were mild and docile in their deportment, and were on friendly terms with the whole settlement, whom they furnished with neatly made baskets of the linden wood, split very thin, and coloured to impart variety, and with nice ash brooms. These fabrics made them welcome guests with every good housewife, who had forgotten the horrific stories of the revolution, and who was ever ready to give a chair and a plate, and a lodging place by the kitchen fire, to poor old Isaac and Anna, for so they had been named. What their original names were, nobody knew; they had lived so long in the valley that they spoke the Dutch language, and never made use of their own, except when talking together; and I recollect, we thought it a matter of wonder, when they discoursed in Indian, whether such a guttural jargon, could possibly be the medium of conveying any very definite ideas. It seemed to be one undistinguished tissue of hard sounds, blending all parts of speech together. Had the boys of my own age, and I may say, the grown people, stopped to reflect, and been led to consider this family and their race in America, independently of their gross acts, under the strong excitements of war and revenge, goaded by wrongs, and led on by the class of revolutionary tories, more implacable than even themselves, we must have seen, in the peaceable lives, quiet manners, and benevolent dispositions of these four people, a contradiction to, at least, some part of the sweeping conclusions above noticed. But no such thoughts occurred. The word "Indian," was synonymous then, as perhaps now, with half the opprobrious epithets in the dictionary. I recollect to have myself made a few lines, in early life, on the subject, which ran thus:-- Indians they were, ere Colon crossed the sea, And ages hence, they shall but _Indians_ be. Fortunately I was still young when my sphere of observation was enlarged, by seeing masses of them, in their native forests; and I, after a few years, assumed a position as government agent to one of the leading tribes, at an age when opinions are not too firmly rooted to permit change. My opinions were still, very much however, what they had been in boyhood. I looked upon them as very cannibals and blood-thirsty fellows, who were only waiting a good opportunity to knock one in the head. But I regarded them as a curious subject of observation. The remembrance of poor old Isaac, had shown me that there was some feeling and humanity in their breasts. I had seen many of them in my travels in the west, and I felt inclined to inquire into the traits of a people, among whom my duties had placed me. I had, from early youth, felt pleased with the study of natural history, and I thought the Indian, at least in his languages, might be studied with something of the same mode of exactitude. I had a strong propensity, at this time of life, for analysis, and I believed that something like an analytical process might be applied to enquiries, at least in the department of philology. Whenever a fact occurred, in the progress of my official duties, which I deemed characteristic, I made note of it, and in this way preserved a sort of skeleton of dates and events, which, it was believed, would be a source of useful future reference. It is, in truth, under advantages of the kind, that these remarks are commenced. The author has thrown out these remarks, as a starting point. He has made observations which do not, in all respects, coincide with the commonly received opinions, and drawn some conclusions which are directly adverse to them. He has been placed in scenes and circumstances of varied interest, and met with many characters, in the course of four and twenty years' residence and travel in the wilds of America, who would have struck any observer as original and interesting. With numbers of them, he has formed an intimate acquaintance, and with not a few, contracted lasting friendships. Connected with them by a long residence, by the exercise of official duties, and by still more delicate and sacred ties, he has been regarded by them as one identified with their history, and received many marks of their confidence. The Indians, viewed as a distinct branch of the human race, have some peculiar traits and institutions, from which their history and character may be advantageously studied. They hold some opinions, which are not easily discovered by a stranger, or a foreigner, but which yet exert a powerful influence on their conduct and life. There is a subtlety in some of their modes of thought and belief, on life and the existence of spiritual and creative power, which would seem to have been eliminated from some intellectual crucible, without the limits of their present sphere. Yet, there is much relative to all the common concerns of life, which is peculiar to it. The author has witnessed many practices and observances, such as travellers have often noticed, but like others, attributed them to accident, or to some cause widely different from the true one. By degrees, he has been admitted into their opinions, and if we may so call it, the philosophy of their minds; and the life of an Indian no longer appears to him a mystery. He sees him acting, as other men would act, if placed exactly in his condition, prepared with the education the forest has given him, and surrounded with the same wants, temptations and dangers. The gentler affections are in much more extensive and powerful exercise among the Indian race, than is generally believed, although necessarily developed with less refinement than in civilized society. Their paternal and fraternal affections, have long been known to be very strong, as well as their veneration for the dead. It has been his province in these departments, to add some striking examples of their intensity of feeling and affection, and truthfulness to nature. The most powerful source of influence, with the Red man, is his religion. Here is the true groundwork of his hopes and his fears, and, it is believed, the fruitful source of his opinions and actions. It supplies the system of thought by which he lives and dies, and it constitutes, indeed, the basis of Indian character. By it he preserves his identity, as a barbarian, and when this is taken away, and the true system substituted, he is still a Red Man, but no longer, in the popular sense, an _Indian_--a barbarian, a pagan. The Indian religion is a peculiar compound of rites, and doctrines, and observances, which are early taught the children by precept and example. In this respect, every bark-built village is a temple, and every forest a school. It would surprise any person to become acquainted with the variety and extent to which an Indian is influenced by his religious views and superstitions. He takes no important step without reference to it. It is his guiding motive in peace and in war. He follows the chace under its influence, and his very amusements take their tincture from it. To the author, the facts have been developing themselves for many years, and while he is able to account for the peculiar differences between the conduct of Indians and that of white men, in given cases, he can easily perceive, why the latter have so often been unable to calculate the actions of the former, and even to account for them, when they have taken place. It may be here remarked, that the civilized man, is no less a mysterious and unaccountable being to an Indian, because his springs of action are alike unintelligible to him. If the following pages shall afford the public any means of judging of the Red Race, with greater accuracy, he hopes they may lead to our treating them with greater kindness and a more enlarged spirit of justice. The change which has been wrought in his own mind, by the facts he has witnessed, has been accompanied by a still more important one, as to their intellectual capacities and moral susceptibilities, and their consequent claims on the philanthropy of the age. As a class of men, it is thought their native speakers, without letters or education, possess a higher scope of thought and illustration, than the _corresponding class_ in civilized life. This may be accounted for, perhaps, from obvious external causes, without impugning the actual native capacity of the lower, although educated classes of civilized life. Still, it is a very striking fact, and one which has very often forced itself on the attention of the author. The old idea that the Indian mind is not susceptible of a high, or an advantageous developement, rests upon questionable data. The two principal causes, which have prolonged their continuance in a state of barbarism, on this continent for so long a period, are a false religion, and false views of government. The first has kept back social prosperity and impeded the rise of virtue. With respect to government, during all the time we have had them for neighbours, they may be said to have had no government at all. Personal independence, has kept the petty chiefs from forming confederacies for the common good. Individuals have surrendered no part of their original private rights, to secure the observance of the rest. There has been no public social organization, expressed or implied. The consequence has been that the law of private redress and revenge prevailed. In the only two cases where this system was departed from, in North America, namely that of the Azteek empire, and of the Iroquois confederacy, there was no lack of vigour to improve. The results were a constantly increasing power, and extending degree of knowledge up to the respective eras of their conquest. It was not want of mental capacity, so much as the non-existence of moral power, and of the doctrines of truth and virtue, that kept them back; and left our own wandering tribes, particularly, with the bow and the spear in their hands. He believes, that their errors, in these particulars, may be pointed out, without drawing conclusions adverse to their political or social prosperity, under better auspices, and without attributing such failures to mental imbecility. The mode of recording thought, among these tribes, by means of pictorial signs, and mnemonic symbols, has attracted particular attention, and gives the author hopes, that he has been enabled to collect, and bring forward, a body of facts, in this department, which will recommend themselves by their interest and novelty. Confidence, inspired by long residence in their territories, revealed to him another trait of character, in the existence among them of a traditionary imaginative lore, which is repeated from father to son, and has no small influence upon their social condition. It is in these two departments, that, he believes, he has opened new and important means of judging of the Indian character, and discovered the sources of views and opinions, on many subjects, which had escaped previous inquirers. There is one more point, to which he will here invite a momentary attention, and which, although not usually enumerated as among the practical causes that influenced Indian society and character, is yet believed to exercise a strong, though silent sway, both upon the question of the mental character, and its true development. The author alludes to the topic of their languages. Some of the most venerated writers present a theory of the origin of national government languages and institutions, difficult or impossible to be conformed with the nature of man in society, and unsupported by such evidence as their doctrines require. Such, he regards, the theory of the "social compact," except it be viewed in the most undefined and general sense possible. Such, also, is the theory of the origin and improvement of languages. The system of government generally prevailing among the Indian tribes, is indeed so simple and natural, under their circumstances, that it is thought no person would long seek for the traces of any great legislator, giving them laws in any past period. When, however, we consider the curious structure of their languages, we find an ingenuity and complexity, far surpassing any theory to be discovered in that of the modern languages of Europe, with, perhaps, some exceptions in the Basque and Majyer, and even beyond any thing existing in the Greek. As the latter has long been held up as a model, and the excellencies of its plan attributed to some unknown, but great and sagacious, learned, and refined mind, we might feel justified in assigning the richness of forms, the exceeding flexibility, and the characteristic beauties and excellencies of the Indian tongues, to a mind of far superior wisdom, ingenuity, and experience. Yet how perfectly gratuitous would this be! All history bears testimony against the human invention and designed alteration of language; and none but a mere theorist can ever embrace the idea that it is, or ever was, in the power of any man, to fabricate and introduce a new language, or to effect a fundamental change in the groundwork of an existing one. This, at least, is the decided opinion of the author; and he firmly believes, that whoever will contemplate the subject, amidst such scenes as he has been accustomed to, will inevitably come to the same conclusion. He has seen changes in dialects commenced and progressive, and indications of others going on, but these owed their origin and impulse to accidental circumstances, and were not the result of any plan, or design. They were the result of necessity, convenience, or caprice. These three causes, that is to say, necessity convenience and caprice, if properly examined and appreciated in their influence, and traced with care to their effects, will develop the origin of many things, whose existence has been sought at too great a distance, or amidst too much refinement. Books, and the readers of books, have done much to bewilder and perplex the study of the Indian character. Fewer theories and more observation, less fancy and more fact, might have brought us to much more correct opinions than those which are now current. The Indian is, after all, believed to be a man, much more fully under the influence of common sense notions, and obvious every-day motives of thought and action, hope and fear, than he passes for. If he does not come to the same conclusions, on passing questions, as we do, it is precisely because he sees the premises, under widely different circumstances. The admitted errors of barbarism and the admitted truths of civilization, are two very different codes. He is in want of almost every source of true knowledge and opinion, which we posses. He has very imperfect notions on many of those branches of knowledge in what we suppose him best informed. He is totally in the dark as to others. His vague and vast and dreamy notions of the Great Author of Existence, and the mode of his manifestations to the human race, and the wide and complicated system of superstition and transcendental idolatry which he has reared upon this basis, place him, at once, with all his sympathies and theories, out of the great pale of truth and civilization. This is one of the leading circumstances which prevents him from drawing his conclusions as we draw them. Placed under precisely similar circumstances, we should perhaps coincide in his opinion and judgments. But aside from these erroneous views, and after making just allowances for his ignorance and moral depression, the Indian is a man of plain common sense judgment, acting from what he knows, and sees, and feels, of objects immediately before him, or palpable to his view. If he sometimes employs a highly figurative style to communicate his thoughts, and even stoops, as we now know he does, to amuse his fire-side circle with tales of extravagant and often wild demonic fancy, he is very far from being a man who, in his affairs of lands, and merchandize, and business, exchanges the sober thoughts of self preservation and subsistence, for the airy conceptions of fancy. The ties of consanguinity bind him strongly. The relation of the family is deep and well traced amongst the wildest tribes, and this fact alone forms a basis for bringing him back to all his original duties, and re-organizing Indian society. The author has, at least, been thrown into scenes and positions, in which this truth has strongly presented itself to his mind, and he believes the facts are of a character which will interest the reader, and may be of some use to the people themselves so far as affects the benevolent plans of the age, if they do not constitute an increment in the body of observational testimony, of a practical nature, from which the character of the race is to be judged. PERSONAL INCIDENTS AND IMPRESSIONS OF THE RED RACE, DRAWN FROM NOTES OF RESIDENCE AND TRAVEL IN THE INDIAN TERRITORIES. DOMESTIC CONDITION OF THE TRIBES AND CONSTITUTION OF THE INDIAN FAMILY. INQUIRY II.--What is the domestic condition and organization of the Indian family? Is the tie of consanguinity strong, and what characteristic facts can be stated of it? How are the domestic duties arranged? What are the rights of each inmate of the lodge? How is order maintained in so confined a space, and the general relations of the family preserved? Are the relative duties and labours of the hunter and his wife, equally or unequally divided? Who builds the lodge, and how is it constructed? There is a very striking agreement, in the condition, relative duties and obligations, of the Indian family, among all the tribes of whom I have any personal knowledge, in North America. Climate and position, the abundance or want of the means of subsistence and other accidental causes, have created gradations of condition in the various tribes, some of whom excel others in expertness, in hunting and war, and other arts, but these circumstances have done little to alter the general characteristics, or to abridge or enlarge the original rights and claims of each inmate of the lodge. The tribes who cultivated maize in the rich sub-vallies and plains of the Ohio and Mississippi, had fuller means of both physical and mental development, than those who were, and still are, obliged to pick a scanty subsistence, among the frigid, and half marine regions in the latitudes north of the great lakes. There are some peculiar traits of manners, in the prairie-tribes, west of the Mississippi, who pursue the bison on horseback, and rely for their subsistence greatly, on its flesh, and the sale of its skin. The well fed Muscogee, Cherokee, or Choctaw, who lived in the sunny vallies of upper Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee, the robust Osage, revelling in the abundance of corn and wild meat, south of the Missouri, and the lean and rigid Montaignes, Muskeego, and Kenisteno, who push their canoes through waters choked with aquatic weeds, and wild rice, present very different pictures of home and comfort, within their lodge doors. But they really present the same idea, the same sentiments, and the same round of duties and obligations, of father and mother, sister and brother, wife and husband. The original type of the human family among them, is well preserved, better, indeed, than was to have been expected in a state of barbarism, and among branches of the race who have been so long separated, and subjected to such severe vicissitudes. It would be useless, in this view, to draw a parallel between the relative condition of the members of a family, within, and without the pale of civilization. Nothing of the kind could be done, without showing up pictures of want in the hunter-life which are wholly unknown in the agricultural state. It cannot perhaps, in fair justice, be said that the tie of consanguinity, in the man of the woods, is stronger, than in civilized life. But it is in accordance with all observation to say, that it is very strong, that its impulses beat with marked force, and are more free from the intertwined ligaments of interest, which often weakens the tie of relationship in refined and affluent society. The true idea of matrimony, in Indian life, is also well set forth and acknowledged, although it has come down through ages of plunder and wandering, degraded in its condition, shorn of its just ceremonies, and weakened in its sacred character. I have observed that polygamy, among the northern tribes, is chiefly to be found, among bands who are favourably located, and have the best means of subsistence. But even here it is not reputable; it may often increase a man's influence in the tribe or nation, but there are always persons in the wildest forests, who do not think the practice right or reputable. In the worst state of Indian society, there are always some glimmerings of truth. If the conscience of the Red man may be compared to a lamp, it may be said to have rather sunk low into its socket, than actually to have expired. The relation between husband and wife, in the forest, are formed under circumstances, which are generally uniform. Various incidents, or motives determine a union. Sometimes it is brought about by the intervention of friends; sometimes from a sudden impulse of admiration; sometimes with, and sometimes against the wishes of the graver and more prudent relatives of the parties. Where the husband is acceptable, and has not before been married, which covers the majority of cases, he comes to live for a while after marriage, in the lodge of his mother-in-law; and this relation generally lasts until the increase of children, or other circumstances determine his setting up a lodge for himself. Presents are still a ready way for a young hunter to render himself acceptable in a lodge. There are some instances, where considerable ceremony, and the invitation of friends, have attended the first reception of the bridegroom, at the lodge; but these are in most cases, what we should denominate matches of state, or expediency, in which the bravery, or other public services of a chief or leader, has inclined his village to think, that his merits deserve the reward of a wife. Generally, the acceptance of the visitor by the party most interested, and her mother and father, and their expressed, or tacit consent, is the only preliminary, and this is done in a private way. The only ceremonial observance, of which I have ever heard, is the assigning of what is called an abbinos, or permanent lodge seat, to the bridegroom. When this has been done, by the mother or mistress of the lodge, who governs these things, he is received, and henceforth installed as a constituent member of the lodge and family. The simple rule is, that he who has a right to sit by the bride, is her husband. The lodge itself, with all its arrangements, is the precinct of the rule and government of the wife. She assigns to each member, his or her ordinary place to sleep and put their effects. These places are permanent, and only changed at her will, as when there is a guest by day or night. In a space so small as a lodge this system preserves order, and being at all times under her own eye, is enforced by personal supervision. The husband has no voice in this matter, and I have never heard of an instance in which he would so far deviate from his position, as to interfere in these minor particulars. The lodge is her precinct, the forest his. There is no law, nor force, to prevent an Indian from decreeing his own divorce, that is to say, leaving one wife and taking another whenever he sees cause. Yet it often occurs that there is some plausible pretext for such a step, such as if true, would form some justification of the measure. The best protection to married females arises from the ties of children, which by bringing into play the strong natural affections of the heart, and appeals at once to that principle in man's original organization, which is the strongest. The average number of children borne by the women, and which reach the adult period is small, and will scarcely exceed two. On the pay rolls it did not exceed this. Much of this extraordinary result is owing to their erratic mode of life, and their cramped means of subsistence. Another cause is to be found in the accidents and exposure to which young children are liable, but still more to their shocking ignorance of medicine. I once knew a child at three years of age to be killed by an attempt to restore a deranged state of the bowels, by a strong overdose of an astringent tincture of hemlock bark administered by her father. This man, who was called Attuck, had strong natural affections, but he was very ignorant even in the eyes of the Indian race, being one of that people living N. E. of lake Superior, who are called variously Gens de Terres, Mountaineers, and Muskeegoes. Wherever the laws of reproduction are relieved from these depressing circumstances, the number of children is seen to be increased. The chief Iaba-Waddick, who lived on a small bay at the foot of lake Superior, and had abundance of means of subsistence, had fourteen children by one wife. He was an excellent hunter, and of habits for the most part of his life, strictly temperate; he had married young, and had always had the means of providing his family with adequate clothing and food. Not one of these children died in infancy. He lived himself to be old, and died rather from a complaint induced by constitutional structure, than from a natural decay of vital power. The duties and labours of Indian life, are believed to be equally, and not, as has been generally thought, unequally divided between the male and female. This division is also the most natural possible, and such as must ever result from the condition of man, as a mere hunter. It is the duty of the male to provide food, and of the female to prepare it. This arrangement carries with it to the share of the male, all that relates to external concerns, and all that pertains to the internal to the care of the female as completely as is done in civilized life. To the man belongs not only the business of hunting, for this is an _employment_ and not a _pastime_, but the care of the territory, and keeping off intruders and enemies, and the preparation of canoes for travel, and of arms and implements of war. The duties of cooking and dressing meats and fowl, and whatever else the chase affords, carries on the other hand, to the share of the hunter's wife, the entire care and controul of the lodge, with its structure and removal, and the keeping it in order, with all its utensils and apparatus. A good and frugal hunter's wife, makes all this a point of ambitious interest, and takes a pride in keeping it neat and proper for the reception of her husband's guests. She sweeps the earth clean around the fire, with a broom of branches of the cedar constructed for this purpose. This lodge it is to be remembered, is made not of beams and posts, and heavy carpentry, but out of thin poles, such as a child can lift, set in the ground in a circle, bent over and tied at the top, and sheathed with long sheets of the white birch bark. A rim of cedar wood at the bottom, assimilates these birch bark sheets to the roller of a map, to which in stormy weather a stone is attached to hold it firm. This stick has also the precise use of a map-roller, for when the lodge is to be removed, the bark is rolled on it, and in this shape carried to the canoe, to be set up elsewhere. The circle of sticks or frame, is always left standing, as it would be useless to encumber the canoe with what can easily be had at any position in a forest country. Such at least is the hunting lodge, and indeed, the lodge generally used by the tribes north of latitude 42°. It is, in its figure, a half globe, and by its lightness and wicker-like structure, may be said to resemble an inverted bird's nest. The whole amount of the transportable materials of it, is often comprehended in some half a dozen good rolls of bark, and as many of rush mats which the merest girl can easily lift. The mats which are the substitute for floor cloths, and also the under stratum of the sleeping couch, are made out of the common lacustris or bullrush, or the flag, cut at the proper season, and woven in a warp of fine hemp net thread, such as is furnished by traders in the present state of the Indian trade. A portion of this soft vegetable woof, is dyed, and woven in various colours. Lodges thus constructed are to be still abundantly seen, by the summer visitor, in the upper lakes, at all the principal points, to which the Indians resort, during the height of summer. Such are the posts of Michilimackinac, Sault Ste. Marie, and Green Bay. At Michilimackinac, where it is now difficult to get fresh lodge poles, without going some distance, or trespassing on private rights, the natives who resort thither, of late years, have adopted an ingenious change, by which two objects are accomplished at the same time, and the labour of the females dispensed with in getting new poles. It is known, that the bark canoe, being itself but an enlarged species of wicker work, has not sufficient strength to be freighted, without previously having a number of poles laid longitudinally, in the bottom, as a kind of vertebral support. These poles on landing upon the gravelly shores of that island, are set up, or _stacked_ to use a military phrase, that is tying the tops together and then drawing out the other ends so as to describe a circle, and thus making a perfect cone. The bark tapestry is hung around these poles very much as it would be around the globular close lodges; and by this arrangement, an Indian lodge is raised, and ready for occupation, in as many minutes, after landing, as the most expert soldiers could pitch a tent in. Before we can affirm that the labour of preparing these barks and mats and setting up, and taking down, the lodge, is disproportionately great, or heavy on the females, it will be necessary to inquire into other particulars, both on the side of the male and female. Much of the time of an Indian female, is passed in idleness. This is true not only of a part of every day, but is emphatically so, of certain seasons of the year. She has not like the farmer's wife, her cows to milk, her butter and cheese to make, and her flax to spin. She has not to wash and comb and prepare her children every morning, to go to school. She has no extensive or fine wardrobe to take care of. She has no books to read. She sets little value on time, which is characteristic of all the race. What she does, is either very plain sewing, or some very pains taking ornamental thing. When the sheathing and flooring of the lodges are once made, they are permanent pieces of property, and do not require frequent renewal. When a skin has been dressed, and a garment made of it, it is worn, till it is worn out. Frequent ablution and change of dress, are eminently the traits of high civilization, and not of the hunter's lodge. The articles which enter into the mysteries of the laundry, add but little to the cares of a forest housekeeper. With every industrial effort, and such is, sometimes the case, there is much unoccupied time, while her husband is compelled by their necessities, to traverse large tracts, and endure great fatigues, in all weathers in quest of food. He must defend his hunting grounds, in peace and war, and has his life daily in his hands. Long absences are often necessary, on these accounts. It is at such times, during the open season, that the Indian female exerts her industry. In the fall season, she takes her children in a canoe, or if she have none, invites a female companion to go with her, along the streams, to cut the rush, to be manufactured into mats, at her leisure, in the winter. It is also a part of her duty, at all seasons, to provide fuel for the lodge fire, which she is careful to do, that she may suitably receive her husband, on his return from the chase, and have the means of drying his wet moccasins, and a cheerful spot, where he may light his pipe, and regain his mental equilibrium, while she prepares his meals. The very idea of a female's chopping wood, is to some horrific. But it is quite true that the Indian female _does_ chop wood, or at least, exert an undue labour, in procuring this necessary article of the household. In speaking of the female, we, at once, rush to the poetic idea of the refinement of lady like gentleness, and delicacy. Not only does the nature of savage life and the hardiness of muscle created by centuries of forest vicissitude, give the hunter's wife, but a slender claim on this particular shade of character, but the kind of labour implied, is very different from the notion civilized men have of "wood chopping." The emigrant swings a heavy axe of six pounds weight, incessantly, day _in_, and day _out_, against immense trees, in the heaviest forest, until he has opened the land to the rays of the sun, and prepared an amount of cyclopean labours for the power of fire, and the ox. The hunter clears no forests, the limits of which on the contrary, he carefully cherishes for his deer to range in. He seats himself down, with his lodge, in the borders of natural glades, or meadows, to plant his few hills of maize. He had no metallic axe, capable of cutting down a tree, before 1492, and he has never learned to wield a heavy axe up to 1844. His wife, always made her lodge fires by gathering sticks, and she does so still. She takes a hatchet of one or two pounds weight, and after collecting dry limbs in the forest, she breaks them into lengths of about 18 inches, and ties them in bundles, or faggots, and carries them, at her leisure, to her lodge. Small as these sticks are, in their length and diameter, but few are required to boil her pot. The lodge, being of small circumference, but little heat is required to warm the air, and by suspending the pot by a string from above, over a small blaze, the object is attained, without that extraordinary expenditure of wood, which, to the perfect amazement of the Indian, characterizes the emigrant's roaring fire of logs. The few fields which the Indians have cleared and prepared for corn fields, in northern latitudes, are generally to be traced to some adventitious opening, and have been enlarged very slowly. Hence, I have observed, that when they have come to be appraised, to fix their value as improvements upon the land, under treaty provisions, that the amount thereof may be paid the owner, they have uniformly set a high estimate upon these ancient clearings, and sometimes regarded their value, one would think, in the inverse proportion of these limits. As if, indeed, there were some merit, in having but half an acre of cleared ground, where, it might be supposed, the owner would have cultivated ten acres. And this half acre, is to be regarded as the industrial sum of the agricultural labours of all ages and sexes, during perhaps, ten generations. Could the whole of this physical effort, therefore, be traced to female hands, which is doubtful, for the old men and boys, will often do something, it would not be a very severe imposition. There is at least, a good deal, it is believed, in this view of the domestic condition of the women to mitigate the severity of judgment, with which the proud and labour-hating hunter, has sometimes been visited. He has, in our view, the most important part of the relative duties of Indian life, to sustain. In the lodge he is a mild, considerate man, of the non-interfering and non-scolding species. He may indeed, be looked upon, rather as the guest of his wife, than what he is often represented to be, her tyrant, and he is often only known as the lord of the lodge, by the attention and respect which she shows to him. He is a man of few words. If her temper is ruffled, he smiles. If he is displeased, he walks away. It is a province in which his actions acknowledge her right to rule; and it is one, in which his pride and manliness have exalted him above the folly of altercation. THE MANITO TREE. There is a prominent hill in the vicinity of Sault Ste. Marie, at the outlet of lake Superior, called by the French _La Butte des Terres_. An Indian foot-path formerly connected this hill with the old French settlement at those falls, from which it is distant about a mile. In the intermediate space, near the path, there formerly stood a tree, a large mountain ash, from which, Indian tradition says, there issued a sound, resembling that produced by their own war-drums, during one of the most calm and cloudless days. This occurred long before the French appeared in the country. It was consequently regarded as the local residence of a spirit, and deemed sacred. From that time they began to deposit at its foot, an offering of small green twigs and boughs, whenever they passed the path, so that, in process of time, a high pile of these offerings of the forest was accumulated. It seemed as if, by this procedure, the other trees had each made an offering to this tree. At length the tree blew down, during a violent storm, and has since entirely decayed, but the spot was recollected and the offerings kept up, and they would have been continued to the present hour, had not an accidental circumstance put a stop to it. In the month of July 1822, the government sent a military force to take post, at that ancient point of French settlement, at the foot of the falls, and one of the first acts of the commanding officer was to order out a fatigue party to cut a wagon road from the selected site of the post to the hill. This road was directed to be cut sixty feet wide, and it passed over the site of the tree. The pile of offerings was thus removed, without the men's knowing that it ever had had a superstitious origin; and thus the practice itself came to an end. I had landed with the troops, and been at the place but nine days, in the exercise of my appropriate duties as an Agent on the part of the government to the tribe, when this trait of character was mentioned to me, and I was thus made personally acquainted with the locality, the cutting of the road, and the final extinction of the rite. Our Indians are rather prone to regard the coming of the white man, as fulfilling certain obscure prophecies of their own priests; and that they are, at best, harbingers of evil to them; and with their usual belief in fatality, they tacitly drop such rites as the foregoing. They can excuse themselves to their consciences in such cases, in relinquishing the worship of a local manito, by saying: it is the tread of the white man that has desecrated the ground. TALES OF A WIGWAM. THE WHITE STONE CANOE. There was once a very beautiful young girl, who died suddenly on the day she was to have been married to a handsome young man. He was also brave, but his heart was not proof against this loss. From the hour she was buried, there was no more joy or peace for him. He went often to visit the spot where the women had buried her, and sat musing there, when, it was thought, by some of his friends, he would have done better to try to amuse himself in the chase, or by diverting his thoughts in the war-path. But war and hunting had both lost their charms for him. His heart was already dead within him. He pushed aside both his war-club and his bow and arrows. He had heard the old people say, that there was a path, that led to the land of souls, and he determined to follow it. He accordingly set out, one morning, after having completed his preparations for the journey. At first he hardly knew which way to go. He was only guided by the tradition that he must go south. For a while, he could see no change in the face of the country. Forests, and hills, and vallies, and streams had the same looks, which they wore in his native place. There was snow on the ground, when he set out, and it was sometimes seen to be piled and matted on the thick trees and bushes. At length, it began to diminish, and finally disappeared. The forest assumed a more cheerful appearance, the leaves put forth their buds, and before he was aware of the completeness of the change, he found himself surrounded by spring. He had left behind him the land of snow and ice. The air became mild, the dark clouds of winter had rolled away from the sky; a pure field of blue was above him, and as he went he saw flowers beside his path, and heard the songs of birds. By these signs he knew that he was going the right way, for they agreed with the traditions of his tribe. At length he spied a path. It led him through a grove, then up a long and elevated ridge, on the very top of which he came to a lodge. At the door stood an old man, with white hair, whose eyes, though deeply sunk, had a fiery brilliancy. He had a long robe of skins thrown loosely around his shoulders, and a staff in his hands. The young Chippewayan began to tell his story; but the venerable chief arrested him, before he had proceeded to speak ten words. I have expected you, he replied, and had just risen to bid you welcome to my abode. She, whom you seek, passed here but a few days since, and being fatigued with her journey, rested herself here. Enter my lodge and be seated, and I will then satisfy your enquiries, and give you directions for your journey from this point. Having done this, they both issued forth to the lodge door. "You see yonder gulf, said he, and the wide stretching blue plains beyond. It is the land of souls. You stand upon its borders, and my lodge is the gate of entrance. But you cannot take your body along. Leave it here with your bow and arrows, your bundle and your dog. You will find them safe on your return." So saying, he re-entered the lodge, and the freed traveller bounded forward, as if his feet had suddenly been endowed with the power of wings. But all things retained their natural colours and shapes. The woods and leaves, and streams and lakes, were only more bright and comely than he had ever witnessed. Animals bounded across his path, with a freedom and a confidence which seemed to tell him, there was no blood shed here. Birds of beautiful plumage inhabited the groves, and sported in the waters. There was but one thing, in which he saw a very unusual effect. He noticed that his passage was not stopped by trees or other objects. He appeared to walk directly through them. They were, in fact, but the souls or shadows of material trees. He became sensible that he was in a land of shadows. When he had travelled half a day's journey, through a country which was continually becoming more attractive, he came to the banks of a broad lake, in the centre of which was a large and beautiful island. He found a canoe of shining white stone, tied to the shore. He was now sure that he had come the right path, for the aged man had told him of this. There were also shining paddles. He immediately entered the canoe, and took the paddles in his hands, when to his joy and surprise, on turning round, he beheld the object of his search in another canoe, exactly its counterpart in every thing. She had exactly imitated his motions, and they were side by side. They at once pushed out from shore and began to cross the lake. Its waves seemed to be rising and at a distance looked ready to swallow them up; but just as they entered the whitened edge of them they seemed to melt away, as if they were but the images of waves. But no sooner was one wreath of foam passed, than another, more threatening still, rose up. Thus they were in perpetual fear; and what added to it, was the _clearness of the water_, through which they could see heaps of beings who had perished before, and whose bones laid strewed on the bottom of the lake. The Master of Life had, however, decreed to let them pass, for the actions of neither of them had been bad. But they saw many others struggling and sinking in the waves. Old men and young men, males and females of all ages and ranks, were there; some passed, and some sank. It was only the little children whose canoes seemed to meet no waves. At length, every difficulty was gone, as in a moment, and they both leapt out on the happy island. They felt that the very air was food. It strengthened and nourished them. They wandered together over the blissful fields, where every thing was formed to please the eye and the ear. There were no tempests--there was no ice, no chilly winds--no one shivered for the want of warm clothes: no one suffered for hunger--no one mourned for the dead. They saw no graves. They heard of no wars. There was no hunting of animals; for the air itself was their food. Gladly would the young warrior have remained there forever, but he was obliged to go back for his body. He did not see the Master of Life, but he heard his voice in a soft breeze: "Go back, said this voice, to the land from whence you came. Your time has not yet come. The duties for which I made you, and which you are to perform, are not yet finished. Return to your people, and accomplish the duties of a good man. You will be the ruler of your tribe for many days. The rules you must observe, will be told you by my messenger, who keeps the gate. When he surrenders back your body, he will tell you what to do. Listen to him, and you shall afterwards rejoin the spirit, which you must now leave behind. She is accepted and will be ever here, as young and as happy as she was when I first called her from the land of snows." When this voice ceased, the narrator awoke. It was the fancy work of a dream, and he was still in the bitter land of snows, and hunger and tears. THE LYNX AND THE HARE. A FABLE FROM THE OJIBWA-ALGONQUIN. A lynx almost famished, met a hare one day in the woods, in the winter season, but the hare was separated from its enemy by a rock, upon which it stood. The lynx began to speak to it in a very kind manner. "Wabose! Wabose!"[3] said he, "come here my little white one, I wish to talk to you." "O no," said the hare, "I am afraid of you, and my mother told me never to go and talk with strangers." "You are very pretty," replied the lynx, "and a very obedient child to your parents; but you must know that I am a relative of yours; I wish to send some word to your lodge; come down and see me." The hare was pleased to be called pretty, and when she heard that it was a relative, she jumped down from the place where she stood, and immediately the lynx pounced upon her and tore her to pieces. FOOTNOTES: [3] This word appears to be a derivation from the radix WAWB, white. The termination in o is the objective sign. The term is made diminutive in s. THE WORSHIP OF THE SUN. AN OTTOWA TRADITION. A long time ago, there lived an aged Odjibwa and his wife, on the shores of Lake Huron. They had an only son, a very beautiful boy whose name was O-na-wut-a-qut-o, or he that catches the clouds. The family were of the totem of the beaver. The parents were very proud of him, and thought to make him a celebrated man, but when he reached the proper age, he would not submit to the We-koon-de-win, or fast. When this time arrived, they gave him charcoal, instead of his breakfast, but he would not blacken his face. If they denied him food, he would seek for birds' eggs, along the shore, or pick up the heads of fish that had been cast away, and broil them. One day, they took away violently the food he had thus prepared, and cast him some coals in place of it. This act brought him to a decision. He took the coals and blackened his face, and went out of the lodge. He did not return, but slept without; and during the night, he had a dream. He dreamed that he saw a very beautiful female come down from the clouds and stand by his side. "O-no-wut-a-qut-o," said she, "I am come for you--step in my tracks." The young man did so, and presently felt himself ascending above the tops of the trees--he mounted up, step by step, into the air, and through the clouds. His guide, at length, passed through an orifice, and he, following her, found himself standing on a beautiful plain. A path led to a splendid lodge. He followed her into it. It was large, and divided into two parts. On one end he saw bows and arrows, clubs and spears, and various warlike implements tipped with silver. On the other end, were things exclusively belonging to females. This was the home of his fair guide, and he saw that she had, on the frame, a broad rich belt, of many colours, which she was weaving. She said to him: "My brother is coming and I must hide you." Putting him in one corner, she spread the belt over him. Presently the brother came in, very richly dressed, and shining as if he had had points of silver all over him. He took down from the wall a splendid pipe, together with his sack of a-pa-ko-ze-gun, or smoking mixture. When he had finished regaling himself in this way, and laid his pipe aside, he said to his sister: "Nemissa," (which is, my elder sister,) "when will you quit these practices? Do you forget that the Greatest of the Spirits has commanded that you should not take away the children from below? Perhaps you suppose that you have concealed O-na-wut-a-qut-o, but do I not know of his coming? If you would not offend me, send him back immediately." But this address did not alter her purpose. She would not send him back. Finding that she was purposed in her mind, he then spoke to the young lad, and called him from his hiding place. "Come out of your concealment," said he, "and walk about and amuse yourself. You will grow hungry if you remain there." He then presented him a bow and arrows, and a pipe of red stone, richly ornamented. This was taken as the word of consent to his marriage; so the two were considered husband and wife from that time. O-no-wut-a-qut-o found every thing exceedingly fair and beautiful around him, but he found no inhabitants except her brother. There were flowers on the plains. There were bright and sparkling streams. There were green vallies and pleasant trees. There were gay birds and beautiful animals, but they were not such as he had been accustomed to see. There was also day and night, as on the earth; but he observed that every morning the brother regularly left the lodge, and remained absent all day; and every evening the sister departed, though it was commonly but for a part of the night. His curiosity was aroused to solve this mystery. He obtained the brother's consent to accompany him in one of his daily journies. They travelled over a smooth plain, without boundaries, until O-no-wut-a-qut-o felt the gnawings of appetite, and asked his companion if there were no game. "Patience! my brother," said he, "we shall soon reach the spot where I eat my dinner, and you will then see how I am provided." After walking on a long time, they came to a place which was spread over with fine mats, where they sat down to refresh themselves. There was, at this place, a hole through the sky; and O-no-wut-a-qut-o, looked down, at the bidding of his companion, upon the earth. He saw below the great lakes, and the villages of the Indians. In one place, he saw a war party stealing on the camp of their enemies. In another, he saw feasting and dancing. On a green plain, young men were engaged at ball. Along a stream, women were employed in gathering the a-puk-wa for mats. "Do you see," said the brother, "that group of children playing beside a lodge. Observe that beautiful and active boy," said he, at the same time darting something at him, from his hand. The child immediately fell, and was carried into the lodge. They looked again, and saw the people gathering about the lodge. They heard the she-she-gwan of the meeta, and the song he sung, asking that the child's life might be spared. To this request, the companion of O-no-wut-a-qut-o made answer--"send me up the sacrifice of a white dog." Immediately a feast was ordered by the parents of the child, the white dog was killed, his carcass was roasted, and all the wise men and medicine men of the village assembled to witness the ceremony. "There are many below," continued the voice of the brother, "whom you call great in medical skill, but it is because their ears are open, and they listen to my voice, that they are able to succeed. When I have struck one with sickness, they direct the people to look to me: and when they send me the offering I ask, I remove my hand from off them, and they are well." After he had said this, they saw the sacrifice parcelled out in dishes, for those who were at the feast. The master of the feast then said, "we send this to thee, Great Manito," and immediately the roasted animal came up. Thus their dinner was supplied, and after they had eaten, they returned to the lodge by another way. After this manner they lived for some time; but the place became wearisome at last. O-no-wut-a-qut-o thought of his friends, and wished to go back to them. He had not forgotten his native village, and his father's lodge; and he asked leave of his wife, to return. At length she consented. "Since you are better pleased," she replied, "with the cares and the ills, and the poverty of the world, than with the peaceful delights of the sky, and its boundless prairies, go! I give you permission, and since I have brought you hither, I will conduct you back; but remember, you are still my husband, I hold a chain in my hand by which I can draw you back, whenever I will. My power over you is not, in any manner, diminished. Beware, therefore, how you venture to take a wife among the people below. Should you ever do so, it is then that you shall feel the force of my displeasure." As she said this, her eyes sparkled--she raised herself slightly on her toes, and stretched herself up, with a majestic air; and at that moment, O-no-wut-a-qut-o awoke from his dream. He found himself on the ground, near his father's lodge, at the very spot where he had laid himself down to fast. Instead of the bright beings of a higher world, he found himself surrounded by his parents and relatives. His mother told him he had been absent a year. The change was so great, that he remained for some time moody and abstracted, but by degrees, he recovered his spirits. He began to doubt the reality of all he had heard and seen above. At last, he forgot the admonitions of his spouse, and married a beautiful young woman of his own tribe. But within four days, she was a corpse. Even the fearful admonition was lost, and he repeated the offence by a second marriage. Soon afterwards, he went out of the lodge, one night, but never returned. It was believed that his wife had recalled him to the region of the clouds, where the tradition asserts, he still dwells, and walks on the daily rounds, which he once witnessed. * * * * * The native tribes are a people without maxims: One of the few which have been noticed is this: Do not tell a story in the summer; if you do, the toads will visit you. SHINGEBISS. FROM THE ODJIBWA-ALGONQUIN. There was once a Shingebiss, [the name of a kind of duck] living alone, in a solitary lodge, on the shores of the deep bay of a lake, in the coldest winter weather. The ice had formed on the water, and he had but four logs of wood to keep his fire. Each of these, would, however, burn a month, and as there were but four cold winter months, they were sufficient to carry him through till spring. Shingebiss was hardy and fearless, and cared for no one. He would go out during the coldest day, and seek for places where flags and rushes grew through the ice, and plucking them up with his bill, would dive through the openings, in quest of fish. In this way he found plenty of food, while others were starving, and he went home daily to his lodge, dragging strings of fish after him, on the ice. Kabebonicca[4] observed him, and felt a little piqued at his perseverance and good luck in defiance of the severest blasts of wind he could send from the north-west. "Why! this is a wonderful man," said he; "he does not mind the cold, and appears as happy and contented, as if it were the month of June. I will try, whether he cannot be mastered." He poured forth ten-fold colder blasts, and drifts of snow, so that it was next to impossible to live in the open air. Still the fire of Shingebiss did not go out; he wore but a single strip of leather around his body, and he was seen, in the worst weather, searching the shores for rushes, and carrying home fish. "I shall go and visit him," said Kabebonicca, one day, as he saw Shingebiss dragging along a quantity of fish. And accordingly, that very night, he went to the door of his lodge. Meantime Shingebiss had cooked his fish, and finished his meal, and was lying, partly on his side, before the fire singing his songs. After Kabebonicca had come to the door, and stood listening there, he sang as follows: Ka Neej Ka Neej Be In Be In Bon In Bon In Oc Ee. Oc Ee. Ca We-ya! Ca We-ya! The number of words, in this song, are few and simple, but they are made up from compounds which carry the whole of their original meanings, and are rather suggestive of the ideas floating in the mind, than actual expressions of those ideas. Literally he sings: Spirit of the North West--you are but my fellow man. By being broken into syllables, to correspond with a simple chant, and by the power of intonation and repetition, with a chorus, these words are expanded into melodious utterance, if we may be allowed the term, and may be thus rendered: Windy god, I know your plan, You are but my fellow man, Blow you may your coldest breeze, Shingebiss you cannot freeze, Sweep the strongest wind you can, Shingebiss is still your man, Heigh! for life--and ho! for bliss, Who so free as Shingebiss? The hunter knew that Kabebonicca was at his door, for he felt his cold and strong breath; but he kept on singing his songs, and affected utter indifference. At length Kabebonicca entered, and took his seat on the opposite side of the lodge. But Shingebiss did not regard, or notice him. He got up, as if nobody were present, and taking his poker, pushed the log, which made his fire burn brighter, repeating as he sat down again: You are but my fellow man. Very soon the tears began to flow down Kabebonicca's cheeks, which increased so fast, that, presently, he said to himself, "I cannot stand this--I must go out." He did so, and left Shingebiss to his songs; but resolved to freeze up all the flag orifices, and make the ice thick, so that he could not get any more fish. Still Shingebiss, by dint of great diligence, found means to pull up new roots, and dive under for fish. At last Kabebonicca was compelled to give up the contest. "He must be aided by some Monedo," said he, "I can neither freeze him, nor starve him, he is a very singular being--I will let him alone." * * * * * The introduction of the Saxon race into North America, has had three determined opponents, the life of each of whom forms a distinct era. They were Powhatan, Metakom, and Pontiac. Each pursued the same method to accomplish his end, and each was the indomitable foe of the race.--Sassacus ought, perhaps, to be added to the number. Brant, was but a partisan, and fought for one branch, against another. Tecumseh, was also, rather the foe of the American type of the race, than the whole race. The same can be said of lesser men, such as Little Turtle, Buckanjaheela, and Black Hawk. Uncas was also a partisan, not a hater of the white race, and like Waub Ojeeg in the north, fought, that one tribe might prevail over another. If the Saxon race profited by this, he could not help it. Tuscaloosa fought for his tribe's supremacy; Osceola for revenge. FOOTNOTES: [4] A personification of the North West. EARLY INDIAN BIOGRAPHY. PISKARET. There lived a noted chief on the north banks of the St. Lawrence in the latter part of the 16th century, who was called by the Iroquois, Piskaret, but the true pronunciation of whose name, by his own people, was Bisconace, or the Little Blaze. Names are often arbitrarily bestowed by the Indians, from some trivial circumstance in domestic life, or hunting, as mere nick names, which take the place of the real names: for it is a practice among this people to conceal their real names, from a subtle, superstitious notion, that, if so known, they will be under the power of priestly incantation, or some other evil influence. What the real name of this man was, if it differed from the above, is not known, as this was his only appellation. He was an Adirondak: that is to say, one of the race of people who were called Adirondaks by the Iroquois, but Algonquins by the French. And as the Algonquins and Iroquois, had lately became deadly enemies and were so then, the distinction to which Bisconace rose, was in the conducting of the war which his people waged against the Iroquois, or Five Nations. It seems, from the accounts of both English and French authors, that the Algonquins, at the period of the first settlement of the St. Lawrence, were by far the most advanced in arts and knowledge, and most distinguished for skill in war and hunting, of all the nations in North America. This at least is certain, that no chief, far or near, enjoyed as high a reputation for daring valor and skill as Bisconace. He is spoken of in this light by all who name him; he was so fierce, subtle and indomitable that he became the terror of his enemies, who were startled at the very mention of his name. Bisconace lived on the north banks of the St. Lawrence, below Montreal, and carried on his wars against the Indians inhabiting the northern parts of the present state of New York, often proceeding by the course of the River Sorel. The period of the Adirondak supremacy, embraced the close of the 15th century and the beginning of the 16th, and at this time the people began to derive great power and boldness, from the possession of fire arms, with which the French supplied them, before their southern and western neighbours came to participate in this great improvement, this striking era of the Red man, in the art of war. Colden is thought to be a little out, in the great estimate he furnishes of the power, influence, and advances of this great family of the Red Race. The French naturally puffed them up a good deal; but we may admit that they were most expert warriors, and hunters, and manufactured arms and canoes, with great skill. They were the prominent enemies of the Five Nations; and like all enemies at a distance had a formidable name. The word Adirondak is one of Iroquois origin; but the French, who always gave their own names to the Tribes, and had a policy in so doing, called them Algonquins--a term whose origin is involved in some obscurity. For a time, they prevailed against their enemies south of the St. Lawrence, but the latter were soon furnished with arms by the Dutch, who entered the Hudson in 1609, and their allies, the Iracoson, or Iroquois, soon assumed that rank in war which, if they had before lacked, raised them to so high a point of pre-eminence. It was in that early period of the history of these nations that Bisconace exerted his power. Where a people have neither history nor biography, there is but little hope that tradition will long preserve the memory of events. Some of the acts of this chief are known through the earlier colonial writers. So great was the confidence inspired in the breast of this chief, by the use of fire arms, that he pushed into the Iroquois country like a mad man, and performed some feats against a people armed with bows only, which are astonishing. With only four chiefs to aid him, he left Trois Rivieres, on one occasion, in a single canoe, with fifteen loaded muskets, thus giving three pieces, to each man. Each piece was charged with two balls, joined by a small chain ten inches long. Soon after entering the Sorel river, he encountered five bark canoes of Iroquois, each having ten men. To cloak his ruse he pretended to give himself up for lost, in view of such a disparity of numbers; and he and his companions began to sing their death song. They had no sooner got near their enemies, however, than they began to pour in their chain-shot, riddling the frail canoes of the enemy, who tumbled into the water, and sank under the active blows of their adversaries. Some he saved to grace his triumphant return, and these were tortured at the stake. On another occasion he undertook an enterprize alone. Being well acquainted with the Iroquois country, he set out, about the time the snow began to melt, taking the precaution to put the hinder part of his snow-shoes forward to mislead the enemy, in case his track should be discovered. As a further precaution, he avoided the plain forest paths, keeping along the ridges and high stony grounds, where the snow was melting, that his track might be often lost. When he came near to one of the Villages of the Five Nations, he hid himself till night. He then crept forth, and entered a lodge, where he found every soul asleep. Having killed them all, he took their scalps, and went back to his lurking place. The next day the people of the village searched in vain for the perpetrator. At night he again sallied forth, and repeated the act, on another lodge, with equal secrecy and success. Again the villagers searched, but could find no traces of his footsteps. They determined, however, to set a watch. Piskaret, anticipating this, gathered up his scalps, and stole forth slyly, but found the inhabitants of every lodge on the alert, save one, where the sentinel had fallen asleep. This man he despatched and scalped, but alarmed the rest, who rose in the pursuit. He was, however, under no great fears of being overtaken. One of the causes of his great confidence in himself was found in the fact that he was the swiftest runner known. He eluded them often, sometimes, however, lingering to draw them on, and tire them out. When he had played this trick, he hid himself. His pursuers, finding they had let him escape, encamped, thinking themselves in safety, but they had no sooner fallen asleep, than he stole forth from his lurking place, and despatched every one of them. He added their scalps to his bundle of trophies, and then returned. Recitals of this kind flew from village to village, and gave him the greatest reputation for courage, adroitness and fleetness. The Five Nations were, however, early noted for their skill in stratagem, and owed their early rise to it. They were at this era engaged in their long, fierce and finally triumphant war against the Algonquins and Wyandots, or to adopt the ancient terms, the Adirondaks and Quatoghies. These latter they defeated in a great battle, fought within two miles of Quebec. In this battle the French, who were in reality weak in number, were neutral. Their neutrality, on this occasion, happened in this way. They had urged the reception of priests upon the Five Nations, through whose influence, they hoped to prevail over that people, and to wrest western New York from the power of the Dutch and English. As soon as a number of these missionaries of the sword and cross had insinuated themselves among the Five Nations, the latter seized them, as hostages; and, under a threat of their execution, kept the French quiet in this decisive battle. This scheme had succeeded so well, that it taught the Five Nations the value of negociation; and they determined, the next year, to try another. Pretending that they were now well satisfied with their triumph on the St. Lawrence, they sent word that they meant to make a formidable visit to Yonnendio, this being the official name they bestowed on the governor of Canada. Such visits they always made with great pomp and show; and on this occasion, they came with 1000 or 1200 men. On the way to Quebec, near the river Nicolet, their scouts met Piskaret, whom they cajoled, and kept in utter ignorance of the large force behind until they had drawn out of him an important piece of information, and then put him to death. They cut off his head, and carried it to the Iroquois army. To have killed him, was regarded as an assurance of ultimate victory. These scouts also carried to the army the information, which they had obtained, that the Adirondaks were divided into two bodies, one of which hunted on the river Nicolet, and the other at a place called Wahmeke, on the north side of the St. Lawrence. They immediately divided their forces, fell upon each body at unawares and cut them both to pieces. This is the great triumph to which Charlevoix, in his history of New France, alludes. It was the turning point in the war against the confederated Wyandots, and Algonquins, and, in effect, drove both nations, in the end, effectually out of the St. Lawrence valley. The former fled to Lake Huron, to which they imparted their name. Some of the Adirondaks took shelter near Quebec, under the care of the Jesuits; the larger number went up the Utawas, to the region of Lake Nipising; the Atawairos fled to a large chain of islands in Lake Huron, called the Menaloulins; other bands scattered in other directions. Each one had some local name; and all, it is probable, were well enough pleased to hide their defeat by the Five Nations, under local and geographical designations. But they had no peace in their refuge. The spirit of revenge burned in the breast of the Iroquois, particularly against their kindred tribe, the Wyandots, whom they pursued into Lake Huron, drove them from their refuge at Michilimackinac, and pushed them even to Lake Superior, where for many years, this ancient tribe continued to dwell. * * * * * The pernicious examples of white men, who have conducted the Indian trade, their immoral habits, injustice, and disregard of truth, and open licentiousness, have created the deepest prejudice in the minds of the Red men against the whole European race. The Indian only thinks when he is forced to think, by circumstances. Fear, hunger and self-preservation, are the three prominent causes of his thoughts. Affection and reverence for the dead, come next. Abstract thought is the characteristic of civilization. If teachers could induce the Indians to think on subjects not before known to them, or but imperfectly known, they would adopt one of the most efficacious means of civilizing them. Christianity is ultraism to an Indian. It is so opposed to his natural desires, that he, at first, hates it, and decries it. Opposite states of feeling, however, affect him, precisely as they do white men. What he at first hates, he may as suddenly love and embrace. Christianity is not propagated by ratiocination, it is the result of feelings and affections on the will and understanding. Hence an Indian can become a christian. THE SAUSTAWRAYTSEES, OR THE ORIGIN OF THE WYANDOT AND SENECA TRIBES. A WYANDOT TRADITION. Towards the middle of the seventeenth century, a body of Indians, composed of the Wyandots (or as they were then called the Saus-taw-ray-tsee) and Seneca tribes inhabited the borders of Lake Ontario. The present Wyandots and Senecas are the remains of this community, and of the cause of their separation and of the relentless hostilities by which it was succeeded, the following details are given in the traditionary history of the Wyandots. A Wyandot girl, whose name for the sake of distinction shall be _Oon-yay-stee_, and in whom appeared united a rare combination of moral attractions, and of extraordinary personal beauty, had for her suitors, nearly all the young men of her tribe. As insensible however, as beautiful, the attentions of her lovers were productive of no favorable effect, for though none were rejected, yet neither was any one distinguished by her partiality. This unaccountable apathy became, in time, a subject not only of general, but of common interest to the young Wyandots. A council composed of those interested in the issue of these many and importunate applications for her favor, was held for the purpose of devising some method, by which her intentions in relation to them might be ascertained. At this, when these amourists had severally conceded, each, that he could boast of no indication of a preference shown by Oon-yay-stee to himself, upon which to found a reasonable hope of ultimately succeeding, it was finally determined, that their claims should be withdrawn in favor of the War Chief of their lodge. This was adopted, not so much for the purpose of advancing the interests of another to the prejudice of their own, as to avoid the humiliating alternative of yielding the object of so much competition to some more fortunate rival not connected with their band. It may be here necessary to remark that nearly all the suitors belonged to one lodge, and that each of these was a large oblong building, capable of containing 20 or 30 families, the domestic arrangements of which were regulated by a war chief, acknowledged as the head of that particular subordinate band. Many objections to the task imposed on him by this proposition were interposed by the chief, the principal of which were, the great disparity of age and the utter futility of any further attempt, upon the affections of one so obdurate of heart. The first was obviated by some well applied commendations of his person, and the second yielded to the suggestion that women were often capricious, were not always influenced by considerations the most natural, or resolvable to reasons the most obvious. The chief then painted and arrayed himself as for battle, bestowing some little additional adornment upon his person, to aid him in this species of warfare, with which he was not altogether so familiar as that in which he had acquired his reputation; his practice having been confined rather to the use of stone-headed arrows than love darts, and his dexterity in the management of hearts displayed rather in making bloody incisions, than tender impressions. Before he left the lodge, his retainers pledged themselves, that if the prosecution of this adventure should impose upon their chief the necessity of performing any feat, to render him better worthy the acceptance of Oon-yay-stee, they would aid him in its accomplishment, and sustain him against its consequences to the last extremity. It was reserved for so adventurous a spirit that it should be as successful in love, as it had hitherto been resistless in war. After a courtship of a few days, he proposed himself and was conditionally accepted, but what the nature of this condition was, further than that it was indispensable, Oon-yay-stee refused to tell him, until he should have given her the strongest assurances that it should be complied with. After some hesitation and a consultation with the lovers who urged him to give the promise, he declared himself ready to accept the terms of the compact. Under her direction he then pledged the word of a warrior, that neither peril to person, nor sacrifice of affection should ever prevail with him to desist, imprecating the vengeance of _Hau-men-dee-zhoo_, and the persecution of _Dairh-shoo-oo-roo-no_ upon his head if he failed to prosecute to the uttermost, the enterprise, if its accomplishment were only possible. She told him to bring her the scalp of a Seneca chief whom she designated, who for some reason she chose not to reveal, was the object of her hatred. The Wyandot saw too late, that he was committed. He besought her to reflect, that this man was his bosom friend, they had eaten and drank and grown up together--and how heavy it would make his heart to think that his friend had perished by his hand. He remonstrated with her on the cruelty of such a requisition, on the infamy of such an outrage of confidence and the execration which would forever pursue the author of an action so accursed. But his expostulations were made to deaf ears. She told him either to redeem his pledge, or consent to be proclaimed for a lying dog, whose promises were unworthy ever to be heard, and then left him. An hour had hardly elapsed, before the infuriated Wyandot blackened his face, entered the Seneca Village, tomahawked and scalped his friend, and as he rushed out of the lodge shouted the scalp-whoop. In the darkness of the night his person could not be distinguished, and he was challenged by a Seneca to whom he gave his name, purpose, and a defiance and then continued his flight. But before it had terminated, the long mournful scalp-whoop of the Senecas was resounding through the Wyandot Village; and the chief had hardly joined in the furious conflict that ensued between the avengers of his murdered victim and his own retainers, before he paid with his life the forfeit of his treachery. After a deadly and sustained combat for three days and nights, with alternate success, the Wyandots were compelled to retire, deserting their village and abandoning their families to such mercy as might be granted by an infuriated enemy. Those who were left, sunk under the tomahawk and scalping knife--the village was devastated--and the miserable author of the bloody tragedy herself perished amid this scene of indiscriminate slaughter and desolation. This war is said to have continued for a period of more than 30 years, in which time, the Wyandots had been forced backwards as far as Lakes Huron and Michigan. Here they made an obstinate stand, from which all the efforts of their relentless enemies to dislodge them were ineffectual. Their inveterate hatred of each other was fostered by the war parties of the respective tribes, whose vindictive feelings led them to hunt and destroy each other, like so many beasts of the forest. These resulted generally in favor of the Wyandots, who, inspirited by these partial successes, prepared for more active operations. Three encounters took place, on the same day, two being had on Lake Michigan and one on Lake Erie, and which from their savage and exterminating character, closed this long and merciless contest. It is somewhat remarkable, as no other tradition makes mention of an Indian battle upon water, that one of these, said to have occurred on Lake Erie, between Long Point and Fort Talbot, was fought in canoes. Of this the following detail is given. A large body of Wyandots accompanied by two Ottawas left Lake Huron in birch canoes, on a war excursion into the country of the Senecas, who had settled at this time, near the head of the Niagara river. They put ashore at Long Point to cook, when one of the Ottawas and a Wyandot were sent out as spies to reconnoitre. They had proceeded but a short distance from the camp, when they met two Senecas, who had been despatched by their party for the like purposes, and from whom they instantly fled. The Ottawa finding his pursuers gaining upon him, hid himself in the branches of a spruce tree, where he remained till the Seneca had passed. The Wyandot, fleeter of foot, succeeded in reaching his camp and gave the alarm, when the whole body embarked and pushed out into the lake. In another moment a party of Senecas was discovered, turning the nearest point of land in wooden canoes. Immediately the war-whoops were sounded and the hostile bands began to chant their respective songs. As they slowly approached each other, the Wyandots struck a fire, and prepared their gum and bark to repair any damage which might occur to the canoes. The battle was fought with bows and arrows, and after a furious and obstinate contest of some hours, in which the carnage was dreadful, and the canoes were beginning to fill with blood, water and mangled bodies, the Senecas began to give way. The encouraged Wyandots fought with redoubled ardor, driving the Senecas to the shore, where the conflict was renewed with unabated fury. The Wyandots were victorious, and few of the surviving Senecas escaped to tell the story of their defeat. One of the prisoners, a boy, was spared and adopted by the nation. Two Wyandots are now living who profess to have seen him, when very far advanced in years. The two other attacks to which allusion has been made, as occurring on the borders of Lake Michigan, were not more fortunate in their issue. The Senecas were repulsed with great slaughter. Thus, say the Wyandots, originated this long, bloody and disastrous war, and thus it terminated after proving nearly the ruin of our nation. HO-TSHUNG-RAH. _Upper Sandusky, March 1st, 1827._ EARLY SKETCHES OF INDIAN WOMEN. The oldest books we possess written by the first observers of our Indians abound in interest. Among these is a small work by William Wood, who visited Plymouth and Massachusetts soon after their settlement, and published his "_New England's Prospect_," in London, in 1634. The following extract from this book, (now very scarce,) we make here, partly for the purpose which the author declares he had in view in writing it, viz.: to excite the special interest of our female readers, though the good humour and wit, as well as the benevolence of the writer, will doubtless commend it to persons of both sexes. That we may not run the risk of losing any of the effect of the quaint, old-fashioned style of the original, we have been careful to preserve the author's orthography and punctuation, together with the long sentences, for which, as well as many of his contemporaries, he was remarkable. We have omitted short and unimportant passages in a few places, marked with asterisks. _E._ [Illustration: THE INDIAN MAIDEN.] WASBASHAS; OR, THE TRIBE THAT GREW OUT OF A SHELL. AN OSAGE LEGEND. There was a snail living on the banks of the river Missouri, where he found plenty of food, and wanted nothing. But at length the waters began to rise and overflow its banks, and although the little animal clung to a log, the flood carried them both away: they floated along for many days. When the water fell, the poor snail was left in the mud and slime, on shore. The heat of the sun came out so strong, that he was soon fixed in the slime and could not stir. He could no longer get any nourishment. He became oppressed with heat and drought. He resigned himself to his fate and prepared to die. But all at once, he felt a renewed vigour. His shell burst open, and he began to rise. His head gradually rose above the ground, he felt his lower extremities assuming the character of feet and legs. Arms extended from his sides. He felt their extremities divide into fingers. In fine he rose, under the influence of one day's sun, into a tall and noble man. For a while he remained in a dull and stupid state. He had but little activity, and no clear thoughts. These all came by degrees, and when his recollections returned, he resolved to travel back to his native land. But he was naked and ignorant. The first want he felt was hunger. He saw beasts and birds, as he walked along, but he knew not how to kill them. He wished himself again a snail, for he knew how, in _that_ form, to get his food. At length he became so weak, by walking and fasting, that he laid himself down, on a grassy bank, to die. He had not laid long, when he heard a voice calling him by name. "Was-bas-has," exclaimed the voice. He looked up, and beheld the Great Spirit sitting on a white horse. His eyes glistened like stars. The hair of his head shone like the sun. He could not bear to look upon him. He trembled from head to foot. Again the voice spoke to him in a mild tone "Was-bas-has! Why do you look terrified?" "I tremble," he replied, "because I stand before Him who raised me from the ground. I am faint and hungry,--I have eaten nothing since the floods left me upon the shore--a little shell." The Great Spirit here lifted up his hands and displaying a bow and arrows, told him to look at him. At a distance sat a bird on a tree. He put an arrow to the string, and pulling it with force, brought down the beautiful object. At this moment a deer came in sight. He placed another arrow to the string, and pierced it through and through. "These" said he, "are your food, and these are your arms," handing him the bow and arrows. He then instructed him how to remove the skin of the deer, and prepare it for a garment. "You are naked," said he, "and must be clothed; it is now warm, but the skies will change, and bring rains, and snow, and cold winds." Having said this, he also imparted the gift of fire, and instructed him how to roast the flesh. He then placed a collar of wampum around his neck. "This," said he, "is your authority over all beasts." Having done this, both horse and rider rose up, and vanished from his sight. Was-bas-has refreshed himself, and now pursued his way to his native land. He had seated himself on the banks of the river, and was meditating on what had passed, when a large beaver rose up from the channel and addressed him. "Who art thou;" said the beaver, "that comest here to disturb my ancient reign?" "I am a _man_," he replied; "I was once a _shell_, a creeping shell; but who art thou?" "I am king of the nation of beavers," he answered: "I lead my people up and down this stream; we are a busy people, and the river is my dominion." "I must divide it with you," retorted Was-bas-has. "The Great Spirit has placed me at the head of beasts and birds, fishes and fowl; and has provided me with the power of maintaining my rights." Here he held up the bow and arrows, and displayed the collar of shells around his neck. "Come, come," said the Beaver, modifying his tone, "I perceive we are brothers.--Walk with me to my lodge, and refresh yourself after your journey," and so saying he led the way. The Snail-Man willingly obeyed his invitation, and had no reason to repent of his confidence. They soon entered a fine large village, and his host led him to the chief's lodge. It was a well-built room, of a cone-shape, and the floor nicely covered with mats. As soon as they were seated, the Beaver directed his wife and daughter to prepare food for their guest. While this was getting ready, the Beaver chief thought he would improve his opportunity by making a fast friend of so superior a being; whom he saw, at the same time, to be but a novice. He informed him of the method they had of cutting down trees, with their teeth, and of felling them across streams, so as to dam up the water, and described the method of finishing their dams with leaves and clay. He also instructed him in the way of erecting lodges, and with other wise and seasonable conversation beguiled the time. His wife and daughter now entered, bringing in vessels of fresh peeled poplar, and willow, and sassafras, and alder bark, which is the most choice food known to them. Of this, Was-bas-has made a merit of tasting, while his entertainer devoured it with pleasure. He was pleased with the modest looks and deportment of the chief's daughter, and her cleanly and neat attire, and her assiduous attention to the commands of her father. This was ripened into esteem by the visit he made her. A mutual attachment ensued. A union was proposed to the father, who was rejoiced to find so advantageous a match for his daughter. A great feast was prepared, to which all the beavers, and other animals on good terms with them, were invited. The Snail-Man and the Beaver-Maid were thus united, and this union is the origin of the Osages. So it is said by the old people. THE BOY WHO SET A SNARE FOR THE SUN; OR THE ORIGIN OF THE KUG-E-BEENG-WA-KWA,[5] OR DORMOUSE. FROM THE ODJIBWA ALGONQUIN. At the time when the animals reigned in the earth, they had killed all but a girl, and her little brother, and these two were living in fear and seclusion. The boy was a perfect pigmy, and never grew beyond the stature of a small infant; but the girl increased with her years, so that the labor of providing food and lodging devolved wholly on her. She went out daily to get wood for their lodge-fire, and took her little brother along that no accident might happen to him; for he was too little to leave alone. A big bird might have flown away with him. She made him a bow and arrows, and said to him one day, "I will leave you behind where I have been chopping--you must hide yourself, and you will soon see the Git-shee-gitshee-gaun, ai see-ug or snow birds, come and pick the worms out of the wood, where I have been chopping," (for it was in the winter.) "Shoot one of them and bring it home." He obeyed her, and tried his best to kill one, but came home unsuccessful. She told him he must not despair, but try again the next day. She accordingly left him at the place she got wood, and returned. Towards night-fall, she heard his little footsteps on the snow, and he came in exultingly, and threw down one of the birds, which he had killed. "My sister," said he, "I wish you to skin it and stretch the skin, and when I have killed more, I will have a coat made out of them." "But what shall we do with the body?" said she: for as yet men had not begun to eat animal food, but lived on vegetables alone. "Cut it in two," he answered, "and season our pottage with one half of it at a time." She did so. The boy, who was of a very small stature, continued his efforts, and succeeded in killing ten birds, out of the skins of which his sister made him a little coat. "Sister," said he one day, "are we all alone in the world? Is there nobody else living?" She told him that those they feared and who had destroyed their relatives lived in a certain quarter, and that he must by no means go in that direction. This only served to inflame his curiosity and raise his ambition, and he soon after took his bow and arrows and went in that direction. After walking a long time and meeting nothing, he became tired, and lay down on a knoll, where the sun had melted the snow. He fell fast asleep; and while sleeping, the sun beat so hot upon him, that it singed and drew up his bird-skin coat, so that when he awoke and stretched himself, he felt bound in it, as it were. He looked down and saw the damage done to his coat. He flew into a passion and upbraided the sun, and vowed vengeance against it. "Do not think you are too high," said he, "I shall revenge myself." On coming home he related his disaster to his sister, and lamented bitterly the spoiling of his coat. He would not eat. He lay down as one that fasts, and did not stir, or move his position for ten days, though she tried all she could to arouse him. At the end of ten days, he turned over, and then lay ten days on the other side. When he got up, he told his sister to make him a snare, for he meant to catch the sun. She said she had nothing; but finally recollected a little piece of dried deer's sinew, that her father had left, which she soon made into a string suitable for a noose. But the moment she showed it to him, he told her it would not do, and bid her get something else. She said she had nothing--nothing at all. At last she thought of her hair, and pulling some of it out of her head, made a string. But he instantly said it would not answer, and bid her, pettishly, and with authority, make him a noose. She told him there was nothing to make it of, and went out of the lodge. She said to herself, when she had got without the lodge, and while she was all alone, "neow obewy indapin." This she did, and twisting them into a tiny cord she handed it to her brother. The moment he saw this curious braid he was delighted. "This will do," he said, and immediately put it to his mouth, and began pulling it through his lips; and as fast as he drew it changed it into a red metal cord, which he wound around his body and shoulders, till he had a large quantity. He then prepared himself, and set out a little after midnight, that he might catch the sun before it rose. He fixed his snare on a spot just where the sun would strike the land, as it rose above the earth's disc; and sure enough, he caught the sun, so that it was held fast in the cord, and did not rise. The animals who ruled the earth were immediately put into a great commotion. They had no light. They called a council to debate upon the matter, and to appoint some one to go and cut the cord--for this was a very hazardous enterprize, as the rays of the sun would burn whoever came so near to them. At last the dormouse undertook it--for at this time the dormouse was the largest animal in the world. When it stood up it looked like a mountain. When it got to the place where the sun was snared, its back began to smoke and burn, with the intensity of the heat, and the top of its carcass was reduced to enormous heaps of ashes. It succeeded, however, in cutting the cord with its teeth, and freeing the sun, but it was reduced to a very small size, and has remained so ever since. Men call it the Kug-e-been-gwa-kwa. FOOTNOTES: [5] Blind Woman. AMPATA SAPA; OR, THE FIRST-WIFE. A TRADITION OF THE DACOTAHS. Ampata Sapa was the wife of a brave young hunter and warrior, by whom she had two children. They lived together in great happiness, which was only varied by the changes of a forest life. Sometimes they lived on the prairies; sometimes they built their wigwam in the forest, near the banks of a stream, and they paddled their canoe up and down the rivers. In these trips they got fish, when they were tired of wild meats. In the summer season they kept on the open grounds; in the winter, they fixed their camp in a sheltered position, in the woods. The very change of their camp was a source of pleasure, for they were always on the look-out for something new. They had plenty, and they wanted nothing. In this manner the first years of their marriage passed away. But it so happened, that as years went by, the reputation of her husband in the tribe increased, and he soon came to be regarded as a Weetshahstshy Atapee, or chief. This opened a new field for his ambition and pride. The fame of a chief, it is well known, is often increased by the number of his wives. His lodge was now thronged with visitors. Some came to consult him; some to gain his favour. All this gave Ampata Sapa no uneasiness, for the Red People like to have visitors, and to show hospitality. The first thing that caused a jar in her mind, was the rumour that her husband was about to take a new wife. This was like a poison in her veins; for she had a big heart. She was much attached to her husband, and she could not bear the idea of sharing his affections with another. But she found that the idea had already got strong hold of her husband's mind, and her remonstrances did little good. He defended himself on the ground, that it would give him greater influence in the tribe if he took the daughter of a noted chief. But before he had time to bring her to his lodge, Ampata Sapa had fled from it, taking her two children, and returned to her father's lodge. Her father lived at some distance, and here she remained a short time in quiet. The whole band soon moved up the Mississippi, to their hunting ground. She was glad to go with them, and would, indeed, have been glad to go any where, to get farther from the lodge of her faithless husband. Here the winter wore away. When the Spring opened, they came back again to the banks of the river, and mended and fitted up the canoes, which they had left in the fall. In these they put their furs, and descended to the Falls of St. Anthony. Ampata Sapa lingered behind a short time the morning of their embarkation, as they began to draw near the rapids which precede the great plunge. She then put her canoe in the water, and embarked with her children. As she approached the falls, the increasing velocity of the current rendered the paddles of but little use. She rested with hers suspended in her hands, while she arose, and uttered her lament: "It was him only that I loved, with the love of my heart. It was for him that I prepared, with joy, the fresh killed meat, and swept with boughs my lodge-fire. It was for him I dressed the skin of the noble deer, and worked, with my hands, the Moccasins that graced his feet. "I waited while the sun ran his daily course, for his return from the chase, and I rejoiced in my heart when I heard his manly footsteps approach the lodge. He threw down his burden at the door--it was a haunch of the deer;--I flew to prepare the meat for his use. "My heart was bound up in him, and he was all the world to me. But he has left me for another, and life is now a burden which I cannot bear. Even my children add to my griefs--they look so much like him. How can I support life, when all its moments are bitter! I have lifted up my voice to the Master of life. I have asked him to take back that life, which he gave, and which I no longer wish. I am on the current that hastens to fulfil my prayer. I see the white foam of the water. It is my shroud. I hear the deep murmur from below. It is my funeral song. Farewell." It was too late to arrest her course. She had approached too near the abyss, before her purpose was discovered by her friends. They beheld her enter the foam--they saw the canoe for an instant, on the verge, and then disappear for ever. Such was the end of Ampata Sapa; and they say her canoe can sometimes be seen, by moonlight, plunging over the falls. * * * * * Internal dissension has done more to destroy the Indian power in America, than the white man's sword. Could the tribes learn the wisdom of confederation, they might yet be saved. This is a problem now undergoing an interesting process of solution. MUKAKEE MINDEMOEA; OR, THE TOAD-WOMAN. AN ODJIBWA TALE. Great good luck once happened to a young woman who was living all alone in the woods, with nobody near her but her little dog, for, to her surprise, she found fresh meat every morning at her door. She felt very anxious to know who it was that supplied her, and watching one morning, very early, she saw a handsome young man deposit the meat. After his being seen by her, he became her husband, and she had a son by him. One day not long after this, the man did not return at evening, as usual, from hunting. She waited till late at night, but all in vain. Next day she swung her baby to sleep in its tikenágun, or cradle, and then said to her dog: "Take care of your brother whilst I am gone, and when he cries, halloo for me." The cradle was made of the finest wampum, and all its bandages and decorations were of the same costly material. After a short time the woman heard the cry of her faithful dog, and running home as fast as she could, she found her child gone and the dog too. But on looking round, she saw pieces of the wampum of her child's cradle bit off by the dog, who strove to retain the child and prevent his being carried off by an old woman called Mukakee Mindemoea, or the Toad-Woman. The mother followed at full speed, and occasionally came to lodges inhabited by old women, who told her at what time the thief had passed; they also gave her shoes, that she might follow on. There were a number of these old women, who seemed as if they were all prophetesses. Each of them would say to her, that when she arrived in pursuit of her stolen child at the next lodge, she must set the toes of the moccasins they had loaned her pointing homewards, and they would return of themselves. She would get others from her entertainers farther on, who would also give her directions how to proceed to recover her son. She thus followed in the pursuit, from valley to valley, and stream to stream, for months and years; when she came, at length, to the lodge of the last of the friendly old Nocoes, or grandmothers, as they were called, who gave her final instructions how to proceed. She told her she was near the place where her son was, and directed her to build a lodge of shingoob, or cedar boughs, near the old Toad-Woman's lodge, and to make a little bark dish and squeeze her milk into it. "Then," she said, "your first child (meaning the dog) will come and find you out." She did accordingly, and in a short time she heard her son, now grown, going out to hunt, with his dog, calling out to him, "Monedo Pewaubik (that is, Steel or Spirit Iron,) Twee! Twee!" She then set ready the dish and filled it with her milk. The dog soon scented it and came into the lodge; she placed it before him. "See my child," said she, addressing him, "the food you used to have from me, your mother." The dog went and told his young master that he had found his _real_ mother; and informed him that the old woman, whom he _called_ his mother, was not his mother, that she had stolen him when an infant in his cradle, and that he had himself followed her in hopes of getting him back. The young man and his dog then went on their hunting excursion, and brought back a great quantity of meat of all kinds. He said to his pretended mother, as he laid it down, "Send some to the stranger that has arrived lately." The old hag answered, "No! why should I send to her--the Sheegowish."[6] He insisted; and she at last consented to take something, throwing it in at the door, with the remark, "My son gives you, or feeds you this." But it was of such an offensive nature, that she threw it immediately out after her. After this the young man paid the stranger a visit, at her lodge of cedar boughs, and partook of her dish of milk. She then told him she was his real mother, and that he had been stolen away from her by the detestable Toad-Woman, who was a witch. He was not quite convinced. She said to him, "Feign yourself sick, when you go home, and when the Toad-Woman asks what ails you, say that you want to see your cradle; for your cradle was of wampum, and your faithful brother, the dog, bit a piece off to try and detain you, which I picked up, as I followed in your track. They were real wampum, white and blue, shining and beautiful." She then showed him the pieces. He went home and did as his real mother bid him. "Mother," said he, "why am I so different in my looks from the rest of your children?" "Oh," said she, "it was a very bright clear blue sky when you were born; that is the reason." When the Toad-Woman saw he was ill, she asked what she could do for him. He said nothing would do him good, but the sight of his cradle. She ran immediately and got a cedar cradle; but he said "That is not my cradle." She went and got one of her own children's cradles, (for she had four,) but he turned his head and said, "That is not mine." She then produced the real cradle, and he saw it was the same, in substance, with the pieces the other had shown him; and he was convinced, for he could even see the marks of the dog's teeth upon it. He soon got well, and went out hunting, and killed a fat bear. He and his dog-brother then stripped a tall pine of all its branches, and stuck the carcass on the top, taking the usual sign of his having killed an animal--the tongue. He told the Toad-Woman where he had left it, saying, "It is very far, even to the end of the earth." She answered, "It is not so far but I can get it," so off she set. As soon as she was gone, the young man and his dog killed the Toad-Woman's children, and staked them on each side of the door, with a piece of fat in their mouths, and then went to his real mother and hastened her departure with them. The Toad-Woman spent a long time in finding the bear, and had much ado in climbing the tree to get down the carcass. As she got near home, she saw the children looking out, apparently, with the fat in their mouths, and was angry at them, saying, "Why do you destroy the pomatum of your brother." But her fury was great indeed, when she saw they were killed and impaled. She ran after the fugitives as fast as she could, and was near overtaking them, when the young man said, "We are pressed hard, but let this stay her progress," throwing his fire steel behind him, which caused the Toad-Woman to slip and fall repeatedly. But still she pursued and gained on them, when he threw behind him his flint, which again retarded her, for it made her slip and stumble, so that her knees were bleeding; but she continued to follow on, and was gaining ground, when the young man said, "Let the Oshau shaw go min un (snake berry) spring up to detain her," and immediately these berries spread like scarlet all over the path for a long distance, which she could not avoid stooping down to pick and eat. Still she went on, and was again advancing on them, when the young man at last, said to the dog, "Brother, chew her into mummy, for she plagues us." So the dog, turning round, seized her and tore her to pieces, and they escaped. * * * * * Death is frightful, or welcome, according to the theories men have of it. To the Indian, it is a pleasing and welcome event. He believes a future state to be one of rewards, and restitutions, and not of punishments. The Indian idea of paradise is the idea of the orientals. It consists of sensualities, not spiritualities. He expects the scene to furnish him ease and plenty. Ease and plenty make the Indian's happiness here, and his heaven is but a bright transcript of his earth. Paganism and idolatry, require more mysteries for their support than Christianity. The Christian has but one God, existing in three hypostases. It would be below the truth to say that the Indian has one hundred thousand gods. The Hindoos _worship_ their multiform gods of the earth, air and sea. The North American Indian only _believes_ in them. He worships the Great Spirit. Wild thoughts are often bright thoughts, but like the wild leaps of a mountain torrent, they are evanescent and unequal. We are dazzled by a single figure in an Indian speech, but it is too often like a spark amid a shower of ashes. FOOTNOTES: [6] _Sheegowiss_, a widow, and _mowigh_, something nasty. THE FLIGHT OF THE SHAWNEES FROM THE SOUTH. A MOHEGAN TRADITION. Metoxon states, that the Shawnees were, in ancient times, while they lived in the south, defeated by a confederacy of surrounding tribes, and in danger of being totally cut off and annihilated, had it not been for the interference of the Mohegans and Delawares. An alliance between them and the Mohegans, happened in this way. Whilst the Mohegans lived at Schodack, on the Hudson river, a young warrior of that tribe visited the Shawnees, at their southern residence, and formed a close friendship with a young warrior of his own age. They became as brothers, and vowed for ever to treat each other as such. The Mohegan warrior had returned, and been some years living with his nation, on the banks of the Chatimac, or Hudson, when a general war broke out against the Shawnees. The restless and warlike disposition of this tribe, kept them constantly embroiled with their neighbours. They were unfaithful to their treaties, and this was the cause of perpetual troubles and wars. At length the nations of the south resolved, by a general effort, to rid themselves of so troublesome a people, and began a war, in which the Shawnees were defeated, battle after battle, with great loss. In this emergency, the Mohegan thought of his Shawnee brother, and resolved to rescue him. He raised a war-party and being joined by the Lenapees, since called Delawares, they marched to their relief, and brought off the remnant of the tribe to the country of the Lenapees. Here they were put under the charge of the latter, as their grandfather. They were now, in the Indian phrase, put between their grandfather's knees, and treated as little children. Their hands were clasped and tied together--that is to say, they were taken under their protection, and formed a close alliance. But still, sometimes the child would creep out under the old man's legs, and get into trouble--implying that the Shawnees could never forget their warlike propensities. The events of the subsequent history of this tribe, after the settlement of America are well known. With the Lenapees, or Delawares, they migrated westward. The above tradition was received from the respectable and venerable chief, above named, in 1827, during the negotiation of the treaty of _Buttes des Morts_, on Fox river. At this treaty his people, bearing the modern name of Stockbridges, were present, having, within a few years, migrated from their former position in Oneida county, New York, to the waters of Fox river, in Wisconsin. Metoxon was a man of veracity, and of reflective and temperate habits, united to urbanity of manners, and estimable qualities of head and heart, as I had occasion to know from several years' acquaintance with him, before he, and his people went from Vernon to the west, as well as after he migrated thither. The tradition, perhaps with the natural partiality of a tribesman, lays too much stress upon a noble and generous act of individual and tribal friendship, but is not inconsistant with other relations, of the early southern position, and irrascible temper of the Shawnee tribe. Their name itself, which is a derivative from O-shá-wan-ong, the place of the South, is strong presumptive evidence of a former residence in, or origin from, the extreme south. Mr. John Johnston, who was for many years the government agent of this tribe at Piqua, in Ohio, traces them, in an article in the Archælogia Americana (vol. 1, p. 273) to the Suwanee river in Florida. Mr. Gallatin, in the second volume of the same work (p. 65) points out their track, from historical sources of undoubted authority, to the banks of the upper Savannah, in Georgia; but remarks that they have only been well known to us since 1680. They are first mentioned in our scattered Indian annals, by De Laet, in 1632. It may further be said, in relation to Metoxon's tradition, that there is authority for asserting, that in the flight of the Shawnees from the south, a part of them descended the Kentucky river west, to the Ohio valley, where, in after times, the Shawnees of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, rather formed a re-union with this division of their kindred than led the way for them. * * * * * To depart one step from barbarism, is to take one step towards civilization. To abandon the lodge of bark--to throw aside the blanket--to discontinue the use of paints--or to neglect the nocturnal orgies of the wabeno, are as certain indications of incipient civilization, as it unquestionably is, to substitute alphabetical characters for rude hieroglyphics, or to prefer the regular cadences of the gamut, to the wild chanting of the chichigwun. BOSH-KWA-DOSH, OR THE QUADRUPED WITH THE HAIR BLOWN OFF ITS SKIN. There was once a man who found himself alone in the world. He knew not whence he came, nor who were his parents, and he wandered about from place to place, in search of something. At last he became wearied and fell asleep. He dreamed that he heard a voice saying, "Nosis," that is, my grandchild. When he awoke he actually heard the word repeated, and looking around, he saw a tiny little animal hardly big enough to be seen on the plain. While doubting whether the voice could come from such a diminutive source, the little animal said to him, "My grandson, you will call me Bosh-kwa-dosh. Why are you so desolate. Listen to me, and you shall find friends and be happy. You must take me up and bind me to your body, and never put me aside, and success in life shall attend you." He obeyed the voice, sewing up the little animal in the folds of a string, or narrow belt, which he tied around his body, at his navel. He then set out in search of some one like himself, or other object. He walked a long time in woods without seeing man or animal. He seemed all alone in the world. At length he came to a place where a stump was cut, and on going over a hill he descried a large town in a plain. A wide road led through the middle of it; but what seemed strange was, that on one side there were no inhabitants in the lodges, while the other side was thickly inhabited. He walked boldly into the town. The inhabitants came out and said; "Why here is the being we have heard so much of--here is Anish-in-á-ba. See his eyes, and his teeth in a half circle--see the Wyaukenawbedaid! See his bowels, how they are formed;"--for it seems they could look through him. The king's son, the Mudjékewis, was particularly kind to him, and calling him brother-in-law, commanded that he should be taken to his father's lodge and received with attention. The king gave him one of his daughters. These people, (who are supposed to be human, but whose rank in the scale of being is left equivocal,) passed much of their time in play and sports and trials of various kinds. When some time had passed, and he had become refreshed and rested, he was invited to join in these sports. The first test which they put him to, was the trial of frost. At some distance was a large body of frozen water, and the trial consisted in lying down naked on the ice, and seeing who could endure the longest. He went out with two young men, who began, by pulling off their garments, and lying down on their faces. He did likewise, only keeping on the narrow magic belt with the tiny little animal sewed in it; for he felt that in this alone was to be his reliance and preservation. His competitors laughed and tittered during the early part of the night, and amused themselves by thoughts of his fate. Once they called out to him, but he made no reply. He felt a manifest warmth given out by his belt. About midnight finding they were still, he called out to them, in return,--"What!" said he, "are you benumbed already, I am but just beginning to feel a little cold." All was silence. He, however, kept his position till early day break, when he got up and went to them. They were both quite dead, and frozen so hard, that the flesh had bursted out under their finger nails, and their teeth stood out. As he looked more closely, what was his surprise to find them both transformed into buffalo cows. He tied them together, and carried them towards the village. As he came in sight, those who had wished his death were disappointed, but the Mudjékewis, who was really his friend, rejoiced. "See!" said he "but one person approaches,--it is my brother-in-law." He then threw down the carcasses in triumph, but it was found that by their death he had restored two inhabitants to the before empty lodges, and he afterwards perceived, that every one of these beings, whom he killed, had the like effect, so that the depopulated part of the village soon became filled with people. The next test they put him to, was the trial of speed. He was challenged to the race ground, and began his career with one whom he thought to be a man; but every thing was enchanted here, for he soon discovered that his competitor was a large black bear. The animal outran him, tore up the ground, and sported before him, and put out its large claws as if to frighten him. He thought of his little guardian spirit in the belt, and wishing to have the swiftness of the Kakake, i.e. sparrow hawk, he found himself rising from the ground, and with the speed of this bird he outwent his rival, and won the race, while the bear came up exhausted and lolling out his tongue. His friend the Mudjékewis stood ready, with his war-club, at the goal, and the moment the bear came up, dispatched him. He then turned to the assembly, who had wished his friend and brother's death, and after reproaching them, he lifted up his club and began to slay them on every side. They fell in heaps on all sides; but it was plain to be seen, the moment they fell, that they were not men, but animals,--foxes, wolves, tigers, lynxes, and other kinds, lay thick around the Mudjékewis. Still the villagers were not satisfied. They thought the trial of frost, had not been fairly accomplished, and wished it repeated. He agreed to repeat it, but being fatigued with the race, he undid his guardian belt, and laying it under his head, fell asleep. When he awoke, he felt refreshed, and feeling strong in his own strength, he went forward to renew the trial on the ice, but quite forgot the belt, nor did it at all occur to him when he awoke, or when he lay down to repeat the trial. About midnight his limbs became stiff, the blood soon ceased to circulate, and he was found in the morning, a stiff corpse. The victors took him up and carried him to the village, where the loudest tumult of victorious joy was made, and they cut the body into a thousand pieces, that each one might eat a piece. The Mudjékewis bemoaned his fate, but his wife was inconsolable. She lay in a state of partial distraction, in the lodge. As she lay here, she thought she heard some one groaning. It was repeated through the night, and in the morning, she carefully scanned the place, and running her fingers through the grass, she discovered the secret belt, on the spot where her husband had last reposed. "Aubishin!" cried the belt--that is, untie me, or unloose me. Looking carefully, she found the small seam which enclosed the tiny little animal. It cried out the more earnestly "Aubishin!" and when she had carefully ripped the seams, she beheld, to her surprise, a minute, naked little beast, smaller than the smallest new born mouse, without any vestige of hair, except at the tip of its tail, it could crawl a few inches, but reposed from fatigue. It then went forward again. At each movement it would _pupowee_, that is to say, shake itself, like a dog, and at each shake it became larger. This it continued until it acquired the strength and size of a middle sized dog, when it ran off. The mysterious dog ran to the lodges, about the village, looking for the bones of his friend, which he carried to a secret place, and as fast as he found them arranged all in their natural order. At length he had formed all the skeleton complete, except the heel bone of one foot. It so happened that two sisters were out of the camp, according to custom, at the time the body was cut up, and this heel was sent out to them. The dog hunted every lodge, and being satisfied that it was not to be found in the camp, he sought it outside of it, and found the lodge of the two sisters. The younger sister was pleased to see him, and admired and patted the pretty dog, but the elder sat mumbling the very heel-bone he was seeking, and was surly and sour, and repelled the dog, although he looked most wistfully up in her face, while she sucked the bone from one side of her mouth to the other. At last she held it in such a manner that it made her cheek stick out, when the dog, by a quick spring, seized the cheek, and tore cheek and bone away and fled. He now completed the skeleton, and placing himself before it, uttered a hollow, low, long-drawn-out-howl, when the bones came compactly together. He then modulated his howl, when the bones knit together and became tense. The third howl brought sinews upon them, and the fourth, flesh. He then turned his head upwards, looking into the sky, and gave a howl, which caused every one in the village to startle, and the ground itself to tremble, at which the breath entered into his body, and he first breathed and then arose. "Hy kow!" I have overslept myself, he exclaimed, "I will be too late for the trial." "Trial!" said the dog, "I told you never to let me be separate from your body, you have neglected this. You were defeated, and your frozen body cut into a thousand pieces, and scattered over the village, but my skill has restored you. Now I will declare myself to you, and show who and what I am!" He then began to PUPOWEE, or shake himself, and at every shake, he grew. His body became heavy and massy, his legs thick and long, with big clumsy ends, or feet. He still shook himself, and rose and swelled. A long snout grew from his head, and two great shining teeth out of his mouth. His skin remained as it was, naked, and only a tuft of hair grew on his tail. He rose up above the trees. He was enormous. "I should fill the earth," said he, "were I to exert my utmost power, and all there is on the earth would not satisfy me to eat. Neither could it fatten me or do me good. I should want more. It were useless, therefore, and the gift I have, I will bestow on you. The animals shall henceforth be _your food_. They were not designed to feed on man, neither shall they hereafter do it, but shall _feed_ him, and he only shall prey on beasts. But you will respect me, and not eat _my kind_." [The preceding is a traditionary tale of Maidosegee, an aged and respected hunter, of Sault Ste-Marie, who was the ruling chief of the band of Chippewas at those falls, and the progenitor of the present line of ruling chiefs. It is preserved through the Johnston family, where he was a frequent guest, prior to 1810, and was happy to while away many of his winter's evenings, in return for the ready hospitalities which were sure to await him at the house of the Indian's friend.] MÄSH-KWA-SHA-KWONG, OR THE TRADITIONARY STORY OF THE RED HEAD AND HIS TWO SONS. BY NABINOI, AN AGED ODJIBWA CHIEF. Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong was a first rate hunter, and he loved the chase exceedingly, and pursued it with unceasing vigilance. One day, on his return home, arriving at his lodge, he was informed by his two sons, who were but small then, that they were very lonesome, because their mother was in the habit of daily leaving them alone, and this occurred so soon as he started upon his daily chase. This circumstance was not unknown to Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong, but he seemed fully aware of it; he took his boys in his arms and kissed them, and told them that their mother behaved improperly and was acting the part of a wicked and faithless woman. But Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong behaved towards his wife as if ignorant of her vile course. One morning rising very early, he told his sons to take courage, and that they must not be lonesome, he also strictly enjoined them not to absent themselves nor quit their lodge; after this injunction was given to the boys, he made preparations, and starting much earlier than usual, he travelled but a short distance from his lodge, when he halted and secreted himself. After waiting a short time, he saw his wife coming out of their lodge, and immediately after a man made his appearance and meeting Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong's wife, they greeted one another. His suspicions were now confirmed, and when he saw them in the act of carrying on an illegal intercourse, his anger arose, he went up to them and killed them with one blow; he then dragged them both to his lodge, and tying them together, he dug a hole beneath the fire-place in his lodge and buried them. He then told his sons that it was necessary that he should go away, as he would surely be killed if he remained, and their safety would depend upon their ability of keeping the matter a secret. He gave his eldest son a small bird, (Kichig-e-chig-aw-na-she) to roast for his small brother over the ashes and embers where their mother was buried, he also provided a small leather bag, and then told his sons the necessity of his immediate flight to heaven, or to the skies. And that it would be expedient for them to fly and journey southward, and thus prepared their minds for the separation about to take place. "By and bye," said Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong to his sons, "persons will come to you and enquire for me and for your mother, you will say to them that I am gone hunting, and your little brother in the mean time will continually point to the fire place, this will lead the persons to whom I allude, to make inquiries of the cause of this pointing, and you will tell them that you have a little bird roasting for your brother, this will cause them to desist from further inquiry at the time. As soon as they are gone escape! While you are journeying agreeably to my instructions, I will look from on high upon you, I will lead and conduct you, and you shall hear my voice from day to day." Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong at this time gave his sons an awl, a beaver's tooth, and a bone, also a dry coal, and directed them to place a small piece of the coal on the ground every evening, so soon as they should encamp, from which fire would be produced and given to them; he told his eldest son to place his brother in the leather bag, and in that manner carry him upon his back; he then bade them farewell. The two boys being thus left alone in the lodge, and while in the act of roasting the little bird provided for them, a man came in, and then another, and another, until they numbered ten in all; the youngest boy would from time to time point at the fire, and the men enquired to know the reason, the eldest boy said that he was roasting a bird for his brother, and digging the ashes produced it. They enquired, where their father and mother were, the boy answered them saying, that their father was absent hunting, and that their mother had gone to chop and collect wood; upon this information the men rose and searched around the outskirts of the lodge, endeavouring to find traces of the man and his wife, but they were not successful, and returned to the lodge. Before this, however, and during the absence of the ten men, Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong's eldest son placed his little brother in the leather bag, (Ouskemood,) and ran away southward. One of the ten men observed, that the smallest boy had repeatedly pointed to the fire place, and that they might find out something by digging; they set to work, and found the woman and the man tied together. On this discovery their wrath was kindled, they brandished their weapons, denouncing imprecations upon Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong, who was of course suspected of having committed the deed. The ten men again renewed their search in order to avenge themselves upon the perpetrator of this dark deed, but Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong, in order to avoid instant death, had sought a large hollow tree, and entering at the bottom or root part, passed through and reached the top of it, from whence he took his flight upwards to the sky. His pursuers finally traced him, and followed him as far as the tree, and into the sky, with loud and unceasing imprecations of revenge and their determination to kill him. The spirit of the mother alone followed her children. About mid-day the boys heard, as they ran, a noise in the heavens like the rolling of distant thunder.[7] The boys continued their journey south, when the noise ceased; towards night they encamped; they put a small piece of the coal on the ground, then a log of fire-wood was dropped down from the skies to them, from whence a good blazing fire was kindled. This was done daily, and when the fire was lit, a raccoon would fall from on high upon the fire, and in this manner the boys were fed, and this over-ruling care they experienced daily. In the evenings at their camping place, and sometimes during the day, the Red Head's voice was heard speaking to his children, and encouraging them to use their utmost exertions to fly from the pursuit of their mother. To aid them in escaping, they were told to throw away their awl, and immediately there grew a strong and almost impassable hedge of thorn bushes behind them, in their path, which the pursuing mother could scarcely penetrate, and thus impeding her progress, tearing away her whole body and leaving nothing but the head. So they escaped the first day. The next day they resumed their march and could distinctly hear the noise of combat in the sky, as if it were a roaring thunder; they also heard the voice of their mother behind them, desiring her eldest son to stop and wait for her, saying that she wished to give the breast to his brother; then again Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong's voice, encouraging his sons to fly for their lives, and saying that if their mother overtook them she would surely kill them. In the evening of the second day the boys prepared to encamp, and the noise of combat on high ceased; on placing a small piece of the coal on the ground, a log and some fire-wood was let down as on the preceding night, and the fire was kindled, and then the raccoon placed on it for their food. This was fulfilling the promise made by their father, that they would be provided for during their flight. The beaver's tooth was here thrown away, and this is the cause why the northern country now abounds with beaver, and also the innumerable little lakes and marshes, and consequently the rugged and tedious travelling now experienced. On the third day the boys resumed their flight, and threw away their hone, and it became a high rocky mountainous ridge, the same now seen on the north shore of these straits, (St. Mary's) which was a great obstacle in the way of the woman of the Head, for this was now her name, because that part alone remained of her whole frame, and with it she was incessantly uttering determinations to kill her eldest son; the boys finally reached the fishing place known as the eddy of Wah-zah-zhawing, at the rapids of Bawating, situated on the north shore of the river. Here Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong, told his sons that he had himself been overtaken in his flight by his pursuers and killed, and he appeared to them in the shape of a red headed woodpecker, or a _mama_. This is a bird that is seldom or never attacked by birds of prey, for no vestiges of his remains are ever seen or found by the Indian hunter. "Now my sons," said the red headed woodpecker, "I have brought you to this river, you will now see your grand father and he will convey you across to the opposite side." Then the boys looked to the southern shore of the river, and they saw in the middle of the rapid, an OSHUGGAY standing on a rock; to the Oshuggay the boys spoke, and accosted him as their grand father, requesting him to carry them across the river Bawating. The Oshuggay stretching his long neck over the river to the place where the boys stood, told them to get upon his head and neck, and again stretching to the southern shore, he landed the boys in safety, upon a prairie: the crane was seen walking in state, up and down the prairie. The persevering mother soon arrived at Wah-zah-hawing, and immediately requested the Oshuggay to cross her over, that she was in pursuit of her children and stating that she wished to overtake them; but the Oshuggay seemed well aware of her character, and objected to conveying her across, giving her to understand that she was a lewd and bad woman; he continued giving her a long moral lecture upon the course she had pursued and the bad results to mankind in consequence, such as quarrels, murders, deaths, and hence widowhood. The woman of the Head persisted in her request of being conveyed across. Objections and entreaties followed. She talked as if she were still a woman, whose favour was to be sought; and he, as if he were above such favours. After this dialogue the Oshuggay said that he would convey her across, on the condition that she would adhere strictly to his injunctions; he told her not to touch the bare part of his head, but to get upon the hollow or crooked part of his neck; to this she agreed, and got on. The Oshuggay then withdrew his long neck to about half way across, when feeling that she had forgotten her pledge he dashed her head upon the rocks, and the small fish, that were so abundant instantly fed upon the brain and fragments of the skull and became large white fish. "A fish" said the Oshuggay, "that from this time forth shall be abundant, and remain in these rapids to feed the Indians and their issue, from generation to generation."[8] After this transaction of the Oshuggay's, landing the boys safely across, and dashing the woman's head upon the rocks, he spake to the Crane and mutually consulting one another in relation to Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong's sons they agreed to invite two women from the eastward, of the tribe of the Wassissig, and the two lads took them for wives. The Oshuggay plucked one of his largest wing feathers and gave it to the eldest boy, and the Crane likewise did the same, giving his feathers to the youngest; they were told to consider the feathers as their sons after this, one feather appeared like an Oshuggay and the other like a young Crane. By and by they appeared like human beings to the lads. Thus the alliance was formed with the Wassissig, and the circumstance of the Oshuggay and Crane interesting themselves in behalf of the boys and the gift to them of their feathers and the result, is the origin of the Indian _Totem_. Here Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong's sons were told that they would be considered as chieftains and that this office would be hereditary and continue in their generations. After this, they multiplied exceedingly and became strong and powerful. About this time the Obinangoes, (or the Bears' Totem) came down from Shaugah-wah-mickong, near the extremity of Lake Superior. On their way eastward they were surprised on reaching Bawating to find such a numerous population of human beings: they were not aware of its being in existence; fear came upon the Obinangoes, and they devised the plan of securing friendship with the Oshuggays and Cranes, by adopting and claiming a relationship with them, and calling them their grandsons. This claim was yielded, and they were permitted to remain at Bawating upon the score of relationship thus happily attained. The Obinangoes eventually emigrated eastward and settled upon the northern coast of Lakes Huron and Ontario. Population increased so rapidly at Bawating, that it was necessary to form new villages, some settling on the Garden River, some upon the Pakaysaugauegan River, and others upon the island of St. Joseph's, and upon the Menashkong Bay and Mashkotay Saugie River. About this time, a person in the shape of a human being came down from the sky; his clothing was exceedingly pure and white; he was seated as it were in a nest, with a very fine cord attached to it, by which this mysterious person was let down, and the cord or string reached heaven. He addressed the Indians in a very humane, mild, and compassionate tone, saying that they were very poor and needy, but telling them that they were perpetually _asleep_, and this was caused by the Mache Monedo who was in the midst of them, and leading them to death and ruin. This mysterious personage informed them also that above, where he came from, there was no night, that the inhabitants never slept, that it was perpetually day and they required no sleep; that Kezha Monedo was their light. He then invited four of the Indians to ascend up with him promising that they would be brought back in safety; that an opportunity would thereby present itself to view the beauty of the sky, or heavens. But the Indians doubted and feared lest the cord should break, because it appeared to them so small. They did not believe it possible it could bear their weight. With this objection they excused themselves. They were, however, again assured that the cord was sufficiently strong and that Kezha Monedo had the power to make it so. Yet the Indians doubted and feared, and did not accompany the messenger sent down to them. After this refusal the mysterious person produced a small bow and arrows with which he shot at the Indians in different parts of their bodies: the result was, the killing of multitudes of small white worms, which he showed to them; telling them that they were the Mache Monedo which caused them to sleep, and prevented their awakening from their death-like state. This divine messenger then gave to the Indians laws and rules, whereby they should be guided: first, to love and fear Kezha Monedo, and next that they must love one another, and be charitable and hospitable; and finally, that they must not covet their neighbours property, but acquire it by labour and honest industry. He then instituted the grand medicine or metay we win dance: this ceremony was to be observed annually, and with due solemnity, and the Indians, said Nabinoi, experienced much good from it; but unfortunately, the foolish young men were cheated by Mache Monedo, who caused them to adopt the Wabano dance and its ceremonies. This latter is decidedly an institution of the _sagemaus_, or evil spirits, and this was finally introduced into the metay we wining, (i.e. medicine dance) and thereby corrupted it. The old chief continued his moral strain thus: While the Indians were instructed by the heavenly messenger they were told that it would snow continually for the space of five years, winter and summer, and the end would then be nigh at hand; and again that it would rain incessantly as many winters and summers more, which would cause the waters to rise and overflow the earth, destroying trees and all manner of vegetation. After this, ten winters and summers of drought would follow, drying up the land, and mostly the lakes and rivers; not a cloud would be seen during this period. The earth would become so dry, that it will then burn up with fire of itself, and it will also burn the waters to a certain depth, until it attains the first created earth and waters. Then the good Indians will rise from death to enjoy a new earth, filled with an abundance of all manner of living creatures. The only animal which will not be seen is the beaver. The bad Indians will not enjoy any portion of the new earth; they will be condemned and given to the evil spirits. Four generations, he went on to say, have now passed away, since that brotherly love and charity, formerly known, still existed among the Indians. There was in those ancient times an annual meeting among the Indians, resembling the French New Year's Day, which was generally observed on the new moon's first appearance, Gitchy Monedo gesus. The Indians of our village would visit these of another, and sometimes meet one another dancing; and on those occasions they would exchange bows and arrows, their rude axes, awls, and kettles, and their clothing. This was an annual festival, which was duly observed by them. In those days the Indians lived happy; but every thing is now changed to the Indian mind, indicating the drawing near and approach of the end of time. The Indians who still adhere to the laws of the heavenly messenger experience happiness; and, on the contrary, concluded the old man, those who are wicked and adhere to the Wabano institution, generally meet with their reward; and it is singular to say that they generally come to their end by accidents, such as drowning, or miserable deaths. He then reverted to the former part of his story. The Oshuggays, and the Cranes quarrelled, and this quarrel commenced on a trivial point. It appears that the Cranes took a pole, without leave, from the Oshuggays, and they broke the pole; this circumstance led to a separation. The Oshuggays emigrated south, and are now known as the Shawnees. FOOTNOTES: [7] Note by Mr. George Johnston, from whom this tale was received.--Any thing of the kind, or a similar noise heard, is attributed by the Indian, to this day, as an indication of the contention between Mäsh-kwa-sha-kwong and his pursuers, and hence a prelude to wars and contentions among the nations of the world. [8] The small white shells that the white fish live upon, and the white substance found in its gizzard are to this day considered by the Indians, the brain and skull of the woman of the Head. WA-WA-BE-ZO-WIN, OR THE SWING ON THE LAKE SHORE. FROM THE TRADITIONS OF THE ODJIBWAS. There was an old hag of a woman living with her daughter-in-law and son, and a little orphan boy, whom she was bringing up. When her son-in-law came home from hunting, it was his custom to bring his wife the moose's lip, the kidney of the bear, or some other choice bits of different animals. These she would cook crisp, so as to make a sound with her teeth in eating them. This kind attention of the hunter to his wife, at last, excited the envy of the old woman. She wished to have the same luxuries, and in order to get them she finally resolved to make way with her son's wife. One day, she asked her to leave her infant son to the care of the orphan boy, and come out and swing with her. She took her to the shore of a lake, where there was a high range of rocks overhanging the water. Upon the top of this rock, she erected a swing. She then undressed, and fastened a piece of leather around her body, and commenced swinging, going over the precipice at every swing. She continued it but a short time, when she told her daughter to do the same. The daughter obeyed. She undressed, and tying the leather string as she was directed, began swinging. When the swing had got in full motion and well a going, so that it went clear beyond the precipice, at every sweep, the old woman slyly cut the cords and let her daughter drop into the lake. She then put on her daughter's clothing, and thus disguised went home in the dusk of the evening and counterfeited her appearance and duties. She found the child crying, and gave it the breast, but it would not draw. The orphan boy asked her where its mother was. She answered, "She is still swinging." He said, "I shall go and look for her." "No!" said she, "you must not--what should you go for?" When the husband came in, in the evening, he, gave the coveted morsel to his supposed wife. He missed his mother-in-law, but said nothing. She eagerly ate the dainty, and tried to keep the child still. The husband looked rather astonished to see his wife studiously averting her face, and asked her why the child cried so. She said, she did not know--that it would not draw. In the meantime the orphan boy went to the lake shores, and found no one. He mentioned his suspicions, and while the old woman was out getting wood, he told him all that he had heard or seen. The man then painted his face black, and placed his spear upside down in the earth and requested the Great Spirit to send lightning, thunder, and rain, in the hope that the body of his wife might arise from the water. He then began to fast, and told the boy to take the child and play on the lake shore. We must now go back to the swing. After the wife had plunged into the lake, she found herself taken hold of by a water tiger, whose tail twisted itself round her body, and drew her to the bottom. There she found a fine lodge, and all things ready for her reception, and she became the wife of the water tiger. Whilst the children were playing along the shore, and the boy was casting pebbles into the lake, he saw a gull coming from its centre, and flying towards the shore, and when on shore, the bird immediately assumed the human shape. When he looked again he recognized the lost mother. She had a leather belt around her loins, and another belt of white metal, which was, in reality, the tail of the water tiger, her husband. She suckled the babe, and said to the boy--"Come here with him, whenever he cries, and I will nurse him." The boy carried the child home, and told these things to the father. When the child again cried, the father went also with the boy to the lake shore, and hid himself in a clump of trees. Soon the appearance of a gull was seen, with a long shining belt, or chain, and as soon as it came to the shore, it assumed the mother's shape, and began to suckle the child. The husband had brought along his spear, and seeing the shining chain, he boldly struck it and broke the links apart. He then took his wife and child home, with the orphan boy. When they entered the lodge, the old woman looked up, but it was a look of despair, she instantly dropped her head. A rustling was heard in the lodge, and the next moment, she leaped up, and flew out of the lodge, and was never heard of more. * * * * * The name of God, among the ancient Mexicans, was Teo, a word seldom found, except in compound phrases. Among the Mohawks and Onondagas, it is Neo. With the western Senecas, as given by Smith, Owayneo. With the Odjibwas, Monedo; with the Ottowas, Maneto. Many modifications of the word by prefixes, to its radix Edo, appear among the cognate dialects. It is remarkable that there is so striking a similarity in the principal syllable, and it is curious to observe that Edo, is, in sound, both the Greek term Deo, and the Azteek Teo, transposed. Is there any thing absolutely _fixed_ in the sounds of languages? TAKOZID, OR THE SHORT-FOOT. A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Most of the individuals who have figured amongst the Red Race in America, have appeared under circumstances which have precluded any thing like a full and consistent biography. There is, in truth, but little in savage life, to furnish materials for such biographies. The very scantiness of events determines this. A man suddenly appears among these tribes as a warrior, a negociator, an orator, or a prophet, by a name that nobody ever before heard of. He excites attention for a short time, and then sinks back into the mass of Indian society, and is no more heard of. His courage, his eloquence, or his diplomatic skill, are regarded as evidences of talent, and energy of thought or action, which, under better auspices, might have produced a shining and consistent character. But he has been left by events, and is sunk in the mass. He appeared rather like an erratic body, or flash, than a fixed light amid his people. The circumstances that brought him into notice have passed away. A victory has been won, a speech made, a noble example given. The affair has been adjusted, the tribe resumed its hunting, or corn-planting, or wandering, or internal discords, and the new name, which promised for a while to raise a Tamerlane, or Tippoo Saib in the west, settles down in the popular mind; and if it be not wholly lost, is only heard of now and then, as one of the signatures to some land treaty. There is not, in fact, sufficient, in the population, military strength, or importance of the affairs of _most_ of our tribes, to work out incidents for a sustained and full biography. Even the most considerable personages of past times, who have been honoured with such full notices, have too much resemblance to a stout boy in his father's regimentals. They hang loosely about him. The most that can be done--all indeed which the occasion requires in general--is a sketch of such particular events, in aboriginal history, as the individual has connected his name with. It is proposed in the progress of this work, to furnish some of such sketches from the unwritten annals of the west and the north. Among that class of aboriginal chiefs and actors, who have not risen to the highest distinction, or attained general notoriety out of the circle of their own tribes, was Takozid, or the Short-Foot; a Mukundwa, or pillager; a fierce, warlike, and predatory tribe of the Odjibwa Algonquin stock, who, at an early time seated themselves on the sources of the Mississippi, making their head quarters at Leech Lake. To this place, their traditions assert, they came from Chagoimegon, or still farther east, prior to the discovery of the country by Europeans. They were consequently intruders in, or conquerors of the country, and drove back some other people. It seems equally probable that this people were the Dacotahs, the Naddowassies, or as it is abbreviated, Sioux, of early French writers. The Sioux are a numerous and warlike stock, who occupy portions of the banks of the Missouri and the Mississippi, at, and about the latitude of St. Anthony's Falls. A hereditary war of which "the memory of man runneth not to the contrary," was the consequence of this ancient inroad. Of all this region of country we can speak from personal knowledge, having traversed it at sundry times, and in various directions. It is in local reminiscence, little more than a widely extended scene of Indian battles, ambuscades and murders. There is hardly a prominent stream, plain or forest, which is not referred to, as the traveller proceeds, as the particular locality of some fight, tragedy, or hair-breath escape among the Red Men. The Olympic games were not a surer test of fame in successful rivalry, than is this wide area of aboriginal warfare, for the opposing nations of the Sioux and Chippewas. War is the prime avenue to distinction to the Indian mind. As soon as a hunter has acquired any distinction, and begins to look upon himself as a person of courage and address, he turns his efforts to the war path. Whatever else he is famous for, this is the crowning test and seal of his reputation. And none have pursued it with more incessant devotion than the Chippewas. Takozid determined from his earliest youth to take a part in the strife for barbaric glory. He early joined the war parties going into the great plains. He learned their arts, repeated their songs, and became expert in all the warrior's arts. He established the reputation of a brave young man. The next step was to lead a war party himself. He courted popularity by generosity, self denial, and attention to their religious rites and ceremonies. These things may be done on a smaller scale, as effectually among a band of savages, as in the hall or forum. He succeeded. He raised a war party, conducted it into the plains, discovered his enemies, approached them slily, fell upon them, defeated them, and returned in triumph with their scalps to his village. His deep and hollow CHE KWAN DUM, or death-cry of victory as he came to the eminence which overlooked his village, announced all this before he set foot in his village: and the number of his scalps. These exploits placed him on the pinnacle of fame. It is a curious fact, in the lives of our Red men, to observe that war is a stimulus to poligamy. One of the first things he thought of, as a proper reward for his bravery, was to take another wife. In this, his friends and partizans concurred, although he had no cause of dissatisfaction with his first wife, to whom he had been married but a short time, and who had borne him a son. Time added confirmation to this plan. It was talked of, and even debated by the chiefs. It was conceded to be due to his bravery. All, indeed, appeared to approve of it, but his wife. She heard of the rumor with alarm, and received the account of its confirmation, with pain. It could no longer be doubted, for the individual who was to share, nay, control the lodge with her was named, and the consent of her parents had been obtained. Monon, or the Little-Iron-Wood-Tree, as she was called, was a female of no ordinary firmness of character. She was ardently attached to her husband, not the less so for his rising fame, jealous of her rights, and prompted by strong feelings to maintain them. In all these points she was above the generality of her country women. Like others, however, in a community where poligamy was common, she might have submitted at length, to her fate, had not her rival in the affections of Takozid, appealed to a deeper seated principle, and waked up, in the breast of the injured wife, the feeling of revenge: a principle reckless enough, in communities where there are the safeguards of education and Christianity to restrain and regulate it; but horrible in wild and roving bands of barbarians. Monon's fidelity was slandered. She was a pure and high minded woman, and the imputation goaded her to the quick. When this slander first reached her ears, through the ordinary channel of village gossip, a chord was struck, which vibrated through every throe, and steeled her heart for some extraordinary act; although none could anticipate the sanguinary deed which marked the nuptial night. An Indian marriage is often a matter of little ceremony. It was not so, on this occasion. To render the events imposing, many had been invited. The bride was dressed in her best apparel. Her father was present. Many young and old, males and females were either present or thronged around the lodge. The broad clear blue waters of the lake, studded with green islands, spread before the door. A wide grassy lawn, which was the village ball and play ground, extended down to its margin. It was a public event. A throng had gathered around. Takozid was to be married. He was to take a second wife, in the daughter of Obegwud. Takozid himself was there. Hilarity reigned within and without. All indeed, were there, but the dejected and deserted Monon, who had been left with her child, at the chieftain's own lodge. But a spirit had been aroused in her breast, which would not permit her to remain absent. She crossed the green silently, stealthily. She stood gazing awhile at the lake. She approached the bridal lodge. She passed easily among the group. She entered the lodge. Nor had any one, at that moment, a thought of suspicion or alarm. The bride was seated on her envied abbinos; her affianced husband was at her side. All at once, there arose a shrill cry, in the Chippewa tongue. "_This_," vociferated the enraged Monon, "_This_ for the bastard!" and at each repetition of the words, she raised an Indian poignard, in her hand. The suddenness of her movement had paralyzed every attempt to arrest her. Amazement sat in every face. She had plunged a pointed knife into the breast of her rival. There is little to be added to such a catastrophe. Its very suddenness and atrocity appalled every one. Nobody arrested her, and nobody pursued her. She returned as she came, and re-entered her lodge. Her victim never spoke. From this moment the fame of Takozid declined. The event appeared to have unmanned him. He went no more to war. His martial spirits appeared to have left him. He sank back into the mass of Indian society, and was scarcely ever mentioned. Nor should we, indeed, have recalled his name from its obscurity, were it not associated in the Indian reminiscences of Leach lake, with this sanguinary deed. I had this relation a few years ago, from a trader, who had lived at Leech lake, who personally knew the parties, and whose veracity I had no reason at all, to call into question. It is one of the elements that go into the sum of my personal observations, on savage life, and as such I cast it among these papers. To judge of the Red race aright, we must view it, in all its phases, and if we would perform our duty towards them, as christians and men, we should gather our data from small, as well as great events, and from afar as well as near. When all has been done, in the way of such collections and researches, it will be found, we think, that their errors and crimes, whatever they are, assume no deeper dye than philanthropy has had reason to apprehend them to take, without a knowledge of the principles of the gospel. _Thou shall not kill_, is a law, yet to be enforced, among more than two hundred thousand souls, who bear the impress of a red skin, within the acknowledged limits of the American Union. MACHINITO, THE EVIL SPIRIT; FROM THE LEGENDS OF IAGOU. BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH. "The Pagan world not only believes in a myriad of gods, but worships them also. It is the peculiarity of the North American Indian, that while he _believes_ in as many, he _worships_ but one, the Great Spirit."--(_Schoolcraft._) Chemanitou, being the master of life, at one time became the origin of a spirit, that has ever since caused himself and all others of his creation a great deal of disquiet. His birth was owing to an accident. It was in this wise. METÓWAC, or as the white people now call it, Long Island, was originally a vast plain, so level and free from any kind of growth, that it looked like a portion of the great sea that had suddenly been made to move back and let the sand below appear, which was the case in fact. Here it was that Chemanitou used to come and sit, when he wished to bring any new creation to the life. The place being spacious and solitary, the water upon every side, he had not only room enough, but was free from interruption. It is well known that some of these early creations were of very great size, so that very few could live in the same place, and their strength made it difficult for Chemanitou, even to controul them; for when he has given them certain elements, they have the use of the laws that govern these elements, till it is his will to take them back to himself. Accordingly, it was the custom of Chemanitou, when he wished to try the effect of these creatures, to set them in motion upon the island of Metówac, and if they did not please him, he took the life out before they were suffered to escape. He would set up a mammoth or other large animal, in the centre of the island, and build him up with great care, somewhat in the manner that a cabin or a canoe is made. Even to this day may be found traces of what had been done here in former years; and the manner in which the earth sometimes sinks down [even wells fall out at the bottom here,] shows that this island is nothing more than a great cake of earth, a sort of platter laid upon the sea, for the convenience of Chemanitou, who used it as a table upon which he might work, never having designed it for anything else; the margin of the CHATIEMAC, (the stately swan,) or Hudson river, being better adapted to the purposes of habitation. When the master of life wished to build up an elephant or mammoth he placed four cakes of clay upon the ground, at proper distances, which were moulded into shape, and became the feet of the animal. Now sometimes these were left unfinished; and to this day the green tussocks, to be seen like little islands about the marshes, show where these cakes of clay had been placed. As Chemanitou went on with his work, the NEEBANAWBAIGS (or water spirits,) the PUCK-WUD-JINNIES, (Fairies[9]) and indeed all the lesser manittoes, used to come and look on, and wonder what it would be, and how it would act. When the animal was quite done, and had dried a long time in the sun, Chemanitou opened a place in the side, and entering in, remained there many days. When he came forth, the creature began to shiver and sway from side to side, in such a manner as shook the whole island for many leagues. If his appearance pleased the master of life he was suffered to depart, and it was generally found that these animals plunged into the sea upon the north side of the island, and disappeared in the great forests beyond. Now at one time Chemanitou was a very long while building an animal, of such great bulk, that it looked like a mountain upon the centre of the island; and all the manittoes, from all parts, came to see what it was. The Puck-wud-jinnies especially made themselves very merry, capering behind his great ears, sitting within his mouth, each perched upon a tooth, and running in and out of the sockets of the eyes, thinking Chemanitou, who was finishing off other parts of the animal, could not see them. But he can see right through every thing he has made. He was glad to see them so lively, and bethought himself of many new creations while he watched their motions. When the Master of Life had completed this large animal, he was fearful to give it life, and so it was left upon the island, or work-table of Chemanitou, till its great weight caused it to break through, and sinking partly down it stuck fast, the head and tail holding it in such a manner as to prevent it from going down. Chemanitou then lifted up a piece of the back, and found it made a very good cavity, into which the old creations, which failed to please him, might be thrown. He sometimes amused himself by making creatures very small and active, with which he disported awhile, and finding them of very little use in the world, and not so attractive as the little Vanishers, he would take out the life, holding it in himself, and then cast them into the cave made by the body of the unfinished animal. In this way great quantities of very odd shapes were heaped together in this _Roncomcomon_, or "Place of Fragments." He was always careful to first take out the life. One day the Master of Life took two pieces of clay and moulded them into two large feet, like those of a panther. He did not make four--there were two only. He stepped his own feet into them, and found the tread very light and springy, so that he might go with great speed, and yet make no noise. Next he built up a pair of very tall legs, in the shape of his own, and made them walk about awhile--he was pleased with the motion. Then followed a round body, covered with large scales, like the alligator. He now found the figure doubling forward, and he fastened a long black snake, that was gliding by, to the back part of the body, and let it wind itself about a sapling near, which held the body upright, and made a very good tail. The shoulders were broad and strong, like those of the buffaloe, and covered with hair--the neck thick and short, and full at the back. Thus far Chemanitou had worked with little thought, but when he came to the head he thought a long while. He took a round ball of clay into his lap, and worked it over with great care. While he thought, he patted the ball upon the top, which made it very broad and low; for Chemanitou was thinking of the panther feet, and the buffaloe neck. He remembered the Puck-wud-jinnies playing in the eye sockets of the great unfinished animal, and he bethought him to set the eyes out, like those of a lobster, so that the animal might see upon every side. He made the forehead broad and full, but low; for here was to be the wisdom of the forked tongue, like that of the serpent, which should be in his mouth. He should see all things, and know all things. Here Chemanitou stopped, for he saw that he had never thought of such a creation before, one with but two feet, a creature who should stand upright, and see upon every side. The jaws were very strong, with ivory teeth, and gills upon either side, which arose and fell whenever breath passed through them. The nose was like the beak of the vulture. A tuft of porcupine quills made the scalp-lock. Chemanitou held the head out the length of his arm, and turned it first upon one side and then upon the other. He passed it rapidly through the air, and saw the gills rise and fall, the lobster eyes whirl round, and the vulture nose look keen. Chemanitou became very sad; yet he put the head upon the shoulders. It was the first time he had made an upright figure. It seemed to be the first idea of a man. It was now nearly night; the bats were flying through the air, and the roar of wild beasts began to be heard. A gusty wind swept in from the ocean, and passed over the island of Metówac, casting the light sand to and fro. A heavy scud was skimming along the horizon, while higher up in the sky was a dark thick cloud, upon the verge of which the moon hung for a moment, and then was shut in. A panther came by and stayed a moment, with one foot raised and bent inward, while he looked up at the image, and smelt the feet, that were like his own. A vulture swooped down with a great noise of its wings, and made a dash at the beak, but Chemanitou held him back. Then came the porcupine, and the lizard, and the snake, each drawn by its kind in the image. Chemanitou veiled his face for many hours, and the gusty wind swept by, but he did not stir. He saw that every beast of the earth seeketh its kind; and that which, is like draweth its likeness unto himself. The Master of Life thought and thought. The idea grew into his mind that at some he would create a creature who should be made not after the things of the earth, but after himself. He should link this world to the spirit world,--being made in the likeness of the Great Spirit, he should be drawn unto his likeness. Many days and nights, whole seasons, passed while Chemanitou thought upon these things. He saw all things. Then the Master of Life lifted up his head; the stars were looking down upon the image, and a bat had alighted upon the forehead, spreading its great wings upon each side. Chemanitou took the bat and held out its whole, leathery wings, (and ever since the bat, when he rests, lets his body hang down,) so that he could try them over the head of the image. He then took the life of the bat away, and twisted off the body, by which means the whole thin part fell down over the head, and upon each side, making the ears, and a covering for the forehead like that of the hooded serpent. Chemanitou did not cut off the face of the image below, he went on and made a chin, and lips that were firm and round, that they might shut in the forked tongue, and the ivory teeth; and he knew that with the lips and the chin it would smile, when life should be given to it. The image was now all done but the arms, and Chemanitou saw that with a chin it must have hands. He grew more grave. He had never given hands to any creature. He made the arms and the hands very beautiful, after the manner of his own. Chemanitou now took no pleasure in his work that was done--it was not good in his sight. He wished he had not given it hands; might it not, when trusted with life, might it not begin to create? might it not thwart the plans of the master of life himself! He looked long at the image. He saw what it would do when life should be given it. He knew all things. He now put fire in the image: but fire is not life. He put fire within, and a red glow passed through and through it. The fire dried the clay of which it was made, and gave the image an exceedingly fierce aspect. It shone through the scales upon the breast, and the gills, and the bat-winged ears. The lobster eyes were like a living coal. Chemanitou opened the side of the image, _but he did not enter_. He had given it hands and a chin. It could smile like the manittoes themselves. He made it walk all about the island of Metówac, that he might see how it would act. This he did by means of his will. He now put a little life into it, but he did not take out the fire. Chemanitou saw the aspect of the creature would be very terrible, and yet that he could smile in such a manner that he ceased to be ugly. He thought much upon these things. He felt it would not be best to let such a creature live; a creature made up mostly from the beasts of the field, but with hands of power, a chin lifting the head upward, and lips holding all things within themselves. While he thought upon these things, he took the image in his hands and cast it into the cave. _But Chemanitou forgot to take out the life!_ The creature lay a long time in the cave and did not stir, for his fall was very great. He lay amongst the old creations that had been thrown in there without life. Now when a long time had passed Chemanitou heard a great noise in the cave. He looked in and saw the image sitting there, and he was trying to put together the old broken things that had been cast in as of no value. Chemanitou gathered together a vast heap of stones and sand, for large rocks are not to be had upon the island, and stopped the mouth of the cave. Many days passed and the noise grew louder within the cave. The earth shook, and hot smoke came from the ground. The Manittoes crowded to Metówac to see what was the matter. Chemanitou came also, for he remembered the image he had cast in there, and forgotten to take away the life. Suddenly there was a great rising of the stones and sand--the sky grew black with wind and dust. Fire played about the ground, and water gushed high into the air. All the Manittoes fled with fear; and the image came forth with a great noise and most terrible to behold. His life had grown strong within him, for the fire had made it very fierce. Everything fled before him and cried--MACHINITO--MACHINITO--which means a god, but an evil god! * * * * * The above legend is gathered from the traditions of Iagou, the great Indian narrator, who seems to have dipped deeper into philosophy than most of his compeers. The aboriginal language abounds with stories related by this remarkable personage, which we hope to bring before the public at some future time. Whether subsequent events justify the Indian in making Long Island the arena of the production of Machinito or the Evil Spirit, will seem more than apocryphal to a white resident. However we have nothing to do except to relate the fact as it was related. As to these primitive metaphysics, they are at least curious; and the coolness with which the fact is assumed that the origin of evil was accidental in the process of developing a perfect humanity, would, at an earlier day, have been quite appalling to the schoolmen. E. O. S. FOOTNOTES: [9] Literally, little men, who vanish. REPOSE OF THE SOUL. When an Indian corpse is put in a coffin, among the tribes of the Lake-Algonquins, the lid is _tied_ down, and not nailed. On depositing it in the grave, the rope or string is loosed, and the weight of the earth alone relied on, to keep it in a fixed position. The reason they give for this, is, that the soul may have free egress from the body. Over the top of the grave a covering of cedar bark is put, to shed the rain. This is roof-shaped and the whole structure looks, slightly, like a house in miniature. It has gable ends. Through one of these, being the head, an aperture is cut. On asking a Chippewa why this was done, he replied,--"To allow the soul to pass out, and in." "I thought," I replied, "that you believed that the soul went up from the body at the time of death, to a land of happiness. How, then, can it remain in the body?" "There are two souls," replied the Indian philosopher. "How can this be? my friend." "It is easily explained," said he. "You know that, in dreams, we pass over wide countries, and see hills and lakes and mountains, and many scenes, which pass before our eyes, and affect us. Yet, at the same time, our bodies do not stir, and there is a soul left with the body,--else it would be dead. So, you perceive, it must be another soul that accompanies us." This conversation took place, in the Indian country. I knew the Indian very well, and had noticed the practice, not general now, on the frontiers, of _tying_ the coffin-lid, in burials. It is at the orifice in the bark sheeting mentioned, that the portion of food, consecrated in feasts for the dead, is set. It could not but happen, that the food should be eaten by the hystrix, wolf, or some other animal, known to prowl at night; nor that, Indian superstition, ever ready to turn slight appearances of this kind to account, should attribute its abstraction to the spirit of the deceased. THE LITTLE SPIRIT, OR BOY-MAN, AN ODJIBWA FAIRY TALE. WRITTEN OUT FROM THE VERBAL NARRATIVE BY THE LATE MRS. H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT. There was once a little boy, remarkable for the smallness of his stature. He was living alone with his sister older than himself. They were orphans, they lived in a beautiful spot on the Lake shore; many large rocks were scattered around their habitation. The boy never grew larger as he advanced in years. One day, in winter, he asked his sister to make him a ball to play with along shore on the clear ice. She made one for him, but cautioned him not to go too far.--Off he went in high glee, throwing his ball before him, and running after it at full speed; and he went as fast as his ball. At last his ball flew to a great distance: he followed it as fast as he could. After he had run for some time, he saw four dark substances on the ice straight before him. When he came up to the spot he was surprised to see four large, tall men lying on the ice, spearing fish. When he went up to them, the nearest looked up and in turn was surprised to see such a diminutive being, and turning to his brothers, he said, "Tia! look! see what a little fellow is here." After they had all looked a moment, they resumed their position, covered their heads, intent in searching for fish. The boy thought to himself, they imagine me too insignificant for common courtesy, because they are tall and large; I shall teach them notwithstanding, that I am not to be treated so lightly. After they were covered up the boy saw they had each a large trout lying beside them. He slyly took the one nearest him, and placing his fingers in the gills, and tossing his ball before him, ran off at full speed. When the man to whom the fish belonged looked up, he saw his trout sliding away as if of itself, at a great rate--the boy being so small he was not distinguished from the fish. He addressed his brothers and said, "See how that tiny boy has stolen my fish; what a shame it is he should do so." The boy reached home, and told his sister to go out and get the fish he had brought home. She exclaimed, "where could you have got it? I hope you have not stolen it." "O no," he replied, "I found it on the ice." "How" persisted the sister, "could you have got it there?"--"No matter," said the boy, "go and cook it." He disdained to answer her again, but thought he would one day show her how to appreciate him. She went to the place he left it, and there indeed she found a monstrous trout. She did as she was bid, and cooked it for that day's consumption. Next morning he went off again as at first. When he came near the large men, who fished every day, he threw his ball with such force that it rolled into the ice-hole of the man of whom he had stolen the day before. As he happened to raise himself at the time, the boy said, "Neejee, pray hand me my ball." "No indeed," answered the man, "I shall not," and thrust the ball under the ice. The boy took hold of his arm and broke it in two in a moment, and threw him to one side, and picked up his ball, which had bounded back from under the ice, and tossed it as usual before him. Outstripping it in speed, he got home and remained within till the next morning. The man whose arm he had broken hallooed out to his brothers, and told them his case, and deplored his fate. They hurried to their brother, and as loud as they could roar threatened vengeance on the morrow, knowing the boy's speed that they could not overtake him, and he was near out of sight; yet he heard their threats and awaited their coming in perfect indifference. The four brothers the next morning prepared to take their revenge. Their old mother begged them not to go--"Better" said she "that one only should suffer, than that all should perish, for he must be a monedo, or he could not perform such feats." But her sons would not listen; and taking their wounded brother along, started for the boy's lodge, having learnt that he lived at the place of rocks. The boy's sister thought she heard the noise of snow-shoes on the crusted snow at a distance advancing. She saw the large, tall men coming straight to their lodge, or rather cave, for they lived in a large rock. She ran in with great fear, and told her brother the fact. He said, "Why do you mind them? give me something to eat." "How can you think of eating at such a time," she replied,--"Do as I request you, and be quick." She then gave him his dish, which was a large _mis-qua-dace_ shell, and he commenced eating. Just then the men came to the door, and were about lifting the curtain placed there, when the boy-man turned his dish upside-down, and immediately the door was closed with a stone; the men tried hard with their clubs to crack it; at length they succeeded in making a slight opening. When one of them peeped in with one eye, the boy-man shot his arrow into his eye and brain, and he dropped down dead. The others, not knowing what had happened their brother, did the same, and all fell in like manner; their curiosity was so great to see what the boy was about. So they all shared the same fate. After they were killed the boy-man told his sister to go out and see them. She opened the door, but feared they were not dead, and entered back again hastily, and told her fears to her brother. He went out and hacked them in small pieces, saying, "henceforth let no man be larger than you are now." So men became of the present size. When spring came on, the boy-man said to his sister, "Make me a new set of arrows and bow." She obeyed, as he never did any thing himself of a nature that required manual labour, though he provided for their sustenance. After she made them, she again cautioned him not to shoot into the lake; but regardless of all admonition, he, on purpose, shot his arrow into the lake, and waded some distance till he got into deep water, and paddled about for his arrow, so as to attract the attention of his sister. She came in haste to the shore, calling him to return, but instead of minding her he called out, "Ma-mis-quon-je-gun-a, be-nau-wa-con-zhe-shin," that is, "_you_, of the _red fins_ come and swallow me." Immediately that monstrous fish came and swallowed him; and seeing his sister standing on the shore in despair, he hallooed out to her, "Me-zush-ke-zin-ance." She wondered what he meant. But on reflection she thought it must be an old mockesin. She accordingly tied the old mockesin to a string, and fastened it to a tree. The fish said to the boy-man, under water, "What is that floating?" the boy-man said to the fish, "Go, take hold of it, swallow it as fast as you can." The fish darted towards the old shoe, and swallowed it. The boy-man laughed in himself, but said nothing, till the fish was fairly caught; he then took hold of the line and began to pull himself and fish to shore. The sister, who was watching, was surprised to see so large a fish; and hauling it ashore she took her knife and commenced cutting it open. When she heard her brother's voice inside of the fish, saying, "Make haste and release me from this nasty place," his sister was in such haste that she almost hit his head with her knife; but succeeded in making an opening large enough for her brother to get out. When he was fairly out, he told his sister to cut up the fish and dry it, as it would last a long time for their sustenance, and said to her, never, never more to doubt his ability in any way. So ends the story. AINGODON AND NAYWADAHA. STORY OF A FAMILY OF NADOWAS, OR PEOPLE OF THE SIX NATIONS OF TORONTO, CONSISTING OF SIX BROTHERS, THEIR YOUNGEST SISTER, AND TWO AUNTS. THEIR FATHER AND MOTHER HAVING DIED, THEY WERE LEFT ORPHANS, THEIR ORIGIN, HOWEVER, WAS FROM THE FIRST CLASS OF CHIEFTAINS IN THEIR NATION. NARRATED FROM THE ORAL RELATION OF NABANOI, BY MR. GEORGE JOHNSTON. In the days of this story, wars, murders, and cruelty existed in the country now comprising the province of Upper Canada, or that portion bordering upon Lakes Simcoe, Erie, and Ontario, which was claimed and belonged to the powerful tribe of the eight nations of the Nawtoways. The young men had, on a day, started for a hunting excursion: in the evening five only of the brothers returned, one was missing. Upon search being made the body was found, and it appeared evident that he had been killed: this gave a great blow to the family, but particularly causing great affliction to the sister, who was the youngest of the family. She mourned and lamented her brother's death, and she wept incessantly. The ensuing year another was killed, and so on till four were killed. The remaining two brothers did all they could to afford consolation to their pining sister, but she would not be consoled: they did all they could to divert her mind from so much mourning, but all their endeavours proved ineffectual: she scarcely took any food, and what she ate was hardly sufficient to sustain nature. The two brothers said that they would go hunting, which they did from day to day. They would bring ducks and birds of every description to their sister, in order to tempt her appetite, but she persisted in refusing nourishment, or taking very little. At the expiration of the year when the fourth brother had been killed, the two young men set out upon the chase; one of them returned in the evening, the other was missing, and found killed in like manner as the others had been. This again augmented the afflictions of the young girl; she had been very delicate, but was now reduced to a mere skeleton. At the expiration of the year the only and last of her brothers, taking pity upon his pining sister, said to her that he would go and kill her some fresh venison, to entice her to eat. He started early in the morning, and his sister would go out from time to time, in the course of the day, to see if her brother was returning. Night set in, and no indications of his coming--she sat up all night, exhibiting fear and apprehension bordering upon despair--day light appeared, and he did not come--search was made, and he was finally found killed, like all the other brothers. After this event the girl became perfectly disconsolate, hardly tasting food, and would wander in the woods the whole day, returning at nights. One of her aunts had the care of her at this time. One day in one of her rambles she did not return; her aunt became very anxious, and searched for her, and continued her search daily. On the tenth day, the aunt in her search lost her way and was bewildered, and finally was benighted. While lying down, worn with fatigue, she thought she heard the voice of some one speaking: she got up, and directing her course to the spot, she came upon a small lodge made of bushes, and in it lay her niece, with her face to the ground. She prevailed upon her to return home. Before reaching their lodge the girl stopt, and her aunt built her a small lodge, and she resided in it. Here her aunt would attend upon her daily. One day as she lay alone in her little lodge, a person appeared to her from on high: he had on white raiment that was extremely pure, clean and white: he did not touch the earth, but remained at some distance from it. He spoke to her in a mild tone and said, Daughter, why do you remain here mourning? I have come to console you, and you must arise, and I will give you all the land, and deliver into your hands the persons who have killed your brothers. All things living and created are mine, I give and take away. Now therefore arise, slay and eat of my dog that lays there. You will go to your village and firstly tell your relatives and nation of this vision, and you must act conformably to my word and to the mind I'll give you, and your enemies will I put into your hands. I will be with you again. After this, he ascended on high. When the girl looked to the place where the heavenly being pointed, she saw a bear. She arose and went home, and mentioned to her relatives the vision she had seen, and made a request that the people might be assembled to partake of her feast. She directed her relations to the spot where the bear was to be found; it was killed and brought to the village, and singed upon a fire, and the feast was made, and the nature of the vision explained. Preparations were immediately set on foot, messengers were sent to each tribe of the six nations, and an invitation given to them, to come upon a given day to the village of Toronto. Messengers were also sent all along the north coast of lake Huron to Bawating, inviting the Indians to form an alliance and fight against the enemies of the young girl who had lost so many brothers. In the midst of the Nadowas, there lived two chieftains, twin brothers. They were Nadowas also of the Bear tribe, perfect devils in disposition, cruel and tyrannical. They were at the head of two nations of the Nadowas, reigning together, keeping the other nations in great fear and awe, and enslaving them; particularly the Indians of the Deer totem, who resided in one portion of their great village. Indians in connection with the Chippewas were also kept in bondage by the two tyrants, whose names were _Aingodon_ and _Naywadaha_. When the Chippewas received the young girl's messengers, they were told that they must rescue their relatives, and secretly apprize them of their intention, and the great calamity that would befall Aingodon and Naywadaha's villages and towns. Many therefore made their escape; but one remained with his family, sending an excuse for not obeying the summons, as he had a great quantity of corn laid up, and that he must attend to his crops. The Indians all along the north shore of lake Huron and of Bawating, embarked to join the general and common cause; they passed through the lakes, and reached Toronto late in the fall. In the beginning of the winter the assembled allies marched, headed by the young girl. She passed through lake Simcoe, and the line covered the whole lake, cracking the ice as they marched over it. They encamped at the head of the lake. Here the young girl produced a garnished bag, and she hung it up, and told the assembled multitude that she would make _chingodam_; and after this she sent hunters out directing them to bring in eighteen bears, and before the sun had risen high the bears were all brought in, and they were singed, and the feast of sacrifice offered. At this place the person from on high appeared to the girl in presence of the assembled multitude, and he stretched forth his hand and shook hands with her only. He here directed her to send secret messengers into the land, to warn the Indians who had the deer totem to put out their totems on poles before their lodge door, in order that they might be known and saved from the approaching destruction; and they were enjoined not to go out of their lodges, neither man, woman, or child; if they did so they would be surely consumed and destroyed; and the person on high said--Do not approach nigh the open plain until the rising sun, you will then see destruction come upon your enemies, and they will be delivered into your hands. The messengers were sent to the Deer Totems, and they entered the town at night, and communicated their message to them. After this all the Indians bearing that mark were informed of the approaching calamity, and they instantly made preparations, setting out poles before their lodge doors, and attaching deer skins to the poles, as marks to escape the vengeance that was to come upon Aingodon and Nawadaha, and their tribes. The next morning at daylight the Aingodons and Nawadahas rose, and seeing the poles and deer skins planted before the doors of the lodges, said in derision, that their friends, the Deer Totems, had, or must have had, bad dreams, thus to set their totems on poles. The Indians of the deer totems remained quiet and silent, and they did not venture out of their lodges. The young girl was nigh the skirts of the wood with her host, bordering upon the plain; and just as the sun rose she marched, and as she and her allied forces neared the village of the twin tyrants, it became a flame of fire, destroying all its inhabitants. The Deer Totems escaped. Aingodon and Nawadaha were not consumed. The allied Indians drew their bows and shot their arrows at them, but they bounded off, and the blows inflicted upon them were of no avail, until the young girl came up and subdued them, and took them alive, and made them prisoners. The whole of Aingodon's and Nawadaha's towns and villages were destroyed in the same way; and the land was in possession of the young girl and the six remaining tribes of the Nadowas. After this signal vengeance was taken the young girl returned with her host, and again encamped at the head of lake Simcoe, at her former encamping place; and the two tyrants were asked, what was their object for making chingodam, and what weight could it have? They said, in answer, that their implements for war, were war axes, and if permitted they would make chingodam, and on doing so they killed each two men. They were bound immediately, and their flesh was cut off from their bodies in slices. One of them was dissected, and upon examination it was discovered that he had no liver, and his heart was small, and composed of hard flint stone. There are marks upon a perpendicular ledge of rocks at the narrows, or head of lake Simcoe, visible to this day, representing two bound persons, who are recognized by the Indians of this generation as the two tyrants, or twin brothers, Aingodon and Nawadaha. One of the tyrants was kept bound, until the time the French discovered and possessed the Canadas, and he was taken to Quebec. After this the young girl was taken away by the god of light. GEO. JOHNSTON. _Sault Ste. Marie, May 12th, 1838._ * * * * * The Indian warriors of the plains west of the sources of the Mississippi, chew a bitter root, before going into battle, which they suppose imparts courage, and renders them insensible to pain. It is called zhigowak. SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF NOTED RED MEN AND WOMEN WHO HAVE APPEARED ON THE WESTERN CONTINENT. WABOJEEG, OR THE WHITE FISHER. This individual has indelibly interwoven his name with the history of the Chippewa nation, during the latter half of the 18th century. His ancestors had, from the earliest times, held the principal chieftainship in lake Superior. His father, Ma-mongazida, was the ruling chief during the war of the conquest of the Canadas by the British crown. In common with his tribe and the northern nations generally, he was the fast friend of the French government, and was present with his warriors, under Gen. Montcalm, at the loss of Quebec, in 1759. He carried a short speech from that celebrated officer to his people in the north, which is said to have been verbally delivered a short time before he went to the field. The period of the fall of the French power in the Canadas, is one of the most marked events in Indian reminiscence throughout all north-west America. They refer to the days of French supremacy as a kind of golden era, when all things in their affairs were better than they now are; and I have heard them lament over the change as one which was in every respect detrimental to their power and happiness. No European nation, it is evident from these allusions, ever pleased them as well. The French character and manners adapted themselves admirably to the existing customs of forest life. The common people, who went up into the interior to trade, fell in with their customs with a degree of plasticity and an air of gaiety and full assent, which no other foreigners have, at least to the same extent, shown. These _Couriers du Bois_ had not much to boast of on the score of rigid morals themselves. They had nearly as much superstition as the wildest Indians. They were in fact, at least nine-tenths of them, quite as illiterate. Very many of them were far inferior in their mental structure and capacity to the bold, eloquent, and well formed and athletic northern chiefs and hunters. They respected their religious and festive ceremonies. They never, as a chief once told me, _laughed_ at them. They met their old friends on their annual returns from Montreal, with a kiss. They took the daughters of the red men for wives, and reared large families, who thus constituted a strong bond of union between the two races, which remains unbroken at this day. This is the true secret of the strenuous efforts made by the northern and western Indians to sustain the French power, when it was menaced in the war of 1744, by the fleets and armies of Great Britain. They rallied freely to their aid at Detroit, Vincennes, the present sites of Pittsburgh and Erie, at Fort Niagara, Montreal, and Quebec, and they hovered with infuriated zeal around the outskirts of the northern and western settlements, during the many and sanguinary wars carried on between the English and French. And when the French were beaten they still adhered to their cause, and their chiefs stimulated the French local commanders to continue and renew the contest, even after the fall of Niagara and Quebec, with a heroic consistency of purpose, which reflects credit upon their foresight, bravery, and constancy. We hope in a future number to bring forward a sketch of the man who put himself at the head of this latter effort, who declared he would drive the Saxon race into the sea, who besieged _twelve_ and took _nine_ of the western stockaded forts, and who for four years and upwards, maintained the war, after the French had struck their colours and ceded the country. We refer to the great Algic leader, Pontiac. At present our attention is called to a cotemporary chief, of equal personal bravery and conduct, certainly, but who lived and exercised his authority at a more remote point, and had not the same masses and means at his command. This point, so long hid in the great forests of the north, and which, indeed, has been but lately revealed in our positive geography, is the AREA OF LAKE SUPERIOR. It is here that we find the Indian tradition to be rife with the name of Wabojeeg and his wars, and his cotemporaries. It was one of the direct consequences of so remote a position, that it withdrew his attention more from the actual conflicts between the French and English, and fixed them upon his western and southern frontiers, which were menaced and invaded by the numerous bands of the Dacotahs, and by the perfidious kinsmen of his nation, the Outagamies and Saucs. He came into active life, too, as a prominent war leader, at the precise era when the Canadas had fallen into the British power, and by engaging zealously in the defence of the borders of his nation west, he allowed time to mitigate and adjust those feelings and attachments which, so far as public policy was concerned, must be considered to have moulded the Indian mind to a compliance with, and a submission to, the British authority. Wabojeeg was, emphatically, the defender of the Chippewa domain against the efforts of other branches of the Red Race. He did not, therefore, lead his people to fight, as his father, Ma-mongazida, and nearly all the great Indian war captains had, to enable one type of the foreign race to triumph over another, but raised his parties and led them forth to maintain his tribal supremacy. He may be contemplated, therefore, as having had a more patriotic object for his achievement. Lake Superior, at the time of our earliest acquaintance with the region, was occupied, as it is at this day, by the Chippewa race. The chief seat of their power appeared to be near the south-western extremity of the lake, at Chagoimegon, where fathers Marquette and Alloez found their way, and established a mission, so early as 1668. Another of their principal, and probably more _ancient_ seats, was at the great rapids on the outlet of that lake, which they named the Sault de Ste. Marie. It was in allusion to their residence here that they called this tribe Saulteur, that is to say people of the leap or rapid. Indian tradition makes the Chippewas one of the chief, certainly by far the most _numerous and widely spread_, of the Algonquin stock proper. It represents them to have migrated from the east to the west. On reaching the vicinity of Michilimackinac, they separated at a comparatively moderate era into three tribes, calling themselves, respectively, Odjibwas, Odawas, and Podawadumees. What their name was before this era, is not known. It is manifest that the term Odjibwa is not a very ancient one for it does not occur in the earliest authors. They were probably of the Nipercinean or true Algonquin stock, and had taken the route of the Utawas river, from the St. Lawrence valley into lake Huron. The term itself is clearly from Bwa, a voice; and its prefix in Odji, was probably designed to mark a peculiar intonation which the muscles are, as it were, _gathered up_, to denote. Whatever be the facts of their origin, they had taken the route up the straits of St. Mary into lake Superior, both sides of which, and far beyond, they occupied at the era of the French discovery. It is evident that their course in this direction must have been aggressive. They were advancing towards the west and north-west. The tribe known as Kenistenos, had passed through the Lake of the Woods, through the great lake Nipesing, and as far as the heads of the Saskatchewine and the portage of the Missinipi of Hudson's bay. The warlike band of Leech Lake, called Mukundwas, had spread themselves over the entire sources of the Mississippi and extended their hunting excursions west to Red River, where they came into contact with the Assinaboines, or Stone Sioux. The central power, at this era, still remained at Chagoimegon, on Superior, where indeed, the force of early tradition asserts there was maintained something like a frame of both civil and ecclesiastical polity and government. It is said in the traditions related to me by the Chippewas, that the Outagamies, or Foxes, had preceded them into that particular section of country which extends in a general course from the head of Fox River, of Green Bay, towards the Falls of St. Anthony, reaching in some points well nigh to the borders of lake Superior. They are remembered to have occupied the interior wild rice lakes, which lie at the sources of the Wisconsin, the Ontonagon, the Chippewa, and the St. Croix rivers. They were associated with the Saucs, who had ascended the Mississippi some distance above the Falls of St. Anthony, where they lived on friendly terms with the Dacotahs or Sioux. This friendship extended also to the Outagamies, and it was the means of preserving a good understanding between the Dacotahs and Chippewas. The Fox tribe is closely affiliated with the Chippewas. They call each other brothers. They are of the same general origin and speak the same general language, the chief difference in sound being that the Foxes use the letter l, where the Odjibwas employ an n. The particular cause of their disagreement is not known. They are said by the Chippewas to have been unfaithful and treacherous. Individual quarrels and trespasses on their hunting grounds led to murders, and in the end to a war, in which the Menomonees and the French united, and they were thus driven from the rice lakes and away from the Fox and upper Wisconsin. To maintain their position they formed an alliance with the Sioux, and fought by their side. It was in this contest that Wabojeeg first distinguished himself, and vindicated by his bravery and address the former reputation of his family, and laid anew the foundations of his northern chieftaindom. Having heard allusions made to this person on my first entrance into that region, many years ago, I made particular enquiries, and found living a sister, an old white-headed woman, and a son and daughter, about the age of middle life. From these sources I gleaned the following facts. He was born, as nearly as I could compute the time, about 1747. By a singular and romantic incident his father, Ma-mongazida, was a half-brother of the father of Wabashaw, a celebrated Sioux chief, who but a few years ago died at his village on the upper Mississippi. The connexion happened in this way. While the Sioux and Chippewas were living in amity near each other, and frequently met and feasted each other on their hunting grounds and at their villages, a Sioux chief, of distinction, admired and married a Chippewa girl, by whom he had two sons. When the war between these two nations broke out, those persons of the hostile tribes who had married Chippewa wives, and were living in the Chippewa country, withdrew, some taking their wives along and others separating from them. Among the latter was the Sioux chief. He remained a short time after hostilities commenced, but finding his position demanded it, he was compelled, with great reluctance, to leave his wife behind, as she could not, with safety, have accompanied him into the Sioux territories. As the blood of the Sioux flowed in the veins of her two sons, neither was it safe for her to leave them among the Chippewas. They were, however, by mutual agreement, allowed to return with the father. The eldest of these sons became the father of Wabashaw. The mother thus divorced by the mutual consent of all parties, remained inconsolable for some time. She was still young and handsome, and after a few years, became the wife of a young Chippewa chief of Chagoimegon, of the honoured totem of the ADDICK or reindeer. Her first child by this second marriage, was Ma Mongazida, the father of Wabojeeg. In this manner, a connexion existed between two families, of separate hostile nations, each of which distinguished itself, for bravery and skill in war and council. It has already been stated that Ma Mongazida, was present, on the side of the French, in the great action in which both Montcalm and Wolf fell, and he continued to exercise the chieftainship till his death, when his second son succeeded him. It was one of the consequences of the hostility of the Indians to the English rule, that many of the remote tribes were left, for a time, without traders to supply their wants. This was the case, tradition asserts, with Chagoimegon, which, for two years after the taking of old Mackinac, was left without a trader. To remonstrate against this, Ma Mongazida visited Sir William Johnson, the superintendant general of Indian affairs, by whom he was well received, and presented with a broad wampum belt and gorget. This act laid the foundation of a lasting peace between the Chippewas and the English. The belt, it is added, was of blue wampum, with figures of white. And when Wabojeeg came to the chieftainship, he took from it the wampum employed by him to muster his war-parties. In making traditionary enquiries I have found that the Indian narrators were careful to preserve and note any fact, in the early lives of their distinguished men, which appeared to prefigure their future eminence, or had any thing of the wonderful or premonitory, in its character. The following incident of this sort, was noticed respecting this chief. Ma Mongazida generally went to make his fall hunts on the middle grounds towards the Sioux territory, taking with him all his near relatives, amounting usually to twenty persons, exclusive of children. Early one morning while the young men were preparing for the chase, they were startled by the report of several shots, directed towards the lodge. As they had thought themselves in security, the first emotion was surprise, and they had scarcely time to fly to their arms, when another volley was fired, which wounded one man in the thigh, and killed a dog. Ma Mongazida immediately sallied out with his young men, and pronouncing his name aloud in the Sioux language, demanded if Wabasha or his brother, were among the assailants. The firing instantly ceased--a pause ensued, when a tall figure, in a war dress, with a profusion of feathers upon his head, stepped forward and presented his hand. It was the elder Wabasha, his half brother. The Sioux peaceably followed their leader into the lodge, upon which they had, the moment before, directed their shots. At the instant the Sioux chief entered, it was necessary to stoop a little, in passing the door. In the act of stooping, he received a blow from a war-club wielded by a small boy, who had posted himself there for the purpose. It was the young Wabojeeg. Wabasha, pleased with this early indication of courage, took the little lad in his arms, caressed him, and pronounced that he would become a brave man, and prove an inveterate enemy of the Sioux. The border warfare in which the father of the infant warrior was constantly engaged, early initiated him in the arts and ceremonies pertaining to war. With the eager interest and love of novelty of the young, he listened to their war songs and war stories, and longed for the time when he would be old enough to join these parties, and also make himself a name among warriors. While quite a youth he volunteered to go out with a party, and soon gave convincing proofs of his courage. He also early learned the arts of hunting the deer, the bear, the moose, and all the smaller animals common to the country; and in these pursuits, he took the ordinary lessons of Indian young men, in abstinence, suffering, danger and endurance of fatigue. In this manner his nerves were knit and formed for activity, and his mind stored with those lessons of caution which are the result of local experience in the forest. He possessed a tall and commanding person, with a full black piercing eye, and the usual features of his countrymen. He had a clear and full toned voice, and spoke his native language with grace and fluency. To these attractions, he united an early reputation for bravery and skill in the chase, and at the age of twenty-two, he was already a war leader. Expeditions of one Indian tribe against another, require the utmost caution, skill, and secrecy. There are a hundred things to give information to such a party, or influence its action, which are unknown to civilized nations. The breaking of a twig, the slightest impression of a foot print, and other like circumstances, determine a halt, a retreat, or an advance. The most scrupulous attention is also paid to the signs of the heavens, the flight of birds, and above all, to the dreams and predictions of the jossakeed, priest, or prophet, who accompanies them, and who is entrusted with the sacred sack. The theory upon which all these parties are conducted, is secrecy and stratagem: to steal upon the enemy unawares; to lay in ambush, or decoy; to kill and to avoid as much as possible the hazard of being killed. An intimate geographical knowledge of the country, is also required by a successful war leader, and such a man piques himself, not only on knowing every prominent stream, hill, valley, wood, or rock, but the particular productions, animal, and vegetable, of the scene of operations. When it is considered that this species of knowledge, shrewdness and sagacity, is possessed on _both_ sides, and that the nations at war watch each other, as a lynx for its prey, it may be conceived, that many of these border war parties are either light skirmishes, sudden on-rushes, or utter failures. It is seldom that a close, well contested, long continued hard battle is fought. To kill a few men, tear off their scalps in haste, and retreat with these trophies, is a brave and honourable trait with them, and may be boasted of, in their triumphal dances and warlike festivities. To glean the details of these movements, would be to acquire the modern history of the tribe, which induced me to direct my enquiries to the subject; but the lapse of even forty or fifty years, had shorn tradition of most of these details, and often left the memory of results only. The Chippewas told me, that this chief had led them seven times to successful battle against the Sioux and the Outagamies, and that he had been wounded thrice--once in the thigh, once in the right shoulder, and a third time in the side and breast, being a glancing shot. His war parties consisted either of volunteers who had joined his standard at the war dance, or of auxiliaries, who had accepted his messages of wampum and tobacco, and come forward in a body, to the appointed place of rendezvous. These parties varied greatly in number; his first party consisted of but forty men, his greatest and most renowned, of three hundred, who were mustered from the villages on the shores of the lake, as far east as St. Mary's falls. It is to the incidents of this last expedition, which had an important influence on the progress of the war, that we may devote a few moments. The place of rendezvous was _La Pointe_ Chagoimegon, or as it is called in modern days, La Pointe of Lake Superior. The scene of the conflict, which was a long and bloody one, was the falls of the St. Croix. The two places are distant about two hundred and fifty miles, by the most direct route. This area embraces the summit land between Lake Superior and the upper Mississippi. The streams flowing each way interlock, which enables the natives to ascend them in their light canoes, and after carrying the latter over the portages, to descend on the opposite side. On this occasion Wabojeeg and his partizan army, ascended the Muskigo, or Mauvais river, to its connecting portage with the Namakagon branch of the St. Croix. On crossing the summit, they embarked in their small and light war canoes on their descent westward. This portion of the route was passed with the utmost caution. They were now rapidly approaching the enemy's borders, and every sign was regarded with deep attention. They were seven days from the time they first reached the waters of the St. Croix, until they found the enemy. They went but a short distance each day, and encamped. On the evening of the seventh day, the scouts discovered a large body of Sioux and Outagamies encamped on the lower side of the portage of the great falls of the St. Croix. The discovery was a surprise on both sides. The advance of the Chippewas had landed at the upper end of the portage, intending to encamp there. The Sioux and their allies had just preceded them, from the lower part of the stream with the same object. The Foxes or Outagamies immediately fired, and a battle ensued. It is a spot indeed, from which a retreat either way is impracticable, in the face of an enemy. It is a mere neck of rugged rock. The river forces a passage through this dark and solid barrier. It is equally rapid and dangerous for canoes above and below. It cannot be crossed direct. After the firing began Wabojeeg landed and brought up his men. He directed a part of them to extend themselves in the wood around the small neck, or peninsula, of the portage, whence alone escape was possible. Both parties fought with bravery; the Foxes with desperation. But they were outnumbered, overpowered, and defeated. Some attempted to descend the rapids, and were lost. A few only escaped. But the Chippewas paid dearly for their victory. Wabojeeg was slightly wounded in the breast: his brother was killed. Many brave warriors fell. It was a most sanguinary scene. The tradition of this battle is one of the most prominent and wide spread of the events of their modern history. I have conversed with more than one chief, who dated his first military honours in youth, to this scene. It put an end to their feud with the Foxes, who retired from the intermediate rice lakes, and fled down the Wisconsin. It raised the name of the Chippewa leader, to the acme of his renown among his people: but Wabojeeg, as humane as he was brave, grieved over the loss of his people who had fallen in the action. This feeling was expressed touchingly and characteristically, in a war song, which he uttered after this victory which has been preserved by the late Mr. Johnston of St. Mary's, in the following stanzas. On that day when our heroes lay low--lay low, On that day when our heroes lay low, I fought by their side, and thought ere I died, Just vengeance to take on the foe, Just vengeance to take on the foe. On that day, when our chieftains lay dead--lay dead, On that day when our chieftains lay dead, I fought hand to hand, at the head of my band, And here, on my breast, have I bled, And here, on my breast, have I bled. Our chiefs shall return no more--no more, Our chiefs shall return no more, Nor their brothers of war, who can show scar for scar, Like women their fates shall deplore--deplore, Like women their fate shall deplore. Five winters in hunting we'll spend--we'll spend, Five winters in hunting we'll spend, Till our youth, grown to men, we'll to war lead again, And our days, like our fathers, we'll end, And our days, like our fathers, we'll end. It is the custom of these tribes to go to war in the spring and summer, which are, not only comparatively seasons of leisure with them, but it is at these seasons that they are concealed and protected by the foliage of the forest, and can approach the enemy unseen. At these annual returns of warmth and vegetation, they also engage in festivities and dances, during which the events and exploits of past years are sang and recited; and while they derive fresh courage and stimulus to renewed exertions, the young, who are listeners, learn to emulate their fathers, and take their earliest lessons in the art of war. Nothing is done in the summer months in the way of hunting. The small furred animals are changing their pelt, which is out of season. The doe retires with her fawns, from the plains and open grounds, into thick woods. It is the general season of reproduction, and the red man for a time, intermits his war on the animal creation, to resume it against man. As the autumn approaches, he prepares for his fall hunts, by retiring from the outskirts of the settlements, and from the open lakes, shores, and streams, which have been the scenes of his summer festivities; and proceeds, after a short preparatory hunt, to his wintering grounds. This round of hunting, and of festivity and war, fills up the year; all the tribes conform in these general customs. There are no war parties raised in the winter. This season is exclusively devoted to securing the means of their subsistence and clothing, by seeking the valuable skins, which are to purchase their clothing and their ammunition, traps and arms. The hunting grounds of the chief, whose life we are considering, extended along the southern shores of Lake Superior from the Montreal River, to the inlet of the Misacoda, or Burntwood River of Fond du Lac. If he ascended the one, he usually made the wide circuit indicated, and came out at the other. He often penetrated by a central route up the Maskigo. This is a region still abounding, but less so than formerly, in the bear, moose, beaver, otter, martin, and muskrat. Among the smaller animals are also to be noticed the mink, lynx, hare, porcupine, and partridge, and towards its southern and western limits, the Virginia deer. In this ample area, the La Pointe, or Chagoimegon Indians hunted. It is a rule of the chase, that each hunter has a portion of the country assigned to him, on which he alone may hunt; and there are conventional laws which decide all questions of right and priority in starting and killing game. In these questions, the chief exercises a proper authority, and it is thus in the power of one of these forest governors and magistrates, where they happen to be men of sound sense, judgment and manly independence, to make themselves felt and known, and to become true benefactors to their tribes. And such chiefs create an impression upon their followers, and leave a reputation behind them, which is of more value than their achievements in war. Wabojeeg excelled in both characters; he was equally popular as a civil ruler and a war chief; and while he administered justice to his people, he was an expert hunter, and made due and ample provision for his family. He usually gleaned, in a season, by his traps and carbine, four packs of mixed furs, the avails of which were ample to provide clothing for all the members of his lodge circle, as well as to renew his supply of ammunition and other essential articles. On one occasion, he had a singular contest with a moose. He had gone out, one morning early, to set martin traps. He had set about forty, and was returning to his lodge, when he unexpectedly encountered a large moose, in his path, which manifested a disposition to attack him. Being unarmed, and having nothing but a knife and small hatchet, which he had carried to make his traps, he tried to avoid it. But the animal came towards him in a furious manner. He took shelter behind a tree, shifting his position from tree to tree, retreating. At length, as he fled, he picked up a pole, and quickly untying his moccasin strings, he bound his knife to the end of the pole. He then placed himself in a favourable position, behind a tree, and when the moose came up, stabbed him several times in the throat and breast. At last, the animal, exhausted with the loss of blood, fell. He then dispatched him, and cut out his tongue to carry home to his lodge as a trophy of victory. When they went back to the spot, for the carcass, they found the snow trampled down in a wide circle, and copiously sprinkled with blood, which gave it the appearance of a battle-field. It proved to be a male of uncommon size. The domestic history of a native chief, can seldom be obtained. In the present instance, the facts that follow, may be regarded with interest, as having been obtained from residents of Chagoimegon, or from his descendants. He did not take a wife till about the age of thirty, and he then married a widow, by whom he had one son. He had obtained early notoriety as a warrior, which perhaps absorbed his attention. What causes there were to render this union unsatisfactory, or whether there were any, is not known; but after the lapse of two years, he married a girl of fourteen, of the totem of the bear, by whom he had a family of six children. He is represented as of a temper and manners affectionate and forbearing. He evinced thoughtfulness and diligence in the management of his affairs, and the order and disposition of his lodge. When the hunting season was over, he employed his leisure moments in adding to the comforts of his lodge. His lodge was of an oblong shape, ten fathoms long, and made by setting two rows of posts firmly in the ground, and sheathing the sides and roof with the smooth bark of the birch. From the centre rose a post crowned with the carved figure of an owl, which he had probably selected as a bird of good omen, for it was neither his own nor his wife's totem. This figure was so placed, that it turned with the wind, and answered the purpose of a weathercock. In person Wabojeeg was tall, being six feet six inches, erect in carriage, and of slender make. He possessed a commanding countenance, united to ease and dignity of manners. He was a ready and fluent speaker, and conducted personally the negotiations with the Fox and Sioux nations. It was perhaps twenty years after the battle on the St. Croix, which established the Chippewa boundary in that quarter, and while his children were still young, that there came to his village, in the capacity of a trader, a young gentleman of a respectable family in the north of Ireland, who formed an exalted notion of his character, bearing, and warlike exploits. This visit, and his consequent residence on the lake, during the winter, became an important era to the chief, and has linked his name and memory with numerous persons in civilized life. Mr. Johnston asked the northern chief for his youngest daughter. Englishman, he replied, my daughter is yet young, and you cannot take her as white men have too often taken our daughters. It will be time enough to think of complying with your request, when you return again to this lake in the summer. My daughter is my favourite child, and I cannot part with her, unless you will promise to acknowledge her by such ceremonies as white men use. You must ever keep her, and never forsake her. On this basis a union was formed, a union it may be said, between the Erse and Algonquin races--and it was faithfully adhered to, till his death, a period of thirty-seven years. Wabojeeg had impaired his health in the numerous war parties which he conducted across the wide summit which separated his hunting grounds from the Mississippi valley. A slender frame, under a life of incessant exertion, brought on a premature decay. Consumption revealed itself at a comparatively early age, and he fell before this insidious disease, in a few years, at the early age of about forty-five. He died in 1793 at his native village of Chagoimegon. The incident which has been named, did not fail to make the forest chieftain acquainted with the leading truth of Christianity, in the revelation it makes of a saviour for all races. On the contrary, it is a truth which was brought to his knowledge and explained. It is, of course, not known with what particular effects. As he saw his end approaching, he requested that his body might not be buried out of sight, but placed, according to a custom prevalent in the remoter bands of this tribe, on a form supported by posts, or a scaffold. This trait is, perhaps, natural to the hunter state. My friends when my spirit is fled--is fled My friends when my spirit is fled, Ah, put me not bound, in the dark and cold ground, Where light shall no longer be shed--be shed, Where daylight no more shall be shed. But lay me up scaffolded high--all high, Chiefs lay me up scaffolded high, Where my tribe shall still say, as they point to my clay, He ne'er from the foe sought to fly--to fly, He ne'er from the foe sought to fly. And children, who play on the shore--the shore, And children who play on the shore, As the war dance they beat, my name shall repeat, And the fate of their chieftain deplore--deplore, And the fate of their chieftain deplore. MODE OF WRITING AN INDIAN LANGUAGE. The rules of utterance of these tribes, after all that has been said and written on the subject, are very simple, and determine the orthography, so far, at least, as relates to distinctions for the long and short vowels. If, in writing Indian, the syllables be separated by hyphens, there need be no uncertainty respecting their sounds, and we shall be saved a world of somewhat over nice disquisition. A vowel preceded by a consonant, is always long, a vowel followed by a consonant is always short. A vowel between two consonants, is short. A vowel standing by itself is always full or long. A few examples of well known words will denote this. On ta´ ri o. Wá bash. Ni ag´ ar a. Pe ó ri a. O we´ go. Tí con de ró ga. Ti ó ga. Mis siss ip pi. Os wé go. O neí da. I´-o-wa. Al ab á ma Wis con´ sin. O tis´ co. Chi cá go. Or´ e gon. Write the words by whatever system of orthography you will, French, English, or German, and the vowel sounds will vindicate this distinction. If diphthongs have been used, for simple vowels, through early mistake or redundancy, the rule is the same. If they appear as proper diphthongs, they follow the rule of diphthongs. This principal of utterance appears to be a general and fixed law in the Indian languages as respects the sounds of e, i, o, u, and the two chief sounds of a, 1 and 3 of Walker's Key. As the letter a has four distinct sounds, as in English, the chief discrepancies, seen above, will appear in the use of this letter. SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF NOTED RED MEN AND WOMEN, WHO HAVE APPEARED ON THE WESTERN CONTINENT. BRANT, RED JACKET, UNCAS, MIONTONIMO. A NOTICE OF THE BIOGRAPHIES OF THE LATE COL. WILLIAM L. STONE, PREPARED FOR THE DEMOCRATIC REVIEW--1843. The Egyptians embalmed their dead in myrrh and spices, but the blessed art of printing has given us a surer and less revolting method of preserving and transmitting to posterity, all that is truly valuable in the plaudits of virtue, worth, and honor. Books thus become a more permanent memorial than marble, and by their diffusion scatter those lessons among all mankind, which the age of mounds and hieroglyphics, stone and papyrus, had confined to the tablet of a shaft, or the dark recesses of a tomb or a pyramid. It is never to be forgotten, that in the development of this new phasis in the history of the human race, it was printing that first lit the lamp of truth, and has driven on the experiment, till the boundaries of letters have well nigh become co-extensive with the world. If we do not widely err, there is no part of the globe, where books of all descriptions have become so cheap and abundant as they are at this time in the United States, and, laying aside all other considerations, we may find a proof of the position stated in the fact, that our vernacular literature is no longer confined to the production of school books, the annals of law and divinity, the age of muddy pamphlets, or the motley pages of the newspaper. We have no design to follow up these suggestions by showing how far the study of the natural sciences, the discussion of political economy, or the advances of belles-lettres, have operated to produce this result; far less to identify those causes, in the progress of western arts and commerce, which have concurred to bring down the price of books, and scatter the blessings of an untrammelled press, among all classes. It is sufficient for our purpose to say that even the lives of our distinguished native chieftains have come in for a share of modern notice, and, we feel proud to add, of a notice which, so far as it reaches, is worthy of the subject. And should our contributions on this head, for the last few years, be equally well followed up for a few years to come, even the desponding strains of one of their own impersonated heroes can no longer be repeated with perfect truth: "They sink, they pass, they fly, they go, Like a vapor at morning's dawn, Or a flash of light, whose sudden glow Is seen, admired, and gone. "They died; but if a brave man bleeds, And fills the dreamless grave, Shall none repeat his name, his deeds, Nor tell that he was brave?" To no one in our literary annals is the public so much indebted for rescuing from oblivion the traits and character of the four celebrated chiefs whose names stand at the head of this article, as to the able author of these biographies, William L. Stone. Gifted with a keen perception of the questions of right and wrong, which turn upon the planting of the colonies among barbarians, who more than idled away their days upon a soil which they did not cultivate--with a deep sympathy in their fate and fortunes, on the one hand, and the paramount claims of letters and Christianity on the other, he has set himself to the task of rendering justice to whom justice belongs, with the ardor of a philanthropist, and the research of a historian. He appears to have planned a series of biographies which, if completed, will give a connected view of the leading tribes who occupied New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts, with a range in the examination of contemporary men and collateral topics, which embraces a wide circle. And he has filled up the outlines of his plan, thus far, in a manner which leaves but little to glean in the path which he has trod. If the extension of this circle, and the large amount of contemporaneous matter brought in, has, in the minds of some, abstracted too large a share of attention, and left the biographies with less unity and compactness than they would otherwise have assumed, this is exclusively the fault of their plan, so far as it is acknowledged, and not of the execution. And for this course of extension there is a plea to be found in the nature of the subject, in the treatment of which, scantiness of material was often sought to be supplied by the introduction of collateral and sometimes extraneous matter. We propose briefly to notice the series of these biographies in their order of publication. In his first work on Brant, he has presented, in living colors, the great Mohawk of 1776, who rose up to crush that confederacy which Washington and his compeers had pledged their lives to maintain. Brant was a man of power and capacities, mental and physical, beyond his tribe; and was so situated, in the actual contest, as to throw a greater weight into the scale against us, than any other, or all of the hostile chiefs of the Red Race put together. If he could not, like Ariel, call up the "spirits of the vasty deep," he could, at his bidding, summon together the no less malignant spirits of the woods, who fell upon our sleeping hamlets with the fury of demons. And whether at Johnson Hall or Niagara, at Cherry Valley or Schoharie, on the waters of the Oriskany or the Chemung, he was the ruling and informing spirit of the contest. Such was the power he wielded as commander of a most effective body of light troops (for such are all Indian warriors), who were supported by large and well appointed armies, that, like the electric flashes of the boding storm, he preceded the heavier outbreak by sounding aloud the wild notes of terror and dismay. It was in this manner that his name became a talisman on the frontiers, to conjure up deeds of evil, and in this way also, doubtless, it became loaded with reproaches, some of which, as the author has denoted, were due to other actors in the contest. It is difficult, however, to disturb the judgments of a preceding age, on the character of individuals who have long passed off the stage of action, whether those judgments be favorable or unfavorable; and it is, in fact, impossible to reverse them. It is only necessary to glance backward a short way, on the track of biography, to perceive that posterity never revises the opinions once put on individual character, heroic or literary. It tries to forget all it can, and every body it can, and never remembers a long time any name which it is possible to forget. It is willing, we should infer, to concede something to the great men among barbarian nations, whose names have often burst upon civilized society with the fearful attractions of the meteor, or the comet, producing admiration in the beholders, without stopping to inquire the true cause. Such were the Tamerlanes, and the Tippoo Saibs of the eastern world, of a prior age, as well as the Mehemet Alis and Abdel Kaders of the present. And such were, also, with reduced means of action, numbers of the American aboriginal chiefs, who, between the days of Manco Capac and Micanopy have figured in the history of the western world. Most of these men owe their celebrity to the mere fact of their having dazzled or astounded, or like Brant himself, excited the terror of those who opposed them. In the case of the latter, a change of opinion in those particular traits which affect his humanity, is less readily made, from the fact, yet generally remembered, that he had received a Christian education; that he was, while a mere boy, received into the best society, acquired the English language, and had been instructed, first at a New England academy, and afterwards at one of its most practically efficient colleges. Posterity holds the Mohawk chief responsible to have carried the precepts thus obtained into the forest, and to have diffused their blessings among those who had perhaps his bravery, without his talents or his knowledge. Those who fought against him were ill qualified, we confess, to be his judges. He had not only espoused the wrong cause, wrong because it was adverse to the progress of national freedom and those very principles his people contended for; but he battled for it with a master's hand, and made the force of his energy felt, as the author has more fully indicated than was before known, from the banks of the Mohawk and the Niagara, to the Ohio, the Miami, and the Wabash. Yet, if there was error in the extent to which he failed to carry the precepts of civilization and Christianity, it was meet it should be pointed out, although it will also be admitted, the public have a right to look for the strongest of these proofs of a kind and benevolent feeling towards his open enemies, out of the range of his domestic circle. His family had carried the incipient principles of civilization, which he gave them, too high--they had exhibited to the next age, a too prominent example of cultivation and refinement in every sense--not to feel deeply the obloquy cast upon his name, by the poetic spirit of the times; and not to wish that one who had, in verity, so many high and noble qualities, both in the council and the field, should also be without a spot on his humanity. We deem the feeling as honorable to all who have the blood of the chieftain in their veins as it is praise-worthy in his biographer. We cannot, however, consent to forget, that historical truth is very severe in its requisitions, and is not to be put off, by friend or foe, with hearsay testimony, or plausible surmises. Brant cannot, like Xicotencal, be accused of having joined the invaders of his country, who were recklessly resolved upon its subjugation; but he overlooked the fact, that both the _invader_ and the _invaded_ in the long and bloody border warfare of the revolution, were, in all that constitutes character, the same people. They were of the same blood and lineage, spoke the same language, had the same laws and customs, and the same literature and religion, and he failed to see that the only real point of difference between them was, who should wield the sceptre. Whichever party gained the day in such a contest, letters and Christianity must triumph, and as the inevitable result, barbarism must decline, and the power of the Indian nation fall. In Brant, barbarism and civilization evinced a strong and singular contest. He was at one moment a savage, and at another a civilian, at one moment cruel, and at another humane; and he exhibited, throughout all the heroic period of his career, a constant vacillation and struggle between good and bad, noble and ignoble feelings, and, as one or the other got the mastery, he was an angel of mercy, or a demon of destruction. In this respect, his character does not essentially vary from that which has been found to mark the other leading red men who, from Philip to Osceola, have appeared on the stage of action. Like them, his reasoning faculties were far less developed than his physical perceptions. And to attempt to follow or find anything like a fixed principle of humanity, basing itself on the higher obligations that sway the human breast, would, we fear, become a search after that which had no existence in his mind; or if the germ was there, it was too feeble to become predominant. We do not think it necessary, in commenting on his life, to enter into any nice train of reasoning or motives to account for this characteristic, or to reconcile cruelties of the most shocking kind, when contrasted with traits of mildness and urbanity. They were different moods of the man, and in running back over the eventful years of his life, it becomes clear, that civilization had never so completely gained the mastery over his mind and heart, as not to desert him, without notice, the moment he heard the sound of the war-whoop. The fact that he could use the pen, supplied no insuperable motive against his wielding the war club. His tomahawk and his Testament lay on the same shelf. The worst trait in his character is revealed in his tardiness to execute acts of _purposed_ mercy. There was too often some impediment, which served as an excuse, as when he had a ploughed field to cross to save Wells and his family, or a lame heel, or gave up the design altogether, as in the case of Wisner, whom he construed it into an act of mercy to tomahawk. That he was, however, a man of an extraordinary firmness, courage and decision of character, is without doubt. But his fate and fortunes have not been such as to give much encouragement to chiefs of the native race in lending their influence to European, or Anglo-European powers, who may be engaged in hostilities against each other on this continent. Pontiac had realized this before him, and Tecumtha realized it after him. Neither attained the object he sought. One of these chiefs was assassinated, the other fell in battle, and Brant himself only survived the defeat of his cause, to fret out his latter days in vain attempts to obtain justice from the power which he had most loyally served, and greatly benefited. Had he been knighted at the close of the contest, instead of being shuffled from one great man to another, at home and abroad, it would have been an instance of a noble exercise of that power. But George III. seemed to have been fated, at all points, neither to do justice to his friends nor his enemies. Such was Brant, or Thayendanegea, symbolically, the Band of his tribe,[10] to whose lot it has fallen to act a more distinguished part in the Colonies, as a consummate warrior, than any other aboriginal chieftain who has arisen. And his memory was well worthy of the elaborate work in which his biographer has presented him, in the most favourable points of view, amidst a comprehensive history of the border wars of the revolution, without, however, concealing atrocities of which he was, perhaps sometimes unwillingly, the agent. A word, and but a word, will be added, as to some points connected with this chief's character, which are not in coincidence with the generally received opinion, or are now first introduced by way of palliation, or vindication. We confess, that so far as the presence or absence of the Great Mohawk in the massacre of Wyoming, is concerned, the statements are either inconclusive, or less satisfactory than could be wished. There was quite too much feeling sometimes evinced by his family, and particularly his son John, to permit us to receive the new version of the statement without some grains of allowance. An investigation is instituted by Col. Stone as to the immediate ancestry of Brant, and much importance is attached to the inquiry, whether he was descended from a line of hereditary chiefs. We think the testimony adverse to such a supposition, and it affords no unequivocal proof of talents, that notwithstanding such an adventitious circumstance, certainly without being of the line of _ruling_ chiefs, he elevated himself to be, not only the head chief and leader of his tribe, but of the Six Nations. Courtesy and popular will attach the title of chief or sachem to men of talents, courage or eloquence among our tribes generally; and while mere descent would devolve it upon a chief's son, whatever might be his character, yet this fact alone would be of little import, and give him little influence, without abilities: whereas abilities alone are found to raise men of note to the chieftainship, among all the North American tribes, whose customs and character are known. It has constituted no part of our object, in these general outlines, to examine minor points of the biography or history, upon which the information or the conclusions are not so satisfactory as could be wished, or which may, indeed, be at variance with our opinions. One fact, however, connected, with this name, it is not deemed proper to pass _sub silentio_. Brant is made to take a part in the Pontiac War, a contest arising on the fall of the French power in Canada in 1759, and which closed in 1763. Brant was at its close but twenty-one years of age, and had not, it is probable, finally returned from his New England tutors. At any rate, there is no reason to suppose, that, at that early period of his life and his influence, he could have had any participation in the events of that war. In the life of Red Jacket, or Sagóyewata, we have a different order of Indian intellect brought to view. He was an orator and a diplomatist, and was at no period of his life noted for his skill as a warrior. Nay, there are indubitable proofs that his personal courage could not always be "screwed up to the sticking point." But in native intellect, he was even superior to Brant. He was, indeed, the Brant of the council, and often came down upon his opponents with bursts of eloquence, trains of argument, or rhapsodies of thought, which were irresistible. And of him, it may be symbolically said, that his tongue was his tomahawk, and the grandiloquent vocabulary of the Seneca language, his war-club. Nor has any native chieftain wielded the weapon to more purpose, or with a longer continued effect than the great Seneca orator. The specimens of his eloquence which have appeared in our newspapers for forty years or more, are still fresh in the memory, and it was due and meet that these should be collected and preserved in a permanent shape, together with such particulars of his life and career as could be obtained. This task has been performed by Col. Stone, in a manner which leaves nothing more to be attempted on the subject. Much zeal and industry have been evinced in eliciting facts from every quarter where it was probable information could be had. And he has brought together a body of contemporaneous proofs and reminiscences, touching this chief, which a few years would have put beyond the power of recovery, and which a position less prominent than he occupied as a public journalist, might have rendered it difficult for another to collect. We need only refer to the names of Gen. P. B. Porter, Rev. J. Breckenridge, Mr. Parish, and Mr. Hosmer, to show the character of this part of his materials. Other chiefs of the native stock, have produced occasional pieces of eloquence, or admired oratory, but Red Jacket is the only prominent individual who has devoted his whole career to it. That he did, indeed, excel, producing effects which no reported speech of his ever equalled or did justice to, there are still many living to attest. In the question of land sales, which arose between the white and red races, there were frequent occasions to bring him out. And these, in the end, assumed a complicated shape, from either the vague nature, or ill understood conditions of prior grants. In all these discussions, he preserved a unity and consistency in the set of opinions he had adopted. He was opposed to further sales, to removal, to civilization, and to the introduction of Christianity among his people. What Brant had done in _politics_, Red Jacket repeated in _morals_. Both took the wrong side, and both failed. But it is to be said of the Seneca orator, that he did not live to see the final defeat of that course of policy which he had so long and so ably advocated. It was remarked by Mr. Clinton, and the fact had impressed others, that the Iroquois, or Six Nations, excelled the other natives in eloquence. Of this, their history, during the Supremacy of Holland and England in New York, as given by Colden, furnishes ample proofs. The speech of Garangula, against the Governor General of Canada and his wily policy, is unexcelled, as a whole, by anything which even Red-Jacket has left in print, though much of the effect of it is due to the superior and heroic position occupied by the tribes for whom he spoke. Logan, unexcelled by all others for his pathos and simplicity, it must be remembered, was also of this stock,--Mingo, or _Mengwe_, as the Delawares pronounced it, being but a generic term for Iroquois; so that the transmission of this trait, from the proud era of the Iroquois confederacy down to modern days, is quite in keeping with the opinion quoted. It is to be wished that Col. Stone would supply another link in the chain of Iroquois history, by favoring the public with the life of the noted Oneida chief, Shenandoah, for which materials must exist in the Kirkland family. The lives of the two men, Uncas and Miontonimo, whose leading acts are described in one of the volumes named in our caption, belong to an earlier period of history, and a different theatre of action. The scene changes from western New York to the seaboard of Connecticut, Rhode Island, and, to some extent, Massachusetts. Uncas was the good genius, the tutelary spirit, if we may so say, of the colony of Connecticut; and the best monument which that State could erect to his memory, would be to change the unmeaning and worn out name of one of her counties, New London, for that of the noble and friendly chief, of whose forest kingdom it once formed a part. From the first day that the English colonists set foot within it, to the hour of his death, Uncas was the unwavering "friend of the white man," as his biographer justly calls him. He was of that race, whom history has, without making a particle of allowance for savage ignorance and hereditary prejudice, branded under the name of Pequods. They were of that type of languages and lineage, which was very well characterized generically, at least as far south as the original country of the Delawares; but which assumed a sub-type after crossing the Hudson, and was known east of that point under one of its superinduced forms, as the Mohegan. This term had been dropped by the Pequods, if it was ever their specific cognomen, but it is a proof, and we think a very conclusive proof, of the yet freshly remembered affiliation with Taminund[11] and the Manhattans, that Uncas, the moment he revolted from King Sassacus, assumed the name of a Mohegan, and put himself at the head of that tribe, as it then existed within the boundaries of Connecticut. Or rather, he constituted the revolted Pequods a new tribe, under an old and respected name, and he thus laid the foundation of the Uncas dynasty. Placed thus by circumstances in a position in which he sought an alliance with the early colonists, and finding his security in theirs, he was in fact the only leading chief of the times who, really, heartily, and faithfully sought their prosperity and growth to the end. The rise of Uncas and Connecticut thus began at one era; and as the alliance was founded on mutual interest and safety, it only grew stronger with time. A man of less force of character or natural sagacity than Uncas, would have vacillated when he saw the colonists becoming more powerful and himself more weak as years rolled on, and would have been seduced to enter into alliances for arresting the white man's power, as other native chiefs had done. But all history concurs in showing that, under every circumstance, and there were many of the most trying kind, he carried himself well, and avoided even a suspicion of his fidelity. Uncas was well qualified for a ruler both in mind and person. He possessed a fine figure, over six feet in height, a commanding voice, and a noble bearing. He was mild yet dignified in his manners. He was not only wise in council, but brave[12] in war, as he evinced in many instances, but particularly in the battle of Sachem's Plain, in which he proved himself the bravest and most chivalrous of the brave. Yet his wisdom and moderation in governing his people, and the well balanced justice and consistency of his character, give him a still higher reputation, and establish his best claim to remembrance. In all the trials in which he was placed, in all the temptations he had to fly into a rage, and act out the savage, he sustained this character for wise deliberation; and by adhering to his first covenant with the English, and laying all his plans and grievances before the colonial courts, he raised himself in strength and reputation, and finally triumphed, first over Sassacus, and then over Miontonimo, the two greatest and most powerful of his immediate contemporaries. If Uncas was the patron of Connecticut, Miontonimo, with his family of the Narragansett chiefdom, was equally so of Rhode Island. And it is from this obvious fact, probably, in part, that we find the historical notices of him, from the last quarter, decidedly more favorable to his general character than those emanating from the land of his enemy and his conqueror, Uncas. While there is no disagreement as to any historical fact of note, it is natural that some little shade of feeling of this nature should remain. We have noticed a similar feeling with respect to existing tribes and chiefs, in the western world, where the inhabitants never fail to be imbued with those peculiar notions and traditions of the particular tribe about them, which represent the latter as the principal nation, and invest them with tribal traits of superiority. It is a feeling which leans to the better side of one's nature, and does honor to men's hearts; but the historian is obliged to look at such questions with a colder eye, and can never abate a tittle of the truth, although he may run counter to this local sympathy and bias. We could name some remarkable instances of this prejudice, if we were willing to digress. If Miontonimo be compared to Uncas, it will at once be seen that he lacked the latter's sagacity and firmness of character. Had the Narragansett listened to Sassacus, and formed a league with him, he would have crushed, for a time, the infant colony of Connecticut. This he declined, apparently, because it had the specific character of enabling Sassacus to put down Uncas. After the Pequod king had been defeated and fled to the Mohawks, Miontonimo was left in a position to assume the Pequod's policy, and then tried to bring Uncas into just such a combination to fall on the colonists, as he had himself refused, when the proposition came from Sassacus. As Uncas not only refused, but laid the scheme before his allies, Miontonimo went to war against him, with a large army. Uncas hastily prepared to meet him, with a smaller force. They met on Sachem's Plain, on the banks of the Shawtucket. Uncas, unwilling to see so many of his people slain in battle, nobly stepped forward and proposed a personal combat, to decide the question of who should rule, and who obey. It was declined, but the moment the reply was made, he threw himself on the plain, a signal, it seems, for his men to advance, and they came on with such an impulse, that he won the day and took Miontonimo prisoner. This capture was the act of one of his minor chiefs; but when his enemy was brought before him, he declined exercising his right of putting him to death, but determined to refer the matter to the authorities of Hartford. There it was found to be a knotty question, and finally referred to the General Court at Boston. The Court strengthened itself with the opinions of six distinguished clergymen and several eminent civilians; and then decided, that the Narragansett chief had justly forfeited his life, by violating his political covenants with the colonies, but it might not be taken away _by them_. He must be remanded to Uncas, within his jurisdiction, and by him be executed; but it was enjoined, with a very poor compliment to the known mildness of the character of Uncas, that no needless cruelty should be practised. Here, then, the white man evinced less mercy than the red had done. Miontonimo was now released from his confinement, and conducted back to the very spot where he had first been taken prisoner, as he approached which, one of the Mohegans who accompanied him, keeping him in entire ignorance of his fate, raised his tomahawk as he walked behind him, and laid him dead at a blow. Whether the moral responsibility of this execution rests with the court, or the executioner, we do not propose particularly to inquire, nor to ascertain to what degree it was shuffled off, by directing an Indian to commit an act which it was unlawful for a white man and a Christian to perform. Had Uncas slain his adversary in cold blood, after the action, the thing would have been in perfect accordance with Indian law. Had Miontonimo been a subject of either of the colonies of Connecticut, Rhode Island or Massachusetts, and levied war, or committed any overt act of treason, his execution would have been in accordance with the laws of civilized nations. Neither condition happened. It was, however, felt, that the great disturber of the colonies, after Sassacus, had now been caught. He had violated his covenant by going to war without apprising them. They did not believe he would keep any future covenants. The moral sense of the community would not be shocked, but rather gratified by his execution. This point was strongly signified to the court. But they could not legally compass it. English law opposed it. The customs of civilized nations, in warring with _each other_, opposed it. Should a different rule be observed towards the aborigines? Did the dictates of sound judgment and common sense, did the precepts of Christianity,--aye, "there was the rub,"--did the precepts of Christianity sanction it? On full deliberation,--for the question was not decided in haste,--neither of these points could be affirmatively answered. But while policy--the policy of _expediency_, the lust of power, and the offended moral sense of an exposed and suffering community demanded, as it was thought, the death of the sachem, still it was not found that one whom they had ever treated, and then viewed, as a foreign prince, legally considered, could be thus deprived of his life. Imprisonment was not, as a permanent policy, resolved on. There was one course left to escape both dilemmas, and to avoid all censure. It was to restore things to the precise footing they had before his surrender. It was to hand him back to Uncas, without the expression of any decision, leaving that chieftain to act as he deemed fit. They remanded him indeed, but went one step too far, by first deciding in a formal court, after months of deliberation, in the course of which the clergy and gentry, (this is a term that would be proper to the times) had been formally consulted, and directed his death, stipulating only that he should not be killed with cruelty. If there was not something that smacks of the want of true and noble dealing in this--if it accorded with the bland precepts of Christianity, to do unto others as you would that others should do unto you--if the act did not, in fine, partake of the very spirit of Jesuitism in the worst sense in which the word has been adopted into the language we have, we confess, formed a totally wrong idea of its meaning. A case, in some respects similar to this, happened in modern times which may be thought to contrast rather strongly with the above example of Puritan mercy. The reasons for a capital punishment, were, indeed, far more cogent, and the community called out strongly for it, and would have sustained it. It was the capture of Black Hawk, which, it will be recollected, took place during the first Presidential term of General Jackson. Black Hawk had levied war within the boundaries of one of the States, on lands ceded by treaty, and organized a confederacy of Indian tribes, which, though broken up in part, chiefly through the failure of the other tribes to fulfil their engagements with him, yet required for its suppression the entire disposable force of the Union. The Sac chief was finally captured on Indian territory, in the act of fleeing west of the Mississippi. He was imprisoned, and the case referred to the Government for decision. He had broken his treaty covenants. He had not only made war, but in its outbreak and its continuance, had been guilty of countenancing, at least, the most shocking barbarities. He had, indeed, opened the scene by cruelly murdering the agent of the Government, the representative of the President, in the person of Mr. St. Vrain. The community, the western States particularly, called loudly for his execution. There could be no security, it was said, if such a bloody fellow was allowed to roam at large. He had forfeited his life a thousand times. There was, indeed, the same popular feeling against him, which had existed in New England, one hundred and ninety years before, against Miontonimo. But could he have been _legally_ executed? And if so, was it, indeed, the true policy? Was it noble--was it high-minded? Was it meting out exact and equal justice to men with red skins, as well as white? It was thought that all these questions must be negatively answered; and the bold Sac insurgent was sent home, accompanied by an officer of the army, to secure his comfort and safety, and thus to see that a wise and merciful decision should be faithfully carried out, and popular indignation be prevented from wreaking itself, in the assassination of the chief. In closing these remarks, it may appear selfish to express the hope, that Mr. Stone, to whom we are already indebted for these spirited, comprehensive, and well written volumes, should still further employ his pen in adding to the sum of these obligations. But he has so well studied the field in its historical bearing, so far at least as relates to the eastern department of the Union, that we know of no one to whom the labour would present less of the character of a task. We are in want of a good account of Philip, or Metacom, the energetic sachem of the Pokenokets, who impersonated so fully the wild Indian character, and views, and battled so stoutly against the occupancy of New England by the Saxon race. In showing up to modern times such a man, we think a biography would derive very deep interest, and it would certainly be a new experiment, to take up the aboriginal views and opinions of the invading race, and thus write, as it were, from _within_, instead of _without_ the circle of warlike action. In this way, their combinations, efforts and power, would better appear, and redound more to the credit of the aboriginal actors, as warriors and heroes. As it is, history only alludes to them as conspirators, rebels, traitors, or culprits; as if the fact of their opposing the egress of civilized nations, who were in all respects wiser and better, were sufficient to blot out all their right and claim to the soil and sovereignty of the land of their forefathers, and they were in fact bound to stand back, and give it up _nolens volens_. We had designed to subjoin a few remarks on the biographical labors of other writers in this department, particularly those of Thatcher and Drake, but our limits are already exhausted, and we must abandon, or at least, defer it. FOOTNOTES: [10] The name is usually translated, two-sticks tied, or united. [11] The name of this chief is Anglicised in the word Tammany. [12] The terms "brave" and "braves" used in a substantive sense, in this work, are neither English nor Indian. The Indian term should be translated strong-heart, its literal import; for it is one of the general rules of these languages, that the operation of the adjective, as well as action of the verb, is uniformly marked upon the substantive--there being, indeed, different inflections of each substantive, to denote whether this operation or action be caused by a noble or ignoble, or an animate or inanimate object. Still the general use of the Canadian term _Brave_, on our Indian border, may give it some poetic claims to introduction into our vernacular, burthened as it already is with more objectionable Americanisms. THE RABID WOLF. A VERITABLE TRADITION OF THE VALLEY OF THE TAWASENTHA. The great Pine Plains, beginning not far south of the junction of the Mohawk with the North River, are still infested by wolves, who harbour in its deep gorges, from which they sally out at night, on the sheep-folds of the farmers, and often put a whole neighbourhood in fear. The railroad track from Albany to Schenectady, passes over a part of these plains, which stretch away in the direction of the blue outlines of the Helderberg mountains. It is many miles across the narrowest part of them, and they reach down to the very outskirts of the city of Albany, where they have of late years, and since Buel's day, begun to cultivate them by sowing clover, planting fruit trees, and in other ways. They constitute the table land of the county, and send out from beneath their heavy mass of yellow sand and broken down sand stones, mica slates, and granites, many springs and streams of the purest and most crystalline waters, which find their outlets chiefly into the valley of the Tawasentha, or, as the river is called in popular language, the Norman's Kill, and are thus contributed to swell the noble volume of the Hudson. These springs issue at the precise point where the arenaceous mass rests on a clay or impervious basis. The effect, in ancient years, has been that the sand is carried off, grain by grain, till a deep ravine or gorge is formed. The sides of this gorge being composed of mixed earth and some mould, and free from the aridity of the surface, bear a dense and vigorous growth of hard wood trees and shrubbery, and are often found to be encumbered with immense trunks of fallen pines and other forest rubbish, which renders it very difficult to penetrate them. It is into these dark gorges that the wolves retreat, after scouring the plains and neighbouring farms for prey; and here they have maintained their ancient empire from time immemorial. Such, at least, was the state of things between the settlers and the wolves, at the date of this story, in 1807. Sometimes the whole country armed and turned out _en masse_, to ferret them out of their fastnesses and destroy them; and truly the forces assembled on some of these wolf-hunts were surprising, and, in one respect, that is to say, the motley and uncouth character of their arms, they would have put both Bonaparte and Wellington to flight. There was nothing, from a pitchfork to a heavy blunderbuss, which they did not carry, always excepting a good rifle, which I never remember to have seen on these occasions. Indeed, these formal turn-outs were better suited to frighten away, than to kill and capture the foe; so that there was no just cause of surprise why the wolves remained, and even increased. They still kept masters of the Plains--sheep were killed by dozens, night after night, and the alarm went on. It was at other times tried to trap them, and to bait them in sundry ways. I recollect that we all had implicit faith in the village schoolmaster, one Cleanthus, who knew some Latin, and a little of almost every thing; and among other arts which he cherished, and dealt out in a way to excite wonder for his skill, he knew how to make the wolves follow his tracks, by smearing his shoes with æsofoedita, or some other substance, and then ensconcing himself at night in a log pen, where he might bid defiance to the best of them, and shoot at them besides. But I never could learn that there were any of these pestiferous animals killed, either by the schoolmaster and his party, or any other party, except it was the luckless poor animal I am about to write of, which showed its affinities to the canine race by turning rabid, and rushing at night into the midst of a populous manufacturing village. Iosco was eligibly seated on the summit and brow of a picturesque series of low crowned hills, just on the southern verge of these great Plains, where the tillable and settled land begins. It was, consequently, in relation to these wolves, a perfect frontier; and we had not only frequent alarms, but also the privilege and benefit of hearing all the wonderful stories of wolf-adventure, to man and beast, for a wide circle. Indeed, these stories often came back with interest, from the German and Dutch along the Swarta Kill, and Boza Kill settlements, away up to the foot of the Helderberg mountains. A beautiful and clear stream of sparkling cold water, called the Hungerkill, after gathering its crystal tributaries from the deep gorges of the plains, ran through the village, and afforded one or two seats for mills, and after winding and doubling on its track a mile or two, rendered its pellucid stores into the Norman's Kill, or, as this stream was called by the ancient Mohawk race, in allusion to their sleeping dead, the Tawasentha. No stream in the country was more famous for the abundance of its fine brook trout, and the neighbouring plains served to shelter the timid hare, and the fine species of northern partridge, which is there always called a pheasant. The village was supported by its manufacturing interests, and was quite populous. It had a number of long streets, some of which reached across the stream, and over a spacious mill pond, and others swept at right angles along the course of the great Cherry Valley turnpike. In its streets were to be heard, in addition to the English, nearly all the dialects of the German between the Rhine and the Danube; the Low Dutch as spoken by the common country people on the manor of Rensselaerwyck, the Erse and Gaelic, as not unfrequently used by the large proportion of its Irish and Scotch, and what seemed quite as striking to one brought up in seclusion from it, the genuine Yankee, as discoursed by the increasing class of factory wood choppers, teamsters, schoolmasters, men out at the elbows, and travelling wits. The latter were indeed but a sorry representation of New England, as we have since found it. No small amount of superstitions were believed and recited in the social meetings of such a mixed foreign population. Accounts of instances of the second sight, death-lights on the meadows and in the churchyard, the low howling of premonitory dogs before funerals, and other legendary wares, to say nothing of the actual and veritable number of downright spooks, seen on various occasions, on the lands of the Veeders, the Van Valkenburgs, the Truaxes, and the Lagranges, rendered it a terror to all children under twelve to stir out of doors after dark. There were in the annals of Iosco, several events in the historical way which served as perfect eras to its inhabitants; but none, it is believed, of so striking and general importance as the story of the Mad Wolf, of which I am about to write. There had been found, soon after the close of the revolutionary war, in a dark wood very near the road, pieces of a cloth coat and metallic buttons, and other things, which rendered it certain that a man had been murdered at that spot, in consequence of which the place was shunned, or hurried by, as if a spirit of evil had its abode there. On another occasion, the body of a poor old man of the name of Homel, was found drowned deep in the Norman's Kill, clasped in the arms of his wife, both dead. A gentleman of standing, who ventured alone, rather groggy, one dark night, over the long unrailed bridge that crossed the mill pond, pitched upon some sharp pallisadoes in the water, and came to a melancholy end. Hormaun, an Iroquois, who haunted the valley, had killed, it was said, ninety-nine men, and was waiting an opportunity to fill his count, by dispatching his hundredth man. This was a greatly dreaded event, particularly by the boys. There was also the era, when a Race Course had been established on a spot called the "Colonel's Farm," and the era of the "Deep Snow." There were many other events celebrated in Iosco, such as the De Zeng era, the Van Rensselaer era, and the Van Kleeck era, which helped the good mothers to remember the period when their children were born; but none, indeed, of so notable a character to youthful minds as the adventure of the mad wolf. Wolf stories were in vogue, in fact, in the evening and tea party circles of Iosco for many years; and if one would take every thing as it was given, there had been more acts of bravery, conduct, and firm decision of character and foresight, displayed in encountering these wild vixens of the plains and valleys by night, than would, if united, have been sufficient to repel the inroads of Burgoyne, St. Leger, or Sir John Johnson, with Brant, and all his hosts of tories and Indians, during the American revolution. I chanced one night to have left the city of Albany, in company with one of these heroic spirits. We occupied my father's chaise, an old fashioned piece of gentility now out of vogue, drawn by a prime horse, one which he always rode on parades. It was late before we got out of the precincts of the city, and up the hill, and night overtook us away in the pine woods, at Billy McKown's, a noted public-house seated half way between the city and Iosco, where it was customary in those days to halt; for besides that he was much respected, and one of the most sensible and influential men in the town, it was not thought right, whatever the traveller might require, that a _horse_ should be driven eight miles without drawing breath, and having a pail of water. As I was but young, and less of a charioteer than my valiant companion, he held the whip and reins thus far; but after the wolf stories that poured in upon us at McKown's that evening, he would hold them no longer. Every man, he thought, was responsible to himself. He did not wish to be wolf's meat that night, so he hired a fleet horse from our host, and a whip and spurs, and set off with the speed of a Jehu, leaving me to make my way, in the heavy chaise, through the sandy plains, as best I could. In truth we had just reached the most sombre part of the plain, where the trees were more thick, the sand deep and heavy, and not a house but one, within the four miles. To render it worse, this was the chief locality of wolf insolence, where he had even ventured to attack men. It was on this route too, that the schoolmaster had used his medical arts, which made it better known through the country as the supposed centre of their power. Nothing harmed me, however; the horse was fine, and I reached home not only uneaten, but unthreatened by a wolf's jaw. But I must confine myself to the matter in hand. A large and fierce wolf sallied out of the plains one dark summer's night, and rushed into the midst of the village, snapping to the right and left as he went, and biting every animal that came in his way. Cows, swine, pigs, geese--every species, whether on four legs, or two legs, shared its malice alike. The animal seemed to have a perfect ubiquity--it was every where, and seemed to have spared nothing. It is not recollected that there was a single house, or barn-yard in the village, where something had not been bitten. If he had come on an errand of retribution, for the great and threatening wolf-parties which had gone out against his race, and all the occult arts of the schoolmaster in trying to decoy them at Barrett's hollow, he could not have dealt out his venomous snaps more indiscriminately. It must have been about midnight, or soon after, that the fearful visitor came. Midnight, in a country village, finds almost every one in bed, but such was the uproar among the animal creation, made by this strange interloper, that _out_ of bed they soon come. The cattle bellowed, the pigs squealed, the poultry cackled--there must be something amiss. Santa Claus himself must be playing his pranks. "A wolf!" was the cry--"a wolf is committing havoc." "It is mad!" came next on the voices of the night. "A mad wolf!--a mad wolf!" Nothing but a mad wolf could venture alone into the heart of the village, and do so much mischief. Out ran the people into the streets, men, women and all. Some caught up guns, some clubs, some pitchforks. If the tories and Indians, in the old French war, had broke into the settlement with fire and sword, there could not have been a greater tumult, and nothing but a mad wolf would have stood his ground. Where is he? which way did he run? who saw him? and a thousand like expressions followed. He had gone south, and south the mob pushed after him. He was away over on the street that leads up from the middle factory. It was a cloudy night, or the moon only came out fitfully, and threw light enough to discern objects dimly, as the clouds rolled before it. Indistinct murmurs came on the breeze, and at length the scream of a woman. The cause of it soon followed. The wolf had bitten Mrs. Sitz. Now Mrs. Sitz was a careful, tall, rigid-faced, wakeful housewife, from the dutchy of Hesse D'Armstadt, who had followed the fortunes of her husband, in trying his mechanical skill in the precincts of Iosco; but while her husband Frank laid fast asleep, under the influence of a hard day's labour, her ears were open to the coming alarm. It was not long before she heard a tumult in her goose pen. The rabid animal had bounded into the midst of them, which created as great an outcry as if Rome had a second time been invaded. Out she ran to their relief, not knowing the character of the disturber, but naturally thinking it was some thief of a neighbour, who wished to make provision for a coming Christmas. The animal gave her one snap and leapt the pen. "Mein hemel!" screamed she, "er hat mein gebissen!" Sure enough the wolf had bit her in the thigh. The party in chase soon came up, and while some stopt to parley and sympathize with her, others pushed on after the animal--the spitzbug, as she spitefully called him. By this time the wolf had made a circuit of the southern part of the village, and scampered down the old factory road, by the mill dam, under the old dark bridge at the saw mill, and up the hill by the old public store; and thus turned his course back towards the north, into the thickest part of the village, where he had first entered. He had made a complete circuit. All was valour, boasting, and hot speed behind him, but the wolf had been too nimble for them. Unluckily for him, however, while the main group pushed behind, just as he was scampering up the old store hill, he was suddenly headed by a party coming down it. This party was led by old Colonel S., a revolutionary soldier, a field-officer of the county militia, and the superintendent of the extensive manufacturing establishment from which the village drew its prosperity. He was armed with a fusil of the olden time, well charged, and having been roused from his bed in a hurry, could not at the moment find his hat, and clapt on an old revolutionary cocked hat, which hung in the room. His appearance was most opportune; he halted on the brow of the hill, and as the wolf bounded on he levelled his piece at the passing fugitive, and fired. He had aimed at the shoulders; the fleetness of its speed, however, saved its vital parts, but the shot took effect in the animal's hind legs. They were both broken at a shot. This brought him down. The poor creature tried to drag himself on by his fore paws, but his pursuers were too close upon him, and they soon dispatched him with hatchets and clubs. Thus fell the rabid wolf, to be long talked of by men and boys, and put down as a chief item in village traditions. But the effects of his visit did not end here. In due time, symptoms of madness seized the cattle and other animals, which had come within the reach of his teeth. Many of the finest milch cows were shot. Calves and swine, and even poultry went rabid; and as things of this kind are generally overdone, there was a perfect panic in the village on the subject, and numbers of valuable animals were doubtless shot, merely because they happened to show some restiveness at a very critical epoch. But what, methinks the reader is ready to ask, became of Mrs. Sitz? Whether it was, that she had brought over some mystical arts from the Wild Huntsman of Bohemia, or had derived protection from the venom through the carefully administered medicines of Dr. Crouse, who duly attended the case, or some inherent influence of the stout hearted woman, or the audacity of the bite itself, had proved more than a match for the wolf, I cannot say; but certain it is, that while oxen and kine, swine and fatlings, fell under the virus and were shot, she recovered, and lived many years to scold her dozing husband Frank, who did not jump up immediately, and come to her rescue at the goose pen. * * * * * INDIAN POSSESSIONS.--The Ottoes own, at the latest accounts, a large tract of country on the Big Platte, west of the Missouri; they are a poor race of people, and receive a small annuity of $2,500. The Pawnees are a powerful body, and number about 6,500 persons, divided into bands under the names of Pawnee Loups, Grand Pawnees, Republican Pawnees, Pawnee Pics, &c.; they are wild and furtive in their habits, and receive provisions and goods. The Grand Nation is the Pottowattomies, or the "united bands of the Chippewas, Ottawas, and Pottowattomies." They own five millions of acres of prairie lands, along the Missouri river to the Little Sioux, number about 2,000, and receive $42,000 a year for their lands sold in Illinois and Michigan. They are a respectable body of Indians, are good farmers, and educate their children. The payment of the annuities is always a season of great hilarity and festivity.--_N. O. Pic._ It is a characteristic of some of the Indian legends, that they convey _a moral_ which seems clearly enough to denote, that a part of these legends were invented to convey instruction to the young folks who listen to them. The known absence of all harsh methods among the Indians, in bringing up their children, favours this idea. The following tale addresses itself plainly to girls; to whom it teaches the danger of what we denominate coquetry. It would seem from this, that beauty, and its concomitant, a passion for dress, among the red daughters of Adam and Eve, has the same tendency to create pride, and nourish self-conceit, and self-esteem, and assume a _tyranny over the human heart_, which writers tell us, these qualities have among their white-skinned, auburn-haired, and blue-eyed progeny the world over. This tale has appeared in the "Columbian." The term Moowis is one of the most derogative and offensive possible. It is derived from the Odjibwa substantive, mo, filth, or excrement. MOOWIS, OR THE MAN MADE UP OF RAGS AND DIRT. A TRADITIONARY LEGEND OF THE ODJIBWAS. In a large village, there lived a noted belle, or Ma mon dá go kwa, who was the admiration of all the young hunters and warriors. She was particularly admired by a young man, who from his good figure, and the care he took in his dress, was called the Beau-Man, or Ma mon dá gin in-e. This young man had a friend and companion, whom he made a confidant of his affairs. "Come," said he, one day in a sportive mood, "let us go a courting to her who is so handsome, perhaps she may fancy one of us." But she would listen to neither of them, and when the handsome young man rallied from the coldness of her air, and made an effort to overcome her indifference, she put together her thumb and three fingers, and raising her hand gracefully towards him, deliberately opened them in his face. This gesticulatory mode of rejection is one of the highest contempt, and the young hunter retired confused and abashed. His sense of pride was deeply wounded, and he was the more piqued, that it had been done in the presence of others, and the affair was soon noised about the village, and became the talk of every lodge circle. Besides, he was a very sensitive man, and the thing so preyed upon him, that he became moody, and at last took to his bed. He was taciturn, often lying for days without uttering a word, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, and taking little or no food. From this state no efforts could rouse him; he felt abashed and dishonoured, even in the presence of his own relatives, and no persuasions could induce him to rise. So that when the family prepared to take down the lodge to remove, he still kept his bed, and they were compelled to lift it over his head, and leave him upon his skin couch. It was a time of general removal and breaking up of the camp, for it was only a winter's hunting camp, and as the season of the hunt was now over, and spring began to appear, they all moved off, as by one impulse, to the place of their summer village, and in a short time, all were gone, and he was left alone. The last person to leave him was his boon companion, and cousin, who has been mentioned as also one of the admirers of the forest belle. But even _his_ voice was disregarded, and as soon as his steps died away on the creaking snow, the stillness and solitude of the wilderness reigned around. As soon as all were gone, and he could no longer, by listening, hear the remotest sounds of the departing camp, the Beau-Man arose. It is to be understood that this young man was aided by a powerful guardian spirit, or personal Moneto; and he resolved to make use of his utmost power to punish and humble the girl. For she was noted in the tribe for her coquetry, and had treated others, who were every way her equals, as she had done him. He resolved on a singular stratagem, by way of revenge. For this purpose, he walked over the deserted camp, and gathered up all the bits of soiled cloth, clippings of finery, and cast off clothing, and ornaments which had either been left or lost. These he carefully picked out of the snow, into which some of them had been trodden and partially buried, and conveyed them to one place. The motley heap of gaudy and soiled stuffs, he restored to their original beauty, and determined to make them into a coat and leggins, which he trimmed with beads, and finished and decorated after the best fashion of his tribe. He then made a pair of moccasins and garnished them with beads, a bow and arrows, and a frontlet and feathers for the head. Having done this, he searched about for cast out bones of animals, pieces of skins, clippings of dried meat, and even dirt, and having cemented them together with snow, he filled the clothes with these things, and pressed the mass firmly in, and fashioned it externally in all respects, like a tall and well framed man. He put a bow and arrows in his hands, and the frontlet on his head. And having finished it, he brought it to life, and the image stood forth, in the most favoured lineaments of his fellows. Such was the origin of Moowis, or the Dirt and Rag Man. "Follow me," said the Beau-Man, "and I will direct you, how you shall act." He was indeed, a very sightly person, and as they entered the new encampment, the many colours of his clothes, the profusion of ornaments which he had managed to give him, and his fine manly step, and animated countenance, drew all eyes. And he was received by all, both old and young, with marks of attention. The chief invited him to his lodge, and he was feasted on the moose's hump and the finest venison. But no one was better pleased with the handsome stranger than Ma mon dá go kwa. She fell in love with him at the first sight, and he was an invited guest at the lodge of her mother, the very first evening of his arrival. The Beau-man went with him, for it was under his patronage that he had been introduced, and, in truth, he had another motive for accompanying him, for he had not yet wholly subdued his feelings of admiration for the object, against whom he had, nevertheless, exerted all his necromantic power, and he held himself subject to any favourable turn, which he secretly hoped the visit might take, in relation to himself. But no such turn occurred. Moowis attracted the chief attention, and every eye and heart were alert to entertain him. In this effort on the part of his entertainers, they had well nigh revealed his true character, and dissolved him into his original elements of rags, and snow, and dirt; for he was assigned the most prominent place before the fire: this was a degree of heat which he could by no means endure. To ward it off he put a boy between himself and the fire. He shifted his position frequently, and evaded, by dexterous manoeuvres, and timely remarks, the pressing invitation of his host to sit up, and enjoy it. He so managed these excuses, as not only to conceal his dread of immediate dissolution, but to secure the further approbation of the fair forest girl, who could not but admire one who had so brave a spirit of endurance against the paralysing effects of cold. The visit proved that the rejected lover had well calculated the effects of his plan. He withdrew from the lodge, and Moowis triumphed. Before he went, he saw him cross the lodge to the coveted _abinos_, or bridegroom's seat. Marriage in the forest race, is a simple ceremony, and where the impediments of custom are small, there is but little time demanded for their execution. The dart which Ma mon dá go kwa had so often delighted in sending to the hearts of her admirers, she was at length fated herself to receive. She had married an image. As the morning begun to break, the stranger arose and adjusted his warrior's plumes, and took his forest weapons to depart. "I must go," said he, "for I have an important business to do, and there are many hills and streams between me and the object of my journey." "I will go with you," she replied. "It is too far," he rejoined, "and you are ill able to encounter the perils of the way." "It is not so far, but that I can go," she responded, "and there are no dangers which I will not fully share for you." Moowis returned to the lodge of his master, and detailed to him the events we have described. Pity, for a moment, seized the breast of the rejected youth. He regretted that she should thus have cast herself away upon an image and a shadow, when she might have been mistress of the best lodge in the band. "But it is her own folly," he said, "she has turned a deaf ear to the counsels of prudence, and she must submit to her fate." The same morning the Image-man set forth, and his wife followed him, according to custom, at a distance. The way was rough and intricate, and she could not keep up with his rapid pace; but she struggled hard, and perseveringly to overtake him. Moowis had been long out of sight, when the sun arose, and commenced upon his snow-formed body the work of dissolution. He began to melt away, and fall to pieces. As she followed him, piece after piece of his clothing were found in the path. She first found his mittens, then his moccasins, then his leggins, then his coat, and other parts of his garments. As the heat unbound them, they had all returned also to their debased and filthy condition. The way led over rocks, through wind falls, across marshes. It whirled about to all points of the compass, and had no certain direction or object. Rags, bones, leather, beads, feathers, and soiled ribbons, were found, but she never caught the sight of Moowis. She spent the day in wandering; and when evening came, she was no nearer the object of her search than in the morning, but the snow having now melted, she had completely lost his track, and wandered about, uncertain which way to go, and in a state of perfect despair. Finding herself lost, she begun, with bitter cries, to bewail her fate. "Moowis, Moowis," she cried. "Nin ge won e win ig, ne won e win ig"--that is--Moowis, Moowis, you have led me astray--you are leading me astray. And with this cry she continued to wander in the woods. Sometimes the village girls repeat the above words, varying the expressions, till they constitute an irregular kind of song, which, according to the versions of a friendly hand, may be set down as follows:-- Moowis! Moowis! Forest rover,---- Where art thou? Ah my bravest, gayest lover, Guide me now. Moowis! Moowis! Ah believe me, List my moan, Do not--do not, brave heart, leave me All alone. Moowis! Moowis! Foot-prints vanished, Whither wend I, Fated, lost, detested, banished, Must I die. Moowis! Moowis! Whither goest, Eye-bright lover, Ah thou ravenous bird that knowest, I see you hover. Circling--circling, As I wander, But to spy Where I fall, and then to batten, On my breast. THE LONE LIGHTNING. AN ODJIBWA TALE. A little orphan boy who had no one to care for him, was once living with his uncle, who treated him very badly, making him do hard things and giving him very little to eat; so that the boy pined away, he never grew much, and became, through hard usage, very thin and light. At last the uncle felt ashamed of this treatment, and determined to make amends for it, by fattening him up, but his real object was, to kill him by over-feeding. He told his wife to give the boy plenty of bear's meat, and let him have the fat, which is thought to be the best part. They were both very assiduous in cramming him, and one day came near choking him to death, by forcing the fat down his throat. The boy escaped and fled from the lodge. He knew not where to go, but wandered about. When night came on, he was afraid the wild beasts would eat him, so he climbed up into the forks of a high pine tree, and there he fell asleep in the branches, and had an aupoway, or ominous dream. A person appeared to him from the upper sky, and said, "My poor little lad, I pity you, and the bad usage you have received from your uncle has led me to visit you: follow me, and step in my tracks." Immediately his sleep left him, and he rose up and followed his guide, mounting up higher and higher into the air, until he reached the upper sky. Here twelve arrows were put into his hands, and he was told that there were a great many manitoes in the northern sky, against whom he must go to war, and try to waylay and shoot them. Accordingly he went to that part of the sky, and, at long intervals, shot arrow after arrow, until he had expended eleven, in vain attempt to kill the manitoes. At the flight of each arrow, there was a long and solitary streak of lightning in the sky--then all was clear again, and not a cloud or spot could be seen. The twelfth arrow he held a long time in his hands, and looked around keenly on every side to spy the manitoes he was after. But these manitoes were very cunning, and could change their form in a moment. All they feared was the boy's arrows, for these were magic arrows, which had been given to him by a good spirit, and had power to kill them, if aimed aright. At length, the boy drew up his last arrow, settled in his aim, and let fly, as he thought, into the very heart of the chief of the manitoes; but before the arrow reached him, he changed himself into a rock. Into this rock, the head of the arrow sank deep and stuck fast. "Now your gifts are all expended," cried the enraged manito, "and I will make an example of your audacity and pride of heart, for lifting your bow against me"--and so saying, he transformed the boy into the Nazhik-[.a]-wä wä sun, or Lone Lightning, which may be observed in the northern sky, to this day. SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF NOTED RED MEN AND WOMEN WHO HAVE APPEARED ON THE WESTERN CONTINENT. CONFESSIONS OF CATHERINE OGEE WYAN AKWUT OKWA; OR THE WOMAN OF THE BLUE-ROBED CLOUD, THE PROPHETESS OF CHEGOIMEGON. [These confessions of the Western Pythoness were made after she had relinquished the prophetic office, discarded all the ceremonies of the Indian _Medáwin_ and _Jesukeéwin_, and united herself to the Methodist Episcopal church, of which, up to our latest dates, she remained a consistent member. They are narrated in her own words.] When I was a girl of about twelve or thirteen years of age, my mother told me to look out for something that would happen to me. Accordingly, one morning early, in the middle of winter, I found an unusual sign, and ran off, as far from the lodge as I could, and remained there until my mother came and found me out. She knew what was the matter, and brought me nearer to the family lodge, and bade me help her in making a small lodge of branches of the spruce tree. She told me to remain there, and keep away from every one, and as a diversion, to keep myself employed in chopping wood, and that she would bring me plenty of prepared bass wood bark to twist into twine. She told me she would come to see me, in two days, and that in the meantime I must not even taste snow. I did as directed; at the end of two days she came to see me. I thought she would surely bring me something to eat, but to my disappointment she brought nothing. I suffered more from _thirst_, than hunger, though I felt my stomach gnawing. My mother sat quietly down and said (after ascertaining that I had not tasted anything, as she directed), "My child, you are the youngest of your sisters, and none are now left me of all my sons and children, but you _four_" (alluding to her two elder sisters, herself and a little son, still a mere lad). "Who," she continued, "will take care of us poor women? Now, my daughter, listen to me, and try to obey. Blacken your face and fast _really_, that the Master of Life may have pity on you and me, and on us all. Do not, in the least, deviate from my counsels, and in two days more, I will come to you. He will help you, if you are determined to do what is right, and tell me, whether you are favored or not, by the _true_ Great Spirit; and if your visions are not good, reject them." So saying, she departed. I took my little hatchet and cut plenty of wood, and twisted the cord that was to be used in sewing _ap puk way oon un_, or mats, for the use of the family. Gradually, I began to feel less appetite, but my thirst continued; still I was fearful of touching the snow to allay it, by sucking it, as my mother had told me that if I did so, though secretly, the Great Spirit would see me, and the lesser spirits also, and that my fasting would be of no use. So I continued to fast till the fourth day, when my mother came with a little tin dish, and filling it with snow, she came to my lodge, and was well pleased to find that I had followed her injunctions. She melted the snow, and told me to drink it. I did so, and felt refreshed, but had a desire for more, which she told me would not do, and I contented myself with what she had given me. She again told me to get and follow a good vision--a vision that might not only do us good, but also benefit mankind, if I could. She then left me, and for two days she did not come near me, nor any human being, and I was left to my own reflections. The night of the sixth day, I fancied a voice called to me, and said: "Poor child! I pity your condition; come, you are invited this way;" and I thought the voice proceeded from a certain distance from my lodge. I obeyed the summons, and going to the spot from which the voice came, found a thin shining path, like a silver cord, which I followed. It led straight forward, and, it seemed, upward. No. 3. After going a short distance I stood still, and saw on my right hand the new moon, with a flame rising from the top like a candle, which threw around a broad light. No. 4. On the left appeared the sun, near the point of its setting. No. 11. I went on, and I beheld on my right the face of _Kau ge gag be qua_, or the everlasting woman, No. 5, who told me her name, and said to me, "I give you my name, and you may give it to another. I also give you that which I have, life everlasting. I give you long life on the earth, and skill in saving life in others. Go, you are called on high." I went on, and saw a man standing with a large circular body, and rays from his head, like horns. No. 6. He said, "Fear not, my name is Monedo Wininees, or the Little man Spirit. I give this name to your first son. It is my life. Go to the place you are called to visit." I followed the path till I could see that it led up to an opening in the sky, when I heard a voice, and standing still, saw the figure of a man standing near the path, whose head was surrounded with a brilliant halo, and his breast was covered with squares. No. 7. He said to me: "Look at me, my name is _O Shau wau e geeghick_, or the Bright Blue Sky. I am the veil that covers the opening into the sky. Stand and listen to me. Do not be afraid. I am going to endow you with gifts of life, and put you in array that you may withstand and endure." Immediately I saw myself encircled with bright points which rested against me like needles, but gave me no pain, and they fell at my feet. No. 9. This was repeated several times, and at each time they fell to the ground. He said, "wait and do not fear, till I have said and done all I am about to do." I then felt different instruments, first like awls, and then like nails stuck into my flesh, but neither did they give me pain, but like the needles, fell at my feet, as often as they appeared. He then said, "that is good," meaning my trial by these points. "You will see length of days. Advance a little farther," said he. I did so, and stood at the commencement of the opening. "You have arrived," said he, "at the limit you cannot pass. I give you my name, you can give it to another. Now, return! Look around you. There is a conveyance for you. No. 10. Do not be afraid to get on its back, and when you get to your lodge, you must take that which sustains the human body." I turned, and saw a kind of fish swimming in the air, and getting upon it as directed, was carried back with celerity, my hair floating behind me in the air. And as soon as I got back, my vision ceased. In the morning, being the sixth day of my fast, my mother came with a little bit of dried trout. But such was my sensitiveness to all sounds, and my increased power of scent, produced by fasting, that before she came in sight I heard her, while a great way off, and when she came in, I could not bear the smell of the fish or herself either. She said, "I have brought something for you to eat, only a mouthful, to prevent your dying." She prepared to cook it, but I said, "Mother, forbear, I do not wish to eat it--the smell is offensive to me." She accordingly left off preparing to cook the fish, and again encouraged me to persevere, and try to become a comfort to her in her old age and bereaved state, and left me. I attempted to cut wood, as usual, but in the effort I fell back on the snow, from weariness, and lay some time; at last I made an effort and rose, and went to my lodge and lay down. I again saw the vision, and each person who had before spoken to me, and heard the promises of different kinds made to me, and the songs. I went the same path which I had pursued before, and met with the same reception. I also had another vision, or celestial visit, which I shall presently relate. My mother came again on the seventh day, and brought me some pounded corn boiled in _snow water_, for she said I must not drink water from lake or river. After taking it, I related my vision to her. She said it was good, and spoke to me to continue my fast three days longer. I did so; at the end of which she took me home, and made a feast in honor of my success, and invited a great many guests. I was told to eat sparingly, and to take nothing too hearty or substantial; but this was unnecessary, for my abstinence had made my senses so acute, that all animal food had a gross and disagreeable odor. After the seventh day of my fast (she continued), while I was lying in my lodge, I saw a dark round object descending from the sky like a round stone, and enter my lodge. As it came near, I saw that it had small feet and hands like a human body. It spoke to me and said, "I give you the gift of seeing into futurity, that you may use it, for the benefit of yourself and the Indians--your relations and tribes-people." It then departed, but as it went away, it assumed wings, and looked to me like the red-headed woodpecker. In consequence of being thus favored, I assumed the arts of a medicine woman and a prophetess; but never those of a Wabeno. The first time I exercised the prophetical art, was at the strong and repeated solicitations of my friends. It was in the winter season, and they were then encamped west of the Wisacoda, or Brule river of Lake Superior, and between it and the plains west. There were, besides my mother's family and relatives, a considerable number of families. They had been some time at the place, and were near starving, as they could find no game. One evening the chief of the party came into my mother's lodge. I had lain down, and was supposed to be asleep, and he requested of my mother that she would allow me to try my skill to relieve them. My mother spoke to me, and after some conversation, she gave her consent. I told them to build the _Jee suk aun_, or prophet's lodge, _strong_, and gave particular directions for it. I directed that it should consist of ten posts or saplings, each of a different kind of wood, which I named. When it was finished, and tightly wound with skins, the entire population of the encampment assembled around it and I went in, taking only a small drum. I immediately knelt down, and holding my head near the ground, in a position as near as may be prostrate, began beating my drum, and reciting my songs or incantations. The lodge commenced shaking violently, by supernatural means. I knew this, by the compressed current of air above, and the noise of motion. This being regarded by me, and by all without, as a proof of the presence of the spirits I consulted, I ceased beating and singing, and lay still, waiting for questions, in the position I had at first assumed. The first question put to me, was in relation to the game, and _where_ it was to be found. The response was given by the orbicular spirit, who had appeared to me. He said, "How short-sighted you are! If you will go in a _west_ direction, you will find game in abundance." Next day the camp was broken up, and they all moved westward, the hunters, as usual, going far ahead. They had not proceeded far beyond the bounds of their former hunting circle, when they came upon tracks of moose, and that day, they killed a female and two young moose, nearly full-grown. They pitched their encampment anew, and had abundance of animal food in this new position. My reputation was established by this success, and I was afterwards noted in the tribe, in the art of a medicine woman, and sung the songs which I have given to you. About four years after, I was married to O Mush Kow Egeezhick, or the Strong Sky, who was a very active and successful hunter, and kept his lodge well supplied with food; and we lived happy. After I had had two children, a girl and a boy, we went out, as is the custom of the Indians in the spring, to visit the white settlements. One night, while we were encamped at the head of the portage at Pauwating (the Falls of St. Mary's), angry words passed between my husband and a half Frenchman named Gaultier, who, with his two cousins, in the course of the dispute, drew their knives and a tomahawk, and stabbed and cut him in four or five places, in his body, head and thighs. This happened the first year that the Americans came to that place (1822). He had gone out at a late hour in the evening, to visit the tent of Gaultier. Having been urged by one of the trader's men to take liquor that evening, and it being already late, I desired him not to go, but to defer his visit till next day; and after he had left the lodge, I felt a sudden presentiment of evil, and I went after him, and renewed my efforts in vain. He told me to return, and as I had two children in the lodge, the youngest of whom, a boy, was still in his cradle, and then ill, I sat up with him late, and waited and waited, till a late hour, and then fell asleep from exhaustion. I slept very sound. The first I knew, was a violent shaking from a girl, a niece of Gaultier's, who told me my husband and Gaultier were all the time quarrelling. I arose, and went up the stream to Gaultier's camp fire. It was nearly out, and I tried in vain to make it blaze. I looked into his tent, but all was dark and not a soul there. They had suddenly fled, although I did not at the moment know the cause. I tried to make a light to find my husband, but could find nothing dry, for it had rained very hard the day before. After being out a while my vision became clearer, and turning toward the river side, I saw a dark object lying near the shore, on a grassy opening. I was attracted by something glistening, which turned out to be his ear-rings. I thought he was asleep, and in stooping to awake him, I slipped and fell on my knees. I had slipped in his blood on the grass, and putting my hand on his face, found him dead. In the morning the Indian agent came with soldiers from the fort, to see what had happened, but the murderer and all his bloody gang of relatives had fled. The agent gave orders to have the body buried in the old Indian burial ground, below the Falls. My aged mother was encamped about a mile off, at this time. I took my two children in the morning, and fled to her lodge. She had just heard of the murder, and was crying as I entered. I reminded her that it was an act of providence, to which we must submit. She said it was for me and my poor helpless children that she was crying--that I was left as she had been, years before, with nobody to provide for us. With her I returned to my native country at Chegoimegon on Lake Superior. Thus far, her own narrative. We hope, in a future number, to give further particulars of her varied, and rather eventful life; together with specimens of her medicine, and prophetic songs. RULING CHIEF OF THE MIAMIS. Died, on the 13th inst. (August, 1841), at his residence on the St. Mary's, four and a half miles south-west of this city, John B. Richardville, principal chief of the Miami nation of Indians, aged about eighty years. Chief Richardville, or "_Piskewah_" (which is an Indian name, meaning in English "wild-cat"), was born on the point across the Maumee river, opposite this city, under or near a large apple tree, on the farm of the late Colonel Coles; and at a very early age, by succession, became the chief of the tribe, his mother being chieftainess at the time of his birth. His situation soon brought him in contact with the whites, and he was in several engagements, the most important of which was the celebrated slaughter on the St. Joseph River, one mile north of this city, designated as "Harmar's Defeat," where several hundred whites, under General Harmar, were cut off in attempting to ford the river, by the Indians, who lay in ambush on the opposite shore, by firing upon the whites when in the act of crossing; which slaughter crimsoned the river a number of days for several miles below with the blood of the unfortunate victims. The Chief is universally spoken of as having been kind and humane to prisoners--far more so than most of his race; and as soon as peace was restored, became a worthy citizen, and enjoyed the confidence of the whites to the fullest extent. He spoke good French and English, as well as his native tongue; and for many years his house, which is pleasantly situated on the banks of the St. Mary's, and which was always open for the reception of friends--was a place of resort for parties of pleasure, who always partook of the hospitality of his house. The old man was strictly honest, but remarkably watchful of his interest, and amassed a fortune exceeding probably a million of dollars, consisting of nearly $200,000 in specie on hand, and the balance in the most valuable kind of real estate, which he has distributed by "will" among his numerous relations with "even-handed justice." He had always expressed a great anxiety to live, but when he became conscious that the time of his departure was near at hand, he resigned himself with perfect composure, saying that it was ordered that all must die, and he was then ready and willing to answer the call of the "Great Spirit." His remains were deposited in the Catholic burying-ground with religious ceremonies.--_Fort Wayne_ (_Ind._) _Sentinel._ THE MAGICIAN OF LAKE HURON. AN OTTOWA TALE RELATED BY NABUNWA IN THE INDIAN TONGUE, TO MR. GEORGE JOHNSTON. At the time that the Ottowas inhabited the Manatoline Islands, in Lake Huron, there was a famous magician living amongst them whose name was Masswäwëinini, or the Living Statue. It happened, by the fortune of war, that the Ottowa tribe were driven off that chain of islands by the Iroquois, and obliged to flee away to the country lying between Lake Superior and the Upper Mississippi, to the banks of a lake which is still called, by the French, and in memory of this migration, _Lac Courtorielle_, or the lake of the Cut-ears, a term which is their _nom de guerre_ for this tribe. But the magician Masswäwëinini remained behind on the wide-stretching and picturesque Manatoulins, a group of islands which had been deemed, from the earliest times, a favorite residence of the manitoes or spirits. His object was to act as a sentinel to his countrymen, and keep a close watch on their enemies, the Iroquois, that he might give timely information of their movements. He had with him two boys; with their aid he paddled stealthily around the shores, kept himself secreted in nooks and bays, and hauled up his canoe every night, into thick woods, and carefully obliterated his tracks upon the sand. One day he rose very early, and started on a hunting excursion, leaving the boys asleep, and limiting himself to the thick woods, lest he should be discovered. At length he came unexpectedly to the borders of an extensive open plain. After gazing around him, and seeing no one, he directed his steps across it, intending to strike the opposite side of it; while travelling, he discovered a man of small stature, who appeared suddenly on the plain before him, and advanced to meet him. He wore a red feather on his head, and coming up with a familiar air, accosted Masswäwëinini by name, and said gaily, "Where are you going?" He then took out his smoking apparatus, and invited him to smoke. "Pray," said he, while thus engaged, "wherein does your strength lie." "My strength," answered Masswäwëinini, "is similar to the human race, and common to the strength given to them, and no stronger." "We must wrestle," said the man of the red feather. "If you should make me fall, you will say to me, I have thrown you, _Wa ge me na_." As soon as they had finished smoking and put up their pipe, the wrestling began. For a long time the strife was doubtful. The strength of Masswäwëinini was every moment growing fainter. The man of the red feather, though small of stature, proved himself very active, but at length he was foiled and thrown to the ground. Immediately his adversary cried out, "I have thrown you: _wa ge me na_;" and in an instant his antagonist had vanished. On looking to the spot where he had fallen, he discovered a crooked ear of _mondamin_, or Indian corn, lying on the ground, with the usual red hairy tassel at the top. While he was gazing at this strange sight, and wondering what it could mean, a voice addressed him from the ground. "Now," said the speaking ear, for the voice came from it, "divest me of my covering--leave nothing to hide my body from your eyes. You must then separate me into parts, pulling off my body from the spine upon which I grow. Throw me into different parts of the plain. Then break my spine and scatter it in small pieces near the edge of the woods, and return to visit the place, after _one moon_." Masswäwëinini obeyed these directions, and immediately set out on his return to his lodge. On the way he killed a deer, and on reaching his canoe, he found the boys still asleep. He awoke them and told them to cook his venison, but he carefully concealed from them his adventure. At the expiration of the moon he again, _alone_, visited his wrestling ground, and to his surprise, found the plain filled with the spikes and blades of new grown corn. In the place where he had thrown the pieces of cob, he found pumpkin vines growing in great luxuriance. He concealed this discovery also, carefully from the young lads, and after his return busied himself as usual, in watching the movements of his enemies along the coasts of the island. This he continued, till summer drew near its close. He then directed his canoe to the coast of that part of the island where he had wrestled with the Red Plume, drew up his canoe, bid the lads stay by it, and again visited his wrestling ground. He found the corn in full ear, and pumpkins of an immense size. He plucked ears of corn, and gathered some of the pumpkins, when a voice again addressed him from the cornfield. "Masswäwëinini, you have conquered me. Had you not done so, your existence would have been forfeited. Victory has crowned your strength, and from henceforth you shall never be in want of my body. It will be nourishment for the human race." Thus his ancestors received the gift of corn. Masswäwëinini now returned to his canoe, and informed the young men of his discovery, and showed them specimens. They were astonished and delighted with the novelty. There were, in those days, many wonderful things done on these islands. One night, while Masswäwëinini was lying down, he heard voices speaking, but he still kept his head covered, as if he had not heard them. One voice said, "This is Masswäwëinini, and we must get his heart." "In what way can we get it?" said another voice. "You must put your hand in his mouth," replied the first voice, "and draw it out that way." Masswäwëinini still kept quiet, and did not stir. He soon felt the hand of a person thrust in his mouth. When sufficiently far in, he bit off the fingers, and thus escaped the danger. The voices then retired, and he was no further molested. On examining the fingers in the morning, what was his surprise to find them long wampum beads, which are held in such high estimation by all the Indian tribes. He had slept, as was his custom, in the thick woods. On going out to the open shore, at a very early hour, he saw a canoe at a small distance, temporarily drawn up on the beach; on coming closer, he found a man in the bows and another in the stern, with their arms and hands extended in a fixed position. One of them had lost its fingers: it was evidently the man who had attempted to thrust his arm down his throat. They were two Pukwudjininees, or fairies. But on looking closer, they were found to be transformed into statues of stone. He took these stone images on shore, and set them up in the woods. Their canoe was one of the most beautiful structures which it is possible to imagine, four fathoms in length, and filled with bags of treasures of every description and of the most exquisite workmanship. These bags were of different weight, according to their contents. He busied himself in quickly carrying them into the woods, together with the canoe, which he concealed in a cave. One of the fairy images then spoke to him and said: "In this manner, the Ottowa canoes will hereafter be loaded, when they pass along this coast, although your nation are driven away by their cruel enemies the Iroquois." The day now began to dawn fully, when he returned to his two young companions, who were still asleep. He awoke them, and exultingly bid them cook, for he had brought abundance of meat and fish, and other viands, the gifts of the fairies. After this display of good fortune, he bethought him of his aged father and mother, who were in exile at the Ottowa lake. To wish, and to accomplish his wish, were but the work of an instant with Masswäwëinini. One night as he lay awake, reflecting on their condition, far away from their native fields, and in exile, he resolved to visit them, and bring them back to behold and to participate in his abundance. To a common traveller, it would be a journey of twenty or thirty days, but Masswäwëinini was at their lodge before daylight. He found them asleep, and took them up softly in his arms and flew away with them through the air, and brought them to his camp on the Manatolines, or Spirit's Islands. When they awoke, their astonishment was at its highest pitch; and was only equalled by their delight in finding themselves in their son's lodge, in their native country, and surrounded with abundance. Masswäwëinini went and built them a lodge, near the corn and wrestling plain. He then plucked some ears of the corn, and taking some of the pumpkins, brought them to his father and mother. He then told them how he had obtained the precious gift, by wrestling with a spirit in red plumes, and that there was a great abundance of it in his fields. He also told them of the precious canoe of the fairies, loaded with sacks of the most costly and valuable articles. But one thing seemed necessary to complete the happiness of his father, which he observed by seeing him repeatedly at night looking into his smoking pouch. He comprehended his meaning in a moment. "It is tobacco, my father, that you want. You shall also have this comfort in two days." "But where," replied the old man, "can you get it--away from all supplies, and surrounded by your enemies?" "My enemies," he answered, "shall supply it--I will go over to the Nadowas of the Bear totem, living at Penetanguishine." The old man endeavored to dissuade him from the journey, knowing their blood-thirsty character, but in vain. Masswäwëinini determined immediately to go. It was now winter weather, the lake was frozen over, but he set out on the ice, and although it is forty leagues, he reached Penetanguishine the same evening. The Nadowas discerned him coming--they were amazed at the swiftness of his motions, and thinking him somewhat supernatural, feared him, and invited him to rest in their lodges, but he thanked them, saying that he preferred making a fire near the shore. In the evening they visited him, and were anxious to know the object of his journey, at so inclement a season. He said it was merely to get some tobacco for his father. They immediately made a contribution of the article and gave it to him. During the night they however laid a plot to kill him. Some of the old men rushed into his lodge, their leader crying out to him, "You are a dead man." "No, I am not," said Masswäwëinini, "but you are," accompanying his words with a blow of his tomahawk, which laid the Nadowa dead at his feet. Another and another came, to supply the place of their fallen comrade, but he despatched them in like manner, as quickly as they came, until he had killed six. He then took all the tobacco from their smoking pouches. By this time, the day began to dawn, when he set out for his father's lodge, which he reached with incredible speed, and before twilight, spread out his trophies before the old man. When spring returned, his cornfield grew up, without planting, or any care on his part, and thus the _maize_ was introduced among his people and their descendants, who have ever been noted, and are at this day, for their fine crops of this grain, and their industry in its cultivation. It is from their custom of trading in this article, that this tribe are called Ottowas. CORN-PLANTING, AND ITS INCIDENTS. The zea, mais, originally furnished the principal article of subsistence among all the tribes of this race, north and south. It laid at the foundation of the Mexican and Peruvian types of civilization, as well as the incipient gleamings of it, among the more warlike tribes of the Iroquois, Natchez, Lenapees, and others, of northern latitudes. They esteem it so important and divine a grain, that their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-dá-min, that is, the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in full tassel, is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his fast of virility, or coming to manhood. It is well known that corn-planting, and corn-gathering, at least among all the still _uncolonized_ tribes, are left entirely to the females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not generally known, perhaps, that this labour is not compulsory, and that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their view, for the onerous and continuous labour of the other sex, in providing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages against their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A good Indian housewife deems this a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honour her husband's hospitality, in the entertainment of the lodge guests. The area of ground planted is not, comparatively, large. This matter is essentially regulated by the number of the family, and other circumstances. Spring is a leisure season with them, and by its genial and reviving influence, invites to labour. An Indian female has no cows to milk, no flax to spin, no yarn to reel. Even those labours, which, at other seasons fall to her share, are now intermitted. She has apukwas to gather to make mats. Sugar-making has ended. She has no skins to dress, for the hunt has ended, the animals being out of season. It is at this time that the pelt grows bad, the hair becomes loose and falls off, and nature itself teaches the hunter, that the species must have repose, and be allowed a little time to replenish. Under these circumstances the mistress of the lodge and her train, sally out of the lodge into the cornfield, and with the light pemidge-ag akwut, or small hoe, open up the soft ground and deposit their treasured mondamin. The Indian is emphatically a superstitious being, believing in all sorts of magical, and secret, and wonderful influences. Woman, herself, comes in for no small share of these supposed influences. I shrewdly suspect that one half of the credit we have been in the habit of giving the warrior, on the score of virtue, in his treatment of captives, is due alone to his superstitions. He is afraid, at all times, to spoil his luck, cross his fate, and do some untoward act, by which he might, perchance, fall under a bad spiritual influence. To the wéwun, or wife--the equá, or woman, to the guh or mother,--to the equázas, or girl, and to the dánis, or daughter, and shéma, or sister, he looks, as wielding, in their several capacities, whether kindred or not, these mystic influences over his luck. In consequence of this, the female never walks in the path before him. It is an unpropitious sign. If she cross his track, when he is about to set out on a hunting, or war excursion, his luck is gone. If she is ill, from natural causes, she cannot even stay in the same wigwam. She cannot use a cup or a bowl without rendering it, in his view, unclean. A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and insect creation, is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter's wife, when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or overclouded evening, to perform a secret circuit, sans habilement, around the field. For this purpose she slipt out of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then taking her matchecota, or principal garment in one hand, she dragged it around the field. This was thought to ensure a prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the charmed line. But if corn-planting be done in a lively and satisfied, and not a slavish spirit, corn-gathering and husking is a season of decided thankfulness and merriment. At these gatherings, the chiefs and old men are mere spectators, although they are pleased spectators, the young only sharing in the sport. Who has not seen, the sedate ogema in such a vicinage, smoking a dignified pipe with senatorial ease. On the other hand, turning to the group of nature's red daughters and their young cohorts, it may be safely affirmed that laughter and garrulity constitute no part of the characteristics of civilization. Whatever else custom has bound fast, in the domestic female circle of forest life, the tongue is left loose. Nor does it require, our observation leads us to think, one tenth part of the wit or drollery of ancient Athens, to set their risible faculties in motion. If one of the young female huskers finds a _red_ ear of corn, it is typical of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to some young warrior. But if the ear be _crooked_, and tapering to a point, no matter what colour, the whole circle is set in a roar, and _wa ge min_ is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in the cornfield. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxitiles been employed to produce this image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of the merry group, the idea of a pilferer of their favourite mondámin. Nor is there any doubt on these occasions, that the occurrence truly reveals the fact that the cornfield has actually been thus depredated on. The term wagemin, which unfolds all these ideas, and reveals, as by a talisman, all this information, is derived in part, from the tri-literal term Waweau, that which is bent or crooked. The termination in g, is the animate plural, and denotes not only that there is more than one object, but that the subject is noble or invested with the importance of animated beings. The last member of the compound, min, is a shortened sound of the generic meen, a grain, or berry. To make these coalesce, agreeably to the native laws of euphony, the short vowel i, is thrown in, between the verbal root and substantive, as a connective. The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of grain; but the ear of corn so called, is a conventional type of a little old man pilfering ears of corn in a cornfield. It is in this manner, that a single word or term, in these curious languages, becomes the fruitful parent of many ideas. And we can thus perceive why it is that the word wagemin is alone competent to excite merriment in the husking circle. This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chorus or corn song, as sung by the northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase Paimosaid,--a permutative form of the Indian substantive made from the verb, pim-o-sa, to walk. Its literal meaning is, he who walks, or the walker; but the ideas conveyed by it, are, he who walks at night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of parallelism in expression, to the preceding term. The chorus is entirely composed of these two terms, variously repeated, and may be set down as follows: Wagemin, Wagemin, Paimosaid. Wagemin, Wagemin, Paimosaid. When this chant has been sung, there is a pause, during which some one who is expert in these things, and has a turn for the comic or ironic, utters a short speech, in the manner of a recitative, in which a peculiar intonation is given, and generally interrogates the supposed pilferer, as if he were present to answer questions, or accusations. There can be no pretence, that this recitative part of the song is always the same, at different times and places, or even that the same person should not vary his phraseology. On the contrary, it is often an object to vary it. It is a perfect improvisation, and it may be supposed that the native composer is always actuated by a desire to please, as much as possible by novelty. The whole object indeed is, to keep up the existing merriment, and excite fun and laughter. The following may be taken as one of these recitative songs, written out, on the plan of preserving the train of thought, and some of those peculiar interjections in which these languages so much abound. The chorus alone, it is to be observed, is fixed in its words and metre, however transposed or repeated, and, unlike an English song, precedes the stanza or narrative. CORN SONG. Cereal chorus. Wagemin! wagemin! Thief in the blade, Blight of the cornfield Paimosaid. Recitative. See you not traces, while pulling the leaf, Plainly depicting the TAKER and thief? See you not signs by the ring and the spot, How the man crouched as he crept in the lot? Is it not plain by this mark on the stalk, That he was heavily bent in his walk? Old man be nimble! the old should be good, But thou art a cowardly thief of the wood. Cereal chorus. Wagemin! wagemin! Thief in the blade, Blight of the cornfield Paimosaid. Recitative. Where, little TAKER of things not your own-- Where is your rattle, your drum, and your bone? Surely a WALKER so nimble of speed, Surely he must be a Meta[13] indeed. See how he stoops, as he breaks off the ear, Nushka![14] he seems for a moment in fear; Walker, be nimble--oh! walker be brief, Hooh![15] it is plain the old man is the thief. Cereal chorus. Wagemin! wagemin! Thief in the blade, Blight of the cornfield Paimosaid. Recitative. Wabuma![16] corn-taker, why do you lag? None but the stars see you--fill up your bag! Why do you linger to gaze as you pull, Tell me, my little man, is it most full? A-tia![17] see, a red spot on the leaf, Surely a warrior cannot be a thief! Ah, little night-thief, be deer your pursuit, And leave here no print of your dastardly foot. FOOTNOTES: [13] A Juggler. [14] A sharp exclamation quickly to behold something striking. [15] A derogatory exclamation. [16] Behold thou. [17] A masculine exclamation, to express surprise. TO HEALTH. BY THE LATE JOHN JOHNSTON, ESQ. Health! dearest of the heavenly powers, With thee to pass my evening hours, Ah! deign to hear my prayer; For what can wealth or beauty give, If still in anguish doomed to live A slave to pain and care. Not sovereign power, nor charms of love, Nor social joys the heart can move, If thou refuse thy aid; E'en friendship, sympathy divine! Does, in thy absence, faintly shine, Thou all-inspiring maid. Return then, to my longing soul, Which sighs to feel thy sweet control Transfused through every pore; My muse, enraptured, then shall sing Thee--gift of heaven's all bounteous king, And gratefully adore. _February 4, 1807._ DOMESTIC AND SOCIAL MANNERS OF THE INDIANS, WHILE ON THEIR WINTERING GROUNDS. The Indian, who takes his position as an orator, in front of his people, and before a mixed assemblage of white men, is to be regarded, in a measure, as an actor, who has assumed a part to perform. He regards himself as occupying a position in which all eyes are directed upon him, in scrutiny, and he fortifies himself for the occasion, by redoubled efforts in cautiousness and studied stoicism. Rigid of muscle, and suspicious of mind by nature, he brings to his aid the advantages of practised art, to bear him out in speaking for his tribe, and to quit him manfully of his task by uttering sentiments worthy of them and of himself. This is the statue-like and artistic phasis of the man. It is here that he is, truly "A man without a fear--a stoic of the wood." All this is laid aside, so far as it is assumed, when he returns from the presence of the "pale-faces," and rejoins his friends and kindred, in his own village, far away from all public gaze, in the deep recesses of the forest. Let us follow the man to this retreat, and see what are his domestic manners, habits, amusements, and opinions. I have myself visited an Indian camp, in the far-off area of the NORTH-WEST, in the dead of winter, under circumstances suited to allay his suspicions, and inspire confidence, and have been struck with the marked change there is in his social temper, character, and feelings. And I have received the same testimony from Indian traders, who have spent years among them in these secluded positions, and been received by them as friends and kindred. All indeed, who have had frequent and full opportunities of witnessing the red man on his hunting grounds, concur in bearing evidence to his social, hospitable, and friendly habits and manners. Viewed in such positions, the most perfect sincerity and cheerfulness prevail; and their intercourse is marked with the broadest principles of charity and neighborly feeling. The restraint and ever watchful suspicion which they evince at the frontier post, or in other situations exposed to the scrutiny and cupidity of white men, is thrown aside and gives way to ease, sociability and pleasantry. They feel while thus ensconced in the shades of their native forests, a security unknown to their breasts in any other situations. The strife seems to be, who shall excel in offices of friendship and charity, or in spreading the festive board. If one is more fortunate than the other, in taking meat, or wielding the arrow or spear, the spoil is set apart for a feast, to which all the adults, without distinction, are invited. When the set time of the feast arrives, each one, according to ancient custom, takes his dish and spoon, and proceeds to the entertainer's lodge. The victuals are served up with scrupulous attention that each receives a portion of the best parts. While at the meal, which is prolonged by cheerful conversation, anecdote, and little narrations of personal adventure, the females are generally listeners; and none, except the aged, ever obtrude a remark. The young women and girls show that they partake in the festivity by smiles, and are scrupulous to evince their attention to the elder part of the company. Conversation is chiefly engrossed by the old men and chiefs, and middle-aged men. Young men, who are desirous to acquire a standing, seldom offer a remark, and when they _do_, it is with modesty. The topics discussed at these public meals relate generally to the _chace_, to the _news_ they have heard, or to personal occurrences about the village; or to deeds, "real or fabulous," of "old lang syne;" but the matters are discussed in a lively, and not in a grave style. Business, if we may be allowed that term for what concerns their trade and government intercourse, is never introduced except in _formal councils_, convened specially, and opened formally by smoking the pipe. It seems to be the drift of conversation, in these sober festivities (for it must be recollected that we are speaking of the Indians on their wintering grounds and beyond the reach, certainly beyond the free or ordinary use of ardent spirits), to extract from their hunts and adventures, whatever will admit of a pleasant turn, draw forth a joke, or excite a laugh. Ridiculous misadventures, or comical situations, are sure to be applauded in the recital. Whatever is anti-social, or untoward, is passed over, or if referred to by another, is parried off, by some allusion to the scene before them. Religion (we use this term for what concerns the great spirit, sacred dreams, and the ceremonies of the Meda or medicine dance), like business, is reserved for its proper occasion. It does not form, as with us, a free topic of remark, at least among those who are professors of the dance. Thus they cheat away the hours in pleasantry, free, but not tumultuous in their mirth, but as ardently bent on the enjoyment of the present moment, as if the sum of life were contained in these three words, "eat, drink, and be merry." When the feast is over, the women return to their lodges, and leave the men to smoke. On their return, they commence a conversation on what they have heard the men advance, and thus amuse themselves till their husbands return. The end of all is generally some good advice to the children. The company in these ordinary feasts is as general, with respect to the rank, age or standing of the guests, as the most unlimited equality of rights can make it. All the aged and many of the young are invited. There is, however, another feast instituted, at certain times during the season, to which young persons only are invited, or admitted, except the entertainer and his wife, and generally two other aged persons, who preside over the feast and administer its rites. The object of this feast seems to be instruction, to which the young and thoughtless are induced to listen for the anticipated pleasure of the feast. Before this feast commences, the entertainer, or some person fluent in speech, whom he has selected for the purpose, gets up and addresses the youth of both sexes on the subject of their course through life. He admonishes them to be attentive and respectful to the aged and to adhere to their counsels: never to scoff at the decrepid, deformed, or blind: to obey their parents: to be modest in their conduct: to be charitable and hospitable: to fear and love the great Spirit, who is the giver of life and every good gift. These precepts are dwelt upon at great length, and generally enforced by examples of a good man and woman and a bad man and woman, and after drawing the latter, it is ever the custom to say, "you will be like one of these." At the end of every sentence, the listeners make a general cry of haá. When the advice is finished, an address, or kind of prayer to the great Spirit is made, in which he is thanked for the food before them, and for the continuance of life. The speaker then says, "Thus the great Spirit supplies us with food; act justly, and conduct well, and you will ever be thus bountifully supplied." The feast then commences, and the elders relax their manner and mix with the rest, but are still careful to preserve order, and a decent, respectful behavior among the guests. Let it not be supposed, however, that the Indian's life, while on his wintering grounds, is a round of feasting. Quite the contrary; and his feasts are often followed by long and painful fasts, and the severity of the seasons, and scarcity of game and fish, often reduce himself and family to the verge of starvation, and even death. When the failure of game, or any other causes, induce the hunter to remove to a new circle of country, the labor of the removal falls upon the female part of the family. The lodge, utensils and fixtures of every kind, are borne upon the women's backs, sustained by a strap of leather around the forehead. On reaching the intended place of encampment, the snow is cleared away, cedar branches brought and spread for a flooring, the lodge set up, the moveables stowed away, wood collected, and a fire built, and then, and not until then, can the females sit down and warm their feet and dry their moccasins. If there be any provisions, a supper is cooked. If there be none, all studiously strive to conceal the exhibition of the least concern on this account, and seek to divert their thoughts by conversation quite foreign to the subject. The little children are the only part of the family who complain, and who are privileged to complain, but even they are taught at an early age to suffer and be silent. Generally, something is reserved by the mother, when food becomes scarce, to satisfy their clamors, and they are satisfied with little. On such occasions, if the family have gone supperless to rest, the father and elder sons rise early in the morning in search of something. If one has the luck to kill even a partridge or a squirrel, it is immediately carried to the lodge, cooked, and divided into as many parts as there are members of the family. On these occasions, the elder ones often make a merit of relinquishing their portions to the women and children. If nothing rewards the search, the whole day is spent by the father upon his snow-shoes, with his gun in his hands, and he returns at night, fatigued, to his couch of cedar branches and rush mats. But he does not return to complain, either of his want of success, or his fatigue. On the following day the same routine is observed, and days and weeks are often thus consumed without being rewarded with anything capable of sustaining life. Instances have been well authenticated, when this state of wretchedness has been endured by the head of a family until he has become so weak as to fall in his path, and freeze to death. When all other means of sustaining life are gone, the skins he has collected to pay his credits, or purchase new supplies of clothing or ammunition, are eaten. They are prepared by removing the pelt, and roasting the skin until it acquires a certain degree of crispness. Under all their sufferings, the pipe of the hunter is his chief solace, and is a solace often resorted to. Smoking parties are frequently formed, when there is a scarcity of food not tending, as might be supposed, to destroy social feeling and render the temper sour. On these occasions the entertainer sends a message to this effect: "Come and smoke with me. I have no food; but we can pass away the evening very well without it." All acknowledge their lives to be in the hand of the great Spirit; feel a conviction that all comes from him, and that although he allows them to suffer, he will again supply them. This tends to quiet their apprehensions; they are fatalists, however, under long reverses, and submit patiently and silently to what they believe to be their destiny. When hunger and misery are past, they are soon forgotten, and their minds are too eagerly intent on the enjoyment of the present good, to feel any depression of spirits from the recollection of the past, or to hoard up anything to provide against want for the future. No people are more easy, or less clamorous under sufferings of the deepest dye, and none more happy, or more prone to evince their happiness, when prosperous in their affairs. October 29th, 1826. PUGASAING; OR, THE GAME OF THE BOWL. This is the principal game of hazard among the northern tribes. It is played with thirteen pieces, hustled in a vessel called onágun, which is a kind of wooden bowl. They are represented, and named, as follows. [Illustration] The pieces marked No. 1, in this cut, of which there are two, are called Ininewug, or men. They are made tapering, or wedge-shaped in thickness, so as to make it possible, in throwing them, that they may stand on their base. Number 2, is called Gitshee Kenabik, or the Great Serpent. It consists of two pieces, one of which is fin-tailed, or a water-serpent, the other truncated, and is probably designed as terrestrial. They are formed wedge-shaped, so as to be capable of standing on their bases lengthwise. Each has four dots. Number 3, is called Pugamágun, or the war club. It has six marks on the handle, on the _red side_, and four radiating from the orifice of the club end; and four marks on the handle of the _white side_; and six radiating marks from the orifice on the club-end, making ten on each side. Number 4 is called Keego, which is the generic name for a fish. The four circular pieces of brass, slightly concave, with a flat surface on the apex, are called Ozawábiks. The three bird-shaped pieces, Sheshebwug, or ducks. All but the circular pieces are made out of a fine kind of bone. One side of the piece is white, of the natural colour of the bones, and polished, the other red. The brass pieces have the convex side bright, the concave black. They are all shaken together, and thrown out of the onágun, as dice. The term pugasaing denotes this act of throwing. It is the participial form of the verb.--The following rules govern the game: 1. When the pieces are turned on the red side, and one of the Ininewugs stands upright on the bright side of one of the brass pieces, it counts 158. 2. When all the pieces turn red side up, and the Gitshee Kenabik with the tail stands on the bright side of the brass piece, it counts 138. 3. When all turn up red, it counts 58 whether the brass pieces be bright or black side up. 4. When the Gitshee Kenabik and his associate, and the two Ininewugs turn up white side, and the other pieces red, it counts 58, irrespective of the concave or convex position of the brass pieces. 5. When all the pieces turn up white, it counts 38, whether the Ozawábiks, be bright or black. 6. When the Gitshee Kenabik and his associate turn up red, and the other white, it counts 38, the brass pieces immaterial. 7. When one of the Ininewugs stands up, it counts 50, without regard to the position of all the rest. 8. When either of the Gitshee Kenabiks stands upright, it counts 40, irrespective of the position of the others. 9. When all the pieces turn up white, excepting one, and the Ozawábiks dark, it counts 20. 10. When all turn up red, except one, and the brass pieces bright, it counts 15. 11. When the whole of the pieces turn up white, but one, with the Ozawábiks bright, it counts 10. 12. When a brass piece turns up dark, the two Gitshee Kenabiks and the two men red, and the remaining pieces white, it counts 8. 13. When the brass piece turns up bright, the two Gitshee Kenabiks and one of the men red, and all the rest white, it is 6. 14. When the Gitshee Kenabik in chief, and one of the men turn up red, the Ozawábiks, bright, and all the others white, it is 4. 15. When both the Kenabiks, and both men, and the three ducks, turn up red, the brass piece black, and either the Keego, or a duck white, it is 5. 16. When all the pieces turn up red, but one of the Ininewugs, and the brass piece black, it counts 2. The limit of the game is stipulated. The parties throw up for the play. This game is very fascinating to some portions of the Indians. They stake at it their ornaments, weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, every thing in fact they possess; and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives and children, and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such desperate stakes, I have seen no examples, nor do I think the game itself in common use. It is rather confined to certain persons, who hold the relative rank of gamblers in Indian society--men who are not noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers for their families. Among these are persons who bear the term of Ienadizze-wug, that is, wanderers about the country, braggadocios, or fops. It can hardly be classed with the popular games of amusement, by which skill and dexterity are acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and graver men of the tribes, who encouraged the young men to play ball, and are sure to be present at the customary sports, to witness, and sanction, and applaud them, speak lightly and disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet, it cannot be denied, that some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the chase, at the west, can be referred to, as lending their example to its fascinating power. An analysis of this game, to show its arithmetical principles and powers might be gone into; but it is no part of the present design to take up such considerations here, far less to pursue the comparison and extension of customs of this kind among the modern western tribes. It may be sufficient to say, from the foregoing rules, that there seems to be no _unit_ in the throw, and that the count proceeds by _decimals_, for all numbers over 8. Doubtless these rules, are but a part of the whole series, known to experienced players. They comprise, however, all that have been revealed to me. "Gambling is not peculiar to our race, The Indian gambles with as fixed a face." * * * * * Herodotus says of the ancient Thracians--that "the most honourable life, with them, is a life of war and plunder; the most contemptible that of a husbandman. Their supreme delight is war and plunder." Who might not suppose, were the name withheld, that this had been said by some modern writer of the Pawnees, or the Camanches? REVERENCE AND AFFECTION FOR PARENTS. There lived a noted chief at Michilimackinac, in days past, called Gitshe Naygow, or the Great-Sand-Dune, a name, or rather nick-name, which he had, probably, derived from his birth and early residence at a spot of very imposing appearance, so called, on the southern shore of Lake Superior, which is east of the range of the Pictured Rocks. He was a Chippewa, a warrior and a counsellor, of that tribe, and had mingled freely in the stirring scenes of war and border foray, which marked the closing years of French domination in the Canadas. He lived to be very old, and became so feeble at last, that he could not travel by land, when Spring came on and his people prepared to move their lodges, from their sugar-camp in the forest, to the open lake shore. They were then inland, on the waters of the Manistee river, a stream which enters the northern shores of Lake Michigan. It was his last winter on earth; his heart was gladdened by once more feeling the genial rays of Spring, and he desired to go with them, to behold, for the last time, the expanded lake and inhale its pure breezes. He must needs be conveyed by hand. This act of piety was performed by his daughter, then a young woman. She carried him on her back from their camp to the lake shore, where they erected their lodge and passed their spring, and where he eventually died and was buried. This relation I had from her own lips, at the agency of Michilimackinac, in 1833. I asked her how she had carried him. She replied, with the Indian apekun, or head-strap. When tired she rested, and again pursued her way, on-wa-be-win by on-wa-be-win, or rest by rest, in the manner practised in carrying heavy packages over the portages. Her name was Nadowákwa, or the female Iroquois. She was then, perhaps, about fifty-five years of age, and the wife of a chief called Saganosh, whose home and jurisdiction were in the group of the St. Martin's Islands, north of Michilimackinac. The incident was not voluntarily told, but came out, incidentally, in some inquiries I was making respecting historical events, in the vicinity. One such incident goes far to vindicate the affections of this people, and should teach us, that they are of the same general lineage with ourselves, and only require letters and Christianity, to exalt them in the scale of being. * * * * * The first words of men, says Harris in his Hermes, like their first ideas, had an immediate reference to sensible objects; in after days, when they began to discern with their intellect, they took those words which they found already made, and transferred them by metaphor, to intellectual conceptions. ANDAIG WEOS, OR CROWS-FLESH. Many persons among the Indian race, have attracted notice from their exploits on the war-path. Andaig Weos was not among the number of these, or if he had mingled in such events, his deeds of daring are now lost amid the remembrance of better qualities. He was a chief of the once prominent and reigning band of Odjibwa Algonquins, who are called Chippewas, located at Chegoimegon, on Lake Superior, where his name is cherished in local tradition, for the noble and disinterested deeds which he performed in former days. He lived in the latter part of the 18th century. It was perhaps forty years ago--said my informant, it was while the late Mr. Nolin, of Sault Ste. Marie was a trader in the Chippewa country, between lake Superior and the Mississippi, that he wintered one year low down on the Chippewa river. On his way down this stream, and while he was still on one of its sources, cold weather set in suddenly, the ice formed, and he was unable to get on with his goods. He consequently put them _en cache_, according to the custom of the country, and proceeded on foot, with his men to the lower part of the river, to the spot at which he had determined to winter. Here he felled trees, and built his house, and having made all things ready, he set out with his men on his return, to his _cache_, in order to bring down his goods. On the way he fell in with an Indian hunter and his wife, who followed him to the place where he had secreted his goods. On reaching this, he filled a bottle with spirits and gave a glass to each of his men, took one himself, and then filling the glass presented it to the Indian. This was done after the camp had been made for the night. It so happened that the Indian was taken suddenly ill that night, and before day light died. Nolin and his men buried him, and then proceeded back to his wintering house below, each man carrying a pack of goods; and the widow rejoined her friends. After the Indians had taken their credits, and dispersed to their several wintering grounds, it was rumoured amongst them, that the trader had administered poison to the Indian who died so suddenly after taking the glass of spirits. And this opinion gained ground, although the widow woman repeatedly told the Indians, that the liquor given to her deceased husband was from the same bottle and glass, that all the French people had drank from. But it was of no avail; the rumour grew, and Mr. Nolin began to be apprehensive, as he had already learnt that the Indians meant to kill him. To confirm this suspicion a party of forty men, soon after, entered his house, all armed, painted black, and with war dresses on. They were all presented with a piece of tobacco, as was customary, when each of them threw it into the fire. No alternative now appeared to remain to avert the blow, which he was convinced must soon follow. Almost at the same instant, his men intimated that another party, of six men more, were arriving. It proved to be the chief Andaig Weos, from near Lac du Flambeau, in search of a trader, for a supply of tobacco and ammunition. On entering, the chief eyed the warriors, and asked Mr. N. whether he had given them tobacco. He replied that he _had_, and that they had all, to a man, thrown it in the fire, and, he added, that they intended to kill him. The chief asked for some tobacco, which he threw down before the warriors, telling them to smoke it, adding in an authoritative voice, that when Indians visited traders, it was with an intention of getting tobacco from them to _smoke_ and and not to _throw into the fire_; and that, for his part, he had been a long time without smoking, and was very happy to find a trader to supply him with that article. This present from him, with the rebuke, was received with silent acquiescence,--no one venturing a reply. The chief next demanded liquor of the trader, saying, "that he intended to make them drink." The politic Frenchman remonstrated, saying, "that if this was done, he should surely be killed." "Fear not, Frenchman," replied the chief, boldly. "These are not _men_ who want to kill you: they are _children_. I, and my warriors will guard you." On these assurances, a keg of liquor was given, but with the greatest reluctance. The chief immediately presented it to the war-party, but cautioned them to drink it at a distance, and not to come nigh the trader during the night. They obeyed him. They took it a short distance and drank it, and kept up a dreadful yelling all night, but did not molest the house. The next morning Andaig Weos demanded tobacco of the still uneasy _marchand voyageur_, and ordered one of his young men to distribute it to the Indians in the war-dress. He then rose and addressed them in an energetic and authoritative speech, telling them to march off, without tasting food; that they were _warriors_, and needed not any thing of the kind; and if they did, they were _hunters_,--they had guns, and might hunt, and kill and eat. "You get nothing more here," he added. "This trader has come here to supply your wants, and you seek to kill him--a poor reward for the trouble and the anxiety he has undergone! This is no way of requiting white people." They all, to a man started, and went off, and gave the trader no farther molestation while he remained in the country. On another occasion Andaig Weos was placed in a situation which afforded a very different species of testimony to his principles and integrity. A French trader had entered lake Superior so late in the season, that with every effort, he could get no farther than _Pointe La Petite Fille_, before the ice arrested his progress. Here he was obliged to build his wintering house, but he soon ran short of provisions, and was obliged to visit La Pointe, with his men, in order to obtain fish--leaving his house and storeroom locked, with his goods, ammunition, and liquors, and resolving to return immediately. But the weather came on so bad, that there was no possibility of his immediate return, and the winter proved so unfavourable that he was obliged to spend two months at that post. During this time, the chief Andaig Weos, with fifteen of his men, came out from the interior, to the shores of the lake, for the purpose of trading, each carrying a pack of beaver, or other furs. On arriving at the point La Petite Fille, they found the trader's house locked and no one there. The chief said to his followers.--It is customary for traders to invite Indians into their house, and to receive them politely; but as there is no one to receive us, we must act according to circumstances. He then ordered the door to be opened, with as little injury as possible, walked in, with his party, and caused a good fire to be built in the chimney. On opening the store-door he found they could be supplied with all they wanted. He told his party, on no account to touch, or take away any thing, but shut up the door, and said, "that he would, on the morrow, act the trader's part." They spent the night in the house. Early the next morning, he arose and addressed them, telling them, that he would now commence trading with them. This he accordingly did, and when all was finished, he carefully packed the furs, and piled the packs, and covered them with an oilcloth. He then again addressed them, saying that it was customary for a trader to give tobacco and a keg of spirits, when Indians had traded handsomely. He, therefore, thought himself authorized to observe this rule, and accordingly gave a keg of spirits and some tobacco. "The spirits," he said, "must not be drank here. We must take it to our hunting camp," and gave orders for returning immediately. He then caused the doors to be shut, in the best manner possible, and the outer door to be barricaded with logs, and departed. When the trader returned, and found his house had been broken open, he began to bewail his fate, being sure he had been robbed; but on entering his store room and beholding the furs, his fears were turned to joy. On examining his inventory, and comparing it with the amount of his furs, he declared, that had he been present, he could not have traded to better advantage, nor have made such a profit on his goods. These traits are not solitary and accidental. It happened at another time, that a Mr. Lamotte, who had wintered in the Folle-avoine country, unfortunately had a quarrel with the Indians, at the close of the season, just when he was about to embark on his return with his furs. In the heat of their passion the Indians broke all his canoes in pieces, and confined him a prisoner, by ordering him to encamp on an island in the St. Croix river. In this situation he remained, closely watched by the Indians, till all the _other_ traders had departed and gone out of the country to renew their supplies, when the chief Andaig Weos arrived. He comprehended the case in an instant, and having found that the matter of offence was one of no importance, he immediately went to the Indian village, and in a loud and authoritative tone of voice, so as to be heard by all, commanded suitable canoes to be taken to the imprisoned trader--a summons which was promptly obeyed. He then went to Mr. Lamotte and told him to embark fearlessly, and that he himself would see that he was not further hindered, at the same time lamenting the lateness of his return. The general conduct of this chief was marked by kindness and urbanity. When traders arrived at Chagoimegon, where he lived, it was his custom to order his young men to cover and protect their baggage lest any thing should be injured or stolen. He was of the lineage of the noted war-chief, Abojeeg, or Wab Ojeeg. He lived to be very old, so that he walked nearly bent double--using a cane. The present ruling chief of that place, called Pezhickee, is his grandson. These anecdotes were related by Mr. Cadotte, of Lapointe, in the year 1829, and are believed to be entitled to full confidence. * * * * * The Tartars cannot pronounce the letter b. Those of Bulgaria pronounce the word _blacks_ as if written _ilacs_. It is noticeable, that the Odjibwas and their cognate tribes at the north, not only make great use of the letter b, in native words, but when they come to pronounce English words, in which the letter v occurs, they invariably substitute the b for it, as in village, and vinegar. There are three letters in the English alphabet which the above tribes do not pronounce. They are f, r, and l. For f, they substitute, in their attempts to pronounce foreign words, p. The sound of r, they change to broad a, or drop. L is changed to n. * * * * * Singing and dancing are applied to political and to religious purposes by the Indians. When they wish to raise a war-party, they meet to sing and dance: when they wish to supplicate the divine mercy on a sick person, they assemble in a lodge, to sing and dance. No grave act is performed without singing and dancing. ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE RACE. WYANDOT TRADITIONS OF THE CREATION, AND OTHER EPOCHS. The following traditions of the creation of man, and of the Red Race; of the order of precedence and relationship among the tribes, and the notice of the first arrival of Europeans on the continent, together with the allegories of Good and Evil, and of Civilization and Barbarism, are extracted from a private journal, kept during the period of my official intercourse with the various tribes. Superintendency Indian Affairs, Detroit, January 30th, 1837. A delegation of three Wyandot chiefs visited me, this day, from their location near Amherstburg in Canada, with their interpreter, George C. Martin. Their names were O-ri-wa-hen-to, or Charlo, On-ha-to-tun-youh, or Round Head, son of Round Head, the brother of Splitlog, and Ty-er-on-youh, or Thomas Clark. They informed me, in reply to a question, that the present population of their band, at that location, was eighty-six souls. After transacting their business, I proposed several questions to them respecting their origin and history. 1. What is the origin of the Indians? We believe that all men sprang from one man and woman, who were made by God, in parts beyond the sea. But in speaking of the Indians we say, how did they cross the sea without ships? and when did they come? and from what country? What is your opinion on the subject? Oriwahento answered: "The old chief, Splitlog, who could answer you, is not able to come to see you from his age and feebleness; but he has sent us three to speak with you. We will do the best we can. We are not able to read and write, like white men, and what you ask is not therefore to be found in black and white." (This remark was probably made as they observed I took notes of the interview.) "There was, in ancient times, something the matter with the earth. It has changed. We think so. We believe God created it, and made men out of it. We think he made the Indians in this country, and that they did not come over the sea. They were created at a place called MOUNTAINS. It was eastward. When he had made the earth and those mountains, he covered something over the earth, as it were, with his hand. Below this, he put man. All the different tribes were there. One of the young men found his way out to the surface. He saw a great light, and was delighted with the beauty of the surface. While gazing around, he saw a deer running past, with an arrow in his side. He followed it, to the place where it fell and died. He thought it was a harmless looking animal. He looked back to see its tracks, and he soon saw other tracks. They were the foot prints of the person who had shot the deer. He soon came up. It was the creator himself. He had taken this method to show the Indians what they must do, when they came out from the earth. The creator showed him how to skin and dress the animal, bidding him do so and so, as he directed him. When the flesh was ready, he told him to make a fire. But he was perfectly ignorant. God made the fire. He then directed him to put a portion of the meat on a stick, and roast it before the fire. But he was so ignorant that he let it stand till it burned on one side, while the other was raw. Having taught this man the hunter's art, so that he could teach it to others, God called the Indians forth out of the earth. They came in order, by tribes, and to each tribe he appointed a chief. He appointed one Head Chief to lead them all, who had something about his neck, and he instructed him, and put it into his head what to say to the tribes. That he might have an opportunity to do so, a certain animal was killed, and a feast made, in which they were told to eat it all. The leader God had so chosen, told the tribes what they must do, to please their maker, and what they must not do. Oriwahento further said: God also made Good and Evil. They were brothers. The one went forth to do good, and caused pleasant things to grow. The other busied himself in thwarting his brother's work. He made stony and flinty places, and caused bad fruits, and made continual mischief among men. Good repaired the mischief as fast as it was done, but he found his labour never done. He determined to fly upon his brother and destroy him, but not by violence. He proposed to run a race with him. Evil consented, and they fixed upon the place. But first tell me, said Good, what is it you most dread. Bucks horns! replied he, and tell me what is most hurtful to you. Indian grass braid! said Good. Evil immediately went to his grandmother, who made braid, and got large quantities of it, which he put in the path and hung on the limbs that grew by the path where Good was to run. Good also filled the path of his brother with the dreaded horns. A question arose who should run first. I, said Good, will begin, since the proposition to try our skill first came from me. He accordingly set out, his brother following him. But as he began to feel exhausted at noon, he took up the grass braid and ate it. This sustained him, and he tired down his brother before night, who entreated him to stop. He did not, however, cease, till he had successfully reached the goal. The next day Evil started on his path. He was encountered every where by the horns, which before noon had greatly weakened him. He entreated to be relieved from going on. Good insisted on his running the course. He sustained himself 'till sunset, when he fell in the path, and was finally dispatched by one of the horns wielded by his brother. Good now returned in triumph to his grandmother's lodge. But she was in an ill humour, as she always was, and hated him and loved his brother whom he had killed. He wanted to rest, but at night was awoke by a conversation between her and the ghost of Evil. The latter pleaded to come in, but although he felt for him, he did not allow his fraternal feelings to get the better, and resolutely denied admission. Then said Evil "I go to the north-west, and you will never see me more, and all who follow me will be in the same state. They will never come back. Death will for ever keep them." Having thus rid himself of his adversary, he thought he would walk out and see how things were going on, since there was no one to oppose his doing good. After travelling some time he saw a living object ahead. As he drew nearer, he saw more plainly. It was a naked man. They began to talk to each other. "I am walking to see the creation, which I have made," said Good, "but who are you?" "Clothed man," said he, "I am as powerful as you, and have made all that land you see." "Naked man," he replied, "I have made all things, but do not recollect making you." "You shall see my power," said the naked man, "we will try strength. Call to yonder mountain to come here, and afterwards I will do the same, and we will see who has the greatest power." The clothed man fell down on his knees, and began to pray, but the effort did not succeed, or but partially. Then the naked man drew a rattle from his belt, and began to shake it and mutter, having first blindfolded the other. After a time, now said he, "look!" He did so, and the mountain stood close before him, and rose up to the clouds. He then blindfolded him again, and resumed his rattle and muttering. The mountain had resumed its former distant position. The clothed man held in his left hand a sword, and in his right hand the law of God. The naked man had a rattle in one hand, and a war club in the other. They exchanged the knowledge of the respective uses of these things. To show the power of the sword, the clothed man cut off a rod, and placed it before him. The naked man immediately put the parts together and they were healed. He then took his club, which was flat, and cut off the rod, and again healed the mutilated parts. He relied on the rattle to answer the same purpose as the other's book. The clothed man tried the use of the club, but could not use it with skill, while the naked man took the sword and used it as well as the other. Oriwahento continued:--It is said that Evil killed his mother at his birth. He did not enter the world the right way, but bursted from the womb. They took the body of the mother and laid it upon a scaffold. From the droppings of her decay, where they fell on the ground, sprang up corn, tobacco, and such other vegetable productions as the Indians have. Hence we call corn, our mother. And our tobacco propagates itself by spontaneous growth, without planting; but the clothed man is required to labour in raising it. Good found his grandmother in no better humor when he came back from the interview with the naked man. He therefore took and cast her up, and she flew against the moon, upon whose face the traces of her are still to be seen. This comprised the first interview; after a recess during which they were permitted to refresh themselves and smoke their pipes, I returned to the office and resumed the inquiries. 2. Where did your tribe first see white men on this continent? The French say you lived on the St. Lawrence, and afterwards went to the north, from whence you afterwards came down to the vicinity of Detroit. That you possess the privilege of lighting up the general council fire for the Lake tribes; and that you were converted to the catholic faith. Oriwahento again answered. When the tribes were all settled, the Wyandots were placed at the head. They lived in the interior, at the mountains east, about the St. Lawrence. They were the first tribe of old, and had the first chieftainship. The chief said to their nephew, the Lenapees, Go down to the sea coast and look, and if you see any thing bring me word. They had a village near the sea side, and often looked, but saw nothing except birds. At length they espied an object, which seemed to grow and come nearer, and nearer. When it came near the land it stopped, but all the people were afraid, and fled to the woods. The next day, two of their number ventured out to look. It was lying quietly on the water. A smaller object of the same sort came out of it, and walked with long legs (oars) over the water. When it came to land two men came out of it. They were different from us and made signs for the others to come out of the woods. A conference ensued. Presents were exchanged. They gave presents to the Lenapees, and the latter gave them their skin clothes as curiosities. Three distinct visits, at separate times, and long intervals, were made. The mode in which the white men got a footing, and power in the country was this. First, room was asked, and leave given to place a chair on the shore. But they soon began to pull the lacing out of its bottom, and go inland with it; and they have not yet come to the end of the string. He exemplified this original demand for a cession of territory and its renewal at other epochs, by other figures of speech, namely, of a bull's hide, and of a man walking. The first request for a seat on the shore, was made he said of the Lenapees; alluding to the cognate branches of this stock, who were anciently settled at the harbour of New York, and that vicinity. To the question of their flight from the St. Lawrence, their settlement in the north, and their subsequent migration to, and settlement on, the straits of Detroit, Oriwahento said: The Wyandots were proud. God had said that such should be beaten and brought low. This is the cause why we were followed from the east, and went up north away to Michilimackinac, but as we had the right before, so when we came back, the tribes looked up to us, as holding the council fire.[18] 3. What relationship do you acknowledge, to the other western tribes? Answer by Oriwahento: We call the Lenapees, _nephews_; we call the Odjibwas (Chippewas) Ottawas, Miami's &c. _Younger Brother_. We call the Shawnees, _the Youngest Brother_. The Wyandots were the first tribe in ancient times. The first chieftainship was in their tribe. SUPPLEMENTARY QUESTIONS TO THE INTERPRETER. 1. Are the Wyandot and Mohawk languages, alike in sounds. You say, you speak both. Ans. Not at all alike. It is true there are a few words so, but the two languages do not seem to me more akin than English and French. You know some English and French words are alike. The Mohawk language is on the _tongue_, the Wyandot is in _the throat_. 2. Give me some examples: Read some of this translation of the Mohawk, (handing him John's Gospel printed by the American Bible Society in 1818.) He complied, reading it fluently, and appearing to have been acquainted with the translation. Further conversation, in which his attention was drawn to particular facts in its structure and principles, made him see stronger analogies between the two tongues. It was quite evident, that he had never reflected on the subject, and that there were, both grammatically, and philologically, coincidences beyond his depth. FOOTNOTES: [18] This is certainly a dignified and wise answer; designed as it was, to cover their disastrous defeat and flight from the St. Lawrence valley to the north. The precedence to which he alludes, on reaching the straits of Detroit, as having been theirs before, is to be understood, doubtless, of the era of their residence on the lower St. Lawrence, where they were at the head of the French and Indian confederacy against the Iroquois. Among the latter, they certainly had no precedency, so far as history teaches. Their council fire was kept by the Onondagas. H. R. S. TRADITIONS OF THE ARCTIDÉS. There are some curious traditions related by the race of people living on that part of the continent lying north and west of Athabasca lake, and the river Unjigah. Mackenzie has described that branch of them, who are called by the trivial name of Che-pe-wyans. This is an Algonquin term, meaning puckered blankets, and has reference only to the most easterly and southerly division of the race. They are but the van of an extensive race. All that gives identity to their general traditions, and distinctive character and language, relates as well to the Dogribs, the Coppermines, the Strongbows, the Ambawtawoots, the Hares, the Brushwoods, the Sursees, the Tacullies, the Nateotetains, and other tribes located north of them, extending to the Arctic Ocean, and west through the Peace river pass of the Rocky Mountains. Philology brings into one group all these dialects of a wide spread race, who extend from the borders of the Atnah nation on the Columbia, across the Rocky Mountains eastwardly to the Lake of the Hills and the Missinipi or Churchill river, covering many degrees of latitude and longitude. In the absence of any generic name for them, founded on language or character, I shall allude to them under the geographical phrase of ARCTIDES. This stock of people have proceeded from the direction of the North Pacific towards the Atlantic waters, in a general eastern direction, in which respect, their history forms a striking exception to the other great stocks of the eastern part of the United States, the Canadas, and Hudson's bay, who have been in a continual progress towards the WEST and NORTH-WEST. The Arctides, on the contrary, have proceeded EAST and SOUTHEAST. They may be supposed, therefore, to bring their traditions more directly from opposite portions of the continent, and from Asia, and it may be inferred, from more unmixed and primitive sources. Some of these traditions are, at least, of a curious and striking character. They believe, like the more southerly tribes, in the general tradition of a deluge, and of a paradise, or land of future bliss. They have apparently, veiled the Great Spirit, or creator of the globe, under the allegory of a gigantic bird. They believe, that there was originally nothing visible but one vast ocean. Upon this the bird descended from the sky, with a noise of his wings which produced sounds resembling thunder. The earth, as he alighted, immediately rose above the waters. This bird of creative power, then made all the classes of animals, who were made out of earth. They all had precedency to man. Man alone, the last in the series, was created from the integument of a dog. This, they believe, was their own origin, and hence, as Mackenzie tells us, they will not eat the flesh of this animal, as is done by the other tribes of the continent. To guard and protect them, he then made a magic arrow, which they were to preserve with great care, and hold sacred. But they were so thoughtless, they add, as to carry it away and lose it, upon which the great bird took his flight, and has never since appeared. This magic arrow is doubtless to be regarded as a symbol of something else, which was very essential to their safety and happiness. Indian history is often disguised under such symbolic forms. They have also a tradition that they originally came from a foreign country, which was inhabited by a wicked people. They had to cross a great lake, or water, which was shallow, narrow, and full of islands. Their track lay also through snow and ice, and they suffered miserably from cold. They first landed at the mouth of the Coppermine river. The earth thereabouts was then strewed with metallic copper, which has since disappeared. They believe that, in ancient times, men lived till their feet were worn out with walking, and their throats with eating. They represent their ancestors as living to very great ages. They describe a deluge, in which the waters spread over the whole earth, except the highest mountains, on which their progenitors were saved. Their notions of a future state coincide generally with the other stocks. But their paradise is clothed with more imaginative traits. They believe, that at death they pass immediately to another world, where there is a large river of water to cross. They must embark in a stone canoe, and are borne along into a wide lake, which has an island in its centre. This is the island of the blest, and the object of the disembodied soul is to reach it. If their lives have been good, they will be fortunate, and make it. If bad, they will sink; but they will only sink to the depth of their chins, so that they may be permitted to behold the happy land, and strive in vain to reach it. Eternity is passed in this vain endeavour. They have also some notion of the doctrine of transmigration. Such are the traditionary notions of this numerous family of the Red Race, which are sufficiently distinctive and peculiar,--and while they resemble in many traits, yet in others they contradistinguish them from the great Algic race of the eastern part of the continent. The most advanced branch of these tribes in their geographical position, call themselves, as reported by Capt. Franklin, People of the Rising Sun, or _Saw-eesaw-dinneh_. It seems singular, that the farther north we go, the greater evidences do we behold of imagination, in the aboriginal race, together with some fore-shadowings of future punishment. HISTORICAL TRADITIONS OF THE CHIPPEWAS, ODJIBWAS, OR ODJIBWA-ALGONQUINS. Of all the existing branches of the Algonquin stock in America, this extensive and populous tribe appears to have the strongest claims to intellectual distinction, on the score of their traditions, so far, at least, as the present state of our inquiries extends. They possess, in their curious fictitious legends and lodge-tales, a varied and exhaustless fund of tradition, which is repeated from generation to generation. These legends hold, among the wild men of the north, the relative rank of story-books; and are intended both to amuse and instruct. This people possess also, the art of picture writing, in a degree which denotes that they have been, either more careful, or more fortunate, in the preservation of this very ancient art of the human race. Warriors, and the bravest of warriors, they are yet an intellectual people. Their traditions and belief, on the origin of the globe, and the existence of a Supreme Being, are quite accordant with some things in our own history and theory. They believe that the Great Spirit created material matter, and that he made the earth and heavens, by the power of his will. He afterwards made animals and men, out of the earth, and he filled space with subordinate spirits, having something of his own nature, to whom he gave a part of his own power. He made one great and master spirit of evil, to whom he also gave assimilated and subordinate evil spirits, to execute his will. Two antagonist powers, they believe, were thus placed in the world, who are continually striving for the mastery, and who have power to affect the fortunes and lives of men. This constitutes the groundwork of their religion, sacrifices and worship. They believe that animals were created before men, and that they originally had rule on the earth. By the power of necromancy, some of these animals were transformed to men, who, as soon as they assumed this new form, began to hunt the animals, and make war against them. It is expected that these animals will resume their human shapes, in a future state, and hence their hunters, feign some clumsy excuses, for their present policy of killing them. They believe that all animals, and birds and reptiles, and even insects, possess reasoning faculties, and have souls. It is in these opinions, that we detect the ancient doctrine of transmigration. Their most intelligent priests tell us, that their forefathers worshipped the sun; this luminary was regarded by them, as one of their Medas told me, as the symbol of divine intelligence, and the figure of it is drawn in their system of picture writing, to denote the Great Spirit. This symbol very often occurs in their pictures of the medicine dance, and the wabeno dance, and other sacred forms of their rude inscriptions. They believe, at least to some extent, in a duality of souls, one of which is fleshly, or corporeal, the other is incorporeal or mental. The fleshly soul goes immediately, at death, to the land of spirits, or future bliss. The mental soul abides with the body, and hovers round the place of sepulture. A future state is regarded by them, as a state of rewards, and not of punishments. They expect to inhabit a paradise, filled with pleasures for the eye, and the ear, and the taste. A strong and universal belief in divine mercies absorbs every other attribute of the Great Spirit, except his power and ubiquity; and they believe, so far as we can gather it, that this mercy will be shown to all. There is not, in general, a very discriminating sense of moral distinctions and responsibilities, and the faint out-shadowings, which we sometimes hear among them, of a deep and sombre stream to be crossed by the adventurous soul, in its way to the land of bliss, does not exercise such a practical influence over their lives, as to interfere with the belief of universal acceptance after death. So firm is this belief, that their proper and most reverend term for the Great Spirit, is Gézha Monedo, that is to say, Merciful Spirit. Gitchy Monedo, which is also employed, is often an equivocal phrase. The term Wäz-heáud, or Maker, is used to designate the Creator, when speaking of his animated works. The compound phrase Wäosemigóyan, or universal Father, is also heard. The great spirit of evil, called Mudje Monedo, and Matche Monito, is regarded as a _created_, and not a pre-existing being. Subordinate spirits of evil, are denoted by using the derogative form of the word, in _sh_ by which Moneto is rendered Monetosh. The exceeding flexibility of the language is well calculated to enable them to express distinction of this nature. This tribe has a general tradition of a deluge, in which the earth was covered with water, reaching above the highest hills, or mountains, but not above a tree which grew on the latter, by climbing which a man was saved. This man was the demi-god of their fictions, who is called Manabozho, by whose means the waters were stayed and the earth re-created. He employed for this purpose various animals who were sent to dive down for some of the primordial earth, of which a little was, at length, brought up by the beaver, and this formed the germ or nucleus of the new, or rather rescued planet. What particular allegories are hid under this story, is not certain; but it is known that this, and other tribes, are much in the habit of employing allegories, and symbols, under which we may suspect, they have concealed parts of their historical traditions and beliefs. This deluge of the Algonquin tribes, was produced, as their legends tell, by the agency of the chief of the evil spirits, symbolized by a great serpent, who is placed, throughout the tale, in an antagonistical position to the demi-god Manabosho. This Manabozho, is the same, it is thought, with the Abou, and the Michabou, or the Great Hare of elder writers. Of their actual origin and history, the Chippewas have no other certain tradition, than that they came from Wabenong, that is to say, the land of the EAST. They have no authentic history, therefore, but such remembered events, as must be placed subsequent to the era of the discovery of the continent. Whether this tradition is to be interpreted as an ancient one, having reference to their arrival on the continent, or merely to the track of their migration, after reaching it, is a question to be considered. It is only certain, that they came to their present position on the banks of Lake Superior, from the direction of the Atlantic seaboard, and were, when discovered, in the attitude of an invading nation, pressing westward and northward. Their distinctive name sheds no light on this question. They call themselves _Od-jib-wäg_, which is the plural of Odjibwa,--a term which appears to denote a peculiarity in their voice, or manner of utterance. This word has been pronounced Chippewa by the Saxon race in America, and is thus recorded in our treaties and history. They are, in language, manners and customs, and other characteristics, a well marked type of the leading Algonquin race, and indeed, the most populous, important, and wide spread existing branch of that family now on the continent. The term Chippewa, may be considered as inveterately fixed by popular usage, but in all disquisitions which have their philology or distinctive character in view, the true vernacular term of Od-jib-wa, will be found to possess advantages to writers. The word Algonquin is still applied to a small local band, at the Lake of Two Mountains, on the Utawas river, near Montreal, but this term, first bestowed by the French, has long been a generic phrase for the entire race, who are identified by the ties of a common original language in the United States and British America. One of the most curious opinions of this people is their belief in the mysterious and sacred character of fire. They obtain sacred fire, for all national and ecclesiastical purposes, from the flint. Their national pipes are lighted with this fire. It is symbolical of purity. Their notions of the boundary between life and death, which is also symbolically the limit of the material verge between this and a future state, are revealed in connection with the exhibition of flames of fire. They also make sacrifices by fire of some part of the first fruits of the chase. These traits are to be viewed, perhaps, in relation to their ancient worship of the sun, above noticed, of which the traditions and belief, are still generally preserved. The existence among them of the numerous classes of jossakeeds, or mutterers--(the word is from the utterance of sounds low on the earth,) is a trait that will remind the reader of a similar class of men, in early ages, in the eastern hemisphere. These persons constitute, indeed, the Magii of our western forests. In the exhibition of their art, and of the peculiar notions they promulgate on the subject of a sacred fire, and the doctrine of transmigration, they would seem to have their affiliation of descent rather with the disciples of Zoroaster and the fruitful Persian stock, than with the less mentally refined Mongolian hordes. MYTHOLOGY, SUPERSTITIONS, AND RELIGION OF THE ALGONQUINS. THEIR SYSTEM OF MANITO WORSHIP, AS RECENTLY DISCLOSED BY THE CONFESSIONS OF ONE OF THEIR PROPHETS; THEIR LANGUAGES, AND CHARACTER OF THE TRANSLATIONS OF THE GOSPEL MADE INTO THESE DIALECTS; AND THE LEADING MOTIVES OF CHRISTIANS AND PHILANTHROPISTS TO PERSEVERE IN THEIR CIVILISATION AND CONVERSION.[19] It is known that the Indian tribes of this continent live in a state of mental bondage to a class of men, who officiate as their priests and soothsayers. These men found their claims to supernatural power on early fastings, dreams, ascetic manners and habits, and often on some real or feigned fit of insanity. Most of them affect a knowledge of charms and incantations. They are provided with a sack of mystic implements, the contents of which are exhibited in the course of their ceremonies, such as the hollow bones of some of the larger anseres, small carved representations of animals, cowrie and other sea-shells, &c. Some of these men acquire a character for much sanctity, and turn their influence to political purposes, either personally or through some popular warrior, as was instanced in the success of the sachems Buchanjahela, Little Turtle and Tecumthè. We have recently had an opportunity of conversing with one of this class of sacred person, who has within late years embraced Christianity; and have made some notes of the interview, which we will advert to for the purpose of exhibiting his testimony, as to the true character of this class of impostors. Chusco, the person referred to, is an Ottawa Indian who has long exercised the priestly office, so to say, to his brethren on the northern frontiers. He is now a man turned of seventy. He is of small stature, somewhat bent forward, and supports the infirmities of age by walking with a staff. His sight is impaired, but his memory accurate, enabling him to narrate with particularity events which transpired more than half a century ago. He was present at the great convocation of northern Indians at Greenville, which followed Gen. Wayne's victories in the west--an event to which most of these tribes look back, as an era in their history. He afterwards returned to his native country in the upper lakes, and fixed his residence at Michilimackinac, where in late years, his wife became a convert to the Christian faith, and united herself to the mission church on that island. A few years after, the old prophet, who despised this mode of faith, and thought but little of his wife's sagacity in uniting herself to a congregation of believers, felt his own mind arrested by the same truths, and finally also embraced them, and was propounded for admission, and afterwards kept on trial before the session. It was about this time, or soon after he had been received as an applicant for membership, that the writer visited his lodge, and entered into a full examination of his sentiments and opinions, contrasting them freely with what they had formerly been. We requested him to narrate to us the facts of his conversion to the principles of Christianity, indicating the progress of truth on his mind, which he did in substance, through an interpreter, as follows: "In the early part of my life I lived very wickedly, following the META, the JEESUKAN, and the WABENO, the three great superstitious observances of my people. I did not know that these societies were made up of errors until my wife, whose heart had been turned by the missionaries, informed me of it. I had no pleasure in listening to her on this subject, and often turned away, declaring that I was well satisfied with the religion of my forefathers. She took every occasion of talking to me on the subject. She told me that the Indian societies were bad, and that all who adhered to them were no better than open servants of the Evil Spirit. She had, in particular, _four_ long talks with me on the subject, and explained to me who God was, and what sin was, as it is written in God's book. I believed before, that there was One Great Spirit who was the Master of life, who had made men and beasts. But she explained to me the true character of this Great Spirit, the sinfulness of the heart, and the necessity of having it changed from evil to good by praying through Jesus Christ. By degrees I came to understand it. She told me that the Ghost of God or Holy Spirit only could make the heart better, and that the souls of all who died, without having felt this power, would be burned in the fires. The missionaries had directed her to speak to me and put words in her mouth; and she said so much that, at length, I did not feel satisfied with my old way of life. Amongst other things she spoke against drinking, which I was very fond of. "I did not relish these conversations, but I could not forget them. When I reflected upon them, my heart was not as fixed as it used to be. I began to see that the Indian Societies were bad, for I knew from my own experience, that it was not a good Spirit that I had relied upon. I determined that I would not undertake _jeesukà_ or to look into futurity any longer for the Indians, nor practice the _Meta's_ art. After a while I began to see more fully that the Indian ceremonies were all bad, and I determined to quit them altogether, and give heed to what was declared in God's book. "The first time that I felt I was to be condemned as a sinner, and that I was in danger of being punished for sin by God, is clearly in my mind. I was then on the Island of Bois Blanc, making sugar with my wife. I was in a conflict of mind, and hardly knew what I was about. I walked around the kettles, and did not know what I walked for. I felt sometimes like a person wishing to cry, but I thought it would be unmanly to cry. For the space of two weeks, I felt in this alarmed and unhappy mood. It seemed to me sometimes as if I must die. My heart and my bones felt as if they would burst and fall asunder. My wife asked me if I was sick, and said I looked pale. I was in an agony of body and mind, especially during _one_ week. It seemed, during this time, as if an evil spirit haunted me. When I went out to gather sap, I felt conscious that this spirit went with me and dogged me. It appeared to animate my own shadow. "My strength was failing under this conflict. One night, after I had been busy all day, my mind was in great distress. This shadowy influence seemed to me to persuade me to go to sleep. I was tired, and I wished rest, but I could not sleep. I began to pray. I knelt down and prayed to God. I continued to pray at intervals through the night; I asked to know the truth. I then laid down and went to sleep. This sleep brought me rest and peace. In the morning my wife awoke me, telling me it was late. When I awoke I felt placid and easy in mind. My distress had left me. I asked my wife what day it was. She told me it was the Sabbath (in the Indian, prayer-day). I replied,'how I wish I could go to the church at the mission! Formerly I used to avoid it, and shunned those who wished to speak to me of praying to God, but now my heart longs to go there.' This feeling did not leave me. "After three days I went to the mission. The gladness of my heart continued the same as I had felt it the first morning at the camp. My first feeling when I landed, was pity for my drunken brethren, and I prayed that they might also be brought to find the true God. I spoke to the missionary, who at subsequent interviews explained to me the truth, the rite of baptism, and other principles. He wished, however, to try me by my life, and I wished it also. It was the following autumn, that I was received into the church." We now turned his mind to the subject of intemperance in drinking, understanding that it had been his former habit. He replied that he had been one of the greatest drunkards. He had not been satisfied with a ten days' drink. He would go and drink as long as he could get it. He said, that during the night in which he first prayed, it was one of the first subjects of his prayers, that God would remove this desire with his other evil desires. He added, "God did so." When he arose that morning the desire had left him. The evil spirit then tempted him by suggesting to his mind--"Should some one now enter and offer you liquor, would you not taste it?" He averred he could, at that moment, firmly answer No! It was now seven years since he had tasted a drop of strong drink. He remarked that when he used first to visit the houses of Christians, who gladly opened their doors to him, they were in the habit of asking him to drink a glass of cider or wine, which he did. But this practice had nearly ruined him. On one occasion he felt the effects of what he had thus been prevailed on to drink. The danger he felt himself to be in was such, that he was alarmed and gave up this practice also. He detailed some providential trials which he had been recently exposed to. He had observed, he said, that those of his people who had professed piety and had subsequently fallen off, had nevertheless prospered in worldly things, while he had found it very hard to live. He was often in a state of want, and his lodge was so poor and bad, that it would not keep out the rain. Both he and his wife were feeble, and their clothes were worn out. They had now but a single blanket between them. But when these trials came up in his mind, he immediately resorted to God, who satisfied him. Another trait in the character of his piety, may here be mentioned. The autumn succeeding his conversion, he went over to the spot on the island where he had planted potatoes. The Indian method is, not to visit their small plantations from the time that their corn or potatoes are _hilled_. He was pleased to find that the crop in this instance promised to yield abundantly, and his wife immediately commenced the process of raising them. "Stop!" exclaimed the grateful old man, "dare you dig these potatoes until we have thanked the Lord for them?" They then both knelt in prayer, and afterwards gathered the crop. This individual appeared to form a tangible point in the intellectual chain between Paganism and Christianity, which it is felt important to examine. We felt desirous of drawing from him such particulars respecting his former practice in necromancy and the prophetic art, as might lead to correct philosophical conclusions. He had been the great juggler of his tribe. He was now accepted as a Christian. What were his own conceptions of the power and arts he had practised? How did these things appear to his mind, after a lapse of several years, during which his opinions and feelings had undergone changes, in many respects so striking? We found not the slightest avoiding of this topic on his part. He attributed all his ability in deceptive arts to the agency of the Evil Spirit; and he spoke of it with the same settled tone that he had manifested in reciting other points in his personal experience. He believed that he had followed a spirit whose object it was to deceive the Indians and make them miserable. He believed that this spirit had left him and that he was now following, in the affections of his heart, the spirit of Truth. Numerous symbols of the classes of the animate creation are relied on by the Indian _metays_ and _wabenos_, to exhibit their affected power of working miracles and to scrutinize the scenes of futurity. The objects which this man had appealed to as personal spirits in the arcanum of his lodge, were the tortoise, the swan, the woodpecker and the crow. He had dreamed of these at his initial fast in his youth, during the period set apart for this purpose, and he believed that a satanic influence was exerted, by presenting to his mind one or more of these solemnly appropriated objects at the moment of his invoking them. This is the theory drawn from his replies. We solicited him to detail the _modus operandi_, after entering the juggler's lodge. This lodge resembles an acute pyramid with the apex open. It is formed of poles, covered with tight-drawn skins. His replies were perfectly ingenuous, evincing nothing of the natural taciturnity and shyness of the Indian mind. The great object with the operator is to agitate this lodge, and cause it to move and shake without uprooting it from its basis, in such a manner as to induce the spectators to believe that the _power of action is superhuman_. After this manifestation of spiritual _presence_, the priest within is prepared to give oracular responses. The only articles within were a drum and rattle. In reply to our inquiry as to the mode of procedure, he stated that his first essay, after entering the lodge, was to strike the drum and commence his incantations. At this time his personal manitos assumed their agency, and received, it is to be inferred, _a satanic energy_. Not that he affects that there was any visible form assumed. But he felt their spirit-like presence. He represents the agitation of the lodge to be due to currents of air, having the irregular and gyratory power of a whirlwind. He does not pretend that his responses were guided by truth, but on the contrary affirms that they were given under the influence of the evil spirit. We interrogated him as to the use of physical and mechanical means in effecting cures, in the capacity of a meta, or a medicine man. He referred to various medicines, some of which he thinks were antibilious or otherwise sanatory. He used two bones in the exhibition of his physical skill, one of which was _white_ and the other _green_. His arcanum also embraced two small stone images. He affected to look _into_ and _through_ the flesh, and to draw from the body fluids, as bile and blood. He applied his mouth in suction. He characterized both the _meta_ or medicine dances and the _wabeno_ dances by a term which may be translated _deviltry_. Yet he discriminated between these two popular institutions by adding that the _meta_ included the use of medicines, good and bad. The _wabeno_, on the contrary, consisted wholly in a wild exhibition of mere braggadocio and trick. It is not, according to him, an ancient institution. It originated, he said, with a Pottawattomie, who was sick and lunatic a month. When this man recovered he pretended that he had ascended to heaven, and had brought thence divine arts, to aid his countrymen. With respect to the opinion steadfastly maintained by this venerable subject of Indian reformation, that his deceptive arts were rendered effectual in the way he designed, by _satanic agency_, we leave the reader to form his own conclusions. In his mode of stating the facts, we concede much to him, on the score of long established mental habits, and the peculiarities arising from a mythology, exceeding even that of ancient Greece, for the number, variety and ubiquity of its objects. But we perceive nothing, on Christian theories, heterodox in the general position. When the truth of the gospel comes to be grafted into the benighted heart of a pagan, such as Chusco was, it throws a fearful light on the objects which have been cherished there. The whole system of the mythological agency of the gods and spirits of the heathen world and its clumsy machinery is shown to be a sheer system of demonology, referable, in its operative effects on the minds of individuals, to the "Prince of the power of the air." As such the Bible depicts it. We have not been in the habit of conceding the existence of demoniacal possessions, _in the present era of Christianity_, and have turned over some scores of chapters and verses to satisfy our minds of the _abrogation of these things_. But we have found no proofs of such a withdrawal of evil agency short of the very point where our subject places it--that is, the dawning of the light of Christianity in the heart. We have, on the contrary, found in the passages referred to, the declaration of the full and free existence of such an agency in the general import, and apprehend that it cannot be plucked out of the sacred writings. The language of such an agency appears to be fully developed among the northern tribes. _Spirit-ridden_ they certainly are; and the mental slavery in which they live, under the fear of an invisible agency of evil spirits, is, we apprehend, greater even than the bondage of the body. The whole mind is bowed down under these intellectual fetters which circumscribe its volitions, and bind it as effectually as with the hooks of steel which pierce a whirling Hindoo's flesh. Whatever is wonderful, or past comprehension to their minds, is referred to the agency of a spirit. This is the ready solution of every mystery in nature, and of every refinement of mechanical power in art. A watch is, in the intricacy of its machinery, a spirit. A piece of blue cloth--cast and blistered steel--a compass, a jewel, an insect, &c., are, respectively, a spirit. Thunder consists, in their transcendental astronomy, of so many distinct spirits. The aurora borealis is a body of dancing spirits, or rather ghosts of the departed. Such were the ideas and experiences of Chusco, after his union with the church; and with these views he lived and died, having given evidence, as was thought, of the reception of the Saviour, _through faith_. To give some idea of the Indian mythology as above denoted, it is necessary to conceive every department of the universe to be filled with invisible spirits. These spirits hold in their belief nearly the same relation to matter that the soul does to the body: they pervade it. They believe not only that every man, but also _that every animal, has a soul_; and as might be expected under this belief, they make no distinction between _instinct_ and _reason_. Every animal is supposed to be endowed with a reasoning faculty. The movements of birds and other animals are deemed to be the result, not of mere instinctive animal powers implanted and limited by the creation, without inherent power to _exceed_ or _enlarge_ them, but of a process of ratiocination. They go a step farther, and believe that animals, particularly birds, can look into, and are familiar with the vast operations of the world above. Hence the great respect they pay to birds as agents of omen, and also to some animals, whose souls they expect to encounter in another life. Nay, it is the settled belief among the northern Algonquins, that animals will fare better in another world, in the precise ratio that their lives and enjoyments have been curtailed in this life. Dreams are considered by them as a means of direct communication with the spiritual world; and hence the great influence which dreams exert over the Indian mind and conduct. They are generally regarded as friendly warnings of their personal manitos. No labor or enterprise is undertaken against their indications. A whole army is turned back if the dreams of the officiating priest are unfavorable. A family lodge has been known to be deserted by all its inmates at midnight, leaving the fixtures behind, because one of the family had dreamt of an attack, and been frightened with the impression of blood and tomahawks. To give more solemnity to his office the priest or leading _meta_ exhibits a sack containing the carved or stuffed images of animals, with medicines and bones constituting the sacred charms. These are never exhibited to the common gaze, but, on a march, the sack is hung up in plain view. To profane the medicine sack would be equivalent to violating the altar. Dreams are carefully sought by every Indian, whatever be their rank, at certain periods of youth, with fasting. These fasts are sometimes continued a great number of days, until the devotee becomes pale and emaciated. The animals that appear propitiously to the mind during these dreams, are fixed on and selected as personal manitos, and are ever after viewed as guardians. This period of fasting and dreaming is deemed as essential by them as any religious rite whatever employed by Christians. The initial fast of a young man or girl holds the relative importance of baptism, with this peculiarity, that it is a free-will, or self-dedicatory rite. The naming of children has an intimate connection with the system of mythological agency. Names are usually bestowed by some aged person, most commonly under the supposed guidance of a particular spirit. They are often derived from the mystic scenes presented in a dream, and refer to aerial phenomena. Yellow Thunder, Bright Sky, Big Cloud, Spirit Sky, Spot in the Sky, are common names for males. Females are more commonly named from the vernal or autumnal landscape, as Woman of the Valley, Woman of the Rock, &c. Females are not excluded from participation in the prophetical office or jugglership. Instances of their having assumed this function are known to have occurred, although it is commonly confined to males. In every other department of life they are apparently regarded as inferior or _inclusive_ beings. Names bestowed with ceremony in childhood are deemed sacred, and are seldom pronounced, out of respect, it would seem, to the spirit under whose favor they are supposed to have been selected. Children are usually called in the family by some name which can be familiarly used. A male child is frequently called by the mother, a bird, or young one, or old man, as terms of endearment, or bad boy, evil-doer, &c., in the way of light reproach; and these names often adhere to the individual through life. Parents avoid the true name often by saying my son, my younger, or my elder son, or my younger or my elder daughter, for which the language has separate words. This subject of a reluctance to tell their names is very curious and deserving of investigation. The Indian "art and mystery" of hunting is a tissue of necromantic or mythological reliances. The personal spirits of the hunter are invoked to give success in the chace. Images of the animals sought for are sometimes carved in wood, or drawn by the metas on tabular pieces of wood. By applying their mystic medicines to these, the animals are supposed to be drawn into the hunter's path; and when animals have been killed, the Indian feels, that although they are an authorized and lawful prey, yet there is something like accountability to the animal's _suppositional soul_. An Indian has been known to ask the pardon of an animal, which he had just killed. Drumming, shaking the rattle, and dancing and singing, are the common accompaniments of all these superstitious observances, and are not peculiar to one class alone. In the wabeno dance, which is esteemed by the Indians as the most latitudinarian co-fraternity, love songs are introduced. They are never heard in the medicine dances. They would subject one to utter contempt in the war dance. The system of _manito worship_ has another peculiarity, which is illustrative of Indian character. During the fasts and ceremonial dances by which a warrior prepares himself to come up to the duties of war, everything that savors of effeminacy is put aside. The spirits which preside over bravery and war are alone relied on, and these are supposed to be offended by the votary's paying attention to objects less stern and manly than themselves. Venus and Mars cannot be worshipped at the same time. It would be considered a complete desecration for a warrior, while engaged in war, to entangle himself by another, or more tender sentiment. We think this opinion should be duly estimated in the general award which history gives to the chastity of warriors. We would record the fact to their praise, as fully as it has been done; but we would subtract something from the _motive_, in view of his paramount obligations of a sacred character, and also the fear of the ridicule of his co-warriors. In these leading doctrines of an oral and mystic school of wild philosophy may be perceived the groundwork of their mythology, and the general motive for selecting familiar spirits. Manito, or as the Chippewas pronounce it, monédo, signifies simply a spirit, and there is neither a good nor bad meaning attached to it, when not under the government of some adjective or qualifying particle. We think, however, that so far as there is a meaning distinct from an invisible existence, the tendency is to a bad meaning. A bad meaning is, however, distinctly conveyed by the inflection, _osh_ or _ish_. The particle _wee_, added in the same relation, indicates a witch. Like numerous other nouns, it has its diminutive in _os_, its plural in _wug_, and its local form in _ing_. To add "great," as the Jesuit writers did, is far from deciding the moral character of the spirit, and hence modern translators prefix _gezha_, signifying merciful. Yet we doubt whether the word God should not be carried boldly into translations of the scriptures. In the conference and prayer-room, the native teachers use the inclusive pronominal form of Father, altogether. Truth breaks slowly on the mind, sunk in so profound a darkness as the Indians are, and there is danger in retaining the use of words like those which they have so long employed in a problematical, if not a derogative sense. The love for mystery and magic which pervades the native ceremonies, has affected the forms of their language. They have given it a power to impart life to dead masses. Vitality in their forms of utterance is deeply implanted in all these dialects, which have been examined; they provide, by the process of inflection, for keeping a perpetual distinction between the animate and inanimate kingdoms. But where vitality and spirituality are so blended as we see them in their doctrine of animal souls, the inevitable result must be, either to exalt the principle of life, in all the classes of nature, into immortality, or to sink the latter to the level of mere organic life. Indian word-makers have taken the former dilemma, and peopled their paradise not only with the souls of men, but with the souls of every imaginable kind of beasts. Spirituality is thus clogged with sensual accidents. The human soul _hungers_, and it must have food deposited upon the grave. _It suffers from cold_, and the body must be wrapped about with cloths. It is in _darkness_, and a light must be kindled at the head of the grave. It wanders through plains and across streams, subject to the providences of this life, in quest of its place of enjoyment, and when it reaches it, it finds every species of sensual trial, which renders the place not indeed a _heaven of rest_, but _another experimental world_--very much like this. Of punishments, we hear nothing; rewards are looked for abundantly, and the idea that the Master of life, or the merciful Spirit, will be alike merciful to all, _irrespective of the acts of this life_, or the degree of _moral turpitude_, appears to leave for their theology a belief in restorations or universalism. There is nothing to refer them to a Saviour; that IDEA was beyond their conception, and of course there was no occasion for the offices of the Holy Ghost. Darker and more chilling views to a theologian, it would be impossible to present. Yet it may be asked, what more benign result could have been, or can now be, anticipated in the hearts of an ignorant, uninstructed and wandering people, exposed to sore vicissitudes in their lives and fortunes, and without the guidance of the light of Revelation? Of their mythology proper, we have space only to make a few remarks. Some of the mythologic existences of the Indians admit of poetic uses. Manabozho may be considered as a sort of terrene Jove, who could perform all things whatever, but lived some time on earth, and excelled particularly in feats of strength and manual dexterity. All the animals were subject to him. He also survived a deluge, which the traditions mention, having climbed a tree on an extreme elevation during the prevalence of the waters, and sent down various animals for some earth, out of which he re-created the globe. The four cardinal points are so many demi-gods, of whom the West, called KABEUN, has priority of age. The East, North and South are deemed to be his sons, by a maid who incautiously exposed herself to the west wind. IAGOO (Iagoo) is the god of the marvellous, and many most extravagant tales of forest and domestic adventure are heaped upon him. KWASIND is a sort of Samson, who threw a huge mass of rock such as the Cyclops cast at Mentor. WEENG is the god of sleep, who is represented to have numerous small emissaries at his service, reminding us of Pope's creation of gnomes. These minute emissaries climb up the forehead, and wielding a tiny club, knock individuals to sleep. PAUCUK is death, in his symbolic attitude. He is armed with a bow and arrows. It would be easy to extend this enumeration. The mental powers of the Indian constitutes a topic which we do not design to discuss. But it must be manifest that some of their peculiarities are brought out by their system of mythology and spirit-craft. War, public policy, hunting, abstinence, endurance and courageous adventure, form the leading topics of their mental efforts. These are deemed the appropriate themes of men, sages and warriors. But their intellectual essays have also a domestic theatre of exhibition. It is here that the Indian mind unbends itself and reveals some of its less obvious traits. Their public speakers cultivate a particular branch of oratory. They are careful in the use of words, and are regarded as standards of purity in the language. They appear to have an accurate ear for sounds, and delight in rounding off a period, for which the languages afford great facilities, by their long and stately words, and multiform inflexions. A drift of thought--an elevation of style, is observable in their public speaking which is dropt in private conversation. Voice, attitude and motion, are deemed of the highest consequence. Much of the meaning of their expressions is varied by the vehement, subdued, or prolonged tone in which they are uttered. In private conversation, on the contrary, all is altered. There is an equanimity of tone, and easy vein of narration or dialogue, in which the power of mimicry is most strikingly brought out. The very voice and words of the supposed speakers, in their fictitious legends, are assumed. Fear, supplication, timidity or boasting, are exactly depicted, and the deepest interest excited. All is ease and freedom from restraint. There is nothing of the coldness or severe formality of the council. The pipe is put to its ordinary use, and all its symbolic sanctity is laid aside with the wampum belt and the often reiterated state epithets, "Nosa" and "Kosinan," i.e. _my father_ and _our father_. Another striking trait of the race is found in their legends and tales. Those of the aboriginal race who excel in private conversation, become to their tribes oral chroniclers, and are relied on for historical traditions as well as tales. It is necessary, in listening to them, to distinguish between the gossip and the historian, the narrator of real events, and of nursery tales. For they gather together everything from the fabulous feats of Manebozho and Misshozha, to the hair-breadth escapes of a Pontiac, or a Black Hawk. These narrators are generally men of a good memory and a certain degree of humor, who have experienced vicissitudes, and are cast into the vale of years. In the rehearsal of their tales, transformations and transmigrations are a part of the machinery relied on; and some of them are as accurately adapted to the purposes of amusement or instruction, as if Zoroaster or Ovid himself had been consulted in their production. Many objects in the inanimate creation, according to these tales, were originally men and women. And numerous animals had other forms in their first stages of existence, which they, as well as human beings, forfeited, by the power of necromancy and transmigration. The evening star, it is fabled, was formerly a woman. An ambitious boy became one of the planets. Three brothers, travelling in a canoe, were translated into a group of stars. The fox, lynx, hare, robin, eagle and numerous other species, retain places in the Indian system of astronomy. The mouse obtained celestial elevation by creeping up the rainbow, which Indian story makes a flossy mass of bright threads, and by the power of gnawing them, he relieved a captive in the sky. It is a coincidence, which we note, that _ursa major_ is called by them the bear. These legends are not confined to the sky alone. The earth also is a fruitful theatre of transformations. The wolf was formerly a boy, who, being neglected by his parents, was transformed into this animal. A shell, lying on the shore, was transformed to the raccoon. The brains of an adulteress were converted into the _addikumaig_, or white fish. The power of transformation was variously exercised. It most commonly existed in magicians, of whom Abo, Manabosh or Manabozha, and Mishosha, retain much celebrity. The latter possessed a magic canoe which would rush forward through the water on the utterance of a charm, with a speed that would outstrip the wind. Hundreds of miles were performed in as many minutes. The charm which he uttered, consisted of a monosyllable, containing one consonant, which does not belong to the language; and this word has no definable meaning. So that the language of magic and demonology has one feature in common in all ages and with every nation. Man, in his common shape, is not alone the subject of their legends. The intellectual creations of the Indians admit of the agency of giants and fairies. Anak and his progeny could not have created more alarm in the minds of the ten faithless spies, than do the race of fabulous Weendigos to the Indian tribes. These giants are represented as cannibals, who ate up men, women and children. Indian fairies are of two classes, distinguished as the place of their revels is either the land or water. Land-fairies are imagined to choose their residences about promontories, water-falls and solemn groves. The water, besides its appropriate class of aquatic fairies, is supposed to be the residence of a race of beings called Nibanaba which have their analogy, except as to sex, in the mermaid. The Indian word indicates a male. Ghosts are the ordinary machinery in their tales of terror and mystery. There is, perhaps, a glimmering of the idea of retributive justice in the belief that ghosts and spirits are capable of existing in fire. FOOTNOTES: [19] New York Lit. & Theo. Review. INDIAN ARROW HEADS, &c. By far the most numerous relics of the Red Race, now found in those parts of our country from which it has disappeared, are the small stones with which they headed their arrows. Being made of the most durable substances, they have generally remained in the soil, unaffected by time and the changes of season. They most abound in those rich meadows which border some of our rivers, and in other spots of peculiar fertility, though of less extent, where the pasture, or other attractions, collected game for the Red men. The stones most commonly used were quartz and flint, which were preferred on account of the facility of shaping them, the keenness of the points and edges, which they readily present under the blows of a skilful manufacturer, as well as their superior hardness and imperishable nature. Multitudes of specimens still exist, which show the various forms and sizes to which the Red men reduced stones of these kinds: and they excite our admiration, by their perfect state of preservation, as well by the skilfulness of their manufacture. Other stones, however, were not unfrequently used: and a collection which we have been making for many years, presents a considerable variety of materials, as well as of sizes, shapes and colors. Hard sand-stone, trap or graacke, jasper and chalcedony, appear occasionally; some almost transparent. One of the larger size is made of steatite, and smooth, as if cut or scraped with a knife, contrary to the common method, of gradually chipping off small fragments of more brittle stone, by light blows often repeated. These arrow heads were fastened to the shaft, by inserting the butt into the split end, and tying round it a string of deer's sinews. A groove or depression is commonly observable in the stone, designed to receive the string. But it is sometimes difficult to imagine how the fastening was effected, as some perfect arrow-heads show no such depressions, and their forms are not well adapted to such a purpose. This peculiarity, however, is most frequently to be observed in specimens of small size, the larger, and especially such as are commonly supposed to have been the heads of spears, being usually well shaped for tying. It is remarkable that some spots have been found, where such relics were surprizingly numerous. In Hartford, Connecticut, about thirty years ago, many were picked up in a garden, at the corner of Front and Mill streets. The spot was indeed on the bank of the Little River, probably at the head of Indian Canoe navigation: but yet no rational conjecture could be formed, to account for the discovery, except one. It was concluded that the place was an ancient burying ground. Many bits of coarse earthen-ware were found, such as are common in many parts of the country. About two miles below Middletown, Connecticut, on the slope of a hill on the southern side of the Narrows, we discovered, some years since, a great number of small fragments of white quartz, scattered thickly over the surface of the ground, perhaps for half an acre. Among them were several arrow heads of various forms, most of them imperfect, and many pieces of stone, which at first sight resembled them, but, on closer inspection, seemed to have been designed for arrow heads, but spoiled in the making. Some had one good edge, or a point or barb, while the other parts of the same stones showed only the natural form and fracture. In many instances, it was easy to see that the workman might well have been discouraged from proceeding any farther, by a flaw, a break or the nature of the stone. Our conclusion was, that the spot had long been a place where Indian arrow heads were made, and that we saw around us the refuse fragments rejected by the workmen. Other spots have been heard of resembling this. If such relics were found nowhere else but in our own country, they would be curious, and worthy of preservation and attention: but it is an interesting fact, not however generally known, that they exist in many other parts of the world. Stone arrow and spear heads have been found in England for hundreds of years, and are believed to have been made and used by the Britons, who, in respect to civilization, were nearly on a level with our Indians. These relics are called by the common people Celts, from the race whose memory they recall; and particular accounts of them are given, with drawings, in several antiquarian works. They bear a striking resemblance to our Indian arrow heads; and many of them could be hardly, if at all, distinguished from those of America. African arrows have been brought to this country, in which the points were of the same forms and materials, and fastened in the same manner. About twelve years ago a vessel from Stonington was attacked by a party of Patagonians, who threw arrows on board. One of these which we procured, was pointed with a head of milky quartz, exactly corresponding with specimens picked up in New England. Among the relics found in excavating the low mounds on the plain of Marathon, as we were informed by one of our countrymen, who was at Athens some years ago, there were spear heads made of flint, which, he declared, were like those he had often seen ploughed up in his native fields. These, it was conjectured, might have been among the weapons of some of the rude Scythians in the Persian army, which met its defeat on that celebrated battle ground. A negro, from an obscure group of islands, just north of New Guinea, in describing the weapons in use among his countrymen, drew the forms of spear heads, which he said were often made of stones; and, when shown specimens from our collection, declared that they were very much like them. It has been thought, that certain instruments would naturally be invented by men in particular states of society and under certain circumstances, as the result of their wants and the means at hand to supply them. It is not, however, always easy to reconcile this doctrine with facts. For example, the black race of the islands north of New Holland, (of which so little is yet known,) appear to require the use of the bow as much as any other savage people, yet they are entirely ignorant of it, though it has been thought one of the simple, most natural and most indispensable instruments in such a condition of society. We are therefore left in doubt, in the present state of our knowledge, whether the manufacture and use of stone arrow heads have been so extensively diffused over the globe by repeated inventions, or by an intercourse between portions of the human race long since ceased, or by both causes. To whichever of these opinions we may incline, the subject must still appear to us worthy of investigation, as the history of these relics must necessarily be closely connected with that of different families and races of men in every continent and in every zone. We would invite particular attention to the position and circumstances of Indian remains which may hereafter be found; and would express a wish that they might be recorded and made known. Our newspapers offer a most favorable vehicle for the communication of such discoveries and observations, and our editors generally must have taste and judgment enough to give room for them. It was remarked in some of our publications a few years ago, that no unequivocal remains of the Red men had yet been discovered in the earth, below the most recent strata of soil, excepting cases in which they had been buried in graves, &c. Perhaps later observations may furnish evidence of the longer presence of that race on our continent than such a statement countenances. One of the most interesting objects of enquiry, with some antiquaries, is whether there are any ancient indications of Alphabetical writing in our continent. A small stone found in the Grave-Creek Mound, and others of a more doubtful character, are quite sufficient to awaken interest and stimulate enquiry. A few specimens of rude sculpture and drawing have been found in different parts of the U. States; and shells, ornaments, &c., evidently brought from great distances. There may be others, known to individuals, of which antiquaries are not aware. After perusing the foregoing pages, it will be easy to realize that all such remains may be worthy of attention. Not only copies should be made and dimensions taken, but descriptions should be written, local information and traditions collected, measures taken to preserve the originals, and some notice given which may reach persons interested in such subjects.--_E._ INDIAN MUSIC, SONGS, AND POETRY. No. I. The North American tribes have the elements of music and poetry. Their war songs frequently contain flights of the finest heroic sentiment, clothed in poetic imagery. And numbers of the addresses of the speakers, both occasional and public, abound in eloquent and poetic thought. "We would anticipate eloquence," observes a modern American writer, "from an Indian. He has animating remembrances--a poetry of language, which exacts rich and apposite metaphorical allusions, even for ordinary conversation--a mind which, like his body, has never been trammelled and mechanized by the formalities of society, and passions which, from the very outward restraint imposed upon them, burn more fiercely within." Yet, it will be found that the records of our literature, scattered as they are, in periodicals and ephemeral publications, rather than in works of professed research, are meagre and barren, on these topics. One of the first things we hear of the Indians, after their discovery, is their proneness to singing and dancing. But however characteristic these traits may be, and we think they are eminently so, it has fallen to the lot of but few to put on record specimens, which may be appealed to, as evidences of the current opinion, on these heads. With favourable opportunities of observation among the tribes, we have but to add our testimony to the difficulties of making collections in these departments, which shall not compromit the intellectual character of the tribes, whose efforts are always oral, and very commonly extemporaneous. These difficulties arise from the want of suitable interpreters, the remoteness of the points at which observations must be made, the heavy demands made upon hours of leisure or business by such inquiries, and the inconvenience of making notes and detailed memoranda on the spot. The little that it is in our power to offer, will therefore be submitted as contributions to an inquiry which is quite in its infancy, and rather with the hope of exciting others to future labours, than of gratifying, to any extent, an enlightened curiosity on the subject. Dancing is both an amusement and a religious observance, among the American Indians, and is known to constitute one of the most wide spread traits in their manners and customs. It is accompanied, in all cases, with singing, and, omitting a few cases, with the beating of time on instruments. Tribes the most diverse in language, and situated at the greatest distances apart, concur in this. It is believed to be the ordinary mode of expressing intense passion, or feeling on any subject, and it is a custom which has been persevered in, with the least variation, through all the phases of their history, and probably exists among the remote tribes, precisely at this time, as it did in the era of Columbus. It is observed to be the last thing abandoned by bands and individuals, in their progress to civilization and christianity. So true is this, that it may be regarded as one of the best practical proofs of their advance, to find the native instruments and music thrown by, and the custom abandoned. Every one has heard of the war dance, the medicine dance, the wabeno dance, the dance of honour (generally called the begging dance,) and various others, each of which has its appropriate movements, its air, and its words. There is no feast, and no religious ceremony, among them, which is not attended with dancing and songs. Thanks are thus expressed for success in hunting, for triumphs in war, and for ordinary providential cares. Public opinion is called to pressing objects by a dance, at which addresses are made, and in fact, moral instructions and advice are given to the young, in the course of their being assembled at social feasts and dances. Dancing is indeed the common resource, whenever the mass of Indian mind is to be acted on. And it thus stands viewed in its necessary connection with the songs and addresses, in the room of the press, the newspaper, and the periodical. The priests and prophets have, more than any other class, cultivated their national songs and dances, and may be regarded as the skalds and poets of the tribes. They are generally the composers of the songs, and the leaders in the dance and ceremonies, and it is found, that their memories are the best stored, not only with the sacred songs and chants, but also with the traditions, and general lore of the tribes. Dancing is thus interwoven throughout the whole texture of Indian society, so that there is scarcely an event important or trivial, private or public, which is not connected, more or less intimately, with this rite. The instances where singing is adopted, without dancing, are nearly confined to occurrences of a domestic character. Among these, are wails for the dead, and love songs of a simple and plaintive character. Maternal affection evinces itself, by singing words, to a cheerful air, over the slumbers of the child, which, being suspended in a kind of cradle receives, at the same time avibratory motion. Children have likewise certain chants, which they utter in the evenings, while playing around the lodge door, or at other seasons of youthful hilarity. Some of the Indian fables are in the shape of duets, and the songs introduced in narrating their fictitious tales, are always sung in the recital. Their instruments of music are few and simple. The only wind instrument existing among them is the Pibbegwon, a kind of flute, resembling in simplicity the Arcadian pipe. It is commonly made of two semi-cylindrical pieces of cedar, united with fish glue, and having a snake skin, in a wet state, drawn tightly over it, to prevent its cracking. The holes are eight in number, and are perforated by means of a bit of heated iron. It is blown like the flagolet, and has a similar orifice or mouth piece. The TAYWÁEGUN, (struck-sound-instrument,) is a tamborine, or one-headed drum, and is made by adjusting a skin to one end of the section of a moderate sized hollow tree. When a heavier sound is required, a tree of larger circumference is chosen, and both ends closed with skins. The latter is called MITTIGWUKEEK, i.e. Wood-Kettle-Drum, and is appropriately used in religious ceremonies, but is not, perhaps, confined to this occasion. To these may be added a fourth instrument, called the SHESHEGWON, or Rattle, which is constructed in various ways, according to the purpose or means of the maker. Sometimes it is made of animal bladder, from which the name is derived, sometimes of a wild gourd; in others, by attaching the dried hoofs of the deer to a stick. This instrument is employed both to mark time, and to produce variety in sound. ORAL COMPOSITION. Common as the Indian songs are, it is found to be no ordinary acquisition to obtain accurate specimens of them. Even after the difficulties of the notation have been accomplished, it is not easy to satisfy the requisitions of a correct taste and judgment, in their exhibition. There is always a lingering fear of misapprehension, or misconception, on the part of the interpreter--or of some things being withheld by the never sleeping suspicion, or the superstitious fear of disclosure, on the part of the Indian. To these must be added, the idiomatic and imaginative peculiarities of this species of wild composition--so very different from every notion of English versification. In the first place there is no unity of theme, or plot, unless it be that the subject, war for instance, is kept in the singer's mind. In the next place both the narration and the description, when introduced, is very imperfect, broken, or disjointed. Prominent ideas flash out, and are dropped. These are often most striking and beautiful, but we wait in vain for any sequence. A brief allusion--a shining symbol, a burst of feeling or passion, a fine sentiment, or a bold assertion, come in as so many independent parts, and there is but little in the composition to indicate the leading theme which is, as it were, kept in mental reserve, by the singer. Popular, or favourite expressions are often repeated, often transposed, and often exhibited with some new shade of meaning. The structure and flexibility of the language is highly favourable to this kind of wild improvisation. But it is difficult to translate, and next to impossible to preserve its spirit. Two languages more unlike in all their leading characteristics, than the English and the Indian were never brought into contact. The one monosyllabic, and nearly without inflections--the other polysyllabic, polysynthetic and so full of inflections of every imaginative kind, as to be completely transpositive--the one from the north of Europe, the other, probably, from Central Asia, it would seem that these families of the human race, had not wandered wider apart, in their location, than they have in the sounds of their language, the accidence of their grammar and the definition of their words. So that to find equivalent single words in translation, appears often as hopeless as the quadrature of the circle. The great store-house of Indian imagery is the heavens. The clouds, the planets, the sun, and moon, the phenomena of lightning, thunder, electricity, aerial sounds, electric or atmospheric, and the endless variety produced in the heavens by light and shade, and by elemental action,--these constitute the fruitful themes of allusion in their songs and poetic chants. But they are mere allusions, or broken description, like touches on the canvass, without being united to produce a perfect object. The strokes may be those of a master, and the colouring exquisite; but without the art to draw, or the skill to connect, it will still remain but a shapeless mass. In war excursions great attention is paid to the flight of birds, particularly those of the carnivorous species, which are deemed typical of war and bravery, and their wing and tail feathers are appropriated as marks of honor, by the successful warrior. When the minds of a war party have been roused up to the subject, and they are prepared to give utterance to their feelings by singing and dancing, they are naturally led to appeal to the agency of this class of birds. Hence the frequent allusions to them, in their songs. The following stanza is made up of expressions brought into connection, from different fragments, but expresses no more than the native sentiments: The eagles scream on high, They whet their forked beaks, Raise--raise the battle cry, 'Tis fame our leader seeks. Generally the expressions are of an exalted and poetic character, but the remark before made of their efforts in song, being discontinuous and abrupt, apply with peculiar force to the war songs. To speak of a brave man--of a battle--or the scene of a battle, or of the hovering of birds of prey above it, appears sufficient to bring up to the warrior's mind, all the details consequent on personal bravery or heroic achievement. It would naturally be expected, that they should delight to dwell on scenes of carnage and blood: but however this may be, all such details are omitted or suppressed in their war songs, which only excite ideas of noble daring. The birds of the brave take a flight round the sky, They cross the enemy's line, Full happy am I--that my body should fall, Where brave men love to die. Very little effort in the collocation and expansion of some of their sentiments, would impart to these bold and unfettered rhapsodies, an attractive form, among polished war songs. The strain in which these measures are sung, is generally slow and grave in its commencement and progress, and terminates in the highest note. While the words admit of change, and are marked by all the fluctuation of extempore composition, the air and the chorus appear to be permanent, consisting not only of a graduated succession of fixed sounds, but, always exact in their enunciation, their quantity, and their wild and startling musical expression. It has always appeared to me that the Indian music is marked by a nationality, above many other traits, and it is a subject inviting future attention. It is certain that the Indian ear is exact in noting musical sounds, and in marking and beating time. But little observation at their dances, will be sufficient to establish this fact. Nor is it less certain, by attention to the philology of their language, that they are exact in their laws of euphony, and syllabical quantity. How this remark may consist with the use of unmeasured and fluctuating poetry in their songs, it may require studied attention to answer. It is to be observed, however, that these songs are rather _recited_, or _chanted_, than sung. Increments of the chorus are not unfrequently interspersed, in the body of the line, which would otherwise appear deficient in quantity; and perhaps rules of metre may be found, by subsequent research, which are not obvious, or have been concealed by the scantiness of the materials, on this head, which have been examined. To determine the airs and choruses and the character of the music, will prove one of the greatest facilities to this inquiry. Most of the graver pieces, which have been written out, are arranged in metres of sixes, sevens, and eights. The lighter chants are in threes or fours, and consist of iambics and trochees irregularly. Those who have translated hymns into the various languages, have followed the English metres, not always without the necessity of elision, or employing constrained or crampt modes of expression. A worse system could not have been adopted to show Indian sentiment. The music in all these cases has been like fetters to the free, wild thoughts of the native singer. As a general criticism upon these translations, it may be remarked that they are often far from being literal, and often omit parts of the original. On the other hand, by throwing away adjectives, in a great degree, and dropping all incidental or side thoughts, and confining the Indian to the leading thought or sentiment, they are, sometimes, rendered more simple, appropriate, and effective. Finally, whatever cultivated minds among the Indians, or their descendants may have done, it is quite evident to me, from the attention I have been able to give the subject, that the native compositions were without metre. The natives appear to have sung a sufficient number of syllables to comply with the air, and effected the necessary pauses, for sense or sound, by either slurring over, and thus shortening, or by throwing in floating particles of the language, to eke out the quantity, taken either from the chorus, or from the general auxiliary forms of the vocabulary. Rhyme is permitted by the similarity of the sounds from which the vocabulary is formed, but the structure of the language does not appear to admit of its being successfully developed in this manner. Its forms are too cumbrous for regularly recurring expressions, subjected at once to the laws of metre and rhyme. The instances of rhyme that have been observed in the native songs are few, and appear to be the result of the fortuitous positions of words, rather than of art. The following juvenile see-saw is one of the most perfect specimens noticed, being exact in both particulars: Ne osh im aun Ne way be naun. These are expressions uttered on sliding a carved stick down snow banks, or over a glazed surface of ice, in the appropriate season; and they may be rendered with nearly literal exactness, thus: My sliding stick I send quick--quick. Not less accurate in the rhyme, but at lines of six and eight feet, which might perhaps be exhibited unbroken, is the following couplet of a war song: Au pit she Mon e tög Ne mud wa wa wau we ne gög. The Spirit on high, Repeats my warlike name. In the translation of hymns, made during the modern period of missionary effort, there has been no general attempt to secure rhyme; and as these translations are generally due to educated natives, under the inspection and with the critical aid of the missionary, they have evinced a true conception of the genius of the language, by the omission of this accident. Eliot, who translated the psalms of David into the Massachusetts language, which were first printed in 1661, appears to have deemed it important enough to aim at its attainment: but an examination of the work, now before us, gives but little encouragement to others to follow his example, at least while the languages remain in their present rude and uncultivated state. The following is the XXIII Psalm from this version: 1. Mar teag nukquenaabikoo shepse nanaauk God. Nussepsinwahik ashkoshqut nuttinuk ohtopagod 2. Nagum nukketeahog kounoh wutomohkinuh wonk Nutuss [oo]unuk ut sampoi may newutch [oo]wesnonk. 3. Wutonkauhtamut pomushaon mupp[oo]onk [oo]nauhkoe Woskehettuonk mo nukqueh tam[oo] newutch k[oo]wetomah: 4. Kuppogkomunk kutanwohon nish n[oo]nenehikquog K[oo]noch[oo] hkah anquabhettit wame nummatwomog 5. Kussussequnum nuppuhkuk weetepummee nashpea Wonk woi God n[oo]tallamwaitch pomponetupohs hau 6. [OO]niyeuonk monaneteonk nutasukkonkqunash Tohsohke pomantam wekit God michem nuttain pish[20]. This appears to have been rendered from the version of the psalms appended to an old edition of King James' Bible of 1611, and not from the versification of Watts. By comparing it with this, as exhibited below, there will be found the same metre, eights and sixes, the same syllabical quantity, (if the notation be rightly conceived,) and the same coincidence of rhyme at the second and fourth lines of each verse; although it required an additional verse to express the entire psalm. It could therefore be sung to the ordinary tunes in use in Eliot's time, and, taken in connection with his entire version, including the Old and New Testament, evinces a degree of patient assiduity on the part of that eminent missionary, which is truly astonishing: The Lord is my shepherd, I'll not want; 2. He makes me down to lie In pastures green: he leadeth me the quiet waters by. 3. My soul he doth restore again and me to walk doth make Within the paths of righteousness E'en for his own name's sake. 4. Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, yet will I fear none ill; For thou art with me and thy rod and staff me comfort still. 5. My table thou hast furnished in presence of my foes; My head thou dost with oil annoint, and my cup overflows. 6. Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me; And in God's house forevermore my dwelling place shall be. The harmony of numbers has always detracted from the plain sense, and the piety of thought, of the scriptures, which is the probable cause of so many failures on the subject. In the instance of this Psalm, it will be observed, by a comparison, that Watts, who has so generally succeeded, does not come up, in any respect, to the full literal meaning of the original, which is well preserved, with the requisite harmony, in the old version. There is one species of oral composition existing among all the tribes, which, from its peculiarities, deserves to be separately mentioned. I allude to the hieratic chants, choruses and incantations of their professed prophets, medicine men and jugglers--constituting, as these men do, a distinct order in Indian society, who are entitled by their supposed skill, wisdom or sanctity, to exercise the offices of a priesthood. Affecting mystery in the discharge of their functions, their songs and choruses are couched in language which is studiously obscure, oftentimes cabalistic, and generally not well understood by any but professed initiates. Nothing, however, in this department of my inquiries, has opened a more pleasing view of society, exposed to the bitter vicissitudes of Indian life, than the little domestic chants of mothers, and the poetic see-saws of children, of which specimens are furnished. These show the universality of the sentiments of natural affection, and supply another proof, were any wanting, to demonstrate that it is only ignorance, indolence and poverty, that sink the human character, and create the leading distinctions among the races of men. Were these affections cultivated, and children early taught the principles of virtue and rectitude, and the maxims of industry, order and cleanliness, there is no doubt that the mass of Indian society would be meliorated in a comparatively short period; and by a continuance of efforts soon exalted from that state of degradation, of which the want of letters and religion have been the principal causes. In presenting these specimens of songs, gathered among the recesses of the forest, it is hoped it will not be overlooked, by the reader, that they are submitted _as facts_ or _materials_, in the mental condition of the tribes, and not as evidences of attainment in the arts of metre and melody, which will bear to be admitted or even criticised by the side of the refined poetry of civilized nations. And above all, not as efforts to turn Indian sentiments to account, in original composition. No such idea is entertained. If materials be supplied from which some judgment may be formed of the actual state of these songs and rude oral compositions, or improvisations, the extent of the object will have been attained. But even here, there is less, with the exception of a single department, i.e. versification and composition by cultivated natives, than it was hoped to furnish. And this little, has been the result of a species of labour, in the collection, quite disproportionate to the result. It is hoped at least, that it may indicate the mode in which such collections may be made, among the tribes, and become the means of eliciting materials more worthy of attention. This much seemed necessary to be said in introducing the following specimens, that there might not appear, to the reader, to be an undue estimate placed on the literary value of these contributions, and translations, while the main object is, to exhibit them in the series, as illustrations of the mental peculiarities of the tribes. To dismiss them, however, with a bare, frigid word for word translation, such as is required for the purposes of philological comparison, would by no means do justice to them, nor convey, in any tolerable degree, the actual sentiments in the minds of the Indians. That the opposite error might not, at the same time, be run into, and the reader be deprived altogether of this means of comparison, a number of the pieces are left with literal prose translations, word for word as near as the two languages will permit. Others exhibit both a literal, and a versified translation. * * * * * All the North American Indians know that there is a God; but their priests teach them that the devil is a God, and as he is believed to be very malignant, it is the great object of their ceremonies and sacrifices, to appease him. * * * * * The Indians formerly worshipped the Sun, as the symbol of divine intelligence. * * * * * Fire is an unexplained mystery to the Indian; he regards it as a connecting link between the natural and spiritual world. His traditionary lore denotes this. * * * * * Zoroaster says: "When you behold secret fire, without form, shining flashingly through the depths of the whole world--hear the voice of fire." One might suppose this to have been uttered by a North American Indian. FOOTNOTES: [20] Eliot employed the figure 8, set horizontally, to express a peculiar sound, otherwise he used the English alphabet in its ordinary powers. CHANT TO THE FIRE-FLY. In the hot summer evenings, the children of the Chippewa Algonquins, along the shores of the upper lakes, and in the northern latitudes, frequently assemble before their parents' lodges, and amuse themselves by little chants of various kinds, with shouts and wild dancing. Attracted by such shouts of merriment and gambols, I walked out one evening, to a green lawn skirting the edge of the St. Mary's river, with the fall in full view, to get hold of the meaning of some of these chants. The air and the plain were literally sparkling with the phosphorescent light of the fire-fly. By dint of attention, repeated on one or two occasions, the following succession of words was caught. They were addressed to this insect: Wau wau tay see! Wau wau tay see! E mow e shin Tshe bwau ne baun-e wee! Be eghaun--be eghaun--ewee! Wa Wau tay see! Wa wau tay see! Was sa koon ain je gun Was sa koon ain je gun. LITERAL TRANSLATION. Flitting-white-fire-insect! waving-white-fire-bug! give me light before I go to bed! give me light before I go to sleep. Come, little dancing[21] white-fire-bug! Come little flitting-white-fire-beast! Light me with your bright white-flame-instrument--your little candle[22]. Metre there was none, at least, of a regular character: they were the wild improvisations of children in a merry mood. FOOTNOTES: [21] In giving the particle wa, the various meanings of "flitting," "waving," and "dancing," the Indian idiom is fully preserved. The final particle see, in the term wa wa tai see, is from the generic root _asee_, meaning a living creature, or created form, not man. By prefixing Ahw to the root, we have the whole class of quadrupeds, and by pen, the whole class of birds, &c. The Odjibwa Algonquin term for a candle, was sa koon ain je gun, is literally rendered from its elements--"bright--white--flamed--instrument." It is by the very concrete character of these compounds that so much meaning results from a few words, and so considerable a latitude in translation is given to Indian words generally. [22] [Fire-fly, fire-fly! bright little thing, Light me to bed, and my song I will sing. Give me your light, as you fly o'er my head, That I may merrily go to my bed. Give me your light o'er the grass as you creep, That I may joyfully go to my sleep. Come little fire-fly--come little beast-- Come! and I'll make you to-morrow a feast. Come little candle that flies as I sing, Bright little fairy-bug--night's little king; Come, and I'll dance as you guide me along, Come, and I'll pay you, my bug, with a song.] ETHNOLOGY. SCHOOLCRAFT'S AMERICAN CYCLOPÆDIA, OR ETHNOLOGICAL GAZETTEER OF THE INDIAN TRIBES OF THE AMERICAN CONTINENT, NORTH AND SOUTH, COMPRISING THEIR HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, AND NOMENCLATURE, FROM THE DISCOVERY IN 1492, TO THE PRESENT PERIOD. ADVERTISEMENT. A prospectus for this work was issued in 1842. While the title is slightly modified, the design and plan of its execution have not been essentially changed. The principal object aimed at, under the general idea of the history and geography of the Aboriginal Race, is to furnish a general and standard reference-book, or short encyclopædia of topics relative to the entire race, alphabetically arranged. By the insertion of the name of each family of tribes, nation, sub-tribe, or important clan, the occasion will be presented of noticing the leading or characteristic events, in their history, numbers, government, religion, languages, arts or distinctive character. Where the scene or era of their expansion, growth and decay has been so extensive, embracing as it does, the widest bounds and remotest periods, their antiquities have also called for a passing notice. Nor could any thing like a satisfactory accomplishment of the plan be effected, without succinct notices of the lives and achievements of their principal chiefs, rulers, and leading personages. Language is an important means of denoting the intricate thread of history in savage nations. Mr. Pritchard considers it more important than physiological structure and peculiarities. It is, at least, found often to reveal ethnological affinities, where both the physical type, and the light of tradition, afford but little aid. The words and names of a people, are so many clues to their thoughts and intellectual structure; this branch of the subject, indeed, formed the original germ of the present plan, which was at first simply geographical, and has been rather expanded and built upon, than, if we may so say, supplied the garniture of the edifice. In a class of transpositive languages, which are very rich in their combinations, and modes of concentrated description, it must needs happen, that the names of places would often recall both associations and descriptions of deep interest in contemplating the fate and fortunes of this unfortunate race. Without intruding upon the reader disquisitions which would be out of place, no opportunity has been omitted, from the consideration of their names, to throw around the sites of their former or present residence, this species of interest. But half the work would have been done, it is conceived, to have confined the work to North America; and it must necessarily have lost, by such a limitation, more than half its interest. We are just beginning in truth to comprehend the true character and bearing of that unique type of civilization which existed in Mexico, Peru, and Yucatan. The rude hand with which these embryo kingdoms of the native race were overturned, in consequence of their horrid idolatries, necessarily led to the destruction of much of their monumental, and so far as their picture writing reached, some of their historical materials, of both of which, we now feel the want. It is some relief, to know, as the researches of Mr. Gallatin, which are now in progress, demonstrate, that by far the greatest amount of the ancient Mexican picture writings, as they are embraced in the elaborate work of Lord Kingsborough, relate to their mythology and superstitions, and are of no historical value whatever. And if the portions destroyed in the Mexican and Peruvian conquests, were as liberally interspersed with similar evidences of their wild polytheism, shocking manners, and degraded worship, neither chronology nor history have so much to lament. The early, strong and continued exertions which were made by the conquerors to replace this system of gross superstition and idolatry, by the Romish ritual, filled Mexico and South America with missions of the Catholic Church, which were generally under the charge of zealous and sometimes of learned and liberal-spirited superintendants, who have accumulated facts respecting the character and former condition of the race. These missions, which were generally spread parallel to the sea coasts of the Atlantic and Pacific, reaching inland along the banks of the great rivers and plains, have confessedly done much to ameliorate the manners and condition of the native race, to foster a spirit of industry, and to enlighten their minds. Still, it is scarcely known, that numerous and powerful tribes, stretching through wide districts of the Andes and the Cordilleras, never submitted to the conqueror, and yet exist in their original state of barbarism. In this department of inquiry, the geographical and historical work of De Alcedo, which, so far as the Spanish and Portuguese missions are concerned, is both elaborate and complete in its details, has been taken as a basis. No one can write of South America and its native tribes, without reference to Humboldt. Other standard writers have been consulted, to give this part of the work as much value as possible, not excepting the latest voyages and travels. The design has been, without aiming at too much, to compress a body of leading and characteristic facts, in the shortest practicable compass, which should, at the same time, present an ethnological view of the various families and groups of the race. In each department of inquiry, which admitted of it, the author has availed himself of such sources and opportunities of personal observation and experience, as his long residence in the Indian territories, and his study of the Indian history have afforded. And he is not without the hope, that his inquiries and researches on this head may be found to be such as to merit approval. A. AB, often pronounced with the sound of we, before it,--a particle which, in geographical names, in the family of the Algonquin dialects, denotes light, or the east. It is also the radix of the verb wab, to see, as well as of the derivatives, a-ab, an eye-ball, and wabishka, a white substance, &c.,--ideas which either in their origin or application, are closely allied. ABACARIS, a settlement of Indians in the Portuguese possessions of the province of Amazon. These people derive their name from a lake, upon which they reside. It is a peculiarity of this lake, that it has its outlet into the river Madiera which, after flowing out of the province turns about and again enters it, forming, in this involution, the large and fertile island of Topanambes. This tribe is under the instruction of the Carmelites. They retain many of their early peculiarities of manners and modes of life. They subsist by the cultivation of maize, and by taking fish in the waters of the Abacaris; or Abacactes in addition to these means, they rely upon tropical fruits. The latest notices of them come down to 1789. But little is known of their numbers, or present condition. ABACHES, or Apaches, an erratic tribe of Indians, who infest the prairies of western Texas and New Mexico. They are supposed by some, to consist of not less than 15,000 souls. They are divided into petty bands, known under various names. They are the most vagrant of all the wild hunter tribes of the general area denoted. They do not live in fixed abodes, but shift about in search of game or plunder, and are deemed a pest by the Santa Fe traders. They raise nothing and manufacture nothing. Those of them who are east of the Rio del Norte, subsist on the baked root of the mauguey, and a similar plant called Mezcal, and hence they are called Mezcaleros. Another division of them, and by far the greatest, rove west of that stream, where they are called Coyoteros, from their habit of eating the coyote, or prairie wolf. They extend west into California and Sonora. They bear a bad character wherever they are known. If on the outskirts of the ranchos and haciendas, they steal cattle and sheep. If on the wide and destitute plains which they traverse, they thieve and murder. Sometimes they are pursued and punished; more frequently, they escape. The Mexican authorities keep some sort of terms with them by treaties, which the vagrants, however, break and disregard, whenever they are excited by hunger, or the lust of plunder. For Indians bearing the name, formerly from the U. States, see Apaches. ABACO, one of the Bahama islands. The native inhabitants of this, and the adjacent groups of islands, were, early after the discovery, transported to the main, to work in the mines. In 1788 this island, known to nautical men as the locality of the Hole in the Wall, had a population of 50 whites, and 200 Africans. ABACOOCHE, or COOSA, a stream rising in Georgia. It flows into Alabama, and after uniting with the Tallapoosa, a few miles below Wetumpka it forms the Alabama river. The word is, apparently, derived from Oscooche, one of the four bands into which the Muscogees, were anciently divided. ABANAKEE, or Eastlanders, a distinct people, consisting of a plurality of tribes, who formerly occupied the extreme north-eastern part of the United States. The word is variously written by early writers. See Abenakies, Abernaquis, Wabunakies. ABANCAY, the capital of a province of the same name 20 leagues from Cuzco, in Peru. It is memorable for the victories gained in the vicinity by the king's troops in 1542 and 1548 against Gonzalo Pizarro. It lies in a rich and spacious valley, which was inhabited by the subjects of the Inca, on the conquest. ABASCA, or RABASCA, a popular corruption, in the north-west, of Athabasca, which see. ABANES, an unreclaimed nation of Indians, living in the plains of St. Juan, to the north of the Orinoco, in New Grenada. They are of a docile character, and good disposition, lending a ready ear to instruction, but have not embraced the Catholic religion. They inhabit the wooded shores of the river, and shelter themselves from the effects of a tropical sun, in the open plains, by erecting their habitations in the small copse-wood. They are bounded towards the west, by the Andaquies and Caberras, and east by the Salivas. ABANGOUI, a large settlement of the Guarani nation of Indians, on the shores of the river Taquani, in Paraguay. This stream and its inhabitants were discovered by A. Numez, in 1541. ABECOOCHI, see Abacooche. ABEICAS, an ancient name for a tribe of Indians, in the present era of the United States, who are placed in the earlier geographies, _south_ of the Alabamas and _west_ of the Cherokees. They dwelt at a distance from the large rivers, yet were located in the districts of the cane, out of the hard substance of which they made a kind of knife, capable of answering the principal purposes of this instrument. They were at enmity with the Iroquois. ABENAKIES, a nation formerly inhabiting a large part of the territorial area of the states of New Hampshire and Maine. There were several tribes, of this nation the principal of which were the Penobscots, the Norredgewocks, and the Ameriscoggins. They were at perpetual hostilities with the New England colonists. They had received missionaries, at an early day, from the French in Canada, and acted in close concert with the hostile Indians from that quarter. At length in 1724, the government of Massachusetts organized an effective expedition against them, which ascended the Kennebec, attacked the chief town of the Norredgewocks, and killed a large number of their bravest warriors. Among the slain, was found their missionary Sebastian Rasle, who had taken up arms in their defence. There was found, among his papers, a copious vocabulary of the language, which has recently been published under the supervision of Mr. Pickering. In the year 1754, all the Abenakies, except the Penobscots, removed into Canada. This nation had directed their attention, almost exclusively, to hunting. At the mouth of the Kennebec they absolutely planted nothing. Their language as observed by Mr. Gallatin, has strong affinities with those of the Etchemins, and of the Micmacs, of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia; there are fewer resemblances in its vocabulary to the dialects south of them. This nation appears to have been called Tarrenteens, by the New England Indians. Their generic name for themselves, if they had one, is unknown. The term Abenakie, is one manifestly imposed by Algonquin tribes living west and south of them. It is derived from wabanung, the east, or a place of light, and akee, land. ABEKAS, a name applied, so late as 1750, to a band of the Muscogees, living on the river Tombigbee, within the present area of Alabama. ABERNAQUIS, a settlement of the expatriated Abenakies of New England, in Lower Canada. They subsist themselves at this time in a great measure by agriculture, and manifest a disposition to improve. From a report made in 1839 by the American Board of Foreign missions of Boston who employ a missionary and teacher among them, sixty persons attend Protestant worship, of which number, 24 are church members. Twenty of the youth attend a daily school. ABIGIRAS, an Indian mission formerly under the charge of the order of Jesuits, in the governmental department of Quito. It is situated on the river Curasari, 30 leagues from its mouth, and 240 from Quito. It was founded in 1665 by father Lorenzo Lucero. ABINGAS, or WABINGAS, a name for a band, or sub-tribe of the River Indians, of the Mohegan, or Mohekinder stock, who formerly inhabited the present area of Dutchess county, N. Y., and some adjacent parts of the eastern shores of the Hudson, above the High-lands. ABIPONES, an unreclaimed nation of Indians, who inhabit the south shores of the river Bermejo, in the province of Tucuman, Buenos Ayres. This nation is said, perhaps vaguely, to have formerly numbered 100,000 souls, but was, at the last accounts, about A. D. 1800, much reduced. They present some peculiar traits, living as nearly in a state of nature as possible. The men go entirely naked, subsisting themselves by hunting and fishing, and passing much of their time in idleness or war. The women wear little ornamented skins called _queyapi_. Physically, the people are well formed, of a lofty stature and bearing, robust and good featured. They paint their bodies profusely, and take great pains to inspire hardihood. For this purpose they cut and scarify themselves from childhood; they esteem tiger's flesh one of the greatest dainties, believing its properties to infuse strength and valor. In war they are most cruel, sticking their captives on the top of high poles, where, exposed to the scorching rays of the sun, they are left to die the most horrid death. They have no knowledge of God, of laws, or of policy, yet they believe in the immortality of the soul, and in a land of future bliss, where dancing and diversions shall prevail. Widows observe celibacy for a year, during which time they abstain from fish. The females occupy themselves in sewing hides, or spinning rude fabrics. When the men are intoxicated--a prevalent vice--they conceal their husbands' knives to prevent assassinations. They rear but two or three children, killing all above this number. ABISCA, an extensive mountainous territory of Peru, lying between the Yetau and Amoramago rivers, east of the Andes, noted from the earliest times, for the number of barbarous nations who occupy it. It is a wild and picturesque region, abounding in forests, lakes and streams, and affording facilities for the chase, and means of retreat from civilization, so congenial to savage tribes. An attempt to subjugate these fierce tribes made by Pedro de Andia in 1538, failed. The same result had attended the efforts of the emperor Yupanqui. ABITANIS, a mountain in the province of Lipas, in Peru. In the Quetchuan tongue, it signifies the ore of gold, from a mine of this metal, which is now nearly abandoned. ABITTIBI, the name of one of the tributaries of Moose River, of James' Bay, Canada. Also a small lake in Canada West, near the settlement of Frederick, in north latitude 48°, 35´ and west longitude 82°: also, a lake north of lake Nepissing, in the direction to Moose Fort. It is a term, apparently derived from nibee, water, and wab, light. ABITIGAS, a fierce and warlike nation of Indians, in the province of Tarma in Peru, of the original Quetche stock. They are situated 60 leagues to the east of the Andes. They are barbarians, roving from place to place, without habits of industry, and delighting in war. They are numerous, as well as warlike; but like all the non-agricultural tribes of the region, they are often in want and wretchedness. They are bounded on the south by their enemies the Ipilcos. ABO, ABOUOR MICHABO, or the Great Hare, a personage rather of mythological, than historical note, in the traditions of the Lake Algonquin tribes. It is not clear, although probable, that he is to be regarded as identical with Manabosho, or Nanabosho. ABOJEEG, a celebrated war and hereditary chief of the Chippewa nation, who flourished during the last century; more commonly written Wabojeeg, which see. ABRAHAM, a chief of the Mohawks, who, after the fall of king Hendrick, so called, at the battle of lake George, in 1755, between the English and French armies, became the ruling chief of that nation. He was the younger brother of Hendrick, and lived at the lower Mohawk Castle. He was of small stature, but shrewd and active, and a fluent speaker. Numbers of his speeches are preserved, which he delivered, as the ruling chief of his tribe, in various councils, during the stormy era of 1775, which eventuated in the American revolution. In the events of that era, his name soon disappears: as he was then a man of advanced years, he probably died at his village. It is not known that he excelled in war, and, at all events, he was succeeded, about this time, in fame and authority, by a new man in the chieftainship, who rose in the person of Thyendanegea, better known as Joseph Brant. Abraham, or little Abraham, as he was generally called, appears from his speeches and policy, to have thoroughly adopted the sentiments and policy of Sir William Johnson, of whom, with his tribe generally, he was the friend and admirer. He was, as his speeches disclose, pacific in his views, cautious in policy, and not inclined it would seem, to rush headlong into the great contest, which was then brewing, and into which, his popular successor, Brant, went heart and hand. With less fame than his elder brother Hendrick, and with no warlike reputation, yet without imputation upon his name, in any way, he deserves to be remembered as a civilian and chieftain, who bore a respectable rank; as one of a proud, high spirited, and important tribe. Little Abraham was present at the last and _final_ council of the Mohawks, with the American Commissioners, at Albany, in September 1775, and spoke for them on this occasion--which is believed to have been the last peaceable meeting between the Americans and the Mohawk tribe, prior to the war. [NOTE.--Accents are placed over all words of North American origin, when known Vowels preceding a consonant, or placed between two consonants, are generally short: following a consonant, or ending a syllable or word, they are generally long. Diphthongs are used with their ordinary power.] ABSECON. A beach of the sea coast of New Jersey, sixteen miles south-west of Little Egg Harbor. The word is a derivative from Wabisee, a Swan, and Ong, a Place. ABSORÓKA, a name for the Minnetaree tribe of Indians on the river Missouri. They are philologically of the Dacotah family. See Minnetaree. ABUCEES, a mission of the Sucumbias Indians, in the province of Quixos, Quito, which was founded by the order of Jesuits. It is situated on the shores of a small river, which enters the Putumago, in north latitude O° 36´ longitude 79° 2´ west. ABURRA, a town, in a rich valley of the same name, in New Grenada, discovered in 1540, by Robledo. In its vicinity are found many huacas, or sepulchres of the Indians, in which great riches, such as gold ornaments, are found deposited. There are, in the vicinity, some streams of saline water, from which the Indians manufacture salt. ABWOIN, or BWOIN, a name of the Chippewas, Ottawas; and other modern Algonquin tribes of the upper Lakes, for the Dacotah or Sioux nation. It is rendered plural in ug. The word is derived from abwai, a stick used to roast meat, and is said to have been given to this tribe, in reproach from the ancient barbarities practised towards their prisoners taken captive in war. For an account of this tribe, see Dacotah and Sioux. ABWOINAC; ABWOINA: Terms applied to the general area between the Mississippi and Missouri, lying north of the St. Peter's, occupied by Sioux tribes. In the earlier attempts of Lord Selkirk, to plant a colony in parts of this region, the compound term Assinaboina, was, to some extent, but unsuccessfully employed. The two former terms are derivatives from Abwoin, a Sioux, and akee, earth; the latter has the prefix assin, (ossin,) a stone. ACAQUATO, a settlement of Indians in the district of Tancitars, in Peru, reduced in 1788, to fifteen families, who cultivated maize and vegetables. ACAMBARO, a settlement of 490 families of Indians, and 80 of _Mustees_, belonging to the order of St. Francis, in the district of Zelaya, in the province and bishopric of Mechoacan, seven leagues S. of its capital. ACAMISTILAHUAC, a settlement of 30 Indian families in the district of Tasco, attached to the curacy of its capital, from whence it is two leagues E. N. E. ACHAMUCHITLAN, a settlement of 60 families of Indians in the district of Texopilco, and civil division of Zultepec. They sell sugar and honey--the district also produces maize and vegetables. It is 5 leagues N. of its head settlement. ACANTEPEC. The head settlement of Tlapa, embracing 92 Indian families, including another small settlement in its vicinity, all of whom maintain themselves by manufacturing cotton stuffs. ACAPETLAHUALA, a settlement of 180 Indian families, being the principal settlement of the district of Escateopan, and civil district of Zaquaepa. ACARI, a settlement in a beautiful and extensive valley of Camana, in Peru, noted for a lofty mountain called Sahuacario, on the skirts of which the native Indians had constructed two fortresses, prior to their subjugation by the Spanish. This mountain is composed of "misshapen stones, and sand," and is reported, at certain times of the year to emit loud sounds, as if proceeding from pent up air, and it is thought to have, in consequence, attracted the superstitious regard of the ancient Indian inhabitants. ACATEPEC. There are five Indian settlements of this name, in Spanish America. 1. A settlement comprising 860 Indian families, of the order of St. Francis, in the district of Thehuacan. Forty of these families live on cultivated estates stretching a league in a spacious valley, four leagues S. S. W. of the capital. 2. A settlement in the district of Chinantla, in the civil jurisdiction of Cogamaloapan. It is situated in a pleasant plain, surrounded by three lofty mountains. The number of its inhabitants is reduced. The Indians who live on the banks of a broad and rapid river, which intercepts the great road to the city of Oxaca, and other jurisdictions, support themselves by ferrying over passengers in their barks and canoes. It is 10 leagues W. of its head settlement. 3. A settlement of 100 Indian families, in the same kingdom, situated between two high ridges. They are annexed to the curacy of San Lorenzo, two leagues off. 4. A settlement of 39 Indian families annexed to, and distant one league and a half N. of the curacy of Tlacobula. It is in a hot valley, skirted by a river, which is made to irrigate the gardens and grounds on its borders. 5. A settlement of 12 Indian families in the _mayorate_ of Xicayun of the same kingdom. ACATEPEQUE, ST. FRANCISCO, DE, a settlement of 140 Indian families in the mayorate of St. Andres de Cholula, situated half a league S. of its capital. ACATLAN, six locations of Indians exist, under this name, in Mexico. 1. A settlement of 850 families of Indians in the _alcaldia_ of this name, embracing some 20 Spaniards and _Mustees_. In the vicinity are some excellent salt grounds. The climate is of a mild temperature, and the surrounding country is fertile, abounding in fruits, flowers, and pulse, and is well watered. It is 55 leagues E. S. E. of Mexico. 2. A settlement of 180 Indian families in Xalapa of the same kingdom, (now republic.) It occupies a spot of clayey ground of a cold moist temperature, in consequence of which, and its being subject to N. winds, fruits, in this neighbourhood, do not ripen. Other branches of cultivation succeed from the abundance of streams of water, and their fertilizing effects on the soil. This settlement has the dedicatory title of St. Andres. 3. SAN PEDRO, in the district of Malacatepec, and _alcaldia_ of Nexapa. It contains 80 Indian families, who trade in wool, and the fish called _bobo_, which are caught, in large quantities, in a considerable river of the district. 4. ZITLALA. It consists of 198 Indian families, and is a league and a half N. of its head settlement of this name. 5. SENTEPEC, a settlement 15 leagues N. E. of its capital. The temperature is cold. It has 42 Indian families. 6. ATOTONILCO, in the _alcaldia mayor_ of Tulanzingo. It contains 115 Indian families, and has a convent of the religious order of St. Augustine. It is 2 leagues N. of its head settlement. ACATLANZINGO, a settlement of 67 Indian families of Xicula of the alcaldia mayor of Nexapa, who employ themselves in the culture of cochineal plants. It lies in a plain, surrounded on all sides by mountains. ACAXEE, a nation of Indians in the province of Topia. They are represented to have been converted to the catholic faith by the society of Jesuits in 1602. They are docile and of good dispositions and abilities. One of their ancient customs consisted of bending the heads of their dead to their knees, and in this posture, putting them in caves, or under a rock and at the same time, depositing a quantity of food for their supposed journey in another state. They also exhibited a farther coincidence with the customs of the northern Indians, by placing a bow and arrows with the body of the dead warrior, for his defence. Should an Indian woman happen to die in child-bed, they put the surviving infant to death, as having been the cause of its mother's decease. This tribe rebelled against the Spanish in 1612, under the influence of a native prophet, but they were subdued by the governor of the province, Don Francisco de Ordinola. ACAXETE, Santa Maria de, the head settlement of the district of Tepcaca, on the slope of the _sierra_ of Tlascala. It consists of 176 Mexican Indians, 7 Spanish families, and 10 Mustees and Mulatoes. In its vicinity there is a reservoir of hewn stone, to catch the waters of the mountain, which are thence conducted to Tepcaca, three leagues N. N. W. ACAXUCHITLAN, a curacy consisting of 406 Indian families of the bishopric of La Peubla de los Angelos. It is in the _alcaldia_ of Tulanzingo, lying 4 leagues E. of its capital. ACAYUCA, the capital of a civil division of New Spain, in the province of Goazacoalco, embracing, in its population, 296 families of Indians, 30 of Spaniards, and 70 of mixed bloods. It lies a little over 100 leagues S. E. of Mexico, in lat. 17° 53´ N. ACAZINGO, St Juan de, a settlement of the district of Tepcaca, consisting of 700 families of Indians, 150 of Spaniards, 104 of Mustees, and 31 of Mulatoes. It is situated in a plain of mild temperature, well watered, and has a convent and fountain, and a number of "very ancient buildings." ACCÓCESAWS, a tribe of Indians of erratic habits, of Texas, whose principal location was formerly on the west side of the Colorado, about 200 miles S. W. of Nacogdoches. At a remoter period they lived near the gulf of Mexico: they made great use of fish, and oysters. Authors represent the country occupied, or traversed by them, as exceedingly fertile and beautiful, and abounding in deer of the finest and largest kind. Their language is said to be peculiar to themselves; they are expert in communicating ideas by the system of signs. About A. D. 1750 the Spanish had a mission among them, but removed it to Nacogdoches. ACCOMAC, a county of Virginia, lying on the eastern shores of Chesapeake bay. This part of the sea coast was inhabited by the Nanticokes, who have left their names in its geography. We have but a partial vocabulary of this tribe, which is now extinct. It has strong analogies, however, to other Algonquin dialects. Aco, in these dialects, is a generic term, to denote a goal, limit, or fixed boundary. Ahkee, in the Nanticoke, is the term for earth, or land. Auk, is a term, in compound words of these dialects, denoting wood. The meaning of accomac, appears to be _as far as the woods reach_, or, the boundary between meadow and woodlands. ACCOMACS, one of the sub tribes inhabiting the boundaries of Virginia on its discovery and first settlement. Mr. Jefferson states their numbers in 1607 at 80. In 1669, when the legislature of Virginia directed a census of the Indian population, within her jurisdiction, there appears no notice of this tribe. They inhabited the area of Northampton county. They were Nanticokes--a people whose remains united themselves or at least took shelter with the Lenapees, or Delawares. ACCOHANOCS, a division or tribe of the Powhetanic Indians, numbering 40, in 1607. They lived on the Accohanoc river, in eastern Virginia. ACCOMENTAS, a band, or division of the Pawtucket Indians inhabiting the northerly part of Massachusetts in 1674. (Gookin.) ACHAGUA, a nation of Indians of New Grenada, dwelling in the plains of Gazanare and Meta, and in the woods of the river Ele. They are bold and dexterous hunters with the dart and spear, and in their contests with their enemies, they poison their weapons. They are fond of horses, and rub their bodies with oil, to make their hair shine. They go naked except a small _azeaun_ made of the fibres of the aloe. They anoint their children with a bituminous ointment at their birth, to prevent the growth of hair. The brows of females are also deprived of hair, and immediately rubbed with the juice of _jagua_, which renders them bald ever after. They are of a gentle disposition but addicted to intoxication. The Jesuits formerly reduced many of them to the Catholic faith, and formed them into settlements in 1661. ACHAFALAYA, the principal western outlet of the Mississippi river. It is a Choctaw word, meaning, "the long river," from _hucha_, river, and _falaya_, long. (Gallatin.) ACKOWAYS, a synonym for a band of Indians of New France, now Canada. See Acouez. ACKEEKSEEBE, a remote northern tributary of the stream called Rum river, which enters the Mississippi, some few miles above the falls of St. Anthony, on its left banks. It is a compound phrase, from Akeek, a kettle, and seebe, a stream. It was on the margin of this stream, in a wide and spacious area, interspersed with beaver ponds, that a detachment of Gen. Cass's exploring party in July 1820, encamped; and the next morning discovered an Indian pictorial letter, written on bark, detailing the incidents of the march. ACKEEKO, or the Kettle chief, a leading Sauc chief who exercised his authority in 1820, at an important Indian village, situated on the right banks of the Mississippi, at Dubuque's mines. ACHQUANCHICÓLA, the name of a creek in Pennsylvania; it signifies in the Delaware or Lenapee language, as given by Heckewelder, the brush-net fishing creek. ACHWICK, a small stream in central Pennsylvania. It denotes in the Delaware language, according to Heckewelder, brushy, or difficult to pass. ACOBAMBA, a settlement in the province of Angaraes in Peru, near which are some monumental remains of the ancient race, who inhabited the country prior to its conquest by the Spanish. They consist, chiefly, of a pyramid of stones, and the ruins of some well sculptured stone couches, or benches, now much injured by time. ACOLMAN, San Augustin de, a settlement of 240 families of Indians of Tezcoco in Mexico. It is situated in a pleasant valley, with a benign temperature, and has a convent of Augustine monks. ACOMES, a fall in the river Amariscoggin, Maine, denoting, in the Indian, as is supposed, a rest, or place of stopping. From aco, a bound or point. ACOMULCO, a village of 12 Indian families in Zochicoatlan, New Spain, two leagues W. of its capital. ACONICHI, the name of a settlement of Indians formerly living on the river Eno, in North Carolina. ACOTITLAN, a settlement of 15 Indian families, in the _alcaldia_ of Autlan, Mexico. They employ themselves in raising cattle, making sugar and honey, and extracting oil from the _cacao_ fruit. ACOUEZ, a name formerly applied by the French to a band of Indians in New France. Believed to be identical with Ackoways. ACQUACKINAC, or ACQUACKINUNK, the Indian name of a town on the W. side of the Passaic river, New Jersey, ten miles N. of Newark and 17 from New York. From aco, a limit, misquak, a red cedar, and auk, a stump or trunk of a tree. ACQUINOSHIÓNEE, or United People, the vernacular name of the Iroquois for their confederacy. It appears, from their traditions, communicated to the Rev. Mr. Pyrlaus, a Dutch missionary of early date, that this term had not been in use above 50 years prior to the first settlement of the country: and if so, we have a late date, not more remote than 1559 for the origin of this celebrated union. But this may be doubted. Cartier discovered the St. Lawrence in 1534, and found them at the site of Montreal; Verrizani, is said to have entered the bay of New York ten years before. Hudson entered the river in 1609. Jamestown was founded the year before. The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth 14 years later. It is more probable that the 50 years should be taken from the period of the earlier attempts of the French settlements, which would place the origin of the confederacy about A. D. 1500. (See Iroquois.) ACTOPAN, or OCTUPAN, a town and settlement of the Othomies Indians, situated 23 leagues N. N. E. of Mexico. Its population is put by Alcedo in 1787, at 2750 families. These are divided into two parties, separated by the church. It also contains 50 families of Spaniards, Mustees, and Mulatoes. The temperature is mild, but the ground is infested with the cactus, thorns and teasel, which leads the inhabitants to devote their attention to the raising of sheep and goats. In this vicinity are found numbers of the singular bird, called _zenzontla_, by the Mexican Indians. ACTUPAN, a settlement of 210 families of Indians in the district of Xocimilco, Mexico. ACUIAPAN, a settlement of 58 Indian families, in the _alcaldia mayor_ of Zultepec, annexed to the curacy of Temascaltepec. They live by dressing hides for the market--ib. ACUILPA, a settlement of 92 Indian families, in the magistracy of Tlapa, Mexico. It is of a hot and moist temperature, yielding grain, and the white medicinal earth called _chia_, in which they carry on a trade. ACUIO, a considerable settlement of Spaniards, Mustees, Mulatoes, and Negroes, 30 leagues W. of Cinaqua, in the curacy of Tauricato, Mexico; embracing 9 Indian families. ACULA, SAN PEDRO DE, an Indian settlement of 305 families, four leagues E. of Cozamaloapan, its capital. It is situated on a high hill, bounded by a large lake of the most salubrious water, called _Peutla_ by the natives. This lake has its outlet into the sea through the sand banks of Alvarado, and the lake is subject to overflow its banks in the winter season. ACUTITLAN, an Indian settlement of 45 families, in the district of Tepuxilco, Mexico, who trade in sugar, honey, and maize. It is five leagues N. E. of Zultepec, and a quarter of a league from Acamuchitlan. ACUTZIO, an Indian settlement of Tiripitio, in the magistracy of Valladolid, and bishopric of Mechoacan, Mexico. It contains 136 Indian families, and 11 families of Spaniards and Mustees. Six cultivated estates in this district, producing wheat, maize, and other grains, employ most of this population, who also devote part of their labour to the care of large and small cattle. ADAES, or ADAIZE, a tribe of Indians, who formerly lived forty miles south-west from Natchitoches, in the area of country, which now constitutes a part of the republic of Texas. They were located on a lake, which communicates with the branch of Red-river passing Bayou Pierre. This tribe appears to have lived at that spot, from an early period. Their language is stated to be difficult of acquisition, and different from all others, in their vicinity. They were at variance with the ancient Natchez, and joined the French in their assault upon them in 1798. They were intimate with the Caddoes, and spoke _their_ language. At the last dates, (1812) they were reduced to twenty men, with a disproportionate number of women. The synonyms for this now extinct tribe are, Adayes; Adees; Adaes; Adaize. ADARIO, a celebrated chief of the Wyandot nation, who was at the height of his usefulness and reputation, about 1690. He was able in the councils of his tribe, shrewd and wily in his plans, and firm and courageous in their execution. The Wyandots, or Hurons as they are called by the French, were then living at Michilimackinac, to which quarter they had been driven by well known events in their history. The feud between them and their kindred, the Iroquois, still raged. They remained the firm allies of the French; but they were living in a state of expatriation from their own country, and dependant on the friendship and courtesy of the Algonquins of the upper lakes, among whom they had found a refuge. Adario, at this period, found an opportunity of making himself felt, and striking a blow for the eventual return of his nation. To understand his position, a few allusions to the history of the period are necessary. In 1687, the English of the province of New-York, resolved to avail themselves of a recent alliance between the two crowns, to attempt a participation in the fur trade of the upper lakes. They persuaded the Iroquois to set free a number of Wyandot captives to guide them through the lakes, and open an intercourse with their people. Owing to the high price and scarcity of goods, this plan was favored by Adario and his people, and also by the Ottowas and Pottowattomis, but the enterprise failed. Major McGregory, who led the party, was intercepted by a large body of French from Mackinac, the whole party captured and their goods were distributed gratuitously to the Indians. The lake Indians, who had, covertly countenanced this attempt, were thrown back entirely on the French trade, and subjected to suspicions which made them uneasy in their councils, and anxious to do away with the suspicions entertained of their fidelity by the French. To this end Adario marched a party of 100 men from Mackinac against the Iroquois. Stopping at fort Cadarackui to get some intelligence which might guide him, the commandant informed him that the governor of Canada, Denonville, was in hopes of concluding a peace with the Five Nations, and expected their ambassadors at Montreal in a few days. He therefore advised the chief to return. Did such a peace take place, Adario perceived that it would leave the Iroquois to push the war against his nation, which had already been driven from the banks of the St. Lawrence to lake Huron. He dissembled his fears, however, before the commandant, and left the fort, not for the purpose of returning home, but to waylay the Iroquois delegates, at a portage on the river where he knew they must pass. He did not wait over four or five days, when the deputies arrived, guarded by 40 young warriors, who were all surprised, and either killed or taken prisoners. His next object was to shift the blame of the act on the governor of Canada, by whom he told his prisoners, he had been informed of their intention to pass this way, and he was thus prepared to lie in wait for them. They were much surprised at this apparent act of perfidy, informing him at the same time, that they were truly and indeed on a message of peace. Adario affected to grow mad with rage against Denonville, declaring that he would some time be revenged on him for making him a tool, in committing so horrid a treachery. Then looking steadfastly on the prisoners, among whom was Dekanefora, the head chief of the Onondaga tribe, "Go," said he, "my brothers, I untie your bonds, and send you home again, although our nations be at war. The French governor has made me commit so black an action, that I shall never be easy after it, until the Five Nations have taken full revenge." The ambassadors were so well persuaded of the perfect truth of his declarations, that they replied in the most friendly terms, and said the way was opened to their concluding a peace between their respective tribes, at any time. He then dismissed his prisoners, with presents of arms, powder and ball, keeping but a single man (an adopted Shawnee) to supply the place of the only man he had lost in the engagement. By one bold effort he thus blew up the fire of discord between the French and their enemies, at the moment it was about to expire, and laid the foundation of a peace with his own nation. Adario delivered his slave to the French on reaching Mackinac, who, to keep up the old enmity between the Wyandots and the Five Nations, ordered him to be shot. On this Adario called up an Iroquois prisoner who was a witness of this scene, and who had long been detained among them, and told him to escape to his own country, and give an account of the cruelty of the French, from whom it was not in his power to save a prisoner he had himself taken. This increased the rage of the Five Nations to such a pitch, that when Mons. Denonville sent a message to disown the act of Adario, they put no faith in it, but burned for revenge. Nor was it long before the French felt the effects of their rage. On the 26th of July, 1688, they landed with 1200 men on the upper end of the island of Montreal, and carried destruction wherever they went. Houses were burnt, plantations sacked, and men, women and children massacred. Above a thousand of the French inhabitants were killed, and twenty-six carried away prisoners, most of whom were burnt alive. In October of the same year, they renewed their incursion, sweeping over the lower part of the island as they had previously done the upper. The consequences of these inroads were most disastrous to the French, who were reduced to the lowest point of political despondency. They burnt their two vessels on Cadarackui lake, abandoned the fort, and returned to Montreal. The news spread far and wide among the Indians of the upper lakes, who, seeing the fortunes of the French on the wane, made treaties with the English, and thus opened the way for their merchandise into the lakes.--[Colden.] Such were the consequences of a single enterprise, shrewdly planned and vigorously executed. The fame of its author spread abroad, and he was every where regarded as a man of address, courage and abilities. And it is from this time, that the ancient feud between the Wyandots and their kindred, the Five Nations, began to cool. They settled on the straits of Detroit, where they so long, and up to the close of the late war (1814,) exercised a commanding influence among the lake tribes, as keepers of the general council fire of the nations. La Hontan, in his Travels in New France, relates some conversations with this chief, on the topic of religion, which may be regarded, almost exclusively, as fabulous. ADAYES, ADAES, and ADEES, forms of orthography, occurring in various writers, for the Adaize Indians, which see. ADEQUATÁNGIE, a tributary of the eastern head waters of the river Susquehanna in New-York. The word is Iroquois. ADDEES, the number of this tribe, residing on the waters of Red River, in Louisiana, in 1825, is stated, in an official report, from the war department of that year, at twenty-seven. ADÓLES, a settlement of Indians in the province of Orinoco. They were of the Saliva nation. The settlement was destroyed by the Caribs in 1684. ADIRÓNDACKS, the name of the Iroquois tribes for the Algonquins. The consideration of their history and characteristics, as a family of tribes, will be taken up, under the latter term. ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS, a name bestowed, in the geological survey of New York, upon the mountains at the source of the Hudson River. ADIK, IÁ-BA. See Iaba Wadik. ADIKÍMINIS, or Cariboo Island; an island situated in the north-eastern part of lake Superior, which is invested with no other importance than it derives from Indian mythology and superstition. It is small and has seldom been visited. The Chippewas believe that this is one of the places of residence of their local manitoes, and that it was formerly inhabited by Michabo or Manabosho. Early travellers, who notice this belief, represent its shores to be covered with golden sands, but that these sands are guarded by powerful spirits, who will not permit the treasure to be carried away. Many fanciful tales are told of its having been once attempted, when a huge spirit strode into the water, and reclaimed the shining treasure. This is Carver's version, who, however, confounds it with another contiguous island. Henry, who visited it in his search after silver mines, in 1765, says that the Indians told him that their ancestors had once landed there, being driven by stress of weather, but had great difficulty in escaping from the power of enormous snakes. He calls it the Island of Yellow Sands. It abounded certainly with hawks in his day, one of whom was so bold as to pluck his cap from his head. He found nothing to reward his search but a number of Cariboos, which is the American reindeer, of which no less than 13 were killed, during his stay of three days. He represented it to be 12 miles in circumference, low, and covered with ponds, and to be sixty miles distant from the north shore of the lake. He thinks it is perhaps the same island which the French called _Isle de Pontchartrain_. AFFAGOULA, a small village of Indians, of Louisiana, who were located in 1783 near Point Coupé, on the Mississippi. AGACES, a nation of Indians of the province of Paraguay. They are numerous, valiant, and of a lofty stature. They were, in ancient times, masters of the banks of the Paraguay, waging war against the Guavanies, and keeping the Spaniards at bay, but were at last subjugated in 1542, by Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, governor of the province. AGARIATA, an Iroquois chief, who, having gone on an embassy of peace about 1688, to Canada, the governor, Monsieur Coursel, being exasperated against him, on account of bad faith and a violation of a treaty, caused him to be hanged in the presence of his countrymen. AGAMENTICUS, a mountain of considerable elevation, eight miles from York harbour, Maine; also, a river of the same vicinity, which derives its waters chiefly from the influx of Piscataqua bay. The termination of the name in _us_, is foreign, and not in accordance with the Abenakie dialects of this coast. AGAMUNTIC, the name of a small lake, or pond, of Maine, which discharges its waters through the west branch of the Chaudiere river. AGAWAMS, a band of Indians of the Pokenoket, or Wampanoag type, who formerly lived at various periods, in part in Sandwich, in part in Ipswich, and in part in Springfield, Massachusetts. The word is written with some variety, in old authors, the chief of which, are, the addition of another g, and the change of the penultimate a to o. AGIOCOCHOOK, a name of the Indians, for the White Mountains of New-Hampshire; of which the penultimate ok, is the plural. This group is also called, according to President Allen, Waumbek--a word, which in some of the existing dialects of the Algonquin, is pronounced Waubik, that is, White Rock. AGNALOS, a tribe of infidel Indians, inhabiting the mountains north of the river Apure, in New Grenada. AGRIAS, a tribe of Indians, formerly very numerous, of the government of Santa Marta, to the north of the Cienegra Grande. They are, at present, considerably reduced. AGUA DE CULEBRA, San Francisco Xavier De La, a reduccion of Indians of the Capuchins, of the province of Venezuela. The vicinity produces, in abundance, cacao, yucao, and other vegetable productions. AGUACAGUA, an Indian mission, on a branch of the Oronoco, called Caroni. AGUACATLAN, an Indian mission of Xala, in Mexico. In 1745, it contained 80 families of Indians, who cultivated maize and French beans. AGUALULCO, the capital of the jurisdiction of Izatlan, New Galicia, which in 1745, contained 100 Indian families. AGUANOS, a settlement in the province of Mainas, Quito, so called from the Indians of whom it is composed. AGUARICO, an Indian mission of the Jesuits, on the shores of the river Napo, of the province of Máinás, Quito. AGUARINGUA, an ancient and large settlement of Indians of the Taironas nation, in Santa Marta. AGUILUSCO, a settlement of the district of Arantzan, in the province of Mechoacan, which contains 36 Indian families. They subsist by sowing seed, cutting wood, making saddle trees, and manufacturing vessels of fine earthen ware. AHAPOPKA, a lake of Florida, having its outlet through the Oclawaha river of the St. John's. AHASIMUS, an ancient Indian name, for the present site of Jersey city, Hudson county, New Jersey. AHOME, or Ahoma, a nation of Indians, living on the banks of the river Zaque, in the province of Cinaloa, of California. They are located four leagues from the gulf, in extensive and fertile plains, and are said to be superior, by nature, to the other Indians of New Spain. Some of their customs denote this. They abhor poligamy, they hold virginity in the highest estimation. Unmarried girls, by way of distinction, wear a small shell suspended to their neck, until the day of their nuptials, when it is taken off by the bridegroom. They wear woven cotton. They bewail their dead a year, at night and morning. They are gentle and faithful in their covenants and engagements. AHOUANDÁTE, a name for the tribe of the Wyandots, which is found on ancient maps of the Colonies. AHUACATLAN, the name of four separate settlements of Mexico, containing, respectively, 51, 13, 450, and 160 families of Indians. AHUACAZALCA, Nueva Espána. At this place, 56 families of Indians live by raising rice and cotton. It is in the district of San Luis de la Costa. AHUACAZINGO, in the district of Atengo, Nueva Espána, contains 46 Indian families. AHUALICAN, of the same province, has 36 Indian families. AHUATELCO, ib. Has 289 families, who cultivate wheat and raise cattle. AHUATEMPA, ib. Has 39 families. AHUATEPEC, ib. Has 32 families. AHUAZITLA, ib. Has 36 families, who trade _inchia_, a white medicinal earth, grain and earthen-ware. AHWAHAWA, a tribe of Indians who were found in 1805 to be located a few miles above the Mandans, on the south-west banks of the Missouri. They are believed to have been a band of the Minnitares. They numbered at that date 200. They wore at war with the Snake Indians. They claim to have once been a part of the Crow nation. They professed to have been long residents of the spot occupied. The name has not been kept up, and does not appear in recent reports from that quarter. Their history is, probably, to be sought in that of the Mandans and the Minnetares. AIAHUALTEMPA, a settlement of Chalipa, Mexico, containing 36 Indian families. AIAHUALULCO, ib. Two settlements of this name, contain, respectively, 70 and 42 Indian families. AIAPANGO, ib. contains 100 Indian families. AIATEPEC, ib. has 45 families of natives. AIAUTLA, ib. has 100 families. AICHES, a settlement of Indians of Texas, situated on the main road to Mexico. AIECTIPAC, Mexico. Twenty-one Indian families reside here. AINSE, a Chippewa chief of Point St. Ignace, Michilimackinac county, Michigan. The population of this band, as shown by the government census rolls in 1840, was 193, of whom 33 were men, 54 women, and 106 children. They support themselves by the chase and by fishing. They cultivate potatoes only. They receive, together with the other bands, annuities from the government, in coin, provisions, salt, and tobacco, for which purpose they assemble annually, on the island of Michilimackinac. The name of this chief is believed to be a corruption from Hans. AIOCUESCO, an Indian settlement of Chalipa, Mexico. Has 400 Indian families. AIOCTITLAN, ib. Has 76 ditto. AIOZINAPA, ib. Has 34 ditto. AIOZINGO, ib. Has 120 ditto. AIRICOS, a nation of Indians inhabiting the plains of Cazanare and Meta in the new kingdom of Grenada, to the east of the mountains of Bogota. They inhabit the banks of the river Ele. They are numerous and warlike, and feared by all their neighbours, for their valour and dexterity in the use of arms. In 1662 Antonio de Monteverde, a Jesuit, established a mission among them, and baptized numbers. AISHQUÁGONABEE. A Chippewa chief, of some note, of a mild and dignified carriage, living on Grand Traverse Bay, on the east shores of lake Michigan. In 1836 he formed a part of the delegation of Chippewa and Ottowa chiefs, who proceeded to Washington city, and concluded a treaty ceding their lands to the U. S. from Grand river on lake Michigan, to Chocolate river on lake Superior. The name signifies, the first feather, or feather of honour. The population of his village in 1840, as shown by the census rolls, was 207, of whom 51 were men, or heads of families, 49 women, and 107 children. They receive annuities annually at Michilimackinac. They subsist by the chase, by planting corn, beans and potatoes, and by fishing. AISHKEBUGÉKOZH, or the Flat Mouth, called Guelle Platte, in the patois of the Fur Trade. The Head chief of the band of the Chippewas, called Mukundwas or Pilligers, who are situated at Leech Lake, on the sources of the Mississippi. This band, it is estimated, can furnish 200 warriors, they are a brave and warlike people, and are at perpetual war with their western neighbours, the Sioux. They subsist by the chase, and by taking white fish in the lake. Some corn and potatoes are also raised by the women and the old and superannuated men of the band. They are a fierce, wild, untamed race, strong in their numbers, and proud and confident in their success in war, and the comparative ease with which they procure a subsistence from the chase. They adhere to their ancient religious ceremonies and incantations, and are under the government of their native priests, jossakeeds and seers. Aishkebugekozh, has for many years exercised the political sway over them, leading them, sometimes to war, and presiding, at all times, in their councils. He is a shrewd man, of much observation and experience in the affairs of the frontiers. He is of a large, rather stout frame, broad shoulders and chest, and broad face, with a somewhat stern countenance, denoting decision of character and capacity to command. Thin and extended lips, parted in a right line over a prominent jaw, render the name, which his people have bestowed on him, characteristic. By the term Kozh, instead of Odoan, the true meaning of it is rather muzzle, or snout, than mouth, a distinction which the French have preserved in the term _Guelle_. AIUINOS, a nation of Indians, of the government of Cinaloa, New Spain. They live in the north part of the province. They formerly dwelt in lofty mountains, to escape the effects of war with other nations. In 1624, the Jesuits established a mission amongst them. They are docile, well inclined, and of good habits. AIUTLA, a settlement of New Spain, containing 187 Indian families. Another location of the same name contains 23 families. AJOUES, a tribe of Indians of Louisiana, in its ancient extent, while it existed under the government of the French. The word, as expressed in English orthography, is Iowas, and the tribe will be considered under that head. AKÓSA, an Odjibwa chief, living on the peninsula of Grand Traverse Bay, lake Michigan, known for his good will towards the mission established near his village, by the American Board, in 1839. In the recess periods of hunting, he is attentive on the means of instruction furnished at that station. He enjoins on his children attendance at the school. He bestows a punctual care in planting his cornfield and garden. He has erected a good dwelling house of logs, and supplied it with several articles of plain household furniture. He is of a mild and pleasing character, and appreciates and acknowledges the superiority of agriculture and civilization over the uncertainties of the chase. Without distinction in war, or eloquence, or a genealogy of warriors to refer to, and consequently, of but little general note or fame in his tribe, he is an active hunter, and stable, temperate man, and may be regarded as a fair average specimen, physically and mentally, of the race. The band of Akosa mustered 160 souls, on the pay rolls of 1840, of which number, 37 were men, 42 women, and 89 children. They receive their annuities at Michilimackinac. AKANSA, a synonym of Arkansas. ALABAMA, one of the United States of America. The name is derived from a tribe of Indians, who formerly inhabited the banks of the river of the same name. This river, on its junction with the Tombigbee, forms the Mobile. The Alabama Indians, were succeeded in the occupancy of this river by the Creeks, or Muscogees. They withdrew towards the west. In 1790 their descendants lived in a village, eligibly situated, on several swelling green hills on the banks of the Mississippi. No accounts of them are given in recent reports. They appear to have continued their route westward by the way of Red River. The precise period of their crossing the Mississippi is not known. They came to Red River about the same time as the Bolixies and Appalaches. Their language is represented to be the Mobilian, as denominated by Du Pratz, that is the Chacta. Part of them lived, at the end of the 18th century, on Red River, sixteen miles above Bayou Rapide. Thence they went higher up the stream, and settled near the Caddoes, where they raised good crops of corn. Another party, of about 40 men, lived in Apalousas district, where they cultivated corn, raised and kept horses, hogs and cattle, and exhibited a quiet and pacific character. From a statement published in a paper, at Houston, the seat of government of Texas, in 1840, their descendants were then settled on the river Trinity, in that republic, where they are associated with the Coshattas, forming two villages, numbering two hundred warriors, or about 1000 souls. They preserve, in this new location, the pacific and agricultural traits noticed during their residence in Louisiana. ALACHUA, an extensive level prairie, in Florida, about 75 miles west of St. Augustine. The ancient Indian town of Alachua, stood on its borders, but its inhabitants removed to a more healthful position at Cuscowilla. ALACLATZALA, a settlement in the district of St. Lewis, New Spain, containing 125 Indian families. ALAHUITZLAN, ib. a settlement having 270 Indian families. ALAPAHA, one of the higher tributary streams of the Suwannee river, in Florida. ALASKE, or ONALASKA, a long peninsula on the N. W. coast of America. At its termination, are a number of islands, which form a part of the cluster called the northern Archipelago. ALBARRADA, a settlement of Indians in the kingdom of Chile, situated on the shores of the river Cauchupil. Also a settlement of New Spain, containing 22 Indian families. ALEMPIGON improperly written for Nipigon, a small lake north of lake Superior. ALFAXAIUCA, a settlement of New Spain, containing 171 Indian families. ALGANSEE, a township of the county of Branch, Michigan. It is a compound derivative from Algonkin, _gan_, a particle denoting a lake, and mushcodainse, a prairie. ALGIC, an adjective term used by the writer, to denote a genus or family of tribes who take their characteristic from the use of the Algonquin language. It is a derivative from the words _Algonquin_, and _Akee_, earth, or land. ALGONQUIN, a nation of Indians who, on the discovery and settlement of Canada, were found to occupy the north banks of the St. Lawrence between Quebec, Three Rivers, and the junction of the Utawas. Quebec itself is believed to be a word derived from this language, having its origin in Kebic, the fearful rock or cliff. When the French settled at Quebec, fifteen hundred fighting men of this nation lived between that nation and Sillery. They were reputed, at this era, to be the most warlike and powerful people in North America, and the most advanced in their policy and intelligence. Colden speaks of them as excelling all others. On the arrival of Champlain, who, although not the discoverer of the country, was the true founder of the French power in Canada, they were supplied with fire arms, and even led to war, by that chivalric officer, against their enemies, the Iroquois. They were stimulated to renewed exertions in various ways, by the arrival of this new power, and carried the terror of their arms towards the south and south-west. They were in close alliance with the Wyandots, a people who, under the names of Quatoghies and Hurons, on Cartier's arrival in 1534, were seen as low down the St. Lawrence as the island of Anticosti, and bay Chaleur. But as soon as the Iroquois had been supplied with the same weapons, and learned their use, the Algonquins were made to feel the effects of their courage, and combined strength. The Wyandots were first defeated in a great battle fought within two leagues of Quebec. The Iroquois next prepared to strike an effective blow against the collective tribes of kindred origin, called Algonquins. Under the pretence of visiting the Governor of Canada, they introduced a thousand men into the valley of the St. Lawrence, when, finding their enemies separated into two bodies, the one at the river Nicolet, and the other at Trois Rivière, they fell upon them unawares, and defeated both divisions. In this defeat the Nipercerinians (Nipessings) and the Atawawas (Ottowas) who then lived on the banks of the St. Lawrence, participated. The former, who were indeed but the Algonquins under their proper name, drew off towards the north-west. The Atawawas migrated to the great chain of the Manatoulines of lake Huron, whence they have still proceeded further towards the west and south, until they reached L'arbre Croche and Grand River of Michigan, their present seats. The Quatoghies or Wyandots fled to the banks of the same Lake (Huron) which has derived its name from the celebrity of their flight to, and residence on its banks. Of the Algonquins proper who remained on the St. Lawrence, and who are specifically entitled to that name, but a limited number survive. About the middle of the 17th century, they were reduced to a few villages near Quebec, who were then said to be "wasted, and wasting away under the effects of ardent spirits." Subsequently, they were collected, by the Catholic Church, into a mission, and settled at the Lake of Two Mountains, on the Utawas or Grand River of Canada, where they have been instructed in various arts, and effectually civilized. There, their descendants still remain. They are a tall, active, shrewd, lithe, energic race. Parties of them have been engaged as voyagers and hunters, within modern times, and led in the prosecution of the fur trade into the remote forests of the north-west. In these positions, they have manifested a degree of energy, hardihood, and skill in the chase, far beyond that possessed by native, unreclaimed tribes. The Algonquin women, at the Lake of Two Mountains, make very ingenious basket and bead work, in which the dyed quills of the porcupine, and various coloured beads of European manufacture, are employed. They also make finger rings out of moose hair, taken from the breast tuft of this animal, in which mottoes or devices are worked. They have melodious soft voices, in chanting the hymns sung at the mission. This tribe is called Odishkuaguma, that is, People-at-the-end-of-the-waters, by the Odjibwas. They were called Adirondacks, by the Six Nations. The term Algonquin, which we derive from the French, is not of certain etymology. It appears at first to have been a _nom de guerre_, for the particular people, or tribe, whose descendants are now confined to the position at the Lake of Two Mountains. It was early applied to all the tribes of kindred origin. And is now a generic term for a family or primitive stock of tribes in North America, who either speak cognate dialects, or assimilate in the leading principles of their languages. The number of these tribes still existing, is very large, and viewed in the points of their greatest difference, the variations in the consonantal and diphthongal sounds of their languages, are considerable. As a general geographical area, these tribes, at various periods from about 1600, to the present time, ethnographically covered the Atlantic coast, from the northern extremity of Pamlico-sound to the Straits of Bellisle, extending west and north-west, to the banks of the Missinipi of Hudson's Bay, and to the east borders of the Mississippi, as low as the junction of the Ohio. From this area, the principal exceptions are the Iroquois of New York, the Wyandots west, and the Winnebagoes and small bands of the Docotahs. The grammatical principles of these dialects, coincide. As a general fact, in their lexicography the letters f, r and v are wanting. The dialects derive their peculiarities, in a great measure, from interchanges between the sounds of l and n, b and p. d and t, g and k, in some of which, there is a variance even in distant bands of the same tribe. The language is transpositive. In its conjugations, the pronouns are incorporated with the verb, either as prefixes or suffixes. Its substantives are provided with adjective inflections, denoting size and quality. Its verbs, on the other hand, receive substantive inflections. Gender is, as a rule, lost sight of, in the uniform attempt, to preserve, by inflections, a distinction between animate and inanimate, and personal or impersonal objects. It is remarkable for the variety of its compounds, although the vocabulary itself, is manifestly constructed from monosyllabic roots. All its substantives admit of diminutives, but, in no instance, of augmentatives. They also admit of derogative and prepositional inflections. The comparison of adjectives, is not, on the contrary, made by inflections, but by separate words. There is no dual number, but in all the dialects, so far as examined, a distinction is made in the plural of the first person, to denote the inclusion or exclusion of the object. There is no distinction between the pronoun, singular and plural, of the third person. The language has some redundancies, which would be pruned off by cultivation. It has many liquid and labial sounds. It has a soft flow and is easy of attainment. It is peculiarly rich and varied, in its compound terms for visible objects, and their motions or acts. Streams, mountains, vallies, and waters, in all their variety of appearance, are graphically described. It is equally suited to describe the phenomena of the heavens, the air, tempests, sounds, light, colours, motion, and the various phases of the clouds and planetary bodies. It is from this department, that a large portion of their personal names are taken. It is true that many of the grammatical principles of the Algonquin languages, are also developed in other stocks. Yet these stocks are not as well known. It was chiefly in the area of the Algonquin tribes, that the British and French, and Dutch and Swedish colonists settled, and the result of enquiry, through a long period, has accumulated most materials in relation to this type of the American languages. Specific notices of each of the subdivisions of this stock, will be given under the appropriate names. The general synonyms for this nation are but few. The principal differences in the orthography, between the French and English writers consist in the latter's spelling the last syllable _quin_, while the former employ _kin_. In old encyclopædias and gazetteers, the phrase Algonquinensis, is used. The term Abernaquis, is also a French mode of annotation for the same word, but is rather applied at this time to a specific band. The word Algic, derived from the same root, has been applied by the writer to the entire circle of the Algonquin tribes, in their utmost former extent in North America. Mr. Gallatin has proposed the term "Algonkin-Lenape," as a philological denomination for this important family. Their own name for the race, is a question of some diversity of opinion. Those particular tribes, who were found on the Atlantic coast between the Chesapeak-bay and the Hudson, called themselves Lenapes, generally with the prefixed or qualifying noun of Linno, or Lenno. Other tribes extending over the largest area of the union, and of British America, inhabited by this stock, denote themselves as a race, by the term Anishinábá, that is, the common people. The term Lenápe, signifies a male, and is identical in sense with the Algonquin word Iába. If Lenno, or Linno be, as some contend, a term denoting _original_, they must be conceded to have had more forethought, and a greater capacity for generalization, than other stocks have manifested, by calling themselves, Original Men. If, however, it only implies, as others acquainted with this language, assert, _common_ or _general_, then is there perceived to be a perfect identity in the meaning of the two terms. ALGONAC, a village of the county of St. Clair, Michigan, which is pleasantly situated on the banks of the river St. Clair. It is a term derived from the word Algonquin, and _akee_, earth or land. ALGONQUINENSIS, a term used in old gazetteers and geographical dictionaries, for the Algonquins. ALIETANS, a name for the Shoshones, or Snake Indians. See Ietans. ALIBAMONS, or ALIBAMIS, ancient forms of orthography for the tribe of the Alabamas. ALINA, a settlement of Pinzandarc, New Spain, containing 20 Indian families, who have a commerce in maize and wax. ALIPKONCK, an Indian village which, in 1659, stood on the east banks of the river Hudson, between the influx of the Croton, then called by the Dutch Saehkill, and the Indian village of Sing Sing. [Osinsing.] Aneebikong? place of leaves, or rich foliage. ALLCA, an ancient province of the kingdom of Peru, south of Cuczo, inhabited by a race of natives, who made a vigorous stand against Manco Capac, the fourth emperor of the Incas, and called the conqueror. In this defence, they were favoured by the rugged character of the country, which abounds in woods, mountains, lakes, and gold and silver mines. ALLEGAN, an agricultural and milling county of the state of Michigan, bordering on the east shores of lake Michigan. It is a derivative word, from Algonkin, and _gan_ the penultimate syllable of the Odjibwa term Sa-gí-é-gan, a lake. ALLEGHANY, the leading chain of mountains of the United States east of the Mississippi, also one of the two principal sources of the Ohio river. Indian tradition attributes the origin of this name to an ancient race of Indians who were called Tallegewy, or Allegewy. This nation, tradition asserts, had spread themselves east of the Mississippi and of the Ohio. They were a warlike people, and defended themselves in long and bloody wars, but were overpowered and driven south by a confederacy of tribes, whose descendants still exist in the Algonquin and Iroquois stocks. Such is the account of the Delawares. ALMOLOIA, a settlement of Zultepec in New Spain, of 77 Indian families; also, in Metepec, in the same kingdom, of 156 families. ALMOLOLOAIAN, a settlement in the district of Cohma, New Spain, of 60 Indian families. ALOTEPEC, ib. has 67 families. ALOZOZINGO, ib. has 110 families. ALPIZAGUA, ib. has 36 families. ALPOIECA, ib. has 42 families. Another, same name, of 115 families. ALPOIECAZINGO, ib. has 140 families. ALPONECA, ib. has 30 families. Another, same name, 77 families. ALTAMAHA, a river of Georgia. ALTOTONGA, the name of a settlement of Xalapa, in New Spain. The word signifies in the Mexican language, hot and saltish water, and this comes from the intermingled qualities of two streams which originate in a mountain near to each other, and form by their junction a river which runs into the lake of Alchichica. ALZOUI, a settlement of 190 Indian families, of Tlapa, in New Spain, or Mexico. They are industrious, cultivating maize, cotton, French beans and rice. ALMOUCHICO, the Indian name for New England, on the map of "Novi Belgii," published at Amsterdam in 1659. AMACACHES, a nation of Indians of Brazil, of the province of Rio Janiero. They inhabit the mountains south of the city. They are numerous, and much dreaded, on account of the desperate incursions they have made into the Portuguese settlements. Their weapons are darts, and macanaw, a kind of club made of a very heavy wood. They poison their arrows and lances. AMALISTES, a band of Algonquins, living on the St. Lawrence, and numbering 500 in 1760. AMANALCO, an Indian settlement of the district of Metepeque, Mexico, of 1224 families. AMAPAES, a barbarous nation of Indians in New Andalusia, to the west of the river Orinoco, near the mountains of Paria. They are valiant and hardy; sincere and faithful in their engagements. They live by the chace and by fishing. They make arms, which are tipped by vegetable poisons. They are at war with the Isaperices. Their territory is called, after them, Amapaya. AMAPILCAN, a settlement of Tlapa, Mexico, containing 15 Indian families. AMATEPEC, an Indian settlement of Zultepec, Mexico, situated on the top of a mountain, consisting of 80 families. Another settlement, of the same name, in the district of Toltontepec, has 15 Indians families. Both have a cold temperature. AMATICLAN, a settlement of Huitepec, in Mexico, containing 43 Indian families. AMATINCHAN, a settlement of Tlapa, Mexico, containing 62 Indian families. AMATLAN, a settlement of Tanzitaro, Mexico, containing 60 Indian families. Another settlement of San Louis, has 380 families. Another, in the district of Cordova, has 220. Another, in Zacatlan 248. Another, in Cozamaopan has 150. All these bear the same name, with the prefix of the dedicatory patron, Santa Ana. AMBOY, a bay of New Jersey. This part of the state was occupied, in ancient time, by a tribe or band of the Minci, who were called Sauhikans. AMEALCO, a settlement of Querataro, Mexico, containing 38 Indian families. AMECA, a settlement of Autlan, Mexico, containing 43 Indian families. AMECAMECA, a settlement of Chalco, Mexico, containing 570 Indian families. AMECAQUE, a settlement of Calpa, Mexico, containing 275 Indian families. AMERICA; no nation of Indians on this continent, had, so far as we know, ever generalized sufficiently to bestow a generic name on the continent. The Algonquin terms "Our Country," AINDANUKEYAN, and "The West," KABEAN, were probably the most comprehensive which their intercourse or ideas required. Equivalents for these phrases might be, perhaps, successfully sought among all the most advanced tribes. The instances here given are from the Odjibwa dialect. AMICWAYS, or AMICAWAES, a tribe or family of Indians, who are spoken of by the French writers as having formerly inhabited the Manatonline chain of islands in lake Huron. The term is from Amik, a beaver. The Ottowas settled here, after their discomfiture, along with the Adirondacks, on the St. Lawrence. AMIK-EMINIS, the group of Beaver islands of Lake Michigan. The easternmost of this group is called Amik-aindaud, or the Beaver-house. These islands are inhabited by Chippewas. In 1840, they numbered 199 souls, of whom 39 were men, 51 women, and 109 children. All were engaged in the chase, or in fishing, and none in agriculture. Their chief was called Kinwabekizze. AMIKWUG, a wild roving nation north-west of the sources of the Mississippi. See Beaver Indians. AMILPA, a settlement of Xochimilco, in Mexico, containing 730 Indian families, who live by agriculture. AMILTEPEC, a settlement of Juquila, M., containing 14 Indian families. AMIXOCORES, a barbarous nation of Indians of Brazil. They inhabit the woods and mountains south of Rio Janerio. They are cruel and treacherous. They are at continual war with the Portuguese. Very little is known of the territory they inhabit, or of their manners. AMMOUGKAUGEN, a name used in 1659, for the southern branch of the Piscataqua river. AMOLA, or AMULA, a judicial district in Guadaxalara, Mexico. In the Mexican tongue, it signifies the land of many trees, as it abounds in trees. The change from o to u in the word, is deemed a corruption. AMOLTEPEC, a settlement of Teozaqualco, Mexico, containing 96 Indian families. AMONOOSUCK, an Indian name which is borne by two rivers of New Hampshire. Both take their rise in the White Mountains. The upper Amonoosuck enters the Connecticut River, at Northumberland, near upper Coos. The lower, or Great Amonoosuck, enters the same river above the town of Haverhill, in lower Coos. AMOPOCAN, a settlement of Indians of Cuyo, in Chili, situated along the shores of a river. AMOZAQUE, a settlement of Puebla de los Angelos, in a hot and dry temperature, containing 586 Indian families. AMPONES, a barbarous nation of Indians, in Paraguay. They inhabit the forest to the south of the Rio de la Plata. They are of small stature. They are divided into several tribes. They are courageous. They live on wild tropical fruits, and on fish which are taken in certain lakes. They preserve these by smoking. They enjoy a fine country and climate. They find gold in the sand of their rivers, and have some traffic with the city of Conception. Some converts have been made to the Catholic faith. AMUES, a settlement and silver mine of San Luis de la Paz, in Mexico. It has 43 Indian families, besides 93 of Mustees and Mullatoes. They subsist by digging in the mines. AMURCAS, a nation of barbarous Indians, descended from the Panches, in New Grenada. They live in the forests to the south of the river Magdalena. But little is known of them. AMUSKEAG, the Indian name of a fall in the river Merrimack, New Hampshire, 16 miles below Concord, and 7 miles below Hookset falls. ANA, SANTA. Of the fifty-five names of places in Mexico, or New Spain, mentioned by Alcedo, which bear this name, seven are the seat of a joint population of 544 Indian families. Of these, 31 are in Zaqualpa; 117 in Zultepec; 124 in Toluca; 134 in Cholula; 18 in Yautepec; 25 in Mitla; 70 in Amaqueca; and 149 in Huehuetlan. ANAHUAC, the ancient Indian name of New Spain, or Mexico. The valley of Mexico, or Tenochtitlan, is, according to Humboldt, situated in the centre of the cordillera of Anahuac. This valley is of an oval form. Its length is 18-3/4 leagues, estimating from the entry of the Rio Tenango into lake Chalco to the foot of the Cerro de Sincoque, and 12-1/2 leagues in breadth, from St. Gabriel to the sources of the Rio de Escapusalco. Its territorial extent is 244-1/2 square leagues, of which only 22 square leagues are occupied by lakes, being less than a tenth of the whole surface. The circumference of the valley, estimating around the crest of the mountains, is 67 leagues. This crest is very elevated in most parts, and embraces the great volcanoes of La Puebla, Popocatepetl, and Iztacchihuatl. There are five lakes in this valley, of which, that of Tezcuco is the largest. All are much diminished in the quantity of water they yield, since the 16th century, which is owing, in part, to the destruction of trees by the Spaniards, but most directly to the canal of Huehuetoco, cut through a mountain, by which the waters are drawn into the river Panuco, and thus find their way into the Atlantic. By this work, the city of Mexico itself was freed from all effects of periodical inundation, and the site enlarged and rendered better suited to streets and carriages. The waters of lake Tezcuco are impregnated with muriate and carbonate of soda. Those of Xochimilco are the most pure and limpid. Humboldt found their specific gravity to be 1.0009, when distilled water at the temperature of 54° Fahrenheit, was 1.000, and that of Tezcuco 1.0215. Of the five lakes mentioned, Xochimilco and Chalco contain 6-1/2 square leagues; Tezcuco, 10-1/10; San Christoval, 3-6/10; and Zumpango, 1-3/10. The valley is a basin, surrounded by an elevated wall of porphyry mountains. The bottom of this basin is 2,277 metres, or 7,468 feet above the sea. ANALCO, a settlement of Guadalaxara, in Mexico, containing 40 Indian families. ANASAGUNTAKOOK, a band of the Abenaki, on the sources of the Androscoggin, in Maine. ANCAMARES, a nation of Indians inhabiting the shores of the river Madera. They are very warlike and robust. In 1683 they attacked the Portuguese, and compelled them to give up the navigation of the river. They are divided into different tribes. The most numerous are the Ancamares, who inhabit the shores of the river Cayari. ANCAS, a nation of Indians in Peru, who, on the 6th January, 1725, were overwhelmed and destroyed by the ruins of a mountain which burst forth by an earthquake. Fifteen thousand souls perished on that occasion. ANCE, or HANCE'S band of Chippewas, living at Point St. Ignace, on the straits of Michilimackinac, in Michigan. This band, in 1840, as denoted by the annuity pay rolls, numbered 193; of whom, 33 were men, 54 women, and 106 children. They subsist in part by hunting the small furred animals still existing in the country, and in part by fishing. They migrate from place to place, as the season varies, plant very little, and are addicted to the use of ardent spirits. ANCLOTE, an island on the south-west coast of Florida; also, a river flowing into the gulf at that locality, which is also called, in the Seminole dialect, the Est-has-hotee. ANCUTERES, a nation of infidel Indians inhabiting the forests of the river Napo, in Quito. They are numerous, savage, treacherous, and inconstant. ANDASTES, a nation formerly inhabiting the territory on the southern shores of lake Erie, south-west of the Senecas. They were extirpated by the Iroquois. ANDAIG WEOS, or CROW'S FLESH, a hereditary chief of the Chippewa nation, living towards the close of the last century at the ancient Indian village of La Pointe Chegoimegon, on lake Superior. He possessed qualities, which, under a different phasis of society, would have developed themselves in marked acts of benevolence. Numbers of anecdotes, favourable to his character, are related of him, and have been handed down by tradition among the French residents on that remote frontier. Although a warrior, engaged in frequent expeditions against the enemies of his tribe, he opposed the shedding of the blood of white men who were encountered, in a defenceless state, in the pursuits of trade. He also resisted the plunder of their property. He had a strong natural sense of justice, accompanied with moral energy, and gave utterance to elevated and ennobling sentiments in his intercourse. ANDREAS, SAN. A settlement of Texupilco, in Mexico, containing 77 Indian families; another of Toluco, of 134; another in Tlatotepec, of 33; another in Tuxtla, of 1170; another in Guejozingo, of 15; another in Papalotepec, of 20; another in Hiscoutepec, of 68; another in Tepehuacan, of 40; all under the same dedicatory name. ANDROSCOGGIN, the main western source of the river Kennebec, in Maine. ANGAGUA, SANTIAGO DE; a settlement of Valladolid, Mexico, containing 22 Indian families. ANGAMOCUTIRO, a settlement of the same district with the preceding, containing 106 Indian families. ANGARAES, a province of Peru, containing six curacies or parishes of Indians. ANGELES, PUEBLA DE LOS, the capitol of the province of Tlaxcala, in New Spain, or Mexico, founded in 1533. The entire number of Indian families within this important jurisdiction is 3,200, which, at the ordinary rate of the estimation of Indian population here, that is, five souls to a family, gives an aggregate of 16,000. These are descendants of the ancient Azteecs, who inhabited the country on its conquest. This is, however, but the population of the chief town or capital. The entire intendency of Pueblos de los Angeles contained, in 1793, 508,098 souls. Of this number, 373,752 were Indians of pure blood, divided into 187,531 males, and 186,221 females. There were also 77,908 of the mixed race, divided into 37,318 males, and 40,590 females. But 54,980 were Spaniards, or whites, exclusive of 585 secular ecclesiastics, 446 monks, and 427 nuns. This preponderance of the native Indian population is still more striking in the government of Ilaxcala, which, of course, includes the capital above named. In 1793, it contained a population of 59,177 souls; of which, 42,878 were Indians, divided into 21,849 males, and 21,029 females. The town is governed by a Cacique, and four Indian Alcaldes, who represent the ancient heads of the four quarters, still called Teepectipac, Ocotelalco, Quiahtuitztlan, and Tizatlan. By virtue of a royal cedula of 16th April, 1585, the whites have no seat in the municipality. The Cacique, or Indian Governor, enjoys the honors of an _alferez real_. Notwithstanding the zeal of a Spanish intendant general, the progress of the inhabitants in industry and prosperity has been extremely slow. The secret of this is, perhaps, revealed in the fact that four fifths of the whole property belongs to mort-main proprietors, that is to say, to communities of monks, to chapters, corporations, and hospitals. Their trade is also depressed by the enormous price of carriage from the table lands, and the want of beasts of burden. The geology and antiquities of this part of Mexico, are equally interesting. The intendency of Puebla is traversed by the high cordilleras of Anahuac, which, beyond the 18th degree of latitude, spreads into a plain, elevated from 1,800 to 2,000 metres above the level of the ocean, or from 5,905 to 6,561 feet. In this intendency is also the Popocatepetl, the highest mountain in Mexico. Humboldt's measurement of this volcano makes it 600 metres (1,968 feet,) higher than the most elevated summit of the old continent. It is, indeed, only exceeded between Panama and Behring's Straits, by Mt. St. Elias. The table land of Puebla exhibits remarkable vestiges of ancient civilization. The fortifications of Tlaxcala are posterior in the date of their construction to the great pyramid of Cholula. This pyramid, or teocalli is the most stupendous monument erected by the race. Its squares are arranged in exact accordance with the astronomical parallels. It is constructed in stages or terraces, the highest of which is 177 feet above the plain. It has a base of 1423 feet. By a passage excavated into the north side of it, a few years ago, it is found to be solid, and to consist of alternate layers of brick and clay. Its centre has not, however, been reached. Its height exceeds the third of the great Egyptian pyramids of the group of Ghiza. In its base, however, it exceeds that of all other edifices found by travellers in the old continent; it is almost double that of the great pyramid of Cheops. To conceive of the vastness of the structure, let the traveller imagine a square four times the size of the Place Vendome, piled up with brick, in terraces, twice the utmost height of the palace of the Louvre. The Indians of the province of Tlaxcala speak three languages, differing from one another, namely: the Mexican, Totonac, and Tlapanac. The first is peculiar to the inhabitants of Puebla, Cholula, and Tlascalla; the second to the inhabitants of Zacatlan; and the third is preserved in the environs of Tlapa. The population of the entire intendency of Puebla, in 1803, that is, ten years after the census above noted, had advanced to 813,300 in an extent of 2,696 square leagues, giving 301 inhabitants to the square league. Small as this may appear, it is four times greater than that of Sweden, and nearly equal to that of the Kingdom of Arragon. ANIALIS, a barbarous nation of South American Indians, in the llanos of Casanare and Meta, in the new kingdom of Grenada. They are descended from the Betoyes. They are very numerous, and of a gentle nature. The Jesuits established a mission among them in 1722. ANNACIOIS, or ANNACOUS, a barbarous nation of Indians, of the province of Puerto Seguro, in Brazil. They inhabit the woods and mountains to the west, and near the rivers Grande and Yucara. They are in a constant state of warfare, night and day. They are irreconcileable enemies of the Portuguese, whose colonies and cultivated lands they continually infest, and which they destroyed in 1687. ANNEMOSING, the name of the Ottowas, and Chippewas, for the Fox Islands, of lake Michigan. It is derived of Annemose, a young dog or fox, and _ing_, a particle denoting place, or locality. ANNEMIKEENS, a Chippewa hunter of Red River, in Hudson's bay, who survived a conflict with a grisly bear. After being terribly lacerated, in his face and limbs, but not deprived of consciousness, he affected death. The animal then seized him gently by the neck, and dragged him to a thicket, where he was left, as it was thought, to be eaten when the calls of hunger should demand. From this position he arose, first setting up, and binding parts of his lacerated flesh down, and afterwards rose, and succeeded in reaching his wigwam, where, by skill in the use of simples, his wounds were entirely healed. The name signifies little thunder, being a compound from Annimikee, thunder, and the diminutive inflection in us. ANNUTTELIGO, a hammock brought to notice in the late war with the Seminoles, in Florida. It is situated east of the Withlacooche river. ANOLAIMA, a settlement of Iocaima, in New Granada, containing a small, but indefinite population of Indians. ANTALIS, a barbarous and warlike nation of Indians, in the kingdom of Chile, to the west of Coquimbo. They valorously opposed the progress of the Inca Yupanqui, compelling him, in the end, to terminate his conquests on the other side of the river Maule, the last boundary of Peru. ANTIQUITIES. See the articles Grave Creek, Marrietta, Circleville, &c. ANTHONY ST.; the falls of, being the fourth and lowermost of the perpendicular, or prominent falls of the Mississippi, and by far the greatest. The first fall of this stream is the Kakabika, situated about half a day's journey below Itasca lake; the second is called Pukagama, and occurs below the influx of the Leech lake branch. The third is below Elk river and is passable in boats and canoes. St. Anthony's is the most considerable of the series, and the only one which presents an abrupt plunge of the stream from horizontal rocks. They were thus named by Hennepin, about 1680. By the Dacotah Indians, who inhabit the country, they are called Haha. It is at this point, that the Mississippi, which gathers its waters from high table lands, and has its course, for several hundreds of miles, through diluvions superimposed on the primitive, first plunges into the great secondary formation. For more than a thousand miles, in its way southward, its banks are rendered imposing and precipitous by this formation. At or near the Grand Tower, and its adjunct precipice, on the Missouri shore, this formation ceases, and the river enters the great delta, which still confines it, for a like distance, before it expands itself, by its bifurcations, and final exit, in the Gulf of Mexico, at the Balize. ANTONIO, SAN. The following statistical facts, denote the Indian population, of sundry settlements, bearing this name, within the former government of New Spain, now Mexico. In the limits of Toliman, 32 families; in Tampolomon, 128; in Toluca 51; in Metepec 261: in Coronango, 44; in Huehuetlan, 140; in Chapala, 27. APACAHUND, or WHITE EYES, a Delaware chief of note, of the era of the American revolution, who is frequently mentioned in documents of the times. APACES, SAN JUAN BAUTISTA DE, a settlement of Zelaga in the province and bishopric of Mechoacan, containing 135 Indian families. Another settlement, of the same name, with the dedicatory title of Santa Maria, in the district of Zitaguaro, contains 24 families. APACHES, a nation of Indians, located between the Rio del Norte and the sources of the Nuaces, who were reported, in 1817, at 3,500. In an official report submitted to Congress, in 1837, their numbers "within striking distance of the western frontier," are vaguely put at, 20,280. APPALACHIANS; a nation of Indians who formerly inhabited the extreme southern portion of the United States, and have left their name in the leading range of the Appalachian mountains. In 1539 De Soto found them in Florida, a term at that era comprehending also the entire area of the present states of Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and other portions of the southern territory. They were numerous, fierce, and valorous. They were clothed in the skins of wild beasts. They used bows and arrows, clubs and spears. They did not, as many nations of barbarians do, poison their darts. They were temperate, drinking only water. They did not make wars on slight pretences, or for avarice, but to repress attacks, or remedy injustice. They treated their prisoners with humanity, and like other persons of their households. They were long lived, some persons reaching a hundred years. They worshipped the sun, to which they sang hymns, morning and evening. These facts are to be gleaned from the narrative. What were their numbers, how far they extended their jurisdiction, what were their affiliations by language, customs, and institutions with other tribes, cannot be accurately decided. Much that is said of their civil and military polity, buildings, ceremonies and other traits, applies to the Floridian Indians generally, and may be dismissed as either vague, or not characteristic of the Appalachians. A quarto volume was published in London in 1666, by John Davies, under the title of a "History of the Caribby Indians," in which he traces the caribs of the northern groups of the West Indies, to the Appalachians, and relates many incidents, and narrates a series of surprising wars and battles, reaching, in their effects, through the Mississippi valley up to the great lakes, which have the appearance of fable. How much of this account, which speaks of "cattle" and "herds," may be grafted on ancient traditions, it is impossible to tell. There are some proofs of such an ancient civilisation in the Ohio valley and other sections of the country, but they are unconnected with any Indian traditions, which have survived, unless we consider the mounds and remains of antique forts as monumental evidences of these reputed wars. The Lenapee accounts of these ancient wars with the Tallagees or Allegewy, may be thought to refer to this ancient people, who had, if this conjecture be correct, extended their dominion to the middle and northern latitudes of the present area of the United States, prior to the appearance of the Algonquin and Iroquies races. Mr. Irving has suggested the name of Apallachia, or Allegania, derived from the stock, for this division of the continent. LANGUAGE. LECTURES ON THE GRAMMATICAL STRUCTURE OF THE INDIAN LANGUAGE. The course of lectures, of which the following are part, were delivered before the St. Mary's committee of the Algic Society. Two of them only have been published. They are here continued from the article "Indian Languages," at page 202 of the "Narrative of the Discovery of the actual Source of the Mississippi, in Itasca Lake," published by the Harpers, in 1834. The family of languages selected as the topic of inquiry, is the Algonquin. All the examples employed are drawn from that particular type of it which is called Chippewa, in our transactions with them, but which they uniformly pronounce themselves, Od-jib-wa. These terms are employed as perfect synonyms. The phrase "Odjibwa-Algonquin," wherever it occurs, is intended to link, in the mind of the inquirer, the species and the genus (if we may borrow a term from natural history) of the language, but is not fraught with, or intended to convey, any additional idea. The three terms relate to one and the same people. LECTURE III. Observations on the Adjective--Its distinction into two classes denoted by the presence or absence of vitality--Examples of the animates and inanimates--Mode of their conversion into substantives--How pronouns are applied to these derivatives, and the manner of forming compound terms from adjective bases, to describe the various natural phenomena--The application of these principles in common conversation, and in the description of natural and artificial objects--Adjectives always preserve the distinction of number--Numerals--Arithmetical capacity of the language--The unit exists in duplicate. 1. It has been remarked that the distinction of words into animates and inanimates, is a principle intimately interwoven throughout the structure of the language. It is, in fact, so deeply imprinted upon its grammatical forms, and is so perpetually recurring, that it may be looked upon, not only as forming a striking peculiarity of the language, but as constituting the fundamental principle of its structure, from which all other rules have derived their limits, and to which they have been made to conform. No class of words appears to have escaped its impress. Whatever concords other laws impose, they all agree, and are made subservient in the establishment of this. It might appear to be a useless distinction in the adjective, when the substantive is thus marked; but it will be recollected that it is in the plural of the substantive only, that the distinction is marked. And we shall presently have occasion to show, that redundancy of forms, are, to considerable extent, obviated in practice. For the origin of the principle itself, we need look only to nature, which endows animate bodies with animate properties and qualities, and vice versa. But it is due to the tribes who speak this language, to have invented one set of adjective symbols to express the ideas peculiarly appropriate to the former, and another set applicable, exclusively, to the latter; and to have given the words good and bad, black and white, great and small, handsome and ugly, such modifications as are practically competent to indicate the general nature of the objects referred to, whether provided with, or destitute of the vital principle. And not only so, but by the figurative use of these forms, to exalt inanimate masses into the class of living beings, or to strip the latter of the properties of life--a principle of much importance to their public speakers. This distinction is shown in the following examples, in which it will be observed, that the inflection _izzi_, generally denotes the personal, and _au_, _un_, or _wud_, the impersonal forms. Adj: _Inanimate._ Adj: _Animate._ Bad Monaud ud Monaud izzi. Ugly Gushkoonaug wud Gushkoonaug oozzi. Beautiful Bishegaindaug wud Bishegaindaug oozzi. Strong Söng un Söng izzi. Soft Nök un Nök izzi. Hard Mushkow au Mushkow izzi. Smooth Shoiskw au Shoiskw oozzi. Black Mukkuddäw au Mukkuddäw izzi. White Waubishk au Waubishk izzi. Yellow Ozahw au Ozahw izzi. Red Miskw au Miskw izzi. Blue Ozhahwushkw au Ozhahwushkw izzi. Sour Sheew un Sheew izzi. Sweet Weeshkob un Weeshkob izzi. Light Naung un Naung izzi. It is not, however, in all cases, by mere modifications of the adjective that these distinctions are expressed. Words totally different in sound, and evidently derived from radically different roots, are, in some few instances, employed, as in the following examples: Adj: _Inanimate._ Adj: _Animate._ Good Onisheshin Minno. Bad Monaudud Mudjee. Large Mitshau Mindiddo. Small Pungee Uggaushi. Old Geekau Gitizzi. It may be remarked of these forms, that although the impersonal will, in some instances, take the personal inflections, the rule is not reciprocated, and minno, and mindiddo, and gitizzi, and all words similarly situated, remain unchangeably animates. The word pungee, is limited to the expression of quantity, and its correspondent uggaushi, to size, or quality. Kishedä, (hot) is restricted to the heat of a fire; keezhautä, to the heat of the sun. There is still a third term to indicate the natural heat of the body, _Kizzizoo_. Mitshau (large) is generally applied to countries, lakes, rivers, &c. Mindiddo, to the body, and gitshee, indiscriminately. Onishishin, and its correspondent onishishsha, signify, handsome or fair, as well as good. Kwonaudj a. a. and kwonaudj ewun a. i. mean, strictly, handsome, and imply nothing further. Minno, is the appropriate personal form for good. Mudgee and monaudud, may reciprocally change genders, the first by the addition of _i-e-e_, and the second by altering _ud_ to _izzi_. Distinctions of this kind are of considerable importance in a practical point of view, and their observance or neglect, are noticed with scrupulous exactness by the Indians. The want of inanimate forms to such words as happy, sorrowful, brave, sick &c. creates no confusion, as inanimate nouns cannot, strictly speaking, take upon themselves such qualities, and when they do--as they sometimes do, by one of those extravagant figures of speech, which are used in their tales of transformations, the animate forms answer all purposes. For in these tales the whole material creation may be clothed with animation. The rule, as exhibited in practice, is limited, with sufficient accuracy, to the boundaries prescribed by nature. To avoid a repetition of forms, were the noun and the adjective both to be employed in their usual relation, the latter is endowed with a pronominal, or substantive inflection. And the use of the noun, in its separate form, is thus wholly superceded. Thus onishishin, a. i. and onishishsha, a. a. become Wanishishing, that which is good, or fair, and Wanishishid, he who is good or fair. The following examples will exhibit this rule, under each of its forms. Compound or Noun-Adjective Animate. Black Mukkuddaw izzi Makuddaw izzid. White Waubishk izzi Wyaubishk izzid. Yellow Ozahw izzi Wazauw izzid. Red Miskw izzi Mashk oozzid. Strong Song izzi Song izzid. Noun-Adjective Inanimate. Black Mukkuddäw au Mukkuddäw aug. White Waubishk au Wyaubishk aug. Yellow Ozahw au Wäzhauw aug. Red Mishkw au Mishkw aug. The animate forms in these examples will be recognized, as exhibiting a further extension of the rule, mentioned in the preceding chapter, by which substantives are formed from the indicative of the verb by a permutation of the vowels. And these forms are likewise rendered plural in the manner there mentioned. They also undergo changes to indicate the various persons. For instance onishisha is thus declined to mark the person. Wänishish-eyaun I (am) good, or fair. Wänishish-eyun Thou (art) good, or fair. Wänishish-id He (is) good or fair. Wänishish-eyang We (are) good or fair (ex.) Wänishish-eyung We (are) good a fair (in.) Wänishish-eyaig Ye (are) good or fair. Wänishish-idigj They (are) good or fair. The inanimate forms, being without person, are simply rendered plural by in, changing maiskwaug, to maiskwaug-in. &c. &c. The verbal signification which these forms assume, as indicated in the words am, art, is, are, is to be sought in the permutative change of the first syllable. Thus o is changed to wä, muk to mäk, waub to wy-aub, ozau to wäzau, misk to maisk, &c. The pronoun, as is usual in the double compounds, is formed wholly by the inflections eyaun, eyun, &c. The strong tendency of the adjective to assume a personal, or pronomico-substantive form, leads to the employment of many words in a particular, or exclusive sense. And in any future practical attempts with the language, it will be found greatly to facilitate its acquisition if the adjectives are arranged in distinct classes, separated by this characteristic principle of their application. The examples we have given are chiefly those which may be considered strictly animate, or inanimate, admit of double forms, and are of general use. Many of the examples recorded in the original manuscripts employed in these lectures, are of a more concrete character, and, at the same time, a more limited use. Thus shaugwewe, is a weak person, nökaugumme, a weak drink, nokaugwud, a weak, or soft piece of wood. Sussägau, is fine, but can only be applied to personal appearance: beesau, indicates fine grains. Keewushkwa is giddy, and keewushkwäbee, giddy with drink, both being restricted to the third person. Söngun and songizzi, are the personal and impersonal forms of strong, as given above. But Mushkowaugumme, is strong drink. In like manner the two words for hard, as above, are restricted to solid substances. Sunnuhgud is hard (to endure,) waindud, is easy (to perform.) Söngedää is brave, Shaugedää cowardly, keezhinzhowizzi, active, kizhekau, swift, onaunegoozzi lively, minwaindum happy, gushkwaindum, sorrowful, but all these forms are confined to the third person of the indicative, singular. Pibbigwau, is a rough or knotted substance. Pubbiggoozzi, a rough person. Keenwau is long, or tall, (any solid mass.) Kaynozid is a tall person. Tahkozid a short person. Wassayau is light; wassaubizzoo, the light of the eye; wasshauzhä, the light of a star, or any luminous body. Keenau is sharp, keenaubikud, a sharp knife, or stone. Keezhaubikeday, is hot metal, a hot stove, &c. Keezhaugummeda, is hot water. Aubudgeetön, is useful,--a useful thing. Wauweeug is frivolous, any thing frivolous in word, or deed. Tubbushish, appears to be a general term for low. Ishpimming is high in the air. Ishpau, is applied to any high fixture, as a house, &c. Ishpaubikau is a high rock. Taushkaubikau, a split rock. These combinations and limitations meet the inquirer at every step. They are the current phrases of the language. They present short, ready, and often beautiful modes of expression. But as they shed light, both upon the idiom and genius of the language, I shall not scruple to add further examples and illustrations. Ask a Chippewa, the name for rock, and he will answer _awzhebik_. The generic import of aubik, has been explained. Ask him the name for red rock, and he will answer miskwaubik,--for white rock, and he will answer waubaubik, for black rock mukkuddäwaubik,--for yellow rock, ozahwaubik,--for green rock, ozhahwushkwaubik,--for bright rock, wassayaubik, for smooth rock, shoishkwaubik, &c. compounds in which the words red, white, black, yellow, &c. unite with aubik. Pursue this inquiry and the following forms will be elicited. _Impersonal._ Miskwaubik-ud. It (is) a red rock. Waubaubik-ud. It (is) a white rock. Mukkuddäwaubik-ud. It (is) a black rock. Ozahwaubik-ud. It (is) a yellow rock. Wassayaubik-ud. It (is) a bright rock. Shoiskwaubik-ud. It (is) a smooth rock. _Personal._ Miskwaubik-izzi. He (is) a red rock. Waubaubik-izzi. He (is) a white rock. Mukkuddäwaubik-izzi. He (is) a black rock. Ozahwaubik-izzi. He (is) a yellow rock. Wassayaubik-izzi. He (is) a bright rock. Shoiskwaubik-izzi. He (is) a smooth rock. Add _bun_ to these terms, and they are made to have passed away,--prefix _tah_ to them, and their future appearance is indicated. The word "is" in the translations, although marked with brackets, is not deemed wholly gratuitous. There is, strictly speaking, an idea of existence given to these compounds, by the particle au in aubic, which seems to be indirectly a derivative from that great and fundamental root of the language iau. Bik, is, apparently, the radix of the expression for "rock." Let this mode of interrogation be continued, and extended to other adjectives, or the same adjectives applied to other objects, and results equally regular and numerous will be obtained. Minnis, we shall be told, is an island: miskominnis, a red island; mukkaddäminnis, a black island; waubeminnis, a white island, &c. Annokwut, is a cloud; miskwaunakwut, a red cloud; mukkuddawukwut, a black cloud; waubahnokwut, a white cloud; ozahwushkwahnokwut, a blue cloud, &c. Neebe is the specific term for water; but is not generally used in combination with the adjective. The word _guma_, like _aubo_, appears to be a generic term for water, or potable liquids. Hence the following terms:-- Gitshee, Great. Gitshiguma, Great water. Nokun, Weak. Nokauguma, Weak drink. Mushkowau, Strong. Mushkowauguma, Strong drink. Weeshkobun, Sweet. Weeshkobauguma, Sweet drink. Sheewun, Sour. Sheewauguma, Sour drink. Weesugun, Bitter. Weesugauguma, Bitter drink. Minno, Good. Minwauguma, Good drink. Monaudud, Bad. Mahnauguma, Bad drink. Miskwau, Red. Miskwauguma, Red drink. Ozahwau, Yellow. Ozahwauguma, Yellow drink. Weenun, Dirty. Weenauguma, Dirty water. Peenud, Clear. Peenauguma, Clear Water. From minno, and from monaudud, good and bad, are derived the following terms. Minnopogwud, it tastes well; minnopogoozzi, he tastes well. Mauzhepogwud, it tastes bad; mawzhepogoozzi, he tastes bad. Minnomaugwud, it smells good; minnomaugoozzi, he smells good; magghemaugawud, it smells bad; mawhemaugoozzi, he smells bad. The inflections gwud, and izzi, here employed, are clearly indicative, as in other combinations, of the words _it_ and _him_. Baimwa is sound. Baimwäwa, the passing sound. Minwäwa, a pleasant sound. Maunwawa, a disagreeable sound. Mudwayaushkau, the sound of waves dashing on the shore. Mudwayaunnemud, the sound of winds. Mudway au kooskau, the sound of falling trees. Mudwäkumigishin, the sound of a person falling upon the earth. Mudwaysin, the sound of any inanimate mass falling on the earth. These examples might be continued ad infinitum. Every modification of circumstances--almost every peculiarity of thought is expressed by some modification of the orthography. Enough has been given to prove that the adjective combines itself with the substantive, the verb and the pronoun--that the combinations thus produced are numerous, afford concentrated modes of conveying ideas, and oftentimes happy terms of expression. Numerous and prevalent as these forms are, they do not, however, preclude the use of adjectives in their simple forms. The use of the one, or of the other appears to be generally at the option of the speaker. In most cases brevity or euphony dictates the choice. Usage results from the application of these principles. There may be rules resting upon a broader basis, but if so, they do not appear to be very obvious. Perhaps the simple adjectives are oftenest employed before verbs and nouns, in the first and second persons singular. Ningee minno neebau-nabun, I have slept well. Ningee minno weesin, I have eaten a good meal. Ningee minno pimmoossay, I have walked well, or a good distance. Kägät minno geeghigud, It (is) a very pleasant day. Kwunaudj ningödahs, I have a handsome garment. Ke minno iau nuh? Are you well? Auneende ain deyun? What ails you? Keezhamonedo aupädushshäwainenik, God prosper you. Aupädush Shäwaindaugoozzeyun, Good luck attend you. Aupädush nau kinwainzh pimmaudizziyun, May you live long. Onauneegoozzin, Be (thou) cheerful. Ne miuwaindum waubumaun, I (am) glad to see you. Kwanaudj Kweeweezains, A pretty boy. Kägät Söngeedää, He (is) a brave man. Kägät onishishsha, She (is) handsome. Gitshee kinözee, He (is) very tall. Uggausau bäwizzi, She (is) slender. Gitshee sussaigau, He (is) fine dressed. Bishegaindaugooziwug meegwunug, They (are) beautiful feathers. Ke daukoozzinuh? Are you sick? Monaudud maundun muskeekee, This (is) bad medicine. Monaudud aindauyun, My place of dwelling (is) bad. Aindauyaun mitshau, My place of dwelling is large. Ne mittigwaub onishishsha, My bow (is) good. Ne bikwukön monaududön, But my arrows (are) bad. Ne minwaindaun appaukoozzegun, I love mild, or mixed, tobacco. Kauweekau neezhikay ussämau ne sugguswaunausee, But I never smoke pure tobacco. Monaudud maishkowaugumig, Strong drink (is) bad. Keeguhgee baudjeëgonaun, It makes us foolish. Gitshee Monedo nebee ogee ozhetön, The Great Spirit made water. Inineewug dush ween ishkädäwaubo ogeo ozhetönahwaun, But man made whiskey. These expressions are put down promiscuously, embracing verbs and nouns as they presented themselves; and without any effort to support the opinion--which may, or may not be correct--that the elementary forms of the adjectives are most commonly required before verbs and nouns in the first and second persons. The English expression is thrown into Indian in the most natural manner, and of course, without always giving adjective for adjective, or noun for noun. Thus, God is rendered, not "Monedo," but, "Geezha Monedo," _Merciful Spirit_. Good luck, is rendered by the compound phrase "Shäwaindaugoozzeyun," indicating, in a very general sense _the influence of kindness or benevolence on success in life_. "Söngedää" is alone, _a brave man_; and the word "Kägät," prefixed, is an adverb. In the expression "mild tobacco," the adjective is entirely dispensed with in the Indian, the sense being sufficiently rendered by the compound noun "appaukoozzegun," which always means the Indian weed, or smoking mixture. "Ussamau," on the contrary, without the adjective, signifies, "pure tobacco." "Bikwakön," signifies blunt, or lumpy-headed arrows. Assowaun is the barbed arrow. Kwonaudj kweeweezains, means, not simply "pretty boy," but _pretty little boy_; and there is no mode of using the word boy but in this diminutive form--the the word itself being a derivative, from kewewe, conjugal with the regular diminutive in _ains_. "Onaunegoozzin" embraces the pronoun, verb and adjective, _be thou cheerful_. In the last phrase of the examples, "man," is rendered men (inineewug) in the translation, as the term man cannot be employed in the general plural sense it conveys in this connection, in the original. The word "whiskey," is rendered by the compound phrase ishködawaubo, literally, _fine-liquor_; a generic for all kinds of ardent spirits. These aberrations from the literal term, will convey some conceptions of the difference of the two idioms, although, from the limited nature and object of the examples, they will not indicate the full extent of this difference. In giving anything like the spirit of the original, much greater deviations, in the written forms, must appear. And in fact, not only the structure of the language, but the mode and _order of thought_ of the Indians is so essentially different, that any attempts to preserve the English idiom--to give letter for letter, and word for word, must go far to render the translation pure nonsense. 2. Varied as the adjective is, in its changes it has no comparative inflection. A Chippewa cannot say that one substance is hotter or colder than another; or of two or more substances unequally heated, that this, or that is the hottest or coldest, without employing adverbs, or accessory adjectives. And it is accordingly by adverbs, and accessory adjectives, that the degrees of comparison are expressed. Pimmaudizziwin, is a very general substantive expression, in indicating _the tenor of being or life_. Izzhewäbizziwin, is a term near akin to it, but more appropriately applied to the _acts, conduct, manner, or personal deportment of life_. Hence the expressions: Nin bimmaudizziwin, My tenor of life. Ke bimmaudizziwin, Thy tenor of life. O Pimmaudizziwin, His tenor of life, &c. Nin dizekewäbizziwin, My personal deportment. Ke dizhewäbizziwin, Thy personal deportment. O Izzhewäbizziwin, His personal deportment, &c. To form the positive degree of comparison for these terms minno, good, and mudjee, bad, are introduced between the pronoun and verb, giving rise to some permutations of the vowels and consonants, which affect the sound only. Thus:-- Ne minno pimmaudizziwin, My good tenor of life. Ke minno pimmaudizziwin, Thy good tenor of life. Minno pimmaudizziwin, His good tenor of life. Ne mudjee pimmaudizziwin, My bad tenor of life. Ke mudjee pimmaudizziwin, Thy bad tenor of life. Mudjee pimmaudizziwin, His bad tenor of life. To place these forms in the comparative degree, nahwudj, _more_, is prefixed to the adjective; and the superlative is denoted by _mahmowee_, an adverb, or an adjective as it is variously applied, but the meaning of which, is, in this connexion, _most_. The degrees of comparison may be therefore set down as follows:-- _Positive_, Kishedä, Hot, (restricted to the heat of a fire.) _Comp._ Nahwudj Kishedä, More hot. _Super._ Mahmowee Kishedä, Most hot. Your manner of life is good, Ke dizzihewäbizziwin onishishin. Your manner of life is better, Ke dizzhewäbizziwin nahwudj onishishin. Your manner of life is best, Ke dizzhewäbizziwin mahmoweé onishishin. His manner of life is best, Odizzhewabizziwin mahmowee onishishinine. Little Turtle was brave, Mikkenoköns söngedääbun. Tecumseh was braver, Tecumseh nahwidj söngedääbun. Pontiac was bravest, Pontiac mahmowee söngedääbun. 3. The adjective assumes a negative form when it is preceded by the adverb. Thus the phrase söngedää, he is brave, is changed to, Kahween söngedääsee, he is not brave. _Positive._ _Negative._ Neebwaukah, Kahween neebwaukah-see, He is wise. He is not wise. Kwonaudjewe, Kahween kwonaudjewe-see, She is handsome. She is not handsome. Oskineegee, Kahween oskineegee-see, He is young. He is not young. Shaugweewee, Kahween Shaugweewee-see, He is feeble. He is not feeble. Geekkau, Kahween Geekkau-see, He is old. He is not old. Mushkowizzi, Kahween Mushkowizzi-see, He is strong. He is not strong. From this rule the indeclinable adjectives--by which is meant those adjectives which do not put on the personal and impersonal forms by inflection, but consist of radically different roots--form exceptions. Are you sick? Ke dahkoozzi nuh? You are not sick! Kahween ke dahkoozzi-see! I am happy. Ne minwaindum. I am unhappy. Kahween ne minwuinduz-see. His manner of life is bad. Mudjee izzhewabizzi. His manner of life is not bad. Kahween mudjee a izzhewabizzi-see. It is large. Mitshau muggud. It is not large. Kahween mitshau-seenön. In these examples the declinable adjectives are rendered negative in see. The indeclinable, remain as simple adjuncts to the verbs, and the _latter_ put on the negative form. 4. In the hints and remarks which have now been furnished respecting the Chippewa adjective, its powers and inflections have been shown to run parallel with those of the substantive, in its separation into animates and inanimates,--in having the pronominal inflections,--in taking an inflection for tense--(a topic, which, by the way, has been very cursorily passed over,) and in the numerous modifications to form the compounds. This parallelism has also been intimated to hold good with respect to number--a subject deeply interesting in itself, as it has its analogy only in the ancient languages, and it was therefore deemed best to defer giving examples till they could be introduced without abstracting the attention from other points of discussion. Minno and mudjee, good and bad, being of the limited number of personal adjectives, which modern usage permits being applied, although often improperly applied, to inanimate objects, they as well as a few other adjectives, form exceptions to the use of number. Whether we say a good man or a bad man, good men or bad men, the words minno and mudjee, remain the same. But all the declinable and coalescing adjectives--adjectives which join on, and, as it were, melt into the body of the substantive, take the usual plural inflections, and are governed by the same rules in regard to their use, as the substantive, personal adjectives requiring personal plurals, &c. Adjectives Animate. _Singular._ Onishishewe mishemin, Good apple. Kwonaudjewe eekwä, Handsome woman. Songedää inine, Brave man. Bishegaindaugoozzi peenasee, Beautiful bird. Ozahwizzi ahmo, Yellow bee. _Plural._ Onishishewe-wug mishemin-ug, Good apples. Kwonaudjewe-wug eekwä-wug, Handsome women. Songedää-wug inine-wug, Brave men. Bishegaindaugoozzi-wug peenasee-wug, Beautiful birds. Ozahwizzi-wug ahm-ög, Yellow bees. Adjectives Inanimate. _Singular._ Onishishin mittig, Good tree. Kwonaudj tshemaun, Handsome canoe. Monaudud ishkoda, Bad fire. Weeshkobun aidetaig, Sweet fruit. _Plural._ Onishishin-ön mittig-ön, Good trees. Kwonaudjewun-ön tshemaun-un, Handsome canoes. Monaudud-ön ishkod-än, Bad fires. Weeshkobun-ön aidetaig-in, Sweet fruits. Peculiar circumstances are supposed to exist, in order to render the use of the adjective, in this connexion with the noun, necessary and proper. But in ordinary instances, as the narration of events, the noun would precede the adjective, and oftentimes, particularly where a second allusion to objects previously named became necessary, the compound expressions would be used. Thus instead of saying the yellow bee, wäyzahwizzid, would distinctly convey the idea of that insect, _had the species been before named_. Under similar circumstances kainwaukoozzid, agausheid söngaunemud, mushkowaunemud, would respectively signify, a tall tree, a small fly, a strong wind, a hard wind. And these terms would become plural in _jig_, which, as before mentioned, is a mere modification of _ig_, one of the five general animate plural inflections of the language. Kägat wahwinaudj abbenöjeeug, is an expression indicating _they are very handsome children_. Bubbeeweezheewug monetösug, denotes _small insects_. Minno neewugizzi, is good tempered, he is good tempered. Mawshininewugizzi, is bad tempered, both having their plural in _wug_. Nin nuneenahwaindum, I am lonesome. Nin nuneenahwaindaumin, we (excluding you) are lonesome. Waweea, is a term generally used to express the adjective sense of _round_. Kwy, is the scalp. (_Weenikwy_ his scalp.) Hence Weewukwon, hat; Wayweewukwonid, a wearer of the hat; and its plural Wayeewukwonidjig, wearers of the hats--the usual term applied to Europeans, or white men generally. These examples go to prove, that under every form in which the adjective can be traced, whether in its simplest or most compound state, it is susceptible of number. The numerals of the language are converted into adverbs, by the inflection _ing_, making _one_, _once_, &c. The unit exists in duplicate. Päzhik, One, general unit } Aubeding, Once. Ingoot, One, numerical unit} Neesh, Two. Neeshing, Twice. Niswee, Three. Nissing, Thrice. Neewin, Four. Neewing, Four-times. Naunun, Five. Nauning, Five-times. N'goodwaswä, Six. N'goodwautshing, Six-times. Neeshwauswä, Seven. Neeshwautshing, Seven-times. Shwauswe, Eight. Shwautshing, Eight-times. Shongusswe, Nine. Shongutshing, Nine-times. Meetauswee, Ten. Meetaushing, Ten-times. These inflections can be carried as high as they can compute numbers. They count decimally. After reaching ten, they repeat, ten and one, ten and two, &c. to twenty. Twenty is a compound signifying two tens, thirty, three tens, &c., a mode which is carried up to one hundred _n'goodwak_. Wak, then becomes the word of denomination, combining with the names of the digits, until they reach a thousand, _meetauswauk_, literally, _ten hundred_. Here a new compound term is introduced made by prefixing twenty to the last denomination, neshtonnah duswak, which doubles the last term, thirty triples it, forty quadruples it, &c., till the computation reaches to ten thousand, n'goodwak dushing n'goodwak, _one hundred times one hundred_. This is the probable extent of all certain computation. The term _Gitshee_, (great,) prefixed to the last denomination, leaves the number indefinite. There is no form of the numerals corresponding to second, third, fourth, &c. They can only further say, _nittum_ first, and _ishkwaudj_, last. LECTURE IV. Nature and principles of the pronoun--Its distinction into preformative and subformative classes--Personal pronouns--The distinction of an inclusive and exclusive form in the number of the first person plural--Modifications of the personal pronouns to imply existence, individuality, possession, ownership, position and other accidents--Declension of pronouns to answer the purpose of the auxiliary verbs--Subformatives, how employed, to mark the persons--Relative pronouns considered--Their application to the causative verbs--Demonstrative pronouns--their separation into two classes, animates and inanimates--Example of their use. Pronouns are buried, if we may so say, in the structure of the verb. In tracing them back to their primitive forms, through the almost infinite variety of modifications which they assume, in connexion with the verb, substantive and adjective, it will facilitate analysis, to group them into preformative and subformative, which include the pronominal prefixes and suffixes, and which admit of the further distinction of separable and inseparable. By separable is intended those forms, which have a meaning by themselves, and are thus distinguished from the inflective and subformative pronouns, and pronominal particles significant only, in connection with another word. 1. Of the first class, are the personal pronouns Neen (I,) Keen (thou,) and Ween or O (he or she.) They are declined to form the plural persons in the following manner: I, Neen. We Keen owind (in.) We Neen owind (ex.) Thou, Keen. Ye Keen owau. He or She, Ween or O. They Ween owau. Here the plural persons are formed by a numerical inflection of the singular. The double plural of the first person, of which both the rule and examples have been incidentally given in the remarks on the substantive, is one of those peculiarities of the language, which may, perhaps, serve to aid in a comparison of it, with other dialects, kindred and foreign. As a mere conventional agreement, for denoting whether the person addressed, be included, or excluded, it may be regarded as an advantage to the language. It enables the speaker, by the change of a single consonant, to make a full and clear discrimination, and relieves the narration from doubts and ambiguity, where doubts and ambiguity would otherwise often exist. On the other hand, by accumulating distinctions, it loads the memory with grammatical forms, and opens a door for improprieties of speech. We are not aware of any inconveniencies in the use of a general plural. But in the Indian it would produce confusion. And it is perhaps to that cautious desire of personal discrimination, which is so apparent in the structure of the language, that we should look for the reason of the duplicate forms of this word. Once established, however, and both the distinction, and the necessity of a constant and strict attention to it, are very obvious and striking. How shall he address the Deity? If he say--"_Our father who art in heaven_," the inclusive form of "our" makes the Almighty one of the suppliants, or family. If he use the exclusive form, it throws him out of the family, and may embrace every living being but the Deity. Yet, neither of these forms can be used well in prayer, as they cannot be applied directly _to_ the object addressed. It is only when speaking _of_ the Deity, under the name of father, to other persons, that the inclusive and exclusive forms of the word "our" can be used. The dilemma may be obviated, by the use of a compound descriptive phrase--Wä ö se mig o yun, signifying--THOU WHO ART THE FATHER OF ALL. Or, universal father. In practice, however, the question is cut short, by those persons who have embraced Christianity. It has seemed to them, that by the use of either of the foregoing terms, the Deity would be thrown into too remote a relation to them, and I have observed, that, in prayer, they invariably address Him, by the term used by children for the father of a family, that is, NOSA, my father. The other personal pronouns undergo some peculiar changes, when employed as preformatives before nouns and verbs, which it is important to remark. Thus neen, is sometimes rendered ne or _nin_, and sometimes _nim_. Keen, is rendered ke or _kin_. In compound words the mere signs of the first and second pronouns, N and K, are employed. The use of _ween_ is limited; and the third person, singular and plural, is generally indicated by the sign, O. The particle _suh_ added to the complete forms of the disjunctive pronouns, imparts a verbal sense to them; and appears in this instance, to be a succedaneum for the substantive verb. Thus Neen, I, becomes Neensuh, it is I. Keen, thou, becomes Keensuh, it is thou, and Ween, he or she, Weensuh, it is he or she. This particle may also be added to the plural forms. Keenowind suh. It is we (in.) Neenowind suh. It is we (ex.) Keenowa suh. It is ye, or you. Weenowau suh. It is they. If the word _aittah_ be substituted for suh, a set of adverbial phrases are formed. Neen aittah, I only. Neen aittah wind, We &c. (ex.) Keen aittah wind, We &c. (in.) Keen aittah, Thou only. Keen aittah wau, You &c. Ween aittah, He or she only. Ween aittah wau, They &c. In like manner _nittum_ first, and _ishkwaudj_ last, give rise to the following arrangement of the pronoun: Neen nittum, I first. Keen nittum, You or thou first. Ween nittum, He or she first. Keen nittum ewind, We first. (in.) Neen nittum ewind, We first. (ex.) Keen nittum ewau, Ye or you first. Ween nittum ewau, They first. ISHKWAUDJ. Neen ishkwaudj, I last. Keen ishkwaudj, Thou last. Ween ishkwandj, He or she last. Keenowind ishkwaudj, We last (in.) Neenowind ishkwaudj, We last (ex.) Keenowau ishkwaudj, Ye or you last. Weenowau ishkwaudj, They last. The disjunctive forms of the pronoun are also sometimes preserved before verbs and adjectives. NEEZHIKA. Alone. (_an._) Neen neezhika, I alone. Keen neezhika, Thou alone. Ween neezhika, He or she alone. Keenowind neezhika, We alone (in.) Neenowind neezhika, We alone (ex.) Keenowau neezhika, Ye or you alone. Weenowau neezhika, They alone. To give these expressions a verbal form, the substantive verb, with its pronominal modifications, must be superadded. For instance, I _am_ alone, &c., is thus rendered: Neen neezhika nindyau, I am alone, [Symbol: X] aumin. Keen neezhika keedyau, Thou art alone, [Symbol: X] aum. Ween neezhika Iyau, He or she is alone, &c. [Symbol: X] wug. In the subjoined examples the noun ow, body, is changed to a verb, by the permutation of the vowel, changing ow to auw, which last takes the letter d before it, when the pronoun is prefixed. I am a man, Neen nin dauw. Thou art a man, Keen ke dauw. He is a man, Ween ah weeh. We are men, (in.) Ke dauw we min. We are men, (ex.) Ne dauw we min. Ye are men, Ke dauw min. They are men, Weenowau ah weeh wug. In the translation of these expressions "man" is used as synonymous with person. If the specific term _inine_, had been introduced in the original, the meaning thereby conveyed would be, in this particular connexion, I am a man with respect to _courage_ &c., in opposition to effeminacy. It would not be simply declarative of _corporeal existence_, but of existence in a _particular state or condition_. In the following phrases, the modified forms, or the signs only, of the pronouns are used: N' debaindaun, I own it. Ke debaindaun, Thou ownest it. O debaindaun, He or she owns it. N' debaindaun-in, We own it (ex.) Ke debaindaun-in, We own it (in.) Ke debaindaun-ewau, Ye own it. O debaindaun-ewau, They own it. These examples are cited as exhibiting the manner in which the prefixed and preformative pronouns are employed, both in their full and contracted forms. To denote possession, nouns specifying the things possessed, are required; and, what would not be anticipated, had not full examples of this species of declension been given in another place, the purposes of distinction are not effected by a simple change of the pronoun, as _I_ to _mine_, &c., but by a subformative inflection of the _noun_, which is thus made to have a reflective operation upon the pronoun-speaker. It is believed that sufficient examples of this rule, in all the modifications of inflection, have been given under the head of the substantive. But as the substantives employed to elicit these modifications were exclusively _specific_ in their meaning, it may be proper here, in further illustration of an important principle, to present a generic substantive under their compound forms. I have selected for this purpose one of the primitives. IE-AÚ, is the abstract term for existing matter. It is in the animate form and declarative. Its inanimate correspondent is IE-EÉ. These are two important roots. And they are found in combination, in a very great number of derivative words. It will be sufficient here, to show their connexion with the pronoun, in the production of a class of terms in very general use. Animate Forms. _Singular._ _Plural._ {Nin dyë aum, Mine. Nin dyë auminaun, Ours. (ex.) Poss. { Ke dyë auminaun, Ours. (in.) {Ke dyë aum, Thine. Ke dyë aumewau, Yours. Obj. O dyë aum-un, His or Hers. O dyë aumewaun, Theirs. Inanimate Forms. _Singular._ _Plural._ {Nin dyë eem, Mine. Nin dyë eeminaun, Ours. (ex.) Poss. { Ke dyë eeminaun, Ours. (in.) {Ke dyë eem, Thine. Ke dyë eemewau, Yours. Obj. O dyë eem-un, His or Hers. O dyë eemewaun, Theirs. _Poss. in._ In these forms the noun is singular throughout. To render it plural, as well as the pronoun, the appropriate general plurals _ug_ and _un_ or _ig_ and _in_, must be superadded. But it must be borne in mind, in making these additions, "that the plural inflection to inanimate nouns (which have no objective case,) forms the objective case to animates, which have no number in the third person," [p. 30.] The particle _un_, therefore, which is the appropriate plural for the inanimate nouns in these examples, is only the objective mark of the animate. The plural of I, is _naun_, the plural of thou and he, _wau_. But as these inflections would not coalesce smoothly with the possessive inflections, the connective vowels i. and e. are prefixed, making the plural of I, _inaun_, and of thou, &c. _ewau_. If we strike from these declensions the root IE, leaving its animate and inanimate forms AU, and EE, and adding the plural of the noun, we shall then,--taking the _animate_ declension as an instance, have the following formula of the pronominal declensions. Column headings-- A: Place of the Noun. B: Possessive inflection. C: Obj. inflec. to the noun sing. D: Connect. vowel. E: Plu inflec. of the pronoun. F: Obj. inflect. n. plu. G: Plural of the Noun. ________________________________________________________ | | | | | | | | | | Pron. | | | | | | | | | Sing. | [A] | [B] | [C] | [D] | [E] | [F] | [G] | |_______|_____|_____|_____|_______|________|_____|_______| | | | | | | | | | | Ne | | aum | | - i - | - naun | | - ig. | | Ke | | aum | | - e - | - wau | | - g. | | O | | aum | un | | | | | | O | | aum | | - e - | - wau | - n | | |_______|_____|_____|_____|_______|________|_____|_______| To render this formula of general use, six variations, (five in addition to the above) of the possessive inflection, are required, corresponding to the six classes of substantives, whereby aum would be changed to am, eem, im, öm, and oom, conformably to the examples heretofore given in treating of the substantive. The objective inflection, would also be sometimes changed to _een_ and sometimes to _oan_. Having thus indicated the mode of distinguishing the person, number, relation, and gender--or what is deemed its technical equivalent, the mutation words undergo, not to mark the distinctions of _sex_, but the presence or absence of _vitality_, I shall now advert to the inflections which the pronouns take for _tense_, or rather, to form the auxiliary verbs, have, had, shall, will, may, &c. A very curious and important principle, and one, which clearly demonstrates that no part of speech has escaped the transforming genius of the language. Not only are the three great modifications of time accurately marked in the verbal forms of the Chippewas, but by the inflection of the pronoun they are enabled to indicate some of the oblique tenses, and thereby to conjugate their verbs with accuracy and precision. The particle _gee_ added to the first, second, and third persons singular of the present tense, changes them to the perfect past, rendering I, thou, He, I did--have--or had. Thou didst,--hast--or hadst, He, or she did--have, or had. If _gah_, be substituted for _gee_, the first future tense is formed, and the perfect past added to the first future, forms the conditional future. As the eye may prove an auxiliary in the comprehension of forms, which are not familiar, the following tabular arrangement of them, is presented. _First Person, I._ Nin gee, I did--have--had. Nin gah, I shall--will. Nin gah gee, I shall have--will have. _Second Person, Thou._ Ke gee, Thou didst--hast--hadst. Ke gah, Thou shalt--wilt. Ke gah gee, Thou shall have--wilt have. _Third Person, He, or She._ O gee, He or she did--has--had. O gah, He or she did--has--had. O gah gee, He or she shall have--will have. The present and imperfect tense of the potential mood, is formed by _dau_, and the perfect by _gee_, suffixed as in other instances. _First Person, I._ Nin dau, I may--can, &c. Nin dau gee, I may have--can have, &c. _Second Person, Thou._ Ke dau, Thou mayst--canst, &c. Ke dau gee, Thou mayst have--canst have, &c. _Third Person, He, or She._ O dau, He or she may--can, &c. O dau gee, He or she may have--can have, &c. In conjugating the verbs through the plural persons, the singular terms for the pronoun remain, and they are rendered plural by a retrospective action of the pronominal inflections of the verb. In this manner the pronoun-verb auxiliary, has a general application, and the necessity of double forms is avoided. The preceding observations are confined to the formative or _prefixed_ pronouns. The inseparable suffixed or subformative are as follows-- Yaun, My. Yun, Thy. Id, or d, His, or hers. Yaung, Our. (ex.) Yung, Our. (in.) Yaig, Your. Waud, Their. These pronouns are exclusively employed as suffixes,--and as suffixes to the descriptive compound substantives, adjectives and verbs. Both the rule and examples have been stated under the head of the substantive, p. 43. and adjective, p. 81. Their application to the verb will be shown, as we proceed. 2. Relative Pronouns. In a language which provides for the distinctions of person by particles prefixed or suffixed to the verb, it will scarcely be expected, that separate and independent relative pronouns should exist, or if such are to be found, their use, as separate parts of speech, must, it will have been anticipated, be quite limited--limited to simple interrogatory forms of expression, and not applicable to the indicative, or declaratory. Such will be found to be the fact in the language under review; and it will be perceived, from the subjoined examples, that in all instances, requiring the relative pronoun _who_, other than the simple interrogatory forms, this relation is indicated by the inflections of the verb, or adjective, &c. Nor does there appear to be any declension of the separate pronoun, corresponding to _whose_, and _whom_. * * * * * The word Ahwaynain, may be said to be uniformly employed in the sense of _who_, under the limitations we have mentioned. For instance. Who is there? Ahwaynain e-mah ai-aud? Who spoke? Ahwaynain kau keegoedood? Who told you? Ahwaynain kau ween dumoak? Who are you? Ahwaynain iau we yun? Who sent you? Ahwaynain waynönik? Who is your father? Ahwaynain kös? Who did it? Ahwaynain kau tödung? Whose dog is it? Ahwaynain way dyid? Whose pipe is that? Ahwaynain döpwaugunid en-eu? Whose lodge is it? Ahwaynain way weegewomid? Whom do you seek? Ahwaynain nain dau wau bumud? Whom have you here? Ahwaynain oh omau ai auwaud? Not the slightest variation is made in these phrases, between who, whose, and whom. Should we wish to change the interrogative, and to say, he who is there; he who spoke; he who told you, &c., the separable personal pronoun ween (he) must be used in lieu of the relative, and the following forms will be elicited. Ween, kau unnönik, He (who) sent you. Ween, kau geedood, He (who) spoke. Ween, ai-aud e-mah, He (who) is there. Ween, kau weendumoak, He (who) told you. Ween, kau tö dung, He (who) did it, &c. If we object that, that in these forms, there is no longer the relative pronoun _who_, the sense being simply, he sent you, he spoke, &c., it is replied that if it be intended only to say, he sent you, &c., and not he _who_ sent you, &c., the following forms are used. Ke gee unnönig. He (sent) you. Ainnözhid, He (sent) me. Ainnönaud, He (sent) him, &c. Iau e-mau, He is there. Ke geedo, He (spoke.) Kegeeweendumaug, He (told) you. Ke to dum, He did it. We reply, to this answer of the native speaker, that the particle _kau_ prefixed to a verb denotes the past tense,--that in the former series of terms, in which this particle appears, the verbs are in the perfect indicative,--and in the latter, they are in the present indicative, marking the difference only between _sent_ and _send_, _spoke_ and _speak_, &c. And that there is absolutely no relative pronoun, in either series of terms. We further observe, that the personal pronoun ween, prefixed to the first set of terms, may be prefixed with equal propriety, to the second set, and that its use or disuse, is perfectly optional with the speaker, as he may wish to give additional energy or emphasis to the expression. To these positions, after reflection, discussion and examination, we receive an assent, and thus the uncertainty is terminated. We now wish to apply the principle thus elicited to verbs causative, and other compound terms--to the adjective verbs, for instance--and to the other verbal compound expressions, in which the objective and the nominative persons, are incorporated as a part of the verb, and are not prefixes to it. This may be shown in the causative verb, _To make Happy_. Mainwaindumëid, He (who) makes _me_ happy. Mainwaindumëik, He (who) makes _thee_ happy. Mainwaindumëaud, He (who) makes _him_ happy. Mainwaindumëinung, He (who) makes _us_ happy. (inclusive.) Mainwaindumëyaug, He (who) makes _us_ happy. (exclusive.) Mainwaindumëinnaig, He (who) makes _ye_ or _you_ happy. Mainwaindumëigowaud, He (who) makes _them_ happy. And so the forms might be continued, throughout all the objective persons.-- Mainwaindumëyun, Thou (who) makest me happy, &c. The basis of these compounds is _minno_, good, and _aindum_, the mind. Hence minwaindum, he happy. The adjective in this connexion, cannot be translated "good," but its effect upon the noun, is to denote that state of the mind, which is at rest with itself. The first change from this simple compound, is to give the adjective a verbal form; and this is effected by a permutation of the vowels of the first syllable--a rule of very extensive application--and by which, in the present instance, the phrase _he happy_, is changed to _he makes happy_, (mainwaindum.) The next step is to add the suffix personal pronouns, id, ik, aud, &c., rendering the expressions, he makes _me_ happy, &c. But in adding these increments, the vowel e, is thrown between the adjective-verb, and the pronoun suffixed, making the expression, not mainwaindum-yun, but mainwaindumëyun. Generally the vowel e in this situation, is a connective, or introduced merely for the sake of euphony. And those who maintain that it is here employed as a personal pronoun, and that the relative _who_, is implied by the final inflection; overlook the inevitable inference, that if the marked e, stands for _me_ in the first phrase, it must stand for _thee_ in the second, _he_ in the third, _us_ in the fourth, &c. As to the meaning and office of the final inflections id, ik, &c.--whatever they may, in an involuted sense _imply_, it is quite clear, by turning to the list of _suffixed personal pronouns_ and _animate plurals_, that they mark the persons, I, thou, he, &c., we, ye, they, &c. Take for example, minwaindumëigowaud. He (who) makes them happy. Of this compound, minwaindum, as before shown, signifies _he makes happy_. But as the verb is in the singular number, it implies that but _one person_ is made happy, and the suffixed personal pronouns _singular_, mark the distinctions between _me_, _thee_, and he, or him. Minwaindum-e-ig is the verb plural, and implies that several persons are made happy, and, in like manner, the suffixed personal pronouns _plural_, mark the distinctions between we, ye, they, &c. For it is a rule of the language, that a strict concordance must exist between the number of the verb, and the number of the pronoun. The termination of the verb consequently always indicates, whether there be one or many objects, to which its energy is directed. And as animate verbs can be applied only to animate objects, the numerical inflections of the verb, are understood to mark the number of persons. But this number is indiscriminate, and leaves the sense vague, until the pronominal suffixes are superadded. Those who, therefore, contend for the sense of the relative pronoun "who," being given in the last mentioned phrase, and all phrases similarly formed, by a succedaneum, contend for something like the following form of translation:--He makes them happy--him! or Him--he (meaning who) makes them happy. The equivalent for what, is _Waygonain_. What do you want? Waygonain wau iauyun? What have you lost? Waygonain kau wonetöyun? What do you look for? Waygonain nain dahwaubundamun? What is this? Waygonain ewinain maundun? What will you have? Waygonain kau iauyun? What detained you? Waygonain kau oon dahme egöyun? What are you making? Waygonain wayzhetöyun? What have you there? Waygonain e-mau iauyun? The use of this pronoun, like the preceding, appears to be confined to simple interrogative forms. The word _auneen_, which sometimes supplies its place, or is used for want of the pronoun _which_, is an adverb, and has considerable latitude of meaning. Most commonly it may be considered as the equivalent for _how_, in what manner, or at what time. What do you say? Auneen akeedöyun? What do you call this? Auneen aizheneekaudahmun maundun?(i.) What ails you? Auneen aindeeyun? What is your name? Auneen aizheekauzoyun? Which do you mean; this or that?(an.) Auneen ah-owainud, woh-ow gämau ewidde? Which do you mean; this or that?(in.) Auneen eh-eu ewaidumun oh-oo gãmau ewaidde? Which boy do you mean? Auneen ah-ow-ainud? By adding to this word, the particle _de_, it is converted into an adverb of place, and may be rendered _where_. Where do you dwell? Auneende aindauyun? Where is your son? Auneende ke gwiss? Where did you see him? Auneende ke waubumud? becomes quite necessary in writing the language. And in the following sentences, the substantive is properly employed after the pronoun. This dog is very lean, Gitshee bukaukdoozo woh-ow annemoosh. These dogs are very lean, Gitshee bukauddoozowug o-goo annemooshug. Those dogs are fat, Ig-eu annemooshug ween-in-oawug. That dog is fat, Ah-ow annemoosh ween-in-ao. This is a handsome knife, Gagait onishishin maundun mokomahn. These are handsome knives, Gagait wahwinaudj o-noo mokomahnun. Those are bad knives, Monaududön in-euwaidde mokomahnun. Give me that spear, Meezhishin eh-eu ahnitt. Give me those spears, Meezhishin in-eu unnewaidde ahnitteen. That is a fine boy, Gagait kwonaudj ah-ow kweewezains. Those are fine boys, Gagait wahwinaudj ig-euwaidde kweewezainsug. This boy is larger than that, Nahwudj mindiddo woh-ow kweewezains ewaidde dush. That is what I wanted, Meeh-eu wau iauyaumbaun. This is the very thing I wanted, Mee-suh oh-oo wau iauyaumbaun. In some of these expressions, the pronoun combines with an adjective, as in the compound words, ineuwaidde, and igeuwaidde, _those yonder_, (in.) and _those yonder_ (an.) Compounds which exhibit the full pronoun in coalescence with the word _Ewaidde_ yonder. CHRONOLOGY. Columbus discovered the West Indies Oct. 12, 1492. Americo Vespucio, discovered the coast of South America, 1497. Cabot discovered the North American coast 1497. De Leon discovered Florida 1512. Cortes, enters the city of Mexico, after a siege, Aug. 13, 1521. Verrizani, is said to have entered the bay of New York, 1524. Cartier discovered the St. Lawrence, 1534. Jamestown, in Virginia, is founded, 1608. Acknowledged date of the settlement of Canada, 1608. Hudson discovers the river bearing his name, 1609. The Dutch build a fort near Albany, 1614. The Pilgrims land at Plymouth Dec. 22, 1620. New Amsterdam taken from the Dutch by the Duke of York and Albany and named New York 1664. La Salle discovers the Illinois in upper Louisiana 1678. discovers Lower Louisiana, and is killed 1685. THE ERA OF THE ARRIVAL OF THE FRENCH IN THE UPPER LAKES. KE-WA-KONS, a chief of the straits of St. Mary's, told me, during an interview, in 1827, that but seven generations of red men had passed away, since the French first appeared on those straits. If we take the date of Cartier's first visit to the St. Lawrence, as the era of their acquaintance with this nation, A. D. 1534, we should have 56 years as the period of an Indian generation. Should we take, instead of this, the time of La Salle's first arrival on the upper lakes, 1778, there would, on the contrary, be but a fraction over 22 years for a generation. But neither of these periods, can be truly said to coincide with the probable era of the chief's historical reminiscences. The first is too early, the last too late. An average of the two, which is required to apply the observation properly, gives 38 years as the Indian generation. This nearly assimilates it to the results among Europeans, leaving 8 years excess. Further data would probably reduce this; but it is a department in which we have so little material, that we must leave it till these be accumulated. It may be supposed that the period of Indian longevity, before the introduction of ardent spirits, was equal, perhaps, a little superior, to that of the European; but it did not exceed it, we think, by 8 years. Ke-wa-kons, whom I knew very well, was a man of shrewd sense, and respectable powers of observation. He stated, at the same interview, that his tribe, who were of the Odjibwa type of the Algonquins, laid aside their Akeeks, or clay cooking-vessels, at _that time_, and adopted in lieu of them, the light brass kettle, which was more portable and permanent. And from that time, their skill in pottery declined, until, in our day, it is entirely lost. It is curious to reflect, that within the brief period of 150 years, a living branch of coarse manufacture among them, has thus been transferred into an object of antiquarian research. This fact, should make historians cautious in assigning very remote periods of antiquity to the monumental evidences of by-gone generations. It is by such considerations that we get a glimpse of some of the general principles which attended the early periods of discovery and settlement, in all parts of the continent. Adventurers came to find gold, or furs, to amass wealth, get power, or to perform mere exploits. Nobody cared much for the native race, beyond the fact of their being the medium to lead to these specified objects. There were none, to record accurately, their arts, and other peculiarities, which now excite intense interest. They died away very fast, whole tribes becoming extinct within a generation or two. The European fabrics, then introduced, were so much superior to their own, that they, at once, discontinued such rude arts as they practised, at least in our northern latitudes. New adventurers followed in the track of Columbus, Amerigo, Cabot, and their compeers and followers, who, in the lapse of time, picked up, from the soil, pieces of coarse pottery, pestles and such like things, and holding them up, said,--"See these!--here are evidences of very great skill, and very high antiquity." It is not the intention by any means, to assert, that there were not antiquities of a far higher era, and nobler caste, but merely to impress upon inquirers, the necessity of discriminating the different eras in the chronology of our antiquities. All Indian pottery, north of the capes of Florida and the Gulf of Mexico, is of, or preceding the era of the discovery; but there is found in graves, a species of pottery, and vitrified ware, which was introduced, in the early stages of traffic, by Europeans. Of this transition era between the dying away of the Indian arts, and the introduction of the European, are the rude pastes, enamel and glass beads, and short clay pipes of coarse texture, found in Indian cemeteries, but not in the tumuli. In place of these, our ancient Indians used wrought and unwrought sea shells of various species, and pipes carved out of seatites and other soft materials. * * * * * Mr. Anderson remarks in his biography of Catharine Brown, that "the Cherokees are said to possess a language, which is more precise and powerful than any into which learning has poured richness of thought, or genius breathed the enchantments of fancy and eloquence." David Brown, in one of his letters, in the same volume, terms his people the Tsallakee, of which we must therefore take "Cherokee," to be a corruption. It is seen by the Cherokee alphabet, that the sound of _r_ does not occur in that language. FAITH. When Chusco was converted to Christianity at the mission of Michilinackinac, he had planted a field of potatoes on one of the neighbouring islands in lake Huron. In the fall he went over in his canoe, with his aged wife, to dig them--a labour which the old woman set unceremoniously about, as soon as they got into the field. "Stop!" cried the little old man, who had a small tenor voice and was bent nearly double by age,--"dare you begin to dig, till we have thanked the Lord for their growth." They then both knelt down in the field, while he lifted up his voice, in his native language, in thanks. SHINGABA-WOSSINS, OR IMAGE STONES. The native tribes who occupy the borders of the great lakes, are very ingenious in converting to the uses of superstition, such masses of loose rock, or boulder stones, as have been fretted by the action of water into shapes resembling the trunks of human bodies, or other organic forms. There appears, at all times, to have been a ready disposition to turn such masses of rude natural sculpture, so to call them, to an idolatrous use; as well as a most ingenious tact, in aiding the effect of the natural resemblance, by dots or dabs of paint, to denote eyes, and other features, or by rings of red ochre, around their circumference, by way of ornament. In the following figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, some of these masses are represented. [Illustration] Number 3. was brought to the office of the Indian Agent at Michilimackinac in 1839, and placed among objects of analagous interest to visitors. It consisted of a portion of a vein or mass of gneiss or granite, from which both mica and feldspar were nearly absent, existing only in trace, while the quartzy portion predominated, and had, by its superior hardness, resisted the elemental action. The mode of the formation of such masses is very well known to geologists, resulting, in almost every case, from the unequal degree of hardness of various parts of a mass, submitted to an equal force of attrition, such as is ordinarily given by the upheaving and rolling force of waves on a lake, or ocean beach. To the natives, who are not prone to reason from cause to effect, such productions appear wonderful. All that is past comprehension, or wonderful, is attributed by them to the supernatural agency of spirits. The hunter or warrior, who is travelling along the coast, and finds one of these self-sculptured stones, is not sure that it is not a direct interposition of his God, or guardian Manito, in his favour. He is habitually a believer in the most subtle forms of mysterious power, which he acknowledges to be often delegated to the native priests, or necromancers. He is not staggered by the most extraordinary stretch of fancy, in the theory of the change or transformation of animate into inanimate objects, and vice versa. All things, "in heaven and earth," he believes to be subject to this subtle power of metamorphosis. But, whatever be the precise operating cause of the respect he pays to the imitative rolled stones, which he calls Shingaba-wossins, and also by the general phrase of Muz-in-in-a-wun, or images, he is not at liberty to pass them without hazarding something, in his opinion, of his chance of success in life, or the fortune of the enterprize in hand. If the image be small, it is generally taken with him and secreted in the neighborhood of his lodge. If large and too heavy for this purpose, it is set up on the shore, generally in some obscure nook, where an offering of tobacco, or something else of less value, may be made _to_ it, or rather _through_ it, to the spirit. In 1820 one of these stones (No. 2.) was met by an expedition of the government sent north, that year, for the purpose of interior discovery and observation, at the inner Thunder Bay island, in Lake Huron. It was a massy stone, rounded, with a comparatively broad base and entablature but not otherwise remarkable. It was set up, under a tree on the island, which was small, with the wide and clear expanse of the lake in plain view. The island was one of those which were regarded as desert, and was probably but seldom stopped at. It was, indeed, little more than a few acres of boulders and pebbles, accumulated on a limestone reef, and bearing a few stunted trees and shrubs. The water of the lake must, in high storms, have thrown its spray over this imaged stone. It was, in fine, one of those private places which an Indian might be supposed to have selected for his secret worship. In No. 3. is figured an object of this kind, which was found in 1832, in the final ascent to the source of the Mississippi, on the right cape, in ascending this stream into lac Traverse--at the distance of about 1000 miles above the falls of St. Anthony. I landed at the point to see it, having heard, from my interpreter, that such an object was set up and dedicated to some unknown Manito there. It was a pleasant level point of land shaded with trees, and bearing luxuriant grass and wild shrubbery and flowers. In the middle of this natural parterre the stone was placed, and was overtopped by this growth, and thus concealed by it. A ring of red paint encircled it, at the first narrowed point of its circumference, to give it the resemblance of a human neck; and there were some rude dabs to denote other features. The Indian is not precise in the matter of proportion, either in his drawing, or in his attempts at statuary. He seizes upon some minute and characteristic trait, which is at once sufficient to denote the _species_, and he is easily satisfied about the rest. Thus a simple cross, with a strait line from shoulder to shoulder, and a dot, or circle above, to serve for a head, is the symbol of the human frame; and without any adjunct of feet, or hands, it could not have been mistaken for any thing else--certainly for any other object in the animal creation. MNEMONIC SYMBOLS OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS. CHAPTER I. PRELIMINARY REMARKS.--SYMBOLICAL REPRESENTATIONS AND HIEROGLYPHICS, ONE OF THE EARLIEST OBSERVED TRAITS IN THE CUSTOMS AND ARTS OF THE AMERICAN ABORIGINES; BUT THIS ART NOT SUSPECTED TO HAVE A SYSTEMATIC FORM AMONG THE RUDE HUNTER TRIBES OF NORTH AMERICA, UNTIL THE YEAR 1820, WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED ON THE SOURCE OF THE MISSISSIPPI. THIS INSTANCE GIVEN, WITH A DRAWING; THE HINT PURSUED. The practice of the North American tribes, of drawing figures and pictures on skins, trees, and various other substances, has been noticed by travellers and writers from the earliest times. Among the more northerly tribes, these figures are often observed on that common substitute for the ancient papyrus, among these nations, the bark of the _betula papyracea_, or white birch: a substance possessing a smooth surface, easily impressed, very flexible, and capable of being preserved in rolls. Often these devices are cut, or drawn in colours on the trunks of trees, more rarely on rocks or boulders. According to Colden and Lafitou records of this rude character were formerly to be seen on the blazed surface of trees, along some of the ancient paths and portages leading from the sources of the Atlantic rivers into the interior, or in the valley of the St. Lawrence; but these, after satisfying a transient curiosity, have long since yielded to the general fate of these simple and unenduring monuments. Pictures and symbols of this kind are now to be found only on the unreclaimed borders of the great area west of the Alleghanies and the Lakes, in the wide prairies of the west, or along the Missouri and the upper Mississippi. It is known that such devices were in use, to some extent, at the era of the discovery, among most of the tribes, situated between the latitudes of the capes of Florida, and Hudson's Bay, although they have been considered as more particularly characteristic of the tribes of the Algonquin type. In a few instances, these pictorial inscriptions have been found to be painted or stained on the faces of rocks, or on loose boulders, and still more rarely, devices were scratched or pecked into the surface, as is found to be the case still at Dighton and Venango. Those who are intent on observations of this kind, will find figures and rude hieroglyphics invariably at the present time, on the grave posts which mark the places of Indian sepulchre at the west and north. The nations who rove over the western prairies, inscribe them on the skins of the buffalo. North of latitude 42°, the bark of the birch, which furnishes at once the material of canoes, tents, boxes, water-dippers, and paper, constitutes the common medium of their exhibition. Tablets of hard wood are confined to such devices as are employed by their priests and prophets, and medicine-men; and these characters uniformly assume a more mystical or sacred import. But the recent discovery, on one of the tributaries of the Susquehanna, of an Indian map, drawn on stone, with intermixed devices, a copy of which appears in the 1st volume of the collections of the Historical Committee of the American Philosophical Society, proves that stone was also employed in that branch of inscription. This discovery was on the area occupied by the Lenapees. Colden, in his history of the Five Nations,[23] informs us that when, in 1696, the Count de Frontenac marched a well appointed army into the Iroquois country, with artillery and all other means of regular military offence, he found, on the banks of the Onondaga, now called Oswego river, a tree, on the trunk of which the Indians had depicted the French army, and deposited two bundles of cut rushes at its foot, consisting of 1434 pieces--an act of defiance on their part, which was intended to inform their invaders, that they would have to encounter this number of warriors. In speaking in another passage of the general traits of the Five Nations, he mentions the general custom prevalent among the Mohawks going to war, of painting, with red paint, on the trunk of a tree, such symbols, as might serve to denote the object of their expedition. Among the devices was a canoe pointed towards the enemies' country. On their return, it was their practice to visit the same tree, or precinct, and denote the result: the canoe being, in this case, drawn with its bows in the opposite direction. Lafitou, in his account of the nations of Canada, makes observations on this subject to which we shall more particularly refer hereafter, which denote the general prevalence of the custom in that quarter. Other writers, dating as far back as Smith and de Bre, bear a passing testimony to the existence of this trait among the northern tribes. Few have however done more than notice it, and none are known to have furnished any amount of connected details. A single element in the system attracted early notice. I allude to the institution of the Totem, which has been well known among the Algonquin tribes from the settlement of Canada. By this device, the early missionaries observed, that the natives marked their division of a tribe into clans, and of a clan into families, and the distinction was thus very clearly preserved. Affinities were denoted and kept up, long after tradition had failed in its testimony. This distinction, which is marked with much of the certainty of heraldic bearings in the feudal system, was seen to mark the arms, the lodge, and the trophies of the chief and warrior. It was likewise employed to give identity to the _clan_ of which he was a member, on his ad-je-da-teg or grave-post. This record went but little farther; a few strokes or geometric devices were drawn on these simple monuments, to denote the number of men he had slain in battle. It has not been suspected in any notices to which I have had access, that there was a pictorial alphabet, or a series of homophonous figures, in which, by the juxtaposition of symbols representing acts, as well as objects of action, and by the introduction of simple adjunct signs, a series of disjunctive, yet generally connected ideas, were denoted; or that the most prominent incidents of life and death could be recorded so as to be transmitted from one generation to another, as long at least as the monument and the people endured. Above all, it was not anticipated that there should have been found, as will be observed in the subsequent details, a system of symbolic notation for the songs and incantations of the Indian metas and priests, making an appeal to the memory for the preservation of language. Persons familiar with the state of the western tribes of this continent, particularly in the higher northern latitudes, have long been aware that the songs of the Indian priesthood, and wabenoes, were sung from a kind of pictorial notation, made on bark. It is a fact which has often come to the observation of military officers performing duties on those frontiers, and of persons exercising occasional duties in civil life, who have passed through their territories. But there is no class of persons to whom the fact of such notations being made, is so well known, as the class of Indian traders and interpreters who visit or reside a part of the season at the Indian villages. I have never conversed with any of this latter class of persons to whom the fact of such inscriptions, made in various ways, was not so familiar as in their view to excite no surprise or even demand remark. My attention was first called to the subject in 1820. In the summer of that year I was on an exploring journey through the lake country. At the mouth of the small river Huron, on the banks of Lake Superior, there was an Indian grave fenced around with saplings, and protected with much care. At its head stood a post, or tabular stick, upon which was drawn the figure of the animal which was the symbol of the clan to which the deceased chief belonged. Strokes of red paint were added to denote, either the number of war parties in which he had been engaged, or the number of scalps which he had actually taken from the enemy. The interpreter who accompanied us, and who was himself tinctured with Indian blood, gave the latter, as the true import of these marks. On quitting the river St. Louis, which flows into the head of the lake at the Fond du Lac, to cross the summit dividing its waters from those of the Mississippi, the way led through heavy and dense woods and swamps and the weather proved dark and rainy, so that, for a couple of days together, we had scarcely a glimpse of the sun. The party consisted of sixteen persons, with two Indian guides; but the latter, with all their adroitness in threading the maze, were completely at fault for nearly an entire day. At night we lay down on ground elevated but a few inches above the level of the swamp. The next morning as we prepared to leave the camp, a small sheet of birch bark containing devices was observed elevated on the top of a sapling, some 8 or 10 feet high. One end of this pole was thrust firmly into the ground leaning in the direction we were to go. On going up to this object, it was found, with the aid of the interpreter, to be a symbolic record of the circumstances of our crossing this summit, and of the night's encampment at this spot. Each person was appropriately depicted, distinguishing the soldiers from the officer in command, and the latter from the scavans of the party. The Indians themselves were depicted without hats, this being, as we noticed, the general symbol for a white man or European. The entire record, of which a figure is annexed, accurately symbolized the circumstances, and they were so clearly drawn, according to their conventional rules, that the intelligence would be communicated thereby to any of their people who might chance to travel or wander this way. This was the object of the inscription. [Illustration] Fig. No 1. represents the subaltern officer in command of the party of the U. S. troops. He is drawn with a sword to denote his official rank. No. 2 denotes the person who officiated in quality of Secretary. He is represented holding a book. No. 3 denotes the geologist and mineralogist of the party. He is drawn with a hammer. Nos. 4 and 5 are attachés; No. 6, the interpreter. The group of figures marked 9 represents eight infantry soldiers, each of whom, as shown in group No. 10, was armed with a musket. No. 15 denotes that they had a separate fire, and constituted a separate mess. Figures 7 and 8 are the two Chippewa guides, the principal of whom, called Chamees, or the Pouncing-hawk, led the way over this dreary summit. These are the only human figures on this unique bark letter, who are drawn without a hat. This was the characteristic seized on, by them, and generally employed by the tribes, to distinguish the Red from the white race. Figures 11 and 12 represent a prairie hen, and a green tortoise, which constituted the sum of the preceding day's chase, and were eaten at the encampment. The inclination of the pole, was designed to show the course pursued from that particular spot: there were three hacks in it, below the scroll of bark, to indicate the estimated length of this part of the journey, computing from water to water, that is to say, from the head of the portage Aux Couteaux on the St. Louis river, to the open shores of Sandy lake, the Ka-ma-ton-go-gom-ag of the Odjibwas. The story was thus briefly and simply told; and this memorial was set up by the guides, to advertise any of their countrymen, who might chance to wander in that direction, of the adventure--for it was evident, both from this token, and from the dubiousness which had marked the prior day's wanderings, that they regarded the passage in this light, and were willing to take some credit for the successful execution of it. Before we had penetrated quite to this summit, we came to another evidence of their skill in this species of knowledge, consisting of one of those contrivances which they denominate Man-i-to-wa-teg, or Manito Poles. On reaching this our guides shouted, whether from a superstitious impulse, or the joy of having found a spot they certainly could recognize, we could not tell. We judged the latter. It consisted of eight poles, of equal length, shaved smooth and round, painted with yellow ochre, and set so as to enclose a square area. It appeared to have been one of those rude temples, or places of incantation or worship, known to the metas, or priests, where certain rites and ceremonies are performed. But it was not an ordinary medicine lodge. There had been far more care in its construction. On reaching the village of Sandy lake, on the upper Mississippi, the figures of animals, birds, and other devices were found, on the rude coffins, or wrappings of their dead, which were scaffolded around the precincts of the fort, and upon the open shores of the lake. Similar devices were also observed, here, as at other points in this region, upon their arms, war-clubs, canoes, and other pieces of moveable property, as well as upon their grave posts. In the descent of the Mississippi, we observed such devices painted on a rock, below and near the mouth of Elk river, and at a rocky island in the river, at the Little Falls. In the course of our descent to the Falls at St. Anthony, we observed another bark letter, as the party now began to call these inscriptions, suspended on a high pole, on an elevated bank of the river, on its west shore. At this spot, where we encamped for the night, and which is just opposite a point of highly crystalized hornblende rock, called the Peace Rock, rising up through the prairie, there were left standing the poles or skeletons of a great number of Sioux lodges. It is near and a little west of the territorial boundary of the Sioux nation; and on inspecting this scroll of bark, we found it had reference to a negociation for bringing about a permanent peace between the Sioux and Chippewas. A large party of the former, from St. Peter's, headed by their chief, had proceeded thus far, in the hope of meeting the Chippewa hunters, on their summer hunt. They had been countenanced, or directed in this step, by Col. Leavenworth, the commanding officer of the new post, just then about to be erected. The inscription, which was read off at once, by the Chippewa Chief Babesacundabee, who was with us, told all this; it gave the name of the Chief who had led the party, and the number of his followers, and gave that chief the first assurance he had, that his mission for the same purpose, would be favourably received. After our arrival at St. Anthony's Falls, it was found that this system of picture writing was as familiar to the Dacotah, as we had found it among the Algonquin race. At Prairie du Chien, and at Green Bay, the same evidences were observed among the Monomonees, and the Winnebagoes, at Chicago among the Pottowottomies, and at Michilimakinac, among the Chippewas and Ottawas who resort, in such numbers, to that Island. While at the latter place, on my return, I went to visit the grave of a noted chief of the Monomonee tribe, who had been known by his French name of Toma, i.e. Thomas. He had been buried on the hill west of the village; and on looking at his Ad-je-da-tig or grave post, it bore a pictorial inscription, commemorating some of the prominent achievements of his life. These hints served to direct my attention to the subject when I returned to the country in 1822. The figures of a deer, a bear, a turtle, and a crane, according to this system, stand respectively for the names of men, and preserve the language very well, by yielding to the person conversant with it, the corresponding words, of Addick, Muckwa, Mickenock, and Adjeejauk. Marks, circles, or dots, of various kinds, may symbolize the number of warlike deeds. Adjunct devices may typify or explain adjunct acts. If the system went no farther, the record would yield a kind of information both gratifying and useful to one of his countrymen who had no letters and was expert in the use of symbols; and the interpretation of it, would be easy and precise in proportion as the signs were general, conventional, and well understood. There was abundant evidence in my first year's observation, to denote that this mode of communication was in vogue, and well understood by the northern tribes; but it hardly seemed susceptible of a farther or extended use. It was not till I had made a personal acquaintance with one of their Medas--a man of much intelligence, and well versed in their customs, religion, and history, that a more enlarged application of it appeared to be practicable. I observed in the hands of this man a tabular piece of wood, covered over on both sides, with a series of devices cut between parallel lines, which he referred to, as if they were the notes of his medicine and mystical songs. I heard him sing these songs, and observed that their succession was fixed and uniform. By cultivating his acquaintance, and by suitable attention and presents, such as the occasion rendered proper, he consented to explain the meaning of each figure, the object symbolized, and the words attached to each symbol. By this revelation, which was made with closed doors, I became a member or initiate of the Medicine Society, and also of the Wabeno Society. Care was taken to write each sentence of the songs and chants in the Indian language, with its appropriate devices, and to subjoin a literal translation in English. When this had been done, and the system considered, it was very clear that the devices were mnemonic--that any person could sing from these devices, very accurately, what he had previously committed to memory, and that the system revealed a curious scheme of symbolic notation. All the figures thus employed, as the initiatory points of study, related exclusively to either the medicine dance, or the wabeno dance; and each section of figures, related exclusively to one or the other. There was no intermixture or commingling of characters, although the class of subjects were sometimes common to each. It was perceived, subsequently, that this classification of symbols extended to the songs devoted to war, to hunting, and to other specific topics. The entire inscriptive system, reaching from its first, rudimental characters, in the ad-je-da-tig, or grave board, to the extended roll of bark covered with the incriptions of their magicians and prophets, derived a new interest from this feature. It was easy to perceive that much comparative precision was imparted to interpretations in the hands of the initiated, which before, or to others, had very little. An interest was thus cast over it distinct from its novelty. And in truth, the entire pictorial system was thus invested with the character of a subject of accurate investigation, which promised both interest and instruction. It has been thought that a simple statement of these circumstances, would best answer the end in view, and might well occupy the place of a more formal or profound introduction. In bringing forward the elements of the system, after much reflection, it is thought, however, that a few remarks on the general character of this art may not be out of place. For, simple as it is, we perceive in it the native succedaneum for letters. It is not only the sole graphic mode they have for communicating ideas, but it is the mode of communicating all classes of ideas commonly entertained by them--such as their ideas of war, of hunting, of religion, and of magic and necromancy. So considered, it reveals a new and unsuspected mode of obtaining light on their opinions of a deity, of the structure or cosmogony of the globe, of astronomy, the various classes of natural objects, their ideas of immortality and a future state, and the prevalent notions of the union of spiritual and material matter. So wide and varied, indeed, is the range opened by the subject, that we may consider the Indian system of picture writing as the thread which ties up the scroll of the Red man's views of life and death, reveals the true theory of his hopes and fears, and denotes the relation he bears, in the secret chambers of his own thoughts, to his Maker. What a stoic and suspicious temper would often hold him back from uttering to another, and what a limited language would sometimes prevent his fully revealing, if he wished, symbols and figures can be made to represent and express. The Indian is not a man prone to describe his god, but he is ready to depict him, by a symbol. He may conceal under the figures of a serpent, a turtle, or a wolf, wisdom, strength, or malignity, or convey under the picture of the sun, the idea of a supreme, all-seeing intelligence. But he is not prepared to discourse upon these things. What he believes on this head, he will not declare to a white man or a stranger. His happiness and success in life, are thought to depend upon the secrecy of that knowledge of the Creator and his system in the Indian view of benign and malignant agents. To reveal this to others, even to his own people, is, he believes, to expose himself to the counteracting influence of other agents known to his subtle scheme of necromancy and superstition, and to hazard success and life itself. This conduces to make the Red man eminently a man of fear, suspicion, and secrecy. But he cannot avoid some of these disclosures in his pictures and figures. These figures represent ideas--whole ideas, and their juxtaposition or relation on a roll of bark, a tree, or a rock, discloses a continuity of ideas. This is the basis of the system. Picture writing is indeed the literature of the Indians. It cannot be interpreted, however rudely, without letting one know what the Red man thinks and believes. It shadows forth the Indian intellect, it stands in the place of letters for the Unishinaba.[24] It shows the Red man in all periods of our history, both as he _was_, and as he _is_; for there is nothing more true than that, save and except the comparatively few instances where they have truly embraced experimental christianity, there has not FOOTNOTES: [23] London, 1747, p. 190. [24] A generic term denoting the common people of the Indian race. GRAVE CREEK MOUND. This gigantic tumulus, the largest in the Ohio valley, was opened some four or five years ago, and found to contain some articles of high antiquarian value, in addition to the ordinary discoveries of human bones, &c. A rotunda was built under its centre, walled with brick, and roofed over, and having a long gallery leading into it, at the base of the mound. Around this circular wall, in the centre of this heavy and damp mass of earth, with its atmosphere of peculiar and pungent character, the skeletons and other disinterred articles, are hung up for the gratification of visiters, the whole lighted up with candles, which have the effect to give a strikingly sepulchral air to the whole scene. But what adds most to this effect, is a kind of exuded flaky matter, very white and soft, and rendered brilliant by dependent drops of water, which hangs in rude festoons from the ceiling. To this rotunda, it is said, a delegation of Indians paid a visit a year or two since. In the "Wheeling Times and Advertiser" of the 30th August 1843, the following communication, respecting this visit, introducing a short dramatic poem, was published. "An aged Cherokee chief who, on his way to the west, visited the rotunda excavated in this gigantic tumulus, with its skeletons and other relics arranged around the walls, became so indignant at the desecration and display of sepulchral secrets to the white race, that his companions and interpreter found it difficult to restrain him from assassinating the guide. His language assumed the tone of fury, and he brandished his knife, as they forced him out of the passage. Soon after, he was found prostrated, with his senses steeped in the influence of alcohol. "'Tis not enough! that hated race Should hunt us out, from grove and place And consecrated shore--where long Our fathers raised the lance and song-- Tis not enough!--that we must go Where streams and rushing fountains flow Whose murmurs, heard amid our fears, Fall only on a stranger's ears-- 'Tis not enough!--that with a wand, They sweep away our pleasant land, And bid us, as some giant-foe, Or willing, or unwilling _go_! But they must ope our very graves To tell the _dead_--they too, are slaves." NAMES OF THE AMERICAN LAKES. Ontario, is a word from the Wyandot, or, as called by the Iroquois, Quatoghie language. This tribe, prior to the outbreak of the war against them, by their kindred the Iroquois, lived on a bay, near Kingston, which was the ancient point of embarkation and debarkation, or, in other words, at once the commencement and the terminus of the portage, according to the point of destination for all, who passed into or out of the lake. From such a point it was natural that a term so euphonous, should prevail among Europeans, over the other Indian names in use. The Mohawks and their confederates, generally, called it Cadaracqui--which was also their name for the St. Lawrence. The Onondagas, it is believed, knew it, in early times, by the name of Oswego.[25] Of the meaning of Ontario, we are left in the dark by commentators on the Indian. Philology casts some light on the subject. The first syllable, _on_, it may be observed, appears to be the notarial increment or syllable of Onondio, a hill. Tarak, is clearly, the same phrase, written darac, by the French, in the Mohawk compound of Cadaracqui; and denotes rocks, i.e. rocks standing in the water. In the final vowels _io_, we have the same term, with the same meaning which they carry in the Seneca, or old Mingo word Ohio.[26] It is descriptive of an extended and beautiful water prospect, or landscape. It possesses all the properties of an exclamation, in other languages, but according to the unique principles of the Indian grammar, it is an exclamation-substantive. How beautiful! [the prospect, scene present.] Erie is the name of a tribe conquered or extinguished by the Iroquois. We cannot stop to inquire into this fact historically, farther than to say, that it was the policy of this people to adopt into their different tribes of the confederacy, the remnants of nations whom they conquered, and that it was not probable, therefore, that the Eries were annihilated. Nor is it probable that they were a people very remote in kindred and language from the ancient Sinondowans, or Senecas, who, it may be supposed, by crushing them, destroyed and exterminated their name only, while they strengthened their numbers by this inter-adoption. In many old maps, this lake bears the name of Erie or "Oskwago." Huron, is the _nom de guerre_ of the French, for the "Yendats," as they are called in some old authors, or the Wyandots. Charlevoix tells us that it is a term derived from the French word _hure_, [a wild boar,] and was applied to this nation from the mode of wearing their hair. "Quelles Hures!" said the first visiters, when they saw them, and hence, according to this respectable author, the word Huron. When this nation, with their confederates, the Algonquins, or Adirondaks, as the Iroquois called them, were overthrown in several decisive battles on the St. Lawrence, between Montreal and Quebec, and compelled to fly west; they at first took shelter in this lake, and thus transferred their name to it. With them, or at least, at the same general era, came some others of the tribes who made a part of the people called by the French, Algonquins, or Nipercineans, and who thus constituted the several tribes, speaking a closely cognate language, whose descendants are regarded by philologists, as the modern Lake-Algonquins. The French sometimes called this lake _Mer douce_, or the Placid sea. The Odjibwas and some other northern tribes of that stock, call it Ottowa lake. No term has been found for it in the Iroquois language, unless it be that by which they distinguished its principal seat of trade, negociation and early rendezvous, the island of Michilimackinac, which they called Tiedonderaghie. Michigan is a derivative from two Odjibwa-Algonquin words, signifying large, i.e. large in relation to masses in the inorganic kingdom, and a lake. The French called it, generally, during the earlier periods of their transactions, the lake of the Illinese, or Illinois. Superior, the most north-westerly, and the largest of the series, is a term which appears to have come into general use, at a comparatively early era, after the planting of the English colonies. The French bestowed upon it, unsuccessfully, one or two names, the last of which was Traci, after the French minister of this name. By the Odjibwa-Algonquins, who at the period of the French discovery, and who still occupy its borders, it is called Gitch-Igomee, or The Big Sea-water; from Gitchee, great, and guma, a generic term for bodies of water. The term IGOMA, is an abbreviated form of this, suggested for adoption. * * * * * The poetry of the Indians, is the poetry of naked thought. They have neither rhyme nor metre to adorn it. * * * * * Tales and traditions occupy the place of books, with the Red Race.--They make up a kind of oral literature, which is resorted to, on long winter evenings, for the amusement of the lodge. * * * * * The love of independence is so great with these tribes, that they have never been willing to load their political system with the forms of a regular government, for fear it might prove oppressive. * * * * * To be governed and to be enslaved, are ideas which have been confounded by the Indians. FOOTNOTES: [25] Vide a Reminiscence of Oswego. [26] The sound of i in this word, as in Ontario, is long e in the Indian. GEOGRAPHICAL TERMINOLOGY OF THE U. STATES, DERIVED FROM THE INDIAN LANGUAGE. _These Extracts are made from "Cyclopædia Indiaensis" a MS. work in preparation._ No. I. HUDSON RIVER.--By the tribes who inhabited the area of the present County of Dutchess, and other portions of its eastern banks, as low down as Tappan, this river was called Shatemuc--which is believed to be a derivative from Shata, a pelican. The Minisi, who inhabited the west banks, below the point denoted, extending indeed over all the east half of New Jersey, to the falls of the Raritan, where they joined their kindred the Lenni Lenape, or Delawares proper, called it Mohicanittuck--that is to say, River of the Mohicans. The Mohawks, and probably the other branches of the Iroquois, called it Cahohatatea--a term of which the interpreters who have furnished the word, do not give an explanation. The prefixed term Caho, it may be observed, is their name for the lower and principal falls of the Mohawk. Sometimes this prefix was doubled, with the particle _ha_, thrown in between. Hatatea is clearly one of those descriptive and affirmative phrases representing objects in the vegetable and mineral kingdoms, which admitted as we see, in other instances of their compounds, a very wide range. By some of the more westerly Iroquois, the river was called Sanataty. ALBANY.--The name by which this place was known to the Iroquois, at an early day, was Schenectady, a term which, as recently pronounced by a daughter of Brant, yet living in Canada, has the still harsher sound of Skoh-nek-ta-ti, with a stress on the first, and the accent strongly on the second syllable, the third and fourth being pronounced rapidly and short. The transference of this name, to its present location, by the English, on the bestowal on the place by Col. Nichols, of a new name, derived from the Duke of York's Scottish title, is well known, and is stated, with some connected traditions, by Judge Benson, in his eccentric memoir before the New York Historical Society. The meaning of this name, as derived from the authority above quoted, is _Beyond the Pines_, having been applied exclusively in ancient times, to the southern end of the ancient portage path, from the Mohawk to the Hudson. By the Minci, who did not live here, but extended, however, on the west shore above Coxackie, and even Coeymans, it appears to have been called Gaishtinic. The Mohegans, who long continued to occupy the present area of Rensselear and Columbia counties, called it Pempotawuthut, that is to say, the City or Place of the Council Fire. None of these terms appear to have found favour with the European settlers, and, together with their prior names of Beaverwyck and Fort Orange, they at once gave way, in 1664, to the present name. A once noted eminence, three miles west, on the plains, i.e. Trader's Hill, was called Isutchera, or by prefixing the name for a hill, Yonondio Isutchera. It means the hill of oil. Norman's Kill, which enters the Hudson a little below, the Mohawks called Towasentha, a term which is translated by Dr. Yates, to mean, a place of many dead. NIAGARA.--It is not in unison, perhaps, with general expectation, to find that the exact translation of this name does not entirely fulfil poetic preconception. By the term O-ne-aw-ga-ra, the Mohawks and their co-tribes described on the return of their war excursions, the neck of water which connects lake Erie with Ontario. The term is derived from their name for the human neck. Whether this term was designed to have, as many of their names do, a symbolic import, and to denote the importance of this communication in geography, as connecting the head and heart of the country, can only be conjectured. Nor is it, in this instance, probable. When Europeans came to see the gigantic falls which marked the strait, it was natural that they should have supposed the name descriptive of that particular feature, rather than the entire river and portage. We have been assured, however, that it is not their original name for the water-fall, although with them, as with us, it may have absorbed this meaning. BUFFALO.--The name of this place in the Seneca, is Te-ho-sa-ro-ro. Its import is not stated. DETROIT.--By the Wyandots, this place is called Teuchsagrondie; by the Lake tribes of the Algic type, Wa-we-á-tun-ong: both terms signify the Place of the turning or Turned Channel. It has been remarked by visiters who reach this place at night, or in dark weather, or are otherwise inattentive to the courses, that owing to the extraordinary involutions of the current the sun appears to rise in the wrong place. CHICAGO.--This name, in the Lake Algonquin dialects, to preserve the same mode of orthography, is derived from Chicagowunzh, the wild onion or leek. The orthography is French, as they were the discoverers and early settlers of this part of the west. Kaug, in these dialects is a porcupine, and She kaug a polecat. The analogies in these words are apparent, but whether the onion was named before or after the animal, must be judged if the _age_ of the derivation be sought for. TUSCALOOSA, a river of Alabama. From the Chacta words _tushka_, a warrior, and _lusa_ black.--[Gallatin.] ARAGISKE, the Iroquois name for Virginia. ASSARIGOA, the name of the Six Nations for the Governor of Virginia. OWENAGUNGAS, a general name of the Iroquois for the New England Indians. OTESEONTEO, a spring which is the head of the river Delaware. ONTONAGON; a considerable river of lake Superior, noted from early times, for the large mass of native copper found on its banks. This name is said to have been derived from the following incident. It is known that there is a small bay and dead water for some distance within its mouth. In and out of this embayed water, the lake alternately flows, according to the influence of the winds, and other causes, upon its level. An Indian woman had left her wooden dish, or Onagon, on the sands, at the shore of this little bay, where she had been engaged. On coming back from her lodge, the outflowing current had carried off her valued utensil. Nia Nin-do-nau-gon! she exclaimed, for it was a curious piece of workmanship. That is to say--Alas! my dish! CHUAH-NAH-WHAH-HAH, or Valley of the Mountains. A new pass in the Rocky Mountains, discovered within a few years. It is supposed to be in N. latitude about 40°. The western end of the valley gap is 30 miles wide, which narrows to 20 at its eastern termination, it then turns oblique to the north, and the opposing sides appear to close the pass, yet there is a narrow way quite to the foot of the mountain. On the summit there is a large beaver pond, which has outlets both ways, but the eastern stream dries early in the season, while there is a continuous flow of water west. In its course, it has several beautiful, but low cascades, and terminates in a placid and delightful stream. This pass is now used by emigrants. AQUIDNECK.--The Narragansett name for Rhode Island. Roger Williams observes, that he could never obtain the meaning of it from the natives. The Dutch, as appears by a map of Novi Belgii published at Amsterdam in 1659, called it Roode Eylant, or Red Island, from the autumnal colour of its foliage. The present term, as is noticed, in Vol. III. of the Collections of the R. I. Hist. Soc. is derived from this. INCAPATCHOW, a beautiful lake in the mountains at the sources of the river Hudson.--[Charles F. Hoffman, Esq.] HOUSATONIC; a river originating in the south-western part of Massachusetts, and flowing through the State of Connecticut into Long Island Sound, at Stratford. It is a term of Mohegan origin. This tribe on retiring eastward from the banks of the Hudson, passed over the High-lands, into this inviting valley. We have no transmitted etymology of the term, and must rely on the general principles of their vocabulary. It appears to have been called the valley of the stream beyond the Mountains, from _ou_, the notarial sign of wudjo, a mountain, atun, a generic phrase for stream or channel, and ic, the inflection for locality. WEA-NUD-NEC.--The Indian name, as furnished by Mr. O'Sullivan, [D. Rev.] for Saddle Mountain, Massachusetts. It appears to be a derivative from Wa-we-a, round, i.e. any thing round or crooked, in the inanimate creation. MA-HAI-WE; The Mohegan term, as given by Mr. Bryant [N. Y. E. P.] for Great Barrington, Berkshire County, Massachusetts. MASSACHUSETTS.--This was not the name of a particular tribe, but a geographical term applied, it should seem, to that part of the shores of the North Atlantic, which is swept by the tide setting into, and around the peninsula of Cape Cod, and the wide range of coast trending southerly. It became a generic word, at an early day, for the tribes who inhabited this coast. It is said to be a word of Narragansett origin, and to signify the Blue Hills. This is the account given of it by Roger Williams, who was told, by the Indians, that it had its origin from the appearance of an island off the coast. It would be more in conformity to the general requisitions of ethnography, to denominate the language the New England-Algonquin, for there are such great resemblances in the vocabulary and such an identity in grammatical construction, in these tribes, that we are constantly in danger, by partial conclusions as to original supremacy, of doing injustice. The source of origin was doubtless west and south-west, but we cannot stop at the Narragansetts, who were themselves derivative from tribes still farther south. The general meaning given by Williams seems, however, to be sustained, so far as can now be judged. The terminations in _ett_, and _set_, as well as those in _at_ and _ak_, denoted locality in these various tribes. We see also, in the antipenultimate Chu, the root of Wudjo, a mountain. TA-HA-WUS, a very commanding elevation, several thousand feet above the sea, which has of late years, been discovered at the sources of the Hudson, and named Mount Marcy. It signifies, he splits the sky.--[Charles F. Hoffman, Esq.] MONG, the name of a distinguished chief of New England, as it appears to be recorded in the ancient pictorial inscription on the Dighton Rock, in Massachusetts, who flourished before the country was colonized by the English. He was both a war captain, and a prophet, and employed the arts of the latter office, to increase his power and influence, in the former. By patient application of his ceremonial arts, he secured the confidence of a large body of men, who were led on, in the attack on his enemies, by a man named Piz-hu. In this onset, it is claimed that he killed forty men, and lost three. To the warrior who should be successful, in this enterprize, he had promised his younger sister. [Such are the leading events symbolized by this inscription, of which extracts giving full details, as interpreted by an Indian chief, now living, and read before the Am. Ethnological Society, in 1843, will be furnished, in a subsequent number.] TIOGA.--A stream, and a county of the State of New-York. From Teoga, a swift current, exciting admiration. DIONDEROGA, an ancient name of the Mohawk tribe, for the site at the mouth of the Schoharie creek, where Fort Hunter was afterwards built. [Col. W. L. Stone.] ALMOUCHICO, a generic name of the Indians for New England, as printed on the Amsterdam map of 1659, in which it is stated that it was thus "by d inwoonders genaemt." (So named by the natives.) IROCOISIA, a name bestowed in the map, above quoted, on that portion of the present state of Vermont, which lies west of the Green Mountains, stretching along the eastern bank of Lake Champlain. By the application of the word, it is perceived that the French were not alone in the use they made of the apparently derivative term "Iroquois," which they gave to the (then) Five Nations. * * * * * NAMES OF THE SEASONS. The following are the names of the four seasons, in the Odjibwa tongue: Pe-bon, Winter, From Kone, Snow. Se-gwun, Spring, " Seeg, Running water. Ne-bin, Summer, " Anib, A leaf. Ta-gwá-gi, Autumn, " Gwag, The radix of behind &c. By adding the letter g to these terms, they are placed in the relation of verbs in the future tense, but a limited future, and the terms then denote _next winter_, &c. Years, in their account of time, are counted by winters. There is no other term, but pe-boan, for a year. The year consists of twelve lunar months, or moons. A moon is called Geézis, or when spoken of in contradistinction to the sun, Dibik Geezis, or night-sun. The cardinal points are as follows. (_a_) North, Ke wá din-ung. (_b_) South, O shá wan-ung. (_c_) East, Wá bun-ung. (_d_) West, Ká be un-ung. _a._ Kewadin is a compound derived from Ke-wa, to return, or come home, and nodin, the wind. _b._ Oshauw is, from a root not apparent, but which produces also ozau, yellow, &c. _c._ Waban is from ab, or wab, light. _d._ Kabeun, is the name of a mythological person, who is spoken of, in their fictions, as the father of the winds. The inflection ung, or oong, in each term, denotes course, place, or locality. LETTERS ON THE ANTIQUITIES OF THE WESTERN COUNTRY, ADDRESSED TO THE LATE WILLIAM L. STONE, EDITOR OF THE NEW YORK COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER. I. WHEELING (Va.), August 19th, 1843. I have just accomplished the passage of the Alleghany mountains, in the direction from Baltimore to this place, and must say, that aside from the necessary fatigue of night riding, the pass from the Cumberland mountains and Laurel Hill is one of the easiest and most free from danger of any known to me in this vast range. An excellent railroad now extends from Baltimore, by Frederick and Harper's Ferry, up the Potomac valley and its north branch quite to Cumberland, which is seated just under the mountains, whose peaks would seem to bar all farther approach. The national road finds its way, however, through a gorge, and winds about where "Alps on Alps arise," till the whole vast and broad-backed elevation is passed, and we descend west, over a smooth, well constructed macadamized road, with a velocity which is some compensation for the toil of winding our way up. Uniontown is the first principal place west. The Monongahela is crossed at Brownsville, some forty miles above Pittsburgh, whence the road, which is everywhere well made and secured with fine stone bridges, culverts and viaducts, winds around a succession of most enchanting hills, till it enters a valley, winds up a few more hills, and brings the travellers out, on the banks of the Ohio, at this town. The entire distance from the head of the Chesapeake to the waters of the Ohio is not essentially different from three hundred miles. We were less than two days in passing it, twenty-six hours of which, part night and part day, were spent in post-coaches between Cumberland and this place. Harper's Ferry is an impressive scene, but less so than it would be to a tourist who had not his fancy excited by injudicious descriptions. To me, the romance was quite taken away by driving into it with a tremendous clattering power of steam. The geological structure of this section of country, from water to water, is not without an impressive lesson. In rising from the Chesapeake waters the stratified rocks are lifted up, pointing west, or towards the Alleghanies, and after crossing the summit they point east, or directly contrary, like the two sides of the roof of a house, and leave the inevitable conclusion that the Alleghanies have been lifted up by a lateral rent, as it were, at the relative point of the ridge pole. It is in this way that the granites and their congeners have been raised up into their present elevations. I did not see any evidence of that wave-like or undulatory structure, which was brought forward as a theory last year, in an able paper forwarded by Professor Rogers, and read at the meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science at Manchester. No organic remains are, of course, visible, in this particular section, at least until we strike the coal and iron-stone formation of Pittsburgh. But I have been renewedly impressed with the opinion, so very opposite to the present geological theory, that less than seven thousand years is sufficient, on scientific principles, to account for all the phenomena of fossil plants, shells, bones and organic remains, as well as the displacements, disruptions, subsidences and rising of strata, and other evidences of extensive physical changes and disturbances on the earth's surface. And I hope to live to see some American geologist build up a theory on just philosophical and scientific principles, which shall bear the test of truth. But you will, perhaps, be ready to think that I have felt more interest in the impressions of plants in stone, than is to be found in the field of waving corn before the eye. I have, however, by no means neglected the latter; and can assure you that the crops of corn, wheat and other grains, throughout Maryland, Pennsylvania and Western Virginia, are excellent. Even the highest valleys in the Alleghanies are covered with crops of corn, or fields of stacked wheat and other grains. Generally, the soil west of the mountains is more fertile. The influence of the great western limestones, as one of its original materials, and of the oxide of iron, is clearly denoted in heavier and more thrifty cornfields along the Monongahela and Ohio valleys. Of the Ohio River itself, one who had seen it in its full flow, in April and May, would hardly recognize it now. Shrunk in a volume far below its noble banks, with long spits of sand and gravel running almost across it, and level sandy margins, once covered by water, where armies might now manoeuvre, it is but the skeleton of itself. Steamboats of a hundred tons burden now scarcely creep along its channel, which would form cockboats for the floating palaces to be seen here in the days of its vernal and autumnal glory. Truly yours, HENRY R. COLCRAFT II. GRAVE CREEK FLATS (Va.), August 23, 1843. I have devoted several days to the examination of the antiquities of this place and its vicinity, and find them to be of even more interest than was anticipated. The most prominent object of curiosity is the great tumulus, of which notices have appeared in western papers; but this heavy structure of earth is not isolated. It is but one of a series of mounds and other evidences of ancient occupation at this point, of more than ordinary interest. I have visited and examined seven mounds, situated within a short distance of each other. They occupy the summit level of a rich alluvial plain, stretching on the left or Virginia bank of the Ohio, between the junctions of Big and Little Grave Creeks with that stream. They appear to have been connected by low earthen entrenchments, of which plain traces are still visible on some parts of the commons. They included a well, stoned up in the usual manner, which is now filled with rubbish. The summit of this plain is probably seventy-five feet above the present summer level of the Ohio. It constitutes the second bench, or rise of land, above the water. It is on this summit, and on one of the most elevated parts of it, that the great tumulus stands. It is in the shape of a broad cone, cut off at the apex, where it is some fifty feet across. This area is quite level, and commands a view of the entire plain, and of the river above and below, and the west shores of the Ohio in front. Any public transaction on this area would be visible to multitudes around it, and it has, in this respect, all the advantages of the Mexican and Yucatanese teocalli. The circumference of the base has been stated at a little under nine hundred feet; the height is sixty-nine feet. The most interesting object of antiquarian inquiry is a small flat stone, inscribed with antique alphabetic characters, which was disclosed on the opening of the large mound. These characters are in the ancient rock alphabet of sixteen right and acute angled single stokes, used by the Pelasgi and other early Mediterranean nations, and which is the parent of the modern Runic as well as the Bardic. It is now some four or five years since the completion of the excavations, so far as they have been made, and the discovery of this relic. Several copies of it soon got abroad, which differed from each other, and, it was supposed, from the original. This conjecture is true; neither the print published in the Cincinnati Gazette, in 1839, nor that in the American Pioneer, in 1843, is correct. I have terminated this uncertainty by taking copies by a scientific process, which does not leave the lines and figures to the uncertainty of man's pencil. The existence of this ancient art here could hardly be admitted, otherwise than as an insulated fact, without some corroborative evidence, in habits and customs, which it would be reasonable to look for in the existing ruins of ancient occupancy. It is thought some such testimony has been found. I rode out yesterday three miles back to the range of high hills which encompass this sub-valley, to see a rude tower of stone standing on an elevated point, called Parr's point, which commands a view of the whole plain, and which appears to have been constructed as a watch-tower, or look-out, from which to descry an approaching enemy. It is much dilapidated. About six or seven feet of the work is still entire. It is circular, and composed of rough stones, laid without mortar, or the mark of a hammer. A heavy mass of fallen wall lies around, covering an area of some forty feet in diameter. Two similar points of observation, occupied by dilapidated towers, are represented to exist, one at the prominent summit of the Ohio and Grave Creek hills, and another on the promontory on the opposite side of the Ohio, in Belmont county, Ohio. It is known to all acquainted with the warlike habits of our Indians, that they never have evinced the foresight to post a regular sentry, and these rude towers may be regarded as of cotemporaneous age with the interment of the inscription. Several polished tubes of stone have been found, in one of the lesser mounds, the use of which is not very apparent. One of these, now on my table, is 12 inches long, 1-1/4 wide at one end, and 1-1/2 at the other. It is made of a fine, compact, lead blue steatite, mottled, and has been constructed by boring, in the manner of a gun barrel. This boring is continued to within about three-eighths of an inch of the larger end, through which but a small aperture is left. If this small aperture be looked through, objects at a distance are more clearly seen. Whether it had this telescopic use, or others, the degree of art evinced in its construction is far from rude. By inserting a wooden rod and valve, this tube would be converted into a powerful syphon, or syringe. I have not space to notice one or two additional traits, which serve to awaken new interest at this ancient point of aboriginal and apparently mixed settlement, and must omit them till my next. III. GRAVE CREEK FLATS, August 24, 1843. The great mound at these flats was opened as a place of public resort about four years ago. For this purpose a horizontal gallery to its centre was dug and bricked up, and provided with a door. The centre was walled round as a rotunda, of about twenty-five feet diameter, and a shaft sunk from the top to intersect it; it was in these two excavations that the skeletons and accompanying relics and ornaments were found. All these articles are arranged for exhibition in this rotunda, which is lighted up with candles. The lowermost skeleton is almost entire, and in a good state of preservation, and is put up by means of wires, on the walls. It has been overstretched in the process so as to measure six feet; it should be about five feet eight inches. It exhibits a noble frame of the human species, bearing a skull with craniological developments of a highly favorable character. The face bones are elongated, with a long chin and symmetrical jaw, in which a full and fine set of teeth, above and below, are present. The skeletons in the upper vault, where the inscription stone was found, are nearly all destroyed. It is a damp and gloomy repository, and exhibits in the roof and walls of the rotunda one of the most extraordinary sepulchral displays which the world affords. On casting the eye up to the ceiling, and the heads of the pillars supporting it, it is found to be encrusted, or rather festooned, with a white, soft, flaky mass of matter, which had exuded from the mound above. This apparently animal exudation is as white as snow. It hangs in pendent masses and globular drops; the surface is covered with large globules of clear water, which in the reflected light have all the brilliancy of diamonds. These drops of water trickle to the floor, and occasionally the exuded white matter falls. The wooden pillars are furnished with the appearance of capitals, by this substance. That it is the result of a soil highly charged with particles of matter, arising from the decay or incineration of human bodies, is the only theory by which we may account for the phenomenon. Curious and unique it certainly is, and with the faint light of a few candles it would not require much imagination to invest the entire rotunda with sylph-like forms of the sheeted dead. An old Cherokee chief, who visited this scene, recently, with his companions, on his way to the West, was so excited and indignant at the desecration of the tumulus, by this display of bones and relics to the gaze of the white race, that he became furious and unmanageable; his friends and interpreters had to force him out, to prevent his assassinating the guide; and soon after he drowned his senses in alcohol. That this spot was a very ancient point of settlement by the hunter race in the Ohio valley, and that it was inhabited by the present red race of North American Indians, on the arrival of whites west of the Alleghanies, are both admitted facts; nor would the historian and antiquary ever have busied themselves farther in the matter had not the inscribed stone come to light, in the year 1839. I was informed, yesterday, that another inscription stone had been found in one of the smaller mounds on these flats, about five years ago, and have obtained data sufficient as to its present location to put the Ethnological Society on its trace. If, indeed, these inscriptions shall lead us to admit that the continent was visited by Europeans prior to the era of Columbus, it is a question of very high antiquarian interest to determine who the visitors were, and what they have actually left on record in these antique tablets. I have only time to add a single additional fact. Among the articles found in this cluster of mounds, the greater part are commonplace, in our western mounds and town ruins. I have noticed but one which bears the character of that unique type of architecture found by Mr. Stephens and Mr. Catherwood in Central America and Yucatan. With the valuable monumental standards of comparison furnished by these gentlemen before me, it is impossible not to recognize, in an ornamental stone, found in one of the lesser mounds here, a specimen of similar workmanship. It is in the style of the heavy feather-sculptured ornaments of Yucatan--the material being a wax yellow sand-stone, darkened by time. I have taken such notes and drawings of the objects above referred to, as will enable me, I trust, in due time, to give a connected account of them to our incipient society. IV. MASSILLON, Ohio, August 27th, 1843. Since my last letter I have traversed the State of Ohio, by stage, to this place. In coming up the Virginia banks of the Ohio from Moundsville, I passed a monument, of simple construction, erected to the memory of a Captain Furman and twenty-one men, who were killed by the Indians, in 1777, at that spot. They had been out, from the fort at Wheeling, on a scouting party, and were waylaid at a pass called the narrows. The Indians had dropped a pipe and some trinkets in the path, knowing that the white men would pick them up, and look at them, and while the latter were grouped together in this act, they fired and killed every man. The Indians certainly fought hard for the possession of this valley, aiming, at all times, to make up by stratagem what they lacked in numbers. I doubt whether there is in the history of the spread of civilisation over the world a theatre so rife with partisan adventure, massacre and murder, as the valley of the Ohio and the country west of the Alleghany generally presented between the breaking out of the American revolution, in '76, and the close of the Black Hawk war in 1832. The true era, in fact, begins with the French war, in 1744, and terminates with the Florida war, the present year. A work on this subject, drawn from authentic sources, and written with spirit and talent, would be read with avidity and possess a permanent interest. The face of the country, from the Ohio opposite Wheeling to the waters of the Tuscarawas, the north fork of the Muskingum, is a series of high rolling ridges and knolls, up and down which the stage travels slowly. Yet this section is fertile and well cultivated in wheat and corn, particularly the latter, which looks well. This land cannot be purchased under forty or fifty dollars an acre. Much of it was originally bought for seventy-five cents per acre. It was over this high, wavy land, that the old Moravian missionary road to Gnadenhutten ran, and I pursued it to within six miles of the latter place. You will recollect this locality as the scene of the infamous murder, by Williamson and his party, of the non-resisting Christian Delawares under the ministry of Heckewelder and Ziesberger. On the Stillwater, a branch of the Tuscarawas, we first come to level lands. This stream was noted, in early days, for its beaver and other furs. The last beaver seen here was shot on its banks twelve years ago. It had three legs, one having probably been caught in a trap or been bitten off. It is known that not only the beaver, but the otter, wolf and fox, will bite off a foot, to escape the iron jaws of a trap. It has been said, but I know not on what good authority, that the hare will do the same. We first struck the Ohio canal at Dover. It is in every respect a well constructed work, with substantial locks, culverts and viaducts. It is fifty feet wide at the top, and is more than adequate for all present purposes. It pursues the valley of the Tuscarawas up to the summit, by which it is connected with the Cuyahuga, whose outlet is at Cleveland. Towns and villages have sprung up along its banks, where before there was a wilderness. Nothing among them impressed me more than the town of Zoar, which is exclusively settled by Germans. There seems something of the principles of association--one of the fallacies of the age--in its large and single town store, hotel, &c., but I do not know how far they may extend. Individual property is held. The evidences of thrift and skill, in cultivation and mechanical and mill work, are most striking. Every dwelling here is surrounded with fruit and fruit trees. The botanical garden and hot-house are on a large scale, and exhibit a favorable specimen of the present state of horticulture. One of the assistants very kindly plucked for me some fine fruit, and voluntarily offered it. Zoar is quite a place of resort as a ride for the neighboring towns. I may remark, _en passant_, that there is a large proportion of German population throughout Ohio. They are orderly, thrifty and industrious, and fall readily into our political system and habits. Numbers of them are well educated in the German. They embrace Lutherans as well as Roman Catholics, the latter predominating. Among the towns which have recently sprung up on the line of the canal; not the least is the one from which I date this letter. The name of the noted French divine (Massillon) was affixed to an uncultivated spot, by some Boston gentlemen, some twelve or fourteen years ago. It is now one of the most thriving, city-looking, business places in the interior of Ohio. In the style of its stores, mills and architecture, it reminds the visitor of that extraordinary growth and spirit which marked the early years of the building of Rochester. It numbers churches for Episcopalians, Baptists, Methodists and Presbyterians, and also Lutherans and Romanists. About three hundred barrels of flour can be turned out per diem, by its mills. It is in the greatest wheat-growing county in Ohio (Stark), but is not the county-seat, which is at Canton. V. DETROIT, Sept. 15th, 1843. In passing from the interior of Ohio toward Lake Erie, the face of the country exhibits, in the increased size and number of its boulder stones, evidences of the approach of the traveller toward those localities of sienites and other crystalline rocks, from which these erratic blocks and water-worn masses appear to have been, in a remote age of our planet, removed. The soil in this section has a freer mixture of the broken down slates, of which portions are still in place on the shores of Lake Erie. The result is a clayey soil, less favorable to wheat and Indian corn. We came down the cultivated valley of the Cuyahoga, and reached the banks of the lake at the fine town of Cleveland, which is elevated a hundred feet, or more, above it, and commands a very extensive view of the lake, the harbor and its ever-busy shipping. A day was employed, by stage, in this section of my tour, and the next carried me, by steamboat, to this ancient French capital. Detroit has many interesting historical associations, and appears destined, when its railroad is finished, to be the chief thoroughfare for travellers to Chicago and the Mississippi valley. As my attention has, however, been more taken up, on my way, with the past than the present and future condition of the West, the chief interest which the route has excited must necessarily arise from the same source. Michigan connects itself in its antiquarian features with that character of pseudo-civilisation, or modified barbarianism, of which the works and mounds and circumvallations at Grave Creek Flats, at Marietta, at Circleville and other well known points, are evidences. That this improved condition of the hunter state had an ancient but partial connection with the early civilisation of Europe, appears now to be a fair inference, from the inscribed stone of Grave Creek, and other traces of European arts, discovered of late. It is also evident that the central American type of the civilisation, or rather advance to civilisation, of the red race, reached this length, and finally went down, with its gross idolatry and horrid rites, and was merged in the better known and still existing form of the hunter state which was found, respectively, by Cabot, Cartier, Verrezani, Hudson, and others, who first dropped anchor on our coasts. There is strong evidence furnished by a survey of the western country that the teocalli type of the Indian civilisation, so to call it, developed itself from the banks of the Ohio, in Tennessee and Virginia, west and north-westwardly across the sources of the Wabash, the Muskingum and other streams, toward Lake Michigan and the borders of Wisconsin territory. The chief evidences of it, in Michigan and Indiana, consist of a remarkable series of curious garden beds, or accurately furrowed fields, the perfect outlines of which have been preserved by the grass of the oak openings and prairies, and even among the heaviest forests. These remains of an ancient cultivation have attracted much attention from observing settlers on the Elkhart, the St. Joseph's, the Kalamazoo and Grand river of Michigan. I possess some drawings of these anomalous remains of by-gone industry in the hunter race, taken in former years, which are quite remarkable. It is worthy of remark, too, that no large tumuli, or teocalli, exist in this particular portion of the West, the ancient population of which may therefore be supposed to have been borderers, or frontier bands, who resorted to the Ohio valley as their capital, or place of annual visitation. All the mounds scattered through Northern Ohio, Indiana and Michigan, are mere barrows, or repositories of the dead, and would seem to have been erected posterior to the fall or decay of the gross idol worship and the offer of human sacrifice. I have, within a day or two, received a singular implement or ornament of stone, of a crescent shape, from Oakland, in this State, which connects the scattered and out-lying remains of the smaller mounds, and traces of ancient agricultural labor, with the antiquities of Grave Creek Flats. VI. DETROIT, Sept. 16th, 1843. The antiquities of Western America are to be judged of by isolated and disjointed discoveries, which are often made at widely distant points and spread over a very extensive area. The labor of comparison and discrimination of the several eras which the objects of these discoveries establish, is increased by this diffusion, and disconnection of the times and places of their occurrence, and is, more than all, perhaps, hindered and put back by the eventual carelessness of the discoverers, and the final loss or mutilation of the articles disclosed. To remedy this evil, every discovery made, however apparently unimportant, should in this era of the diurnal and periodical press be put on record, and the objects themselves be either carefully kept, or given to some public scientific institution. An Indian chief called the Black Eagle, of river Au Sables (Michigan), discovered a curious antique pipe of Etruscan ware, a few years ago, at Thunder Bay. This pipe, which is now in my possession, is as remarkable for its form as for the character of the earthen-ware from which it is made, differing as it does so entirely from the coarse earthen pots and vessels, the remains of which are scattered so generally throughout North America. The form is semi-circular or horn-shaped, with a quadrangular bowl, and having impressed in the ware ornaments at each angle. I have never before, indeed, seen any pipes of Indian manufacture of baked clay, or earthen-ware, such articles being generally carved out of steatite, indurated clays, or other soft mineral substances. It is a peculiarity of this pipe that it was smoked from the small end, which is rounded for the purpose of putting it between the lips, without the intervention of a stem. The discoverer told me that he had taken it from a very antique grave. A large hemlock tree, he said, had been blown down on the banks of the river, tearing up, by its roots, a large mass of earth. At the bottom of the excavation thus made he discovered a grave, which contained a vase, out of which he took the pipe with some other articles. The vase, he said, was broken, so that he did not deem it worth bringing away. The other articles he described as bones. Some time since I accompanied the chief Kewakonce, to get an ancient clay pot, such as the Indians used when the Europeans arrived on the continent. He said that he had discovered two such pots, in an entire state, in a cave, or crevice, on one of the rocky islets extending north of Point Tessalon, which is the northern cape of the entrance of the Straits of St. Mary's into Lake Huron. From this locality he had removed one of them, and concealed it at a distant point. We travelled in canoes. We landed on the northern shore of the large island of St. Joseph, which occupies the jaws of those expanded straits. He led me up an elevated ridge, covered with forest, and along a winding narrow path, conducting to some old Indian cornfields. All at once he stopped in this path. "We are now very near it," he said, and stood still, looking toward the spot where he had concealed it, beneath a decayed trunk. He did not, at last, appear to be willing to risk his luck in life--such is Indian superstition--by being the actual discoverer of this object of veneration to a white man, but allowed me to make, or rather complete, the re-discovery. With the exception of being cracked, this vessel is entire. It corresponds, in material and character, with the fragments of pottery usually found. It is a coarse ware, tempered with quartz or feldspar, and such as would admit a sudden fire to be built around it. It is some ten inches in diameter, tulip-shaped, with a bending lip, and without supports beneath. It was evidently used as retorts in a sand bath, there being no contrivance for suspending it. I have forwarded this curious relic entire to the city for examination. I asked the chief who presented it to me, and who is a man of good sense, well acquainted with Indian traditions, how long it was since such vessels had been used by his ancestors. He replied, that he was the seventh generation, in a direct line, since the French had first arrived in the lakes. VII. DETROIT, Sept. 16th, 1843. There was found, in an island at the west extremity of Lake Huron, an ancient repository of human bones, which appeared to have been gathered from their first or ordinary place of sepulture, and placed in this rude mausoleum. The island is called Isle Ronde by the French, and is of small dimensions, although it has a rocky basis and affords sugar maple and other trees of the hard wood species. This repository was first disclosed by the action of the lake against a diluvial shore, in which the bones were buried. At the time of my visit, vertebræ, tibiæ, portions of crania and other bones were scattered down the fallen bank, and served to denote the place of their interment, which was on the margin of the plain. Some persons supposed that the leg and thigh bones denoted an unusual length; but by placing them hip by hip with the living specimen, this opinion was not sustained. All these bones had been placed longitudinally. They were arranged in order, in a wide grave, or trench. Contrary to the usual practice of the present tribes of red men, the skeletons were laid north and south. I asked several of the most aged Indian chiefs in that vicinity for information respecting these bones--by what tribe they had been deposited, and why they had been laid north and south, and not east and west, as they uniformly bury. But, with the usual result as to early Indian traditions, they had no information to offer. Chusco, an old Ottawa prophet, since dead, remarked that they were probably of the time of the Indian bones found in the caves on the island of Michilimackinac. In a small plain on the same island, near the above repository, is a long abandoned Indian burial-ground, in which the interments are made in the ordinary way. This, I understood from the Indians, is of the era of the occupation of Old Mackinac, or Peekwutinong, as they continue to call it--a place which has been abandoned by both whites and Indians, soldiers and missionaries, about seventy years. I caused excavations to be made in these graves, and found their statements to be generally verified by the character of the articles deposited with the skeletons; at least they were all of a date posterior to the discovery of this part of the country by the French. There were found the oxydated remains of the brass mountings of a chief's fusil, corroded fire steels and other steel implements, vermillion, wampum, and other cherished or valued articles. I sent a perfect skull, taken from one of these graves, to Dr. Morton, the author of "Crania," while he was preparing that work. No Indians have resided on this island within the memory of any white man or Indian with whom I have conversed. An aged chief whom I interrogated, called Saganosh, who has now been dead some five or six years, told me that he was a small boy when the present settlement on the island of Michilimackinac was commenced, and the English first took post there, and began to remove their cattle, &c., from the old fort on the peninsula, and it was about that time that the Indian village of Minnisains, or Isle Ronde, was abandoned. It had before formed a link, as it were, in the traverse of this part of the lake (Huron) in canoes to old Mackinac. The Indians opposed the transfer of the post to the island of Michilimackinac, and threatened the troops who were yet in the field. They had no cannon, but the commanding officer sent a vessel to Detroit for one. This vessel had a quick trip, down and up, and brought up a gun, which was fired the evening she came into the harbor. This produced an impression. I have made some inquiries to fix the date of this transfer of posts, and think it was at or about the opening of the era of the American revolution, at which period the British garrison did not feel itself safe in a mere stockade of timber on the main shore. This stockade, dignified with the name of a fort, had not been burned on the taking of it, by surprise, and the massacre of the English troops by the Indians, during Pontiac's war. This massacre, it will be recollected, was in 1763--twelve years before the opening of the American war. VIII. DETROIT, Oct. 13th, 1843. The so-called copper rock of Lake Superior was brought to this place, a day or two since, in a vessel from Sault Ste-Marie, having been transported from its original locality, on the Ontonagon river, at no small labor and expense. It is upwards of twenty-three years since I first visited this remarkable specimen of native copper, in the forests of Lake Superior. It has been somewhat diminished in size and weight, in the meantime, by visitors and travellers in that remote quarter; but retains, very well, its original character and general features. I have just returned from a re-examination of it in a store, in one of the main streets of this city, where it has been deposited by the present proprietor, who designs to exhibit it to the curious. Its greatest length is four feet six inches; its greatest width about four feet; its maximum thickness eighteen inches. These are rough measurements with the rule. It is almost entirely composed of malleable copper, and bears striking marks of the visits formerly paid to it, in the evidences of portions which have from time to time been cut off. There are no scales in the city large enough, or other means of ascertaining its precise weight, and of thus terminating the uncertainty arising from the several estimates heretofore made. It has been generally estimated here, since its arrival, to weigh between six and seven thousand pounds, or about three and a half tons, and is by far the largest known and described specimen of native copper on the globe. Rumors of a larger piece in South America are apocryphal. The acquisition, to the curious and scientific world, of this extraordinary mass of native metal is at least one of the practical results of the copper-mining mania which carried so many adventurers northward, into the region of Lake Superior, the past summer (1843). The person who has secured this treasure (Mr. J. Eldred) has been absent, on the business, since early in June. He succeeded in removing it from its diluvial bed on the banks of the river, by a car and sectional railroad of two links, formed of timber. The motive power was a tackle attached to trees, which was worked by men, from fourteen to twenty of whom were employed upon it. These rails were alternately moved forward, as the car passed from the hindmost. In this manner the rock was dragged four miles and a half, across a rough country, to a curve of the river below its falls, and below the junction of its forks, where it was received by a boat, and conveyed to the mouth of the river, on the lake shore. At this point it was put on board a schooner, and taken to the falls, or Sault Ste-Marie, and thence, having been transported across the portage, embarked for Detroit. The entire distance to this place is a little within one thousand miles; three hundred and twenty of which lie beyond St. Mary's. What is to be its future history and disposition remains to be seen. It will probably find its way to the museum of the National Institute in the new patent office at Washington. This would be appropriate, and it is stated that the authorities have asserted their ultimate claim to it, probably under the 3d article of the treaty of Fond du Lac, of the 5th of August, 1826. I have no books at hand to refer to the precise time, so far as known, when this noted mass of copper first became known to Europeans. Probably a hundred and eighty years have elapsed. Marquette, and his devoted companion, passed up the shores of Lake Superior about 1668, which was several years before the discovery of the Mississippi, by that eminent missionary, by the way of the Wisconsin. From the letters of D'Ablon at Sault Ste-Marie, it appears to have been known prior to the arrival of La Salle. These allusions will be sufficient to show that the rock has a historical notoriety. Apart from this, it is a specimen which is, both mineralogically and geologically, well worthy of national preservation. It is clearly a boulder, and bears marks of attrition from the action of water, on some parts of its rocky surface as well as the metallic portions. A minute mineralogical examination and description of it are required. The adhering rock, of which there is less now than in 1820, is apparently serpentine, in some parts steatitic, whereas the copper ores of Keweena Point on that lake, are found exclusively in the amygdaloids and greenstones of the trap formation. A circular depression of opaque crystalline quartz, in the form of a semi-geode, exists in one face of it; other parts of the mass disclose the same mineral. Probably 300 lbs. of the metal have been hacked off, or detached by steel chisels, since it has been known to the whites, most of this within late years. IX. DETROIT, Oct. 16th, 1843. In the rapid development of the resources and wealth of the West, there is no object connected with the navigation of the upper lakes of more prospective importance than the improvement of the delta, or flats of the St. Clair. It is here that the only practical impediment occurs to the passage of heavy shipping, between Buffalo and Chicago. This delta is formed by deposits at the point of discharge of the river St. Clair, into Lake St. Clair, and occurs at the estimated distance of about thirty-six miles above the city. The flats are fan-shaped, and spread, I am inclined to think, upward of fifteen miles, on the line of their greatest expansion. There are three principal channels, besides sub-channels, which carry a depth of from four to six fathoms to the very point of their exit into the lake, where there is a bar in each. This bar, as is shown by the chart of a survey made by officers Macomb and Warner, of the topographical engineers, in 1842, is very similar to the bars at the mouths of the upper lake rivers, and appears to be susceptible of removal, or improvement, by similar means. The north channel carries nine feet of water over this bar, the present season, and did the same in 1842, and is the one exclusively used by vessels and steamboats. To the latter this tortuous channel, which is above ten miles farther round than the middle channel, presents no impediment, besides the intricacies of the bar, but increased distance. It is otherwise, and ever must remain so, to vessels propelled by sails. Such vessels, coming up with a fair wind, find the bend so acute and involved at _Point aux Chenes_, at the head of this channel, as to bring the wind directly ahead. They are, consequently, compelled to cast anchor, and await a change of wind to turn this point. A delay of eight or ten days in the upward passage, is not uncommon at this place. Could the bar of the middle channel, which is direct, be improved, the saving in both time and distance above indicated would be made. This is an object of public importance, interesting to all the lake States and Territories, and would constitute a subject of useful consideration for Congress. Every year is adding to the number and size of our lake vessels. The rate of increase which doubles our population in a given number of years must also increase the lake tonnage, and add new motives for the improvement of its navigation. Besides the St. Clair delta, I know of no other impediment in the channel itself, throughout the great line of straits between Buffalo and Chicago, which prudence and good seamanship, and well found vessels, may not ordinarily surmount. The rapids at Black Rock, once so formidable, have long been obviated by the canal dam. The straits of Detroit have been well surveyed, and afford a deep, navigable channel at all times. The rapids at the head of the river St. Clair, at Port Huron, have a sufficiency of water for vessels of the largest class, and only require a fair wind for their ascent. The straits of Michilimackinac are believed to be on the same water level as Lakes Huron and Michigan, and only present the phenomenon of a current setting east or west, in compliance with certain laws of the reaction of water driven by winds. Such are the slight impediments on this extraordinary line of inland lake navigation, which is carried on at an average altitude of something less than 600 feet above the tide level of the Atlantic. When this line of commerce requires to be diverted north, through the straits of St. Mary's into Lake Superior, a period rapidly approaching, a short canal of three-fourths of a mile will be required at the Sault Ste-Marie, and some excavation made, so as to permit vessels of heavy tonnage to cross the bar in Lake George of those straits. X. DUNDAS, Canada West, Oct. 26th, 1843. Fortunately for the study of American antiquities the aborigines have, from the earliest period, practised the interment of their arms, utensils and ornaments, with the dead, thus furnishing evidence of the particular state of their skill in the arts, at the respective eras of their history. To a people without letters there could scarcely have been a better index than such domestic monuments furnish, to determine these eras; and it is hence that the examination of their mounds and burial-places assumes so important a character in the investigation of history. Heretofore these inquiries have been confined to portions of the continent south and west of the great chain of lakes and the St. Lawrence; but the advancing settlements in Canada, at this time, are beginning to disclose objects of this kind, and thus enlarge the field of inquiry. I had, yesterday, quite an interesting excursion to one of these ancient places of sepulture north of the head of Lake Ontario. The locality is in the township of Beverly, about twelve miles distant from Dundas. The rector of the parish, the Rev. Mr. McMurray, had kindly made arrangements for my visit. We set out at a very early hour, on horseback, the air being keen, and the mud and water in the road so completely frozen as to bear our horses. We ascended the mountain and passed on to the table land, about four miles, to the house of a worthy parishioner of Mr. McM., by whom we were kindly welcomed, and after giving us a warm breakfast, he took us on, with a stout team, about six miles on the Guelph road. Diverging from this, about two miles to the left, through a heavy primitive forest, with occasional clearings, we came to the spot. It is in the 6th concession of Beverly. We were now about seventeen miles, by the road, from the extreme head of Lake Ontario, at the town of Hamilton, Burlington Bay; and on one of the main branches of the bright and busy mill-stream of the valley of Dundas. As this part of the country is yet encumbered with dense and almost unbroken masses of trees, with roads unformed, we had frequently to inquire our way, and at length stopped on the skirts of an elevated beech ridge, upon which the trees stood as large and thickly as in other parts of the forest. There was nothing at first sight to betoken that the hand of man had ever been exercised there. Yet this wooded ridge embraced the locality we were in quest of, and the antiquity of interments and accumulations of human bones on this height is to be inferred, from their occurrence amidst this forest, and beneath the roots of the largest trees. It is some five or six years since the discovery was made. It happened from the blowing down of a large tree, whose roots laid bare a quantity of human bones. Search was then made, and has been renewed at subsequent times, the result of which has been the disclosure of human skeletons in such abundance and massive quantities as to produce astonishment. This is the characteristic feature. Who the people were, and how such an accumulation should have occurred, are questions which have been often asked. And the interest of the scene is by no means lessened on observing that the greater part of these bones are deposited, not in isolated and single graves as the Indians now bury, but in wide and long trenches and rude vaults, in which the skeletons are piled longitudinally upon each other. In this respect they resemble a single deposit, mentioned in a prior letter, as occurring on _Isle Ronde_, in Lake Huron. And they would appear, as is the case with the latter, to be re-interments of bodies, after the flesh had decayed, collected from their first places of sepulture. No one--not the oldest inhabitant--remembers the residence of Indians in this location, nor does there appear to be any tradition on the subject. It is a common opinion among the settlers that there must have been a great battle fought here, which would account for the accumulation, but this idea does not appear to be sustained by an examination of the skulls, which, so far as I saw, exhibit no marks of violence. Besides, there are present the bones and crania of women and children, with implements and articles of domestic use, such as are ordinarily deposited with the dead. The supposition of pestilence, to account for the number, is subject to less objection; yet, if admitted, there is no imaginable state of Indian population in this quarter, which could have produced such heaps. The trenches, so far as examined, extend over the entire ridge. One of the transverse deposits, I judged, could not include less than fifteen hundred square feet. The whole of this had been once dug over, in search of curiosities, such as pipes, shells, beads, &c., of which a large number were found. Among the evidences of interments here since the discovery of Canada, were several brass kettles, in one of which were five infant skulls. Could we determine accurately the time required for the growth of a beech, or a black oak, as they are found on these deposits, of sixteen, eighteen and twenty inches and two feet in diameter, the date of the abandonment or completion of the interments might be very nearly fixed. The time of the growth of these species is, probably, much less, in the temperate latitudes, and in fertile soils, than is commonly supposed. I am inclined to think, from a hasty survey, that the whole deposit is the result of the slow accumulation of both ordinary interment, and the periodical deposit or re-interment of exhumed bones brought from contiguous hunting camps and villages. To this, pestilence has probably added. The ridge is said to be the apex or highest point of the table lands, and would therefore recommend itself, as a place of general interment, to the natives. Bands, who rove from place to place, and often capriciously abandon their hunting villages, are averse to leaving their dead in such isolated spots. The surrounding country is one which must have afforded all the spontaneous means of Indian subsistence, in great abundance. The deer and bear, once very numerous, still abound. We passed some ancient beaver dams, and were informed that the country east and north bears similar evidences of its former occupation by the small furred animals. The occurrence of the sugar maple adds another element of Indian subsistence. There are certain enigmatical walls of earth, in this vicinity, which extend several miles across the country, following the leading ridges of land. Accounts vary in representing them to extend from five to eight miles. These I did not see, but learn that they are about six feet high, and present intervals as if for gates. There is little likelihood that these walls were constructed for purposes of military defence, remote as they are from the great waters, and aside from the great leading war-paths. It is far more probable that they were intended to intercept the passage of game, and compel the deer to pass through these artificial defiles, where the hunters lay in wait for them. Ancient Iroquois tradition, as preserved by Colden, represents this section of Canada, extending quite to Three Rivers, as occupied by the Adirondacks; a numerous, fierce, and warlike race, who carried on a determined war against the Iroquois. The same race, who were marked as speaking a different type of language, were, at an early day, called by the French by the general term of Algonquins. They had three chief residences on the Utawas and its sources, and retired north-westwardly, by that route, on the increase of the Iroquois power. Whoever the people were who hunted and buried their dead at Beverly, it is manifest that they occupied the district at and prior to the era of the discovery of Canada, and also continued to occupy it, after the French had introduced the fur trade into the interior. For we find, in the manufactured articles buried, the distinctive evidences of both periods. The antique bone beads, of which we raised many, _in situ_, with crania and other bones, from beneath the roots of trees, are in every respect similar to those found in the Grave Creek mound, which have been improperly called "ivory." Amulets of bone and shell, and pipes of fine steatite and indurated red clay, are also of this early period, and are such as were generally made and used by the ancient inhabitants prior to the introduction of European wrought wampum or seawan, and of beads of porcelain and glass, and ornamented pipes of coarse pottery. I also examined several large marine shells, much corroded and decayed, which had been brought, most probably, from the shores of the Atlantic. Having made such excavations as limited time and a single spade would permit, we retraced our way to Dundas, which we reached after night-fall, a little fatigued, but well rewarded in the examination of an object which connects, in several particulars, the antiquities of Canada with those of the United States. ERA OF THE SETTLEMENT OF DETROIT, AND THE STRAITS BETWEEN LAKES ERIE AND HURON. The following papers, relative to the early occupancy of these straits, were copied from the originals in the public archives in Paris, by Gen. Cass, while he exercised the functions of minister at the court of France. The first relates to an act of occupancy made on the banks of a tributary of the Detroit river, called St. Deny's, probably the river _Aux Canards_. The second coincides with the period usually assigned as the origin of the post of Detroit. They are further valuable, for the notice which is incidentally taken of the leading tribes, who were then found upon these straits. It will be recollected, in perusing these documents, that La Salle had passed these straits on his way to "the Illinois," in 1679, that is, _eight_ years before the act of possession at St. Deny's, and _twenty-two_ years before the establishment of the post of Detroit. The upper lakes had then, however, been extensively laid open to the enterprise of the missionaries, and of the adventurers in the fur trade. Marquette, accompanied by Alloez, had visited the south shore of Lake Superior in 1668, and made a map of the region, which was published in the _Lettres Edifiantes_. This zealous and energetic man established the mission of St. Ignace at Michilimackinac, about 1669 or 1670, and three years afterwards, entered the upper Mississippi, from the Wisconsin. Vincennes, on the Wabash, was established in 1710;[27] St. Louis, not till 1763.[28] CANADA, 7th June, 1687. _A renewal of the taking possession of the territory upon the Straits [Detroit] between Lakes Erie and Huron, by Sieur de la Duranthaye._ _Oliver Morel, Equerry, Sieur de la Duranthaye, commandant in the name of the King of the Territory of the Ottawas, Miamis, Pottawatamies, Sioux, and other tribes under the orders of Monsieur, the Marquis de Denonsville, Governor General of New France._ This day, the 7th of June, 1687, in presence of the Rev'd Father Angeleran, Head of the Missions with the Ottawas[29] of Michilimackinac, the Miamis of Sault Ste-Marie, the Illinois, and Green Bay, and of the Sioux of Mons. de la Forest, formerly commandant of Fort St. Louis on the Illinois, of Mons. de Lisle, our Lieutenant, and of Mons. de Beauvais, Lieutenant of Fort St. Joseph, on the Straits [Detroit] between Lakes Huron and Erie. We declare to all whom it may hereafter concern, that we have come upon the banks of the river St. Deny's, situated three leagues from Lake Erie, in the Straits of the said Lakes Erie and Huron, on the south of said straits, and also at the entrance on the north side, for and in the name of the King, that we re-take possession of the said posts, established by Mons. La Salle for facilitating the voyages he made or caused to be made in vessels from Niagara to Michilimackinac, in the years * * * * * * at each of which we have caused to be set up anew a staff, with the arms of the King, in order to make the said renewed taking possession, and ordered several cabins to be erected for the accommodation of the French and the Indians of the Shawnees and Miamis, who had long been the proprietors of the said territory, but who had some time before withdrawn from the same for their greater advantage. The present act passed in our presence, signed by our hands, and by Rev. Father Angeleran, of the society of Jesuits, by MM. De la Forest, De Lisle and De Beauvais, thus in the original: Angeleran, Jesuite. De la Duranthaye [la Garduer]. De Beauvais, and De la Forest. Compared by me with the original in my hands, Councillor Secretary of the King, and Register in Chief of the Royal Council at Quebec, subscribed, and each page _paraphe_. Collated at Quebec, this 11th September, 1712. [Signed], BYON ET VANDREUIL. _Memoir of Monsieur de la Mothe Cadillac, relative to the establishment of Detroit, addressed to the Minister of Marine, 14th September, 1704:_ _La Mothe Cadillac renders an account of his conduct relative to the establishment of Detroit, by questions and answers. It is the Minister who questions, and La Mothe who answers:_ Q. Was it not in 1699 that you proposed to me an establishment in the Straits which separate Lake Erie from Lake Huron? A. Yes, my Lord. Q. What were the motives which induced you to wish to fortify a place there, and make an establishment? A. I had several. The first was to make a strong post, which should not be subject to the revolutions of other posts, by fixing there a number of French and Savages, in order to curb the Iroquois, who had constantly annoyed our colonies and hindered their prosperity. Q. At what time did you leave Quebec to go to Detroit? A. On the 8th of March, 1701. I reached Montreal the 12th, when we were obliged to make a change. * * * * I left La Chine the 5th of June with fifty soldiers and fifty Canadians--Messrs. De Fonty, Captain, Duque and Chacornach, Lieutenants. I was ordered to pass by the Grand River of the Ottawas, notwithstanding my remonstrances. I arrived at Detroit _the 24th July_ and fortified myself there immediately; had the necessary huts made, and cleared up the grounds, preparatory to its being sowed in the autumn. Compare these data, from the highest sources, with the Indian tradition of the first arrival of the French, in the upper lakes, recorded at page 107, ONEOTA, No. 2. FOOTNOTES: [27] Nicollet's Report. [28] Law's Historical Dis. [29] This is, manifestly, an error. The writer of this act of possession appears to have mistaken the bank of the St. Mary's, one of the tributaries of the Miami of the Lakes, in the Miami country, for the Sault de Ste-Marie, at the outlet of Lake Superior. The latter position was occupied, at the earliest dates, to which tradition reaches, by a branch of the Algonquins, to whom the French gave the name, from the falls of the river at that locality, of _Saulteux_. They are better known, at this day under the name of Chippewas and Odjibwas. THE CHOCTAW INDIANS. The _Vicksburg Sentinel_ of the 18th ult., referring to this tribe of Indians, has the following:--"The last remnant of this once powerful tribe are now crossing our ferry on their way to their new homes in the far West. To one who, like the writer, has been familiar to their bronze inexpressive faces from infancy, it brings associations of peculiar sadness to see them bidding here a last farewell perhaps to the old hills which gave birth, and are doubtless equally dear to him and them alike. The first playmates of our infancy were the young Choctaw boys of the then woods of Warren county. Their language was once scarcely less familiar to us than our mother-English. We know, we think, the character of the Choctaw well. We knew many of their present stalwart braves in those days of early life when the Indian and white alike forget disguise, but in the unchecked exuberance of youthful feeling show the real character that policy and habit may afterwards so much conceal; and we know that, under the stolid stoic look he assumes, there is burning in the Indian's nature a heart of fire and feeling, and an all-observing keenness of apprehension, that marks and remembers everything that occurs, and every insult he receives. Cunni-at a hah! They are going away! With a visible reluctance which nothing has overcome but the stern necessity they feel impelling them, they have looked their last on the graves of their sires--the scenes of their youth--and have taken up their slow toilsome march, with their household gods among them, to their new home in a strange land. They leave names to many of our rivers, towns and counties; and so long as our State remains, the Choctaws, who once owned most of her soil, will be remembered." A SYNOPSIS OF CARTIER'S VOYAGES OF DISCOVERY AT NORTH AMERICA. FIRST VOYAGE. Forty-two years had elapsed from the discovery of America by Columbus, when Jacques Cartier prepared to share in the maritime enterprise of the age, by visiting the coast. Cartier was a native of Normandy, and sailed from the port of St. Malo, in France, on the 20th April, 1534. It will be recollected that the conquest of Mexico had been completed 13 years previous. Cartier had two small vessels of 60 tons burden and 61 men each. The crews took an oath, before sailing, "to behave themselves truly and faithfully in the service of the most Christian king," Francis I. After an unusually prosperous voyage of 20 days, he made cape "Buona Vista" in Newfoundland, which he states to be in north latitude, 48° 30´. Here meeting with ice, he made the haven of St. Catherine's, where he was detained ten days. This coast had now been known since the voyage of Cabot, in 1497, and had been frequently resorted to, by fishing vessels. Jean Denis, a native of Rouen, one of these fishermen, is said to have published the first chart of it, in 1506. Two years after wards, Thomas Aubert, brought the first natives from Newfoundland to Paris, and this is the era, 1508, commonly assigned as the discovery of Canada. The St. Lawrence remained, however, undiscovered, nor does it appear that any thing was known, beyond a general and vague, knowledge of the coast, and its islands. The idea was yet entertained, indeed, it will be seen by subsequent facts, that America was an island, and that a passage to the Asiatic continent, existed in these latitudes. On the 21st May, Cartier continued his voyage, sailing "north and by east" from cape Buona Vista, and reached the Isle of Birds, so called from the unusual abundance of sea fowl found there, of the young of which the men filled two boats, "so that" in the quaint language of the journal, "besides them which we did eat fresh, every ship did powder and salt five or six barrels." He also observed the godwit, and a larger and vicious bird, which they named margaulx. While at this island, they descried a polar bear, which, in their presence leapt into the sea, and thus escaped. On their subsequent passage to the main land, they again encountered, as they supposed, the same animal swimming towards land. They manned their boats, and "by main strength overtook her, whose flesh was as good to be eaten, as the flesh of a calf two years old." This bear is described to be, "as large as a cow, and as white as a swan." On the 27th he reached the harbour of "Carpunt" in the bay "Les Chastaux," latitude 51°, where he was constrained to lay by, on account of the accumulation of ice, till the 9th of June. The narrator of the voyage takes this occasion to describe certain parts of the coast and waters of Newfoundland, the island of St. Catherine, Blanc Sablon, Brest, the Isle of Birds, and a numerous group of Islands called the Islets. But these memoranda are not connected with any observations or discoveries of importance. Speaking of Bird and Brest Islands, he says, they afford "great store of godwits, and crows, with red beaks and red feet," who "make their nests in holes underground, even as conies." Near this locality "there is great fishing." On the 10th June, he entered a port in the newly named island of Brest, to procure wood and water. Meantime, boats were dispatched to explore among the islands, which were found so numerous "that it was not possible they might be told, for they continued about 10 leagues beyond the said port." The explorers slept on an island. The next day they continued their discoveries along the coast, and having passed the islands, found a haven, which they named St. Anthony: one or two leagues beyond, they found a small river named St. Servansport, and here set up a cross. About three leagues further, they discovered another river, of larger size, in which they found salmon, and bestowed upon it the name of St. Jacques. While in the latter position, they descried a ship from Rochelle, on a fishing voyage, and rowing out in their boats, directed it to a port near at hand, in what is called "Jaques Cartier's Sound," "which," adds the narrator, "I take to be one of the best, in all the world." The face of the country they examined, is, however, of the most sterile and forbidding character, being little besides "stones and wild crags, and a place fit for wild beasts, for in all the North Island," he continues, "I did not see a cart load of good earth, yet went I on shore, in many places, and in the Island of White Sand, (Blanc Sablon,) there is nothing else but moss and small thorns, scattered here and there, withered and dry. To be short, I believe that this was the land that God allotted to Cain." Immediately following this, we have the first description of the natives. The men are described as being "of an indifferent good stature and bigness, but wild and unruly. They wear their hair tied on the top, like a wreath of hay, and put a wooden pin within it, or any other such thing, instead of a nail, and with them, they bind certain birds feathers. They are clothed with beast skins, as well the men as women, but that the women go somewhat straiter and closer in their garments, than the men do, with their waists girded. They paint themselves with certain roan colours; their boats are made of the bark of birch trees, with the which they fish, and take great store of seals. And as far as we could understand, since our coming thither, that is not their habitation, but they come from the main land, out of _hotter_[30] countries to catch the said seals, and other necessaries for their living." From this exploratory trip, the boats returned to their newly named harbour of Brest, on the 13th. On the 14th, being the Sabbath, service was read, and the next day Cartier continued his voyage, steering southerly, along the coast, which still wore a most barren and cheerless aspect. Much of this part of the narrative is taken up with distances and soundings, and the naming of capes and islands of very little interest at the present day. They saw a few huts upon the cliffs on the 18th, and named this part of the coast "Les Granges," but did not stop to form any acquaintance with their tenants. Cape Royal was reached and named the day prior, and is said to be the "greatest fishery of cods there possibly may be, for in less than an hour we took a hundred of them." On the 24th they discovered the island of St. John. They saw myriads of birds upon the group of islands named "Margaulx," five leagues westward of which they discovered a large, fertile, and well-timbered island, to which the name of "Brion" was given. The contrast presented by the soil and productions of this island, compared with the bleak and waste shores they had before encountered, excited their warm admiration; and with the aid of this excitement, they here saw "wild corn," peas, gooseberries, strawberries, damask roses, and parsley, "with other sweet and pleasant herbs." They here also saw the walrus, bear, and wolf. Very little is to be gleaned from the subsequent parts of the voyage, until they reached the gulf of St. Lawrence. Mists, head winds, barren rocks, sandy shores, storms and sunshine, alternately make up the landscape presented to view. Much caution was evinced in standing off and on an iron bound coast, and the boats were often employed in exploring along the main land. While thus employed near a shallow stream, called the "River of Boats," they saw natives crossing the stream in their canoes, but the wind coming to blow on shore, they were compelled to retire to their vessels, without opening any communication with them. On the following day, while the boats were traversing the coast, they saw a native running along shore after them, who made signs as they supposed, directing them to return towards the cape they had left. But as soon as the boat turned he fled. They landed, however, and putting a knife and a woollen girdle on a staff, as a good-will offering, returned to their vessels. The character of this part of the Newfoundland coast, impressed them as being greatly superior to the portions which they had previously seen, both in soil and temperature. In addition to the productions found at Brion's Island, they noticed cedars, pines, white elm, ash, willow, and what are denominated "ewe-trees." Among the feathered tribes they mention the "thrush and stock-dove." By the latter term the passenger pigeon is doubtless meant. The "wild corn" here again mentioned, is said to be "like unto rye," from which it may be inferred that it was the zizania, although the circumstance of its being an aquatic plant is not mentioned. In running along the coast Cartier appears to have been engrossed with the idea, so prevalent among the mariners of that era, of finding a passage to India, and it was probably on this account that he made such a scrupulous examination of every inlet and bay, and the productions of the shores. Wherever the latter offered anything favourable, there was a strong disposition to admiration, and to make appearances correspond with the theory. It must be recollected that Hudson, seventy-five years later, in sailing up the North River, had similar notions. Hence the application of several improper terms to the vegetable and animal productions of the latitudes, and the constant expectation of beholding trees bending with fruits and spices, "goodly trees" and "very sweet and pleasant herbs." That the barren and frigid shores of Labrador, and the northern parts of Newfoundland, should have been characterised as a region subject to the divine curse, is not calculated to excite so much surprise, as the disposition with every considerable change of soil and verdure, to convert it into a land of oriental fruitfulness. It does not appear to have been sufficiently borne in mind, that the increased verdure and temperature, were, in a great measure, owing to the advancing state of the season. He came on this coast on the 10th of May, and it was now July. It is now very well known that the summers in high northern latitudes, although short, are attended with a high degree of heat. On the 3d of July Cartier entered the gulf to which the name of St. Lawrence has since been applied, the centre of which he states to be in latitude 47° 30´. On the 4th he proceeded up the bay to a creek called St. Martin, near bay De Chaleur, where he was detained by stress of weather eight days. While thus detained, one of the ship's boats was sent ahead to explore. They went 7 or 8 leagues to a cape of the bay, where they descried two parties of Indians, "in about 40 or 50 canoes," crossing the channel. One of the parties landed and beckoned them to follow their example, "making a great noise" and showing "certain skins upon pieces of wood"--i.e. fresh stretched skins. Fearing their numbers, the seamen kept aloof. The Indians prepared to follow them, in two canoes, in which movement they were joined by five canoes of the other party, "who were coming from the sea side." They approached in a friendly manner, "dancing and making many signs of joy, saying in their tongue 'Nape tondamen assuath.'"[31] The seamen, however, suspected their intentions, and finding it impossible to elude them by flight, two shots were discharged among them, by which they were so terrified, that they fled precipitately ashore, "making a great noise." After pausing awhile, the "wild men" however, re-embarked, and renewed the pursuit, but after coming alongside, they were frightened back by the strokes of two lances, which so disconcerted them that they fled in haste, and made no further attempt to follow. This appears to have been the first rencontre of the ship's crew with the natives. On the following day, an interview was brought on, by the approach of said "wild men" in nine canoes, which is thus described. "We being advertised of their coming, went to the point where they were with our boats; but so soon as they saw us they began to flee, making signs that they came to traffic with us, showing us such skins as they clothed themselves withal, which are of small value. We likewise made signs unto them, that we wished them no evil, and in sign thereof, two of our men ventured to go on land to them, and carry them knives, with other iron wares, and a red hat to give unto their captain. Which, when they saw, they also came on land, and brought some of their skins, and so began to deal with us, seeming to be very glad to have our iron wares and other things, dancing, with many other ceremonies, as with their hands to cast sea water on their heads. They gave us whatever they had, not keeping any thing, so that they were constrained to go back again naked, and made us signs, that the next day, they would come again and bring more skins with them." Observing a spacious bay extending beyond the cape, where this intercourse had been opened, and the wind proving adverse to the vessels quitting their harbour, Cartier despatched his boats to examine it, under an expectation that it might afford the desired passage--for it is at all times to be observed that he was diligently seeking the long sought passage to the Indies. While engaged in this examination, his men discovered "the smokes and fires" of "wild men" (the term constantly used in the narrative to designate the natives.) These smokes were upon a small lake, communicating with the bay. An amiable interview took place, the natives presenting cooked seal, and the French making a suitable return "in hatchets, knives and beads." After these preliminaries, which were conducted with a good deal of caution, by deputies from both sides, the body of the men approached in their canoes, for the purpose of trafficking, leaving most of their families behind. About 300 men women and children were estimated to have been seen at this place. They evinced their friendship by singing and dancing, and by rubbing their hands upon the arms of their European visitors, then lifting them up towards the heavens. An opinion is expressed that these people, (who were in the position assigned to the Micmacs in 1600 in Mr. Gallatin's ethnological map,) might very easily be converted to Christianity. "They go," says the narrator, "from place to place. They live only by fishing. They have an ordinary time to fish for their provisions. The country is _hotter_ than the country of Spain, and the fairest that can possibly be found, altogether smooth and level." To the productions before noticed, as existing on Brion's island &c., and which were likewise found here, he adds, "white and red roses, with many other flowers of very sweet and pleasant smell." "There be also," says the journalist, "many goodly meadows, full of grass, and lakes, wherein plenty of salmon be." The natives called a hatchet _cochi_, and a knife _bacon_[32] It was now near the middle of July, and the degree of heat experienced on the excursion induced Cartier to name the inlet, Baie da Chaleur--a name it still retains. On the 12th of July Cartier left his moorings at St. Martin's creek, and proceeded up the gulf, but encountering bad weather he was forced into a bay, which appears to have been Gaspe, where one of the vessels lost her anchor. They were forced to take shelter in a river of that bay, and there detained thirteen days. In the mean while they opened an intercourse with the natives, who were found in great numbers engaged in fishing for makerel. Forty canoes, and 200 men women and children were estimated to have been seen, during their detention. Presents of "knives, combs, beads of glass, and other trifles of small value," were made to them, for which they expressed great thankfulness, lifting up their hands, and dancing and singing. These Gaspe Indians are represented as differing, both in nature and language, from those before mentioned. They presented a picture of abject poverty, were partially clothed in "old skins," and lived without the use of tents. They may, says the journalist, "very well and truly be called _wild_, because there is no poorer people in the world, for I think, all they had together, besides their boats and nets, was not worth five sous." They shaved their heads, except a tuft at the crown; sheltered themselves at night under their canoes on the bare ground, and ate their provisions very partially cooked. They were wholly without the use of salt, and "ate nothing that had any taste of salt." On Cartier's first landing among them, the men expressed their joy, as those at bay Chaleur had done, by singing and dancing. But they had caused all their women, except 2 or 3, to flee into the woods. By giving a comb and a tin bell to each of the women who had ventured to remain, the avarice of the men was excited, and they quickly caused their women, to the number of about 20, to sally from the woods, to each of whom the same present was made. They caressed Cartier by touching and rubbing him with their hands; they also sung and danced. Their nets were made of a species of indigenous hemp; they possessed also, a kind of "millet" called "kapaige," beans called "Sahu," and nuts called "Cahehya." If any thing was exhibited, which they did not know, or understand, they shook their heads saying "Nohda." It is added that they never come to the sea, except in fishing time, which, we may remark, was probably the cause of their having no lodges, or much other property about them. They would naturally wish to disencumber their canoes as much as possible, in these summer excursions, that they might freight them back with dried fish. The language spoken by these Gaspe Indians is manifestly of the Iroquois type. "Cahehya," is, with a slight difference, the term for fruit, in the Oneida. On the 24th July, Cartier set up a cross thirty feet high, inscribed, "_Vive le Roy de France_." The natives who were present at this ceremony, seem, on a little reflection, to have conceived the true intent of it, and their chief complained of it, in a "long oration," giving them to understand "that the country was his, and that we should not set up any cross, without his leave." Having quieted the old chief's fears, and made use of a little duplicity, to get him to come alongside, they seized two of the natives for the purpose of taking them to France, and on the next day set sail, up the gulf. After making some further examinations of the gulf, and being foiled in an attempt to enter the mouth of a river, Cartier turned his thoughts on a return. He was alarmed by the furious tides setting out of the St. Lawrence; the weather was becoming tempestuous, and under these circumstances he assembled his captains and principal men, "to put the question as to the expediency of continuing the voyage." They advised him to this effect. That, considering that easterly winds began to prevail--"that there was nothing to be gotten"--that, the impetuosity of the tides was such "That they did but fall," and that storms and tempests began to reign--and moreover, that they must either promptly return home, or else remain where they were till spring, it was expedient to return. With this counsel he complied. No time was lost in retracing their outward track, along the Newfoundland coast. They reached the port of "White Sands," on the 9th of August. On the 15th, being "the feast of the Assumption of Our Lady," after service, Cartier took his departure from the coast. He encountered a heavy storm, of three days continuance, "about the middle of the sea," and reached the port of St. Malo, on the 5th of September, after an absence of four months and sixteen days. This comprises the substance of the first voyage of discovery, of which we have knowledge, ever made within the waters of the St. Lawrence. The Newfoundland and Nova Scotia coasts, together with the shores of the North Atlantic generally, had been discovered by Cabot, 37 years before. The banks of Newfoundland had been resorted to, as is known pretty freely for the purpose of fishing, for 26 years of this period, and the natives had been at least, in one instance, taken to Europe. But the existence of the St. Lawrence appears not to have been known. Cartier, is, therefore, the true discoverer of Canada, although he was not its founder. The latter honour was reserved for another. In the two succeeding voyages made by Cartier, of which it is proposed to make a synopsis, his title as a discoverer, is still more fully established. SECOND VOYAGE. A. D. 1535, May, 19th, Cartier left St. Malo, on his second voyage of discovery, "to the islands of Canada, Hochelaga, and Saguenay," with three ships--the "Hermina" of 100 to 120 tons--the "little Hermina" of 60 tons, and the "Hermerillon" of 40 tons, commanded by separate masters, acting under his orders as "General." He was accompanied by several gentlemen and adventurers, among whom the narrator of the voyage mentions, "Master Claudius de Pont Briand, son to the Lord of Montceuell, and cup-bearer to the Dauphin of France; Charles of Pomerais, and John Powlet." He suffered a severe gale on the outward passage, in which the ships parted company. Cartier reached the coast of Newfoundland on the 7th July, and was not rejoined by the other vessels till the 26th, on which day the missing vessels entered "the port of White Sands" in the _bay des Chasteaux_, the place previously designated for their general rendezvous. On the 27th he continued his voyage along the coast, keeping in sight of land, and consequently running great risks, from the numerous shoals he encountered in seeking out anchorages. Many of the islands and headlands named in the previous voyage, were observed, and names were bestowed upon others, which had before escaped notice. Soundings and courses and distances, are detailed with the tedious prolixity, and probably, with the uncertainty of the era. Nothing of importance occurred until the 8th of August, when Cartier entered the gulf, where he had previously encountered such storms, and which he now named ST. LAWRENCE. From thence on the 12th, he pursued his voyage westward "about 25 leagues" to a cape named "Assumption," which appears to have been part of the Nova Scotia coast. It is quite evident that the idea of a continuous continent was not entertained by Cartier at this period, although the Cabots had discovered and run down the coast nearly 40 years before (1497,) He constantly speaks of his discoveries as "islands" and the great object of anxiety seems to have been, to find the long sought "passage" so often mentioned in his journals. The two natives whom he had seized on the previous voyage, now told him, that cape Assumption was a part of the "southern coast," or main,--that there was an island north of the passage to "Honguedo" where they had been taken the year before, and that "two days journey from the said cape, and island, began the kingdom of Saguenay." In consequence of this information, and a wish to revisit "the land he had before espied," Cartier turned his course towards the north, and re-entering the Gulf of St. Lawrence, came to the entrance of the river, which is stated to be "about thirty leagues" across. Here, the two natives told him, was the commencement of "Saguenay,"--that it was an inhabited country, and produced "red copper." They further informed him, that this was the mouth of the "great river of Hochelaga, and ready way to Canada,"--that it narrowed in the ascent towards Canada, the waters becoming fresh; that its sources were so remote that they had never heard of any man who had visited them, and that boats would be required to complete the ascent. This information appears to have operated as a disappointment on Cartier, and he determined to explore northward from the gulf, "because he would know" to use the quaint language of the narrator, "if between the lands towards the north any passage might be discovered." No such passage could however be found, and after devoting ten or twelve days to re-examinations of points and islands before but imperfectly discovered, or to the discovery of others, he returned to the river St. Lawrence, which he began to ascend: and on the 1st Sept. he came to the entrance of the Saguenay river, which is described as a bold and deep stream, entering the St. Lawrence, between bare, precipitous rocks, crowned with trees. Here they encountered four canoes of Indians, who evinced their characteristic caution and shyness. On being hailed, however, by the two captive natives, who disclosed to them, their names, they came along side. But the journal records no further particulars of this interview. They proceeded up the river next day. The tides are noticed as being "very swift and dangerous," and the "current" is described as equalling that at Bordeaux. Many tortoises were seen at the "Isle of Condres," and a species of fish, which are described of equalling a porpoise in size, with a head resembling a greyhound's, and of unspotted whiteness. It may be vague to offer a conjecture from such a description as to the species of fish intended, but as the natives reported them to be "very savoury and good to be eaten," it may be inferred, that the sturgeon was meant. Many of the descriptions of the animal productions of America, given by Cartier, appear to be drawn up, rather with a view to excite wonder, in an age when wonders were both industriously sought, and readily credited, than to convey any accurate idea of their true characters and properties. On the 7th of Sept. they reached the island now called Orleans, where, it is said "the country of Canada beginneth." This island is stated to be ten leagues long, and five broad, being inhabited by natives who lived exclusively by fishing. Having anchored his vessels in the channel, he made a formal landing in his boats, taking the two captives, Domaigaia, and Taignoagny, as interpreters. The natives at first fled, but hearing themselves addressed in their own tongue, and finding the captives to be their own countrymen, friendly intercourse at once ensued. The natives evinced their joy by dancing, and "showing many sorts of ceremonies." They presented Cartier, "eels and other sorts of fishes, with two or three burdens of great millet, wherewith they make their bread, and many great mush mellons." This "great millet" appears to have been zea mais, which is here for the first time noticed, amongst the northern Indians. The report of the arrival of their lost countrymen D. and T. seemed to have put all the surrounding villages in commotion, and Cartier found himself thronged with visitors, to whom he gave presents, trifling in themselves, but of much value in the eyes of the Indians. The utmost harmony and good feeling appear to have prevailed. On the following day Donnacona, who is courteously styled the Lord of Agouhanna, visited the ships, with 12 boats, or canoes--ten of which however, he directed to stay at a distance, and with the other two and 16 men approached the vessels. A friendly conference ensued. The chief, when he drew near the headmost vessel began "to frame a long oration, moving all his body and members after a strange fashion." When he reached Cartier's ship, the captives entered into free discourse with him, imparting the observations they had made in France, and the kind treatment they had experienced. At this recital Donnacona was so much pleased, that he desired Cartier to reach him his arm, that he might kiss it. He not only kissed it, but "laid it about his neck, for so they use to do, when they will make much of one." Cartier then entered into the chief's boat, "causing bread and wine to be brought," and after eating and drinking with him and his followers, the interview terminated in mutual satisfaction. The advanced state of the season, and the determination to visit Hochelaga (now Montreal) before the ice formed, admonished Cartier to look for a harbour, which would afford a safe anchorage for his largest vessels during the winter. He selected "a little river and haven," opposite the head of the island, to which he gave the name of "Santa Croix," being in the vicinity of Donnacona's village. No time was lost in bringing up and mooring the vessels, and driving piles into the harbour for their better security. While engaged in this work, further acquaintance was made with the natives, and their opinion of Cartier's visit, began to manifest itself, by which it appeared, that the friendship established with him was rather apparent, than real. About this time Taignoagny and Domaigaia were suffered to return to their villages, and it soon became apparent, that the knowledge they had acquired of the French, would be wielded to put their countrymen on their guard against encroachments upon their soil. Taignoagny, in particular, rendered himself obnoxious to the French, by his sullen and altered conduct, and the activity he afterwards manifested in thwarting Cartier's design of visiting the island of Hochelaga, although it appears, he had, previous to leaving the vessels, promised to serve as a guide on the expedition. Donnacona himself opposed the projected visit, by argument, by artifice, and finally, by the extraordinary resource of human gifts. His aversion to it first evinced itself by keeping aloof, and adopting a shy and suspicious demeanour. Cartier finding this chief, with T. and D. and a numerous retinue in his vicinity, "under a point or nook of land," ordered a part of his men to follow him, and suddenly presented himself in the midst of them. After mutual salutations, Taignoagny got up and addressed him, in behalf of Donnacona, complaining that they came armed, to which Cartier replied that, it was the custom of his country, and a custom he could not dispense with. The bustle and heat of the introduction being over, Cartier played the part of a politic diplomatist, and was met by Donnacona and his counsellors on his own grounds, and the whole interview, though it resulted in what is called "a marvellous steadfast league of friendship" can only be looked upon, as a strife, in which it is the object of both parties to observe the most profound dissimulation. This "league" was ratified by the natives, with three loud cries, "a most horrible thing to hear" says the narrator. On the very next day Donnacona, attended with T. and D. and 10 or 12 "of the chiefest of the country, with more than 500 persons, men, women and children," came on board of the vessels, at their moorings, to protest against the intended voyage of exploration. Taignoagny opened the conference, by saying to Cartier, that Donnacona regretted his design of visiting Hochelaga, and had forbid any of his people from accompanying him, because the river itself "was of no importance." Cartier replied that his decision was made, and urged the speaker to go with him, as he had promised, offering to make the voyage every way advantageous to him. A prompt refusal, on the part of T. and the sudden withdrawal of the whole collected multitude, terminated this interview. On the next day Donnacona re-appeared with all his followers, bringing presents of fish, singing and dancing. He then caused all his people to pass to one side, and drawing a circle in the sand, requested Cartier and his followers, to enter into it. This arrangement concluded, he began an address, "holding in one of his hands a maiden child ten or twelve years old," whom he presented to Cartier, the multitude at the same time giving three shouts. He then brought forward two male children, separately, presenting them in the same manner, and his people at each presentation, expressing their assent by shouts. Taignoagny, who by this time had drawn upon himself the epithet of "crafty knave" told the "captain" (as Cartier is all along termed,) that one of the children was his own brother, and that the girl was a daughter of Donnacona's "own sister," and that this presentation, was made to him, solely with a view of dissuading him from his expedition. Cartier persisted in saying, that his mind was made up, and could not be altered. Here, Domaigaia interposed, and said, that the children were offered as "a sign and token of good will and security," and not with any specific purpose of dissuading him from the expedition. High words passed between the two liberated captives, from which it was evident that one, or the other, had either misconceived or misrepresented the object of the gift. Cartier however, took the children, and gave Donnacona "two swords and two copper basins," for which he returned thanks, and "commanded all his people to sing and dance," and requested the captain to cause a piece of artillery to be discharged for his gratification. Cartier readily improved this hint, to show them the destructive effects of European artillery, and at a signal, ordered twelve pieces, charged with ball, to be fired into the contiguous forest, by which they were so astounded that they "put themselves to flight, howling, crying, and shrieking, so that it seemed hell was broke loose." These attempts to frustrate the purposed voyage, having failed, the natives endeavoured to put the captain's credulity to the test, and operate upon his fears. For this purpose three natives were disguised to play the part of "devils," wrapped in skins, besmeared, and provided with horns. Thus equipped they took advantage of the tide, to drop down along side Cartier's vessels, uttering words of unintelligible import as they passed, but keeping their faces steadfastly directed toward the wood. At the same time Donnacona, and his people rushed out of the wood to the shore,--attracting the attention of the ships' crews in various ways, and finally seized the mock "devils" at the moment of their landing, and carried them into the woods, where their revelations were uttered. The result of this clumsy trick, was announced by Taignoagny and Domaigaia, who said, that their god "Cudruaigny had spoken in Hochelaga"--importing ill tidings to the French, and that he had sent these three men to inform them that, there was so much ice and snow in the country, that whoever entered it, must die. After some interrogatives pro and con, in the course of which the power of "his Priests" was oddly contrasted by the French commander with that of the "devils," both Taignoagny and Domaigaia coincided in finally declaring that Donnacona, "would by no means permit that any of them should go with him to Hochelaga," unless he would leave hostages in his hands. All these artifices appear to have had but little effect on Cartier's plan. He told his freed interpreters, that if they would not go willingly, they might stay, and he would prosecute the voyage without them. Accordingly, having finished mooring his vessels, on the 19th September he set out to explore the upper portions of the river, taking his smallest vessel and two boats with fifty mariners, and the supernumerary gentlemen of his party. A voyage of ten days brought him to an expansion of the river, which he named the lake of Angolesme, but which is now known under the name of St. Peter. Here the shallowness of the water, and rapidity of the current above, induced him to leave the "Hermerillon," and he proceeded with the two boats and twenty-eight armed men. The fertility of the shore, the beauty and luxuriance of the forest trees, mantled as they often were, with the vine loaded with clusters of grapes, the variety of water fowl, and above all the friendly treatment they every where received from the Indians, excited unmingled admiration. One of the chiefs whom they encountered presented Cartier with two children, his son and daughter, the latter of whom, being 7 or 8 years old, he accepted. On another occasion he was carried ashore by one of a party of hunters, as "lightly and easily as if he had been a child of five years old." Presents of fish were made, at every point, where he came in contact with the natives, who seemed to vie with each other in acts of hospitality. These marks of welcome and respect continued to be manifested during the remainder of the journey to Hochelaga, where he arrived on the 2d of October. A multitude of both sexes and all ages had collected on the shore to witness his approach, and welcome his arrival. They expressed their joy by dancing, "clustering about us, making much of us, bringing their young children in their arms only to have our captain and his company touch them." Cartier landed, and spent half an hour in receiving their caresses, and distributed tin beads to the women, and knives to some of the men, and then "returned to the boats to supper." The natives built large fires on the beach, and continued dancing, and merry making all night, frequently exclaiming Aguiaze, which is said to signify "mirth and safety." Early the next morning Cartier having "very gorgeously attired himself," and taking 20 mariners, with his officers and supernumeraries, landed for the purpose of visiting the town, taking some of the natives for guides. After following a well beaten path, leading through an oak forest, for four or five miles, he was met by a chief, accompanied by a retinue, sent out to meet him, who by signs gave him to understand, that he was desired to rest at that spot, where a fire had been kindled, a piece of civility, which it may be supposed, was something more than an empty compliment on an October morning. The chief here made "a long discourse," which, of course, was not understood, but they inferred it was expressive of "mirth and friendship." In return Cartier gave him 2 hatchets, 2 knives and a cross, which he made him kiss, and then put it around his neck. This done the procession advanced, without further interruption, to the "city of Hochelaga," which is described as seated in the midst of cultivated fields, at the distance of a league from the mountain. It was secured by three ramparts "one within another," about 2 rods in height, "cunningly joined together after their fashion," with a single gate "shut with piles and stakes and bars." This entrance, and other parts of the walls, had platforms above, provided with stones for defensive operations. The ascent to these platforms was by ladders. As the French approached, great numbers came out to meet them. They were conducted by the guides, to a large square enclosure in the centre of the town, "being from side to side a good stone's cast." They were first greeted by the female part of the population, who brought their children in their arms, and rushed eagerly to touch or rub the faces and arms of the strangers, or whatever parts of their bodies they could approach. The men now caused the females to retire, and seated themselves formally in circles upon the ground; as if, says the narrator, "some comedy or show" was about to be rehearsed. Mats were then brought in by the women, and spread upon the ground, for the visitors to sit upon. Last came the "Lord and King" Agouhanna, a palsied old man, borne upon the shoulders of 9 or 10 attendants, sitting on a "great stag skin." They placed him near the mats occupied by Cartier and his party. This simple potentate "was no whit better apparelled than any of the rest, only excepted, that he had a certain thing made of the skins of hedgehogs, like a red wreath, and that was instead of his crown." After a salutation, in which gesticulation awkwardly supplied the place of language, the old chief exhibited his palsied limbs, for the purpose of being touched, by the supposed celestial visitants. Cartier, although he appeared to be a man of sense and decision, on other occasions, was not proof against the homage to his imputed divinity; but quite seriously fell to rubbing the credulous chiefs legs and arms. For this act, the chief presented him his fretful "crown." The blind, lame, and impotent, of the town were now brought in, and laid before him, "some so old that the hair of their eyelids came down and covered their cheeks," all of whom he touched, manifesting his own seriousness by reading the Gospel of St. John, and "praying to God that it would please him to open the hearts of this poor people, and to make them know his holy word, and that they might receive baptism and christendom." He then read a portion of the catholic service, with a loud voice, during which the natives were "marvellously attentive, looking up to heaven and imitating us in gestures." Some presents of cutlery and trinkets were then distributed, trumpets sounded, and the party prepared to return to their boats. When about to leave their place, the women interposed, inviting them to partake of the victuals they had prepared--a compliment which was declined, "because the meats had no savour at all of salt." They were followed out of the town by "divers men and women," who conducted the whole party to the top of the mountain, commanding a wide prospect of the plain, the river and its islands, and the distant mountains. Transported with a scene, which has continued to afford delight to the visitors of all after times, Cartier bestowed the name of "Mount Royal" upon this eminence--a name which has descended, with some modifications, to the modern city. Having satisfied their curiosity, and obtained such information respecting the adjoining regions, as their imperfect knowledge of the Indian language would permit, they returned to their boats, accompanied by a promiscuous throng of the natives. Thus ended, on the 3rd Oct. 1535, the first formal meeting between the French and the Indians of the interior of Canada, or what now began to be denominated _New France_. As respects those incidents in it, in which the Indians are represented as looking upon Cartier in the light of a divinity, clothed with power to heal the sick and restore sight to the blind, every one will yield the degree of faith, which his credulity permits. The whole proceeding bears so striking a resemblance to "Christ healing the sick," that it is probable the narrator drew more largely upon his New Testament, than any certain knowledge of the faith and belief of a savage people whose traditions do not reach far, and whose language, granting the most, he but imperfectly understood. As respects the description of a city with triple walls, those who know the manner in which our Indian villages are built, will be best enabled to judge how far the narrator supplied by fancy, what was wanting in fact. A "walled city" was somewhere expected to be found, and the writer found no better place to locate it. Cartier no sooner reached his boats, than he hoisted sail and began his descent, much to the disappointment of the Indians. Favoured by the wind and tide, he rejoined his "Pinnace" on the following day. Finding all well, he continued the descent, without meeting much entitled to notice, and reached the "port of the Holy Cross," on the 11th of the month. During his absence the ships' crews had erected a breastwork before the vessels, and mounted several pieces of ships' cannon for their defence. Donnacona renewed his acquaintance on the following day, attended by Taignoagny, Domaiga, and others, who were treated with an appearance of friendship, which it could hardly be expected Cartier could sincerely feel. He, in return visited their village of Stadacona, and friendly relations being thus restored, the French prepared for the approach of winter. Winter came in all its severity. From the middle of Nov. to the middle of March, the vessels were environed with ice "two fathoms thick," and snow upwards of four feet deep, reaching above the sides of the vessels. And the weather is represented as being "extremely raw and bitter." In the midst of this severity, the crews were infected with "a strange and cruel disease," the natural consequence of a too licentious intercourse with the natives. The virulence of this disorder exceeded any thing that they had before witnessed, though it is manifest, from the journal, that it was in its virulence only, that the disease itself presented any new features. A complete prostration of strength marked its commencement, the legs swelled, the "sinews shrunk as black as any coal." The infection became general, and excited the greatest alarm. Not more than 10 persons out of 110 were in a condition to afford assistance to the sick by the middle of February. Eight had already died, and 50 were supposed to be past recovery. Cartier, to prevent his weakness being known, as well as to stop further infection, interdicted all intercourse with the natives. He caused that "every one should devoutly prepare himself by prayer, and in remembrance of Christ, caused his image to be set upon a tree, about a flight shot from the fort, amid the ice and snow, giving all men to understand that on the Sunday following, service should be said there, and that whosoever could go, sick or whole, should go thither in procession, singing the seven psalms of David, and other Litanies, praying, &c." The disorder, however, continued to spread till there were not "above three sound men in the ships, and none was able to go under hatches to draw drink for himself, nor for his fellows." Sometimes they were constrained to bury the dead under the snow, owing to their weakness and the severity of the frost, which rendered it an almost incredible labour to penetrate the ground. Every artifice was resorted to by Cartier, to keep the true state of his crews from the Indians, and he sought unremittingly for a remedy against the disorder. In this his efforts were at last crowned with success, but not till he had lost 25 of his men. By using a decoction of the bark and leaves of a certain tree, which is stated to be "the Sassafras tree,"[33] the remainder of his crews were completely recovered. The decoction was drank freely, and the dregs applied externally, agreeably to the directions of Domaigaia, to whom he was indebted for the information, and who caused women to bring branches of it, and "therewithal shewed the way how to use it." The other incidents of the winter were not of a character to require notice. Mutual distrust existed. Cartier was in constant apprehension of some stratagem, which the character and movements of his savage neighbours gave some grounds for. He was detained at the bay of the Holy Cross till the 6th May, 1536. The narrator takes the opportunity of this long season of inaction to give descriptions of the manners and customs, ceremonies and occupations of the Indians, and to detail the information derived from them, and from personal observations respecting the geographical features and the productions of the country. Touching the faith of the Indians, it is said, they believed no whit in God, but in one whom they call "Cudruiagni," to whom, they say, they are often indebted for a foreknowledge of the weather. And when he is angry, his displeasure is manifested by casting dust in their eyes. They believe that, after death, they go into the stars, descending by degrees towards the horizon, and are finally received into certain green fields, abounding in fruits and flowers. They are represented as possessing all property in common, and as being "indifferently well stored" with the useful "commodities" of the country--clothing themselves imperfectly in skins, wearing hose and shoes of skins in winter, and going barefooted in summer. The men labour little, and are much addicted to smoking. The condition of the women is one of drudgery and servitude. On them the labour of tilling the grounds, &c., principally devolves. The young women live a dissolute life, until marriage, and married women, after the death of their husbands, are condemned to a state of perpetual widowhood. Polygamy is tolerated. Both sexes are represented as very hardy, and capable of enduring the most intense degree of cold. In this there is little to distinguish the native of 1536 from that of the present day, if we substitute the blanket for the _muttatos_,[34] and except the remark respecting the condition of widows, the accuracy of which, as it was made upon slight acquaintance, may be reasonably doubted. It may also be remarked, that the condition of young women, as described by Cartier, was more degraded and vitiated than it is now known to be among any of the North American tribes. The geographical information recorded respecting the St. Lawrence and its tributaries is generally vague and confused. But may be referred to as containing the first notice published by the French of the Great Lakes. Cartier was told by Donnacona and others that the river originated so far in the interior, that "there was never man heard of that found out the end thereof," that it passed through "two or three great lakes," and that there is "a sea of fresh water," alluding, probably, to Superior. At what time the ice broke up, is not distinctly told. It is stated that "that year the winter was very long," and a scarcity of food was felt among the Indians, so much so, that they put a high price upon their venison, &c., and sometimes took it back to their camps, rather than part with it "any thing cheap." Donnacona and many of his people withdrew themselves to their hunting grounds, under a pretence of being absent a fortnight, but were absent two months. Cartier attributed this long absence to a design of raising the country, and attacking him in his fortified positions--a design which no cordiality of friendship on the part of D. would prevent his entertaining, and which the latter gave some colour to by neglecting to visit Cartier on his return with great numbers of natives not before seen, and by evading the attempts made to renew an intercourse, by feigning sickness as the cause of his neglect. Cartier felt his own weakness, from the death of so many of his crew and the sickness of others, and has recorded for his government on this occasion the proverb, that "he that takes heed and shields himself from all men, may hope to escape from some." He determined to abandon one of his vessels, that he might completely man and re-fit the others, and appears to have been diligent in making early preparations to return. While thus engaged, Donnacona (April 22,) appeared with a great number of men at Stadacona, and John Powlet, "who being best believed of those people," he sent to reconnoitre them in their principal villages, reported that he saw so many people, that "one could not stir for another, and such men as they were never wont to see." Taignoagny, whom he saw on this occasion, requested him to beseech Cartier to take off "a lord of the country," called Agonna, who probably stood in the way of his own advancement. Cartier availed himself of this request to bring on an interview with Taignoagny, and by flattering his hopes, finally succeeded in the execution of a project he appears to have previously entertained. This was nothing less than the seizure of Donnacona, Taignoagny, Domaigaia, (his previous captives,) and "two more of the chiefest men," whom, with the children before received, making ten persons in all, he conveyed to France. This seizure was made on the 3d of May, being "Holyrood day," at a time when Cartier had completed his preparations for sailing. He took formal possession of the country, under the name of New France, by erecting a cross "thirty-five feet in height," bearing a shield with the arms of France, and the following inscription: "Franciscus primum dei gratia Francorum Rex regnat," a sentence upon which this unjustifiable outrage formed a practical comment. Three days afterwards he sailed from the port of the Holy Cross, leaving crowds of the natives to bewail the loss of their chiefs. And whose kindness led them to send on board a supply of provisions, when they found they could not effect their liberation. Finding the current of the St. Lawrence much swoln, he came to anchor at the isle of Filberds, near the entrance of the Sagnenay, where he was detained nine days. In the meantime many of the natives of Sagnenay visited the ships, and finding Donnacona a prisoner, they presented him three packs of beaver. On the 17th May, he made an unsuccessful attempt to proceed, but was forced back and detained four days longer, waiting "till the fierceness of the waters" were past. He entered and passed out of the gulph on the 21st, but encountering adverse winds, did not take his final departure from the Newfoundland coast till the 19th June. He then took advantage of a favorable wind, and performed the homeward voyage in 17 days. He entered the port of St. Malo, July 6, 1536, having been absent less than 14 months, 8 of which had been passed in the St. Lawrence. THIRD VOYAGE. The reports and discoveries of Cartier were so well received by the King of France (Francis I), that he determined to colonize the newly discovered country, and named John Francis de la Roche, Lord of Roberval, his "Lieutenant and Governor in the countries of Canada and Hochelaga." Cartier retained his former situation as "Captain General and leader of the ships," and to him was entrusted the further prosecution of discoveries. Five vessels were ordered to be prepared at St. Malo, and measures appear to have been taken to carry out settlers, cattle, seeds, and agricultural implements. Much delay, however, seems to have attended the preparations, and before they were completed, Donnacona and his companions, who had been baptized, paid the debt of nature. A little girl, ten years old, was the only person surviving out of the whole number of captives. It is seldom that a perfect harmony has prevailed between the leaders of naval and land forces, in the execution of great enterprises. And though but little is said to guide the reader in forming a satisfactory opinion on the subject, the result in this instance proved that there was a settled dissatisfaction in the mind of Cartier respecting the general arrangements for the contemplated voyage. Whether he thought himself neglected in not being invested with the government of the country he had discovered, or felt unwilling that another should share in the honors of future discoveries, cannot now be determined. It should be recollected that the conquest of Mexico had then but recently been accomplished (1520), and it is not improbable that Cartier, who had taken some pains to exalt Donnacona into another Montezuma, thought himself entitled to receive from Francis, rewards and emoluments in some measure corresponding to those which his great rival, Charles, had finally bestowed upon Cortez. Whatever were the causes, four years elapsed before the ships were prepared, and M. La Roche, on visiting the vessels in the road of St. Malo, ready for sea, then informed Cartier that his artillery, munitions, and "other necessary things" which he had prepared, were not yet arrived from Champaigne and Normandy. Cartier, in the meantime, had received positive orders from the King to set sail. In this exigency, it was determined that Cartier should proceed, while the King's Lieutenant should remain "to prepare a ship or two at Honfleur, whither he thought his things were come." This arrangement concluded, La Roche invested Cartier with full powers to act until his arrival, and the latter set sail with five ships, "well furnished and victualled for two years," on the 23d of May, 1540. Storms and contrary winds attended the passage. The ships parted company, and were kept so long at sea, that they were compelled to water the cattle, &c., they took out for breed, with cider. At length, the vessels re-assembled in the harbor of Carpunt in Newfoundland, and after taking in wood and water, proceeded on the voyage, Cartier not deeming it advisable to wait longer for the coming of La Roche. He reached the little haven of Saincte Croix (where he wintered in the former voyage), on the 23d of August. His arrival was welcomed by the natives, who crowded around his vessels, with Agona at their head, making inquiries after Donnacona and his companions in captivity. Cartier replied, that Donnacona was dead, and his bones rested in the ground--that the other persons had become great lords, and were married, and settled in France. No displeasure was evinced by the intelligence of Donnacona's death. Agona, on the contrary, seemed to be well pleased with it, probably, as the journalist thinks, because it left him to rule in his stead. He took off his head-dress and bracelets, both being of yellow leather edged with wampum, and presented them to Cartier. The latter made a suitable return to him and his attendants in small presents, intimating that he had brought many new things, which were intended for them. He returned the chieftain's simple "crown." They then ate, drank, and departed. Having thus formally renewed intercourse with the natives, Cartier sent his boats to explore a more suitable harbor and place of landing. They reported in favor of a small river, about four leagues above, where the vessels were accordingly moored, and their cargoes discharged. Of the spot thus selected for a fort and harbor, as it was destined afterwards to become celebrated in the history of Canada, it may be proper to give a more detailed notice of Cartier's original description. The river is stated to be fifty paces broad, having three fathoms water at full tide, and but a foot at the ebb, having its entrance towards the south, and its course very serpentine. The beauty and fertility of the lands bordering it, the vigorous growth of trees, and the rapidity of vegetation, are highly and (I believe) very justly extolled. Near it, there is said to be "a high and steep cliff," which it was necessary to ascend by "a way in manner of a pair of stairs," and below it, and between it and the river, an interval sufficiently extensive to accommodate a fort. A work of defence was also built upon the cliff, for the purpose of keeping the "nether fort and the ships, and all things that might pass, as well by the great, as by this small river." Upon the cliff a spring of pure water was discovered near the fort, "adjoining whereunto," says the narrator, "we found good store of stones, which we esteemed to the diamonds" (limpid quartz). At the foot of the cliff, facing the St. Lawrence, they found iron, and at the water's edge "certain leaves of fine gold (mica) as thick as a man's nail." The ground was so favorable for tillage, that twenty men labored at an acre and a half in one day. Cabbage, turnip, and lettuce seed, sprung up the eighth day. A luxurious meadow was found along the river, and the woods were clustered with a species of the native grape. Such were the natural appearance and advantages of a spot which was destined to be the future site of the city and fortress of Quebec,[35] "but to which he gave the name of 'Charlesbourg Royal.'" Cartier lost no time in despatching two of his vessels to France, under command of Mace Jollobert and Stephen Noel, his brother-in-law and nephew, with letters to the king, containing an account of his voyage and proceedings, accompanied with specimens of the mineral treasures he supposed himself to have discovered; and taking care to add "how Mons. Roberval had not yet come, and that he feared that by occasion of contrary winds and tempests, he was driven back again into France." These vessels left the newly discovered town and fort of "Charlesbourg Royal" on the 2d of September. And they were no sooner despatched, than Cartier determined to explore the "Saults" or rapids of the St. Lawrence, which had been described to him, and partly pointed out, during his ascent to the mountain of Montreal. Leaving the fort under the command of the Viscount Beaupre, he embarked in two boats on the 7th of September, accompanied by Martine de Painpont and other "gentlemen," with a suitable complement of mariners. The only incident recorded of the passage up, is his visit to "the Lord of Hochelay"--a chief who had presented him a little girl, on his former visit, and evinced a friendship during his stay in the river, which he was now anxious to show that he preserved the recollection of. He presented the chief a cloak "of Paris red," garnished with buttons and bells, with two basins of "Laton" (pewter), and some knives and hatchets. He also left with this chief two boys to acquire the Indian language. Continuing the ascent, he reached the lower "Sault" on the 11th of the month, and, on trial, found it impossible to ascend it with the force of oars. He determined to proceed by land, and found a well-beaten path leading in the desired course. This path soon conducted him to an Indian village, where he was well received, and furnished with guides to visit the second "Sault." Here he was informed that there was another Sault at some distance, and that the river was not navigable--a piece of information that meant either that it was not navigable by the craft Cartier had entered the river with, or was intended to repress his further advance into the country. The day being far spent, he returned to his boats, where four hundred natives awaited his arrival. He appeased their curiosity, by interchanging civilities, and distributing small presents, and made all speed to return to Charlesbourg Royal, where he learned that the natives, alarmed by the formidable defences going on, had intermitted their customary visits, and evinced signs of hostility. This inference was confirmed by his own observations on the downward passage, and he determined to use the utmost diligence and precaution to sustain himself in his new position. The rest of this voyage is wanting. Hackluyt has, however, preserved two letters of Jacques Noel, a relative of Cartier, written at St. Malo in 1587, with the observations of latitude, courses, and distances, made by "John Alphonso of Xanctoigne," who carried out La Roche, Lord of Roberval, to Canada, in 1542, and a fragment of Roberval's narrative, which indicated the sequel of Cartier's third and last voyage. From the latter, it appears that Roberval entered the harbor of Belle Isle in Newfoundland, on the 8th of June, 1542, on his way to Canada; and while there, Cartier unexpectedly entered the same harbor, on his return to France. He reported that he was unable "with his small company" to maintain a footing in the country, owing to the incessant hostility of the natives, and had resolved to return to France. He presented the limpid quartz, and gold yellow mica, which he had carefully cherished, under a belief that he had discovered in these resplendent minerals, the repositories of gold and diamonds. An experiment was made the next day, upon what is denominated "gold ore," by which term the journalist does not probably refer to the "mica," considered, in an age in which mineralogy had not assumed the rank of a science, as "leaves of gold," but to pieces of yellow pyrites of iron, which it is mentioned in the description of the environs of "Charlesbourg Royal" Cartier had discovered in the slate rock. And the ore was pronounced "good"--a proof either of gross deception, or gross ignorance in the experimenter. Cartier spoke highly of the advantages the country presented for settlement, in point of fertility. He had, however, determined to leave it. He disobeyed Roberval's order to return, and "both he and his company" secretly left the harbor, and made the best of their way to France, being "moved," as the journalist adds, "with ambition, because they would have all the glory of the discovery of these parts to themselves." January 21st, 1829. FOOTNOTES: [30] I underscore the word "hotter," to denote the prevalent theory. They were searching for China or the East India. [31] In Mr. Gallatin's comparative vocabulary, "Napew" means man, in the Sheshatapoosh or Labrador. It is therefore fair to conclude that these were a party of Sheshatapoosh Indians, whose language proves them to be of the kindred of the great Algonquin family. [32] Koshee and Bahkon. These are not the terms for a hatchet and a knife in the Micmac, nor in the old Algonquin, nor in the Wyandot. [33] As the tree is afterwards stated to be "as big as any oak in France," it was probably the _box elder_, and not the sassafras, which never attained to much size. [34] Robe of beaver skins. Eight skins of two year old beaver are required to make such a robe. [35] Query--Is not the word Quebec a derivative from the Algonquin phrase _Kebic_--a term uttered in passing by a dangerous and rocky coast? THE INFLUENCE OF ARDENT SPIRITS ON THE CONDITION OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS. AN ADDRESS READ BEFORE THE CHIPPEWA COUNTY TEMPERANCE SOCIETY, AT SAULT STE-MARIE, MAY 8th, 1832. The effects of intemperance on the character of nations and individuals have been often depicted, within a few years, in faithful colors, and by gifted minds. "Thoughts that breathe and words that burn" were once supposed to be confined, exclusively, to give melody to the lyre, and life to the canvass. But the conceptions of modern benevolence have dispelled the illusion, and taught us that genius has no higher objects than the promotion of the greatest amount of good to man--that these objects come home to the "business and bosoms" of men in their every day avocations--that they lie level to every capacity, and never assume so exalted a character, as when they are directed to increase the sum of domestic happiness and fire-side enjoyment-- "To mend the morals and improve the heart." It is this consideration that gives to the temperance effort in our day, a refined and expansive character-- "Above all Greek, above all Roman fame"-- which has enlisted in its cause sound heads and glowing hearts, in all parts of our country--which is daily augmenting the sphere of its influence, and which has already carried its precepts and examples from the little seaboard village,[36] where it originated, to the foot of Lake Superior. And I have now the pleasure of seeing before me a society, assembled on their first public meeting, who have "banded together," not with such mistaken zeal as dictated the killing of Paul, or assassinating Cæsar, but for giving their aid in staying the tide of intemperance which has been rolling westward for more than three centuries, sweeping away thousands of white and red men in its course--which has grown with the growth of the nation, and strengthened with its strength, and which threatens with an overwhelming moral desolation all who do not adopt the rigid maxim-- "Touch not, taste not, handle not." The British critic of the last century little thought, while moralizing upon some of the weaknesses of individual genius, that he was uttering maxims which would encourage the exertions of voluntary associations of men to put a stop to intemperance. It was as true then as now, that "in the bottle, discontent seeks for comfort, cowardice for courage, and bashfulness for confidence." It was as true then, as now, that the "negligence and irregularity" which are the fruits of this habit, "if long continued, will render knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible." "Who," he exclaims, "that ever asked succors from Bacchus, was able to preserve himself from being enslaved by his auxiliary?"[37] And is there a species of servitude more pernicious in its influence, more degrading in its character, more destructive of all physical and intellectual power, than the slavery of inebriation? The rage of the conflagration--the devastation of the flood--the fury of the tempest, are emblematic of the moral fury of the mind under the influence of alcohol. It is equally ungovernable in its power, and destructive in its effects. But its devastations are more to be deplored, because they are the devastations of human faculties--of intellectual power--of animal energy--of moral dignity--of social happiness--of temporal health--of eternal felicity. Intemperance is emphatically the parent of disease, mental and physical. Its direct effects are to blunt the faculty of correct thinking, and to paralyze the power of vigorous action. Nothing more effectually takes away from the human mind, its ordinary practical powers of discrimination and decision, without which man is like a leaf upon the tempest, or the chaff before the wind. Dr. Darwin has aptly compared the effects of spirituous liquors upon the lungs to the ancient fable of Prometheus stealing fire from heaven, who was punished for the theft by a vulture gnawing on the liver.[38] A striking allegory: but one which is not inaptly applied to characterize the painful and acute diseases which are visited upon the inebriate. Dr. Rush was an early advocate of the cause. He likened the effects of the various degrees of alcohol, in spirituous drinks, to the artificial mensuration of heat by the thermometer, and took a decided stand in pointing out its poisonous effects upon the system, in the generation of a numerous class of diseases, acute and chronic. If unhealthy food had been the cause of such disorders, the article would be rigidly shunned. No man would choose to eat twice of the cicuta; to use bread having a portion of lime in it; or to drink frequently of a preparation of sugar of lead. Even the intemperate would fear to drink of alcohol, in its state of _chemical_ purity, for its effects would certainly be to arrest the functions of life. Yet he will drink of this powerful drug, if diluted with acids, saccharine and coloring matter, water and various impurities, under the disguised names of wine, brandy, rum, malt liquors, whisky, cordials, and mixed potations, which all tend to pamper the natural depravity of the human heart, and poison its powers of healthful action. Alcohol is one of the preparations which were brought to light in the age of the Alchemysts--when the human mind had run mad in a philosophic research after two substances which were not found in nature--the philosopher's stone, and the universal panacea. One, it was believed, was to transmute all substances it touched into gold, and the other, to cure all diseases. The two great desires of the world--_wealth_ and _long life_, were thus to be secured in a way which Moses and the Prophets had never declared. A degree of patient ascetic research was devoted to the investigation of natural phenomena, which the world had not before witnessed; and modern science is indebted to the mistaken labors of this race of chemical monks, for many valuable discoveries, which were, for the most part, stumbled on. So far as relates to the discovery of the alcoholic principle of grains, a singular reversal of their high anticipations has ensued. They sought for a substance to enrich mankind, but found a substance to impoverish them: they sought a power to cure all diseases, but they found one to cause them. Alcohol is thus invested with great talismanic power: and this power is not to create, but to destroy--not to elevate, but to prostrate--not to impart life, but death. How extensive its uses are, as a re-agent and solvent, in medicine and the arts--or if its place could be supplied, in any instances, by other substances--are questions to be answered by physicians and chemists. But admitting, what is probable to my own mind, that its properties and uses in pharmacy and the arts are indispensable in several operations, in the present state of our knowledge--does this furnish a just plea for its ordinary use, as a beverage, in a state of health? No more than it would, that because the lancet and the probe are useful in a state of disease, they should be continued in a state of health. And do not every class of men who continue the use of ardent spirits, waste their blood by a diurnal exhaustion of its strength and healthy properties, more injurious than a daily depletion; and probe their flesh with a fluid too subtle for the physician to extract? The transition from temperate to intemperate drinking, is very easy. And those who advocate the _moderate_ use of distilled spirits are indeed the _real_ advocates of intemperance. No man ever existed, perhaps, who thought himself in danger of being enslaved by a practice, which he, _at first_, indulged in moderation. A habit of relying upon it is imperceptibly formed. Nature is soon led to expect the adventitious aid, as a hale man, accustomed to wear a staff, may imagine he cannot do without it, until he has thrown it aside. If it communicates a partial energy, it is the energy of a convulsion. Its joy is a phrenzy. Its hope is a phantom. And all its exhibitions of changing passion, so many melancholy proofs of "the reasonable soul run mad." Angelic beings are probably exalted above all human weaknesses.--But if there be anything in their survey of our actions which causes them to weep, it is the sight of a drunken father in the domestic circle. Instructed reason, and sound piety, have united their voices in decrying the evils of intemperance. Physicians have described its effects in deranging the absorbent vessels of the stomach, and changing the healthy organization of the system. Moralists have portrayed its fatal influence on the intellectual faculties. Divines have pointed out its destructive powers on the soul. Poetry, philosophy and science, have mourned the numbers who have been cut down by it. Common sense has raised up its voice against it. It is indeed-- "----a monster of so frightful mien, That to be _hated_, needs but to be _seen_." Like the genie of Arabic fable, it has risen up, where it was least expected, and stalked through the most secret and the most public apartments. And wherever it has appeared, it has prostrated the human mind. It has silenced the voice of eloquence in the halls of justice and legislation. It has absorbed the brain of the scientific lecturer. It has caused the sword to drop from the hand of the military leader. It has stupefied the author in his study, and the pastor in his desk. It has made the wife a widow in her youth, and caused the innocent child to weep upon a father's grave. We dare not look beyond it. Hope, who has attended the victim of intemperance through all the changes of his downward fortune, and not forsaken him in any other exigency, has forsaken _here_. Earth had its vanities to solace him, but eternity has none. "Wounds of the heart--care, disappointment, loss, Love, joy, and friendship's fame, and fortune's cross, The wound that mars the flesh--the instant pain That racks the palsied limb, or fever'd brain, All--all the woes that life can _feel_ or miss, All have their hopes, cures, palliatives, but _this_-- This _only_--mortal canker of the mind, Grim Belial's _last_ attempt on human kind." If such, then, are the effects of ardent spirits upon the condition of civilized man, who has the precepts of instructed reason to enlighten him, and the consolations of Christianity to support him, what must be the influence of intemperate habits upon the aboriginal tribes? I propose to offer a few considerations upon this subject. And in so doing I disclaim all intention of imputing to one nation of the European stock, more than the other, the national crime of having introduced ardent spirits among the American Indians. Spaniards, Portuguese, Swedes, Dutch, Italians, Russians, Germans, French and English, all come in for a share of the obloquy. They each brought ardent spirits to the New World--a proof, it may be inferred, of their general use, as a drink in Europe, at the era of the discovery. Whatever other articles the first adventurers took to operate upon the hopes and fears of the new found people, distilled or fermented liquor appears to have been, in no instance, overlooked or forgotten. It would be easy to show the use made of them in the West Indies, and in the southern part of our hemisphere. But our object is confined to the colonies planted in the North. And in this portion of the continent the English and French have been the predominating powers. It had been well, if they had predominated in everything else--if they had only been rivals for courage, wisdom and dominion. If they had only fought to acquire civil power--conquered to spread Christianity--negotiated to perpetuate peace. But we have too many facts on record to show, that they were also rivals in spreading the reign of intemperance among the Indians; in gleaning, with avaricious hand, the furs from their lodges; in stimulating them to fight in their battles, and in leaving them to their own fate, when the battles were ended. Nor do we, as Americans, affect to have suddenly succeeded to a better state of feelings respecting the natives than our English ancestry possessed. They were men of sterling enterprise; of undaunted resolution; of high sentiments of religious and political liberty. And we owe to them and to the peculiar circumstances in which Providence placed us, all that we are, as a free and a prosperous people. But while they bequeathed to us these sentiments as the preparatives of our own national destiny, they also bequeathed to us their peculiar opinions respecting the Indian tribes. And these opinions have been cherished with obstinacy, even down to our own times. The noble sentiments of benevolence of the 19th century had not dawned, when we assumed our station in the family of nations. If they were felt by gifted individuals, they were not felt by the body of the nation. Other duties--the imperious duties of self-existence, national poverty, wasted resources, a doubtful public credit, a feeble population, harassing frontier wars, pressed heavily upon us. But we have seen all these causes of national depression passing away, in less than half a century. With them, it may be hoped, have passed away, every obstacle to the exercise of the most enlarged charity, and enlightened philanthropy, respecting the native tribes. Nationality is sometimes as well characterized by small as by great things--by names, as by customs. And this may be observed in the treatment of the Indians, so far as respects the subject of ardent spirits. Under the French government they were liberally supplied with brandy. Under the English, with Jamaica rum. Under the Americans, with whisky. These constitute the fire, the gall, and the poison ages of Indian history. Under this triple curse they have maintained an existence in the face of a white population. But it has been an _existence_ merely. Other nations are said to have had a golden age. But there has been no golden age for them. If there ever was a state of prosperity among them, which may be likened to it, it was when their camps were crowned with temporal abundance--when the races of animals, furred and unfurred, placed food and clothing within the reach of all--and when they knew no intoxicating drink. To counterbalance these advantages, they were, however, subject to many evils. They were then, as they are now, indolent, improvident, revengeful, warlike. Bravery, manual strength, and eloquence, were the cardinal virtues. And their own feuds kept them in a state of perpetual insecurity and alarm. The increased value given to furs, by the arrival of Europeans, created a new era in their history, and accelerated their downfall. It gave an increased energy and new object to the chase. To reward their activity in this employment, ardent spirits became the _bounty_, rather than the _price_. A twofold injury ensued. The animals upon whose flesh they had subsisted became scarce, and their own constitutions were undermined with the subtle stimulant. Historical writers do not always agree: but they coincide in their testimony respecting the absence of any intoxicating drink among the northern Indians, at the time of the discovery. It is well attested that the Azteeks, and other Mexican and Southern tribes, had their _pulque_, and other intoxicating drinks, which they possessed the art of making from various native grains and fruits. But the art itself was confined, with the plants employed, to those latitudes. And there is no historical evidence to prove that it was ever known or practised by the tribes situated north and east of the Gulf of Mexico. Dr. Robertson, an able and faithful describer of Indian manners, fully concurs with the Jesuit authors, in saying that no such beverage was known in the north, until Europeans found it for their pecuniary interest to supply it. After which, intoxication became as common among the northern as the southern tribes.[39] Three hundred and forty years ago there was not a white man in America. Columbus discovered the West India Islands; but Cabot and Verrizani were the discoverers of North America. Cartier and Hudson followed in the track. The first interview of Hudson with the Mohegan tribes, took place at the mouth of the river which now bears his name. It is remarkable as the scene of the first Indian intoxication among them. He had no sooner cast anchor, and landed from his boat, and passed a friendly salutation with the natives, than he ordered a bottle of ardent spirits to be brought. To show that he did not intend to offer them what he would not himself taste, an attendant poured him out a cup of the liquor, which he drank off. The cup was then filled and passed to the Indians. But they merely smelled of it and passed it on. It had nearly gone round the circle untasted, when one of the chiefs, bolder than the rest, made a short harangue, saying it would be disrespectful to return it untasted, and declaring his intention to drink off the potion, if he should be killed in the attempt. He drank it off. Dizziness and stupor immediately ensued. He sank down and fell into a sleep--the sleep of death, as his companions thought. But in due time he awoke--declared the happiness he had experienced from its effects--asked again for the cup, and the whole assembly followed his example.[40] Nor was the first meeting with the New England tribes very dissimilar. It took place at Plymouth, in 1620. Massasoit, the celebrated chief of the Pokanokets, came to visit the new settlers, not long after their landing. He was received by the English governor with military music and the discharge of some muskets. After which, the Governor kissed his hand. Massasoit then kissed him, and they both sat down together. "A pot of strong water," as the early writers expressed it, was then ordered, from which both drank. The chief, in his simplicity, drank so great a draught that it threw him into a violent perspiration during the remainder of the interview.[41] The first formal interview of the French with the Indians of the St. Lawrence is also worthy of being referred to, as it appears to have been the initial step in vitiating the taste of the Indians, by the introduction of a foreign drink. It took place in 1535, on board one of Cartier's ships, lying at anchor near the Island of Orleans, forty-nine years before the arrival of Amidas and Barlow on the coast of Virginia. Donnaconna, a chief who is courteously styled the "Lord of Agouhanna," visited the ship with twelve canoes. Ten of these he had stationed at a distance, and with the other two, containing sixteen men, he approached the vessels. When he drew near the headmost vessel, he began to utter an earnest address, accompanied with violent gesticulation. Cartier hailed his approach in a friendly manner. He had, the year before, captured two Indians on the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and he now addressed the chief through their interpretation. Donnaconna listened to his native language with delight, and was so much pleased with the recital they gave, that he requested Cartier to reach his arm over the side of the vessel, that he might kiss it. He was not content with this act of salutation, but fondled it, by drawing the arm gently around his neck. His watchful caution did not, however, permit him to venture on board. Cartier, willing to give him a proof of his confidence, then descended into the chief's canoe, and ordered bread and wine to be brought. They ate and drank together, all the Indians present participating in the banquet, which appears to have been terminated in a temperate manner.[42] But like most _temperate_ beginnings in the use of spirits, it soon led to intemperance in its most repulsive forms. The taste enkindled by wine, was soon fed with brandy, and spread among the native bands like a wildfire. It gave birth to disease, discord, and crime, in their most shocking forms. Too late the government and the clergy saw their error, and attempted to arrest it; but it was too deeply seated among their own countrymen, as well as among the Indians. Every effort proved unsuccessful; and the evil went on until the Canadas were finally transferred to the British crown, with this "mortal canker" burning upon the northern tribes. Those who have leisure and curiosity to turn to the early writers, will see abundant evidence of its deep and wide-spread influence. It became the ready means of rousing to action a people averse to long continued exertion of any kind. It was the reward of the chase. It was the price of blood. It was the great bar to the successful introduction of Christianity. It is impossible that the Indian should both drink and pray. It was impossible _then_, and it is impossible _now_: and the missionary who entered the forest, with the Bible and crucifix in one hand, and the bottle in the other, might say, with the Roman soliloquist, who deliberated on self-murder, "My bane and antidote are both before me: While _this_ informs me I shall never die, _This_ in a moment brings me to my end." National rivalry, between the English and French governments, gave a character of extreme bitterness to the feelings of the Indians, and served to promote the passion for strong drink. It added to the horrors of war, and accumulated the miseries of peace. It was always a struggle between these nations which should wield the Indian power; and, so far as religion went, it was a struggle between the Catholic and Protestant tenets. It was a power which both had, in a measure, the means of putting into motion: but neither had the _complete_ means of controlling it, if we concede to them the _perfect_ will. It would have mitigated the evil, if this struggle for mastering the Indian mind had terminated with a state of war, but it was kept up during the feverish intermissions of peace. Political influence was the ever-present weight in each side of the scale. Religion threw in her aid; but it was trade, the possession of the fur trade, that gave the preponderating weight. And there is nothing in the history of this rivalry, from the arrival of Roberval to the death of Montcalm, that had so permanently pernicious an influence as the sanction which this trade gave to the use of ardent spirits. We can but glance at this subject; but it is a glance at the track of a tornado. Destruction lies in its course. The history of the fur trade is closely interwoven with the history of intemperance among the Indians. We know not how to effect the separation. Look at it in what era you will, the barter in ardent spirits constitutes a prominent feature. From Jamestown to Plymouth--from the island of Manhattan to the Lake of the Hills, the traffic was introduced at the earliest periods. And we cannot now put our finger on the map, to indicate a spot where ardent spirits is not known to the natives. Is it at the mouth of the Columbia, the sources of the Multnomah, or the Rio del Norde--the passes of the Rocky Mountains on Peace River, or the shores of the Arctic Sea? it is known at all these places. The natives can call it by name, and they place a value on its possession. We do not wish to convey the idea that it is abundant at these remote places. We have reason to believe it is seldom seen. But we also believe that in proportion as it is scarce--in proportion as the quantity is small, and the occasion of its issue rare, so is the price of it in sale, and the value of it in gift, enhanced. And just so far as it is used, it is pernicious in effect, unnecessary in practice, unwise in policy. The French, who have endeared themselves so much in the affections of the Indians, were earlier in Canada than the English upon the United States' coast. Cartier's treat of wine and bread to the Iroquois of the St. Lawrence, happened eighty-five years before the landing of the Pilgrims. They were also earlier to perceive the evils of an unrestrained trade, in which nothing was stipulated, and nothing prohibited. To prevent its irregularities, licenses were granted by the French government to individuals, on the payment of a price. It was a boon to superannuated officers, and the number was limited. In 1685, the number was twenty-five. But the remedy proved worse than the disease. These licenses became negotiable paper. They were sold from hand to hand, and gave birth to a traffic, which assumed the same character in _temporal_ affairs, that "indulgences" did in _spiritual_. They were, in effect, licenses to commit every species of wrong, for those who got them at last, were generally persons under the government of no high standard of moral responsibility; and as they may be supposed to have paid well for them, they were sure to make it up by excessive exactions upon the Indians. _Courier du bois_, was the term first applied to them. _Merchant voyageur_, was the appellation at a subsequent period. But whatever they were called, one spirit actuated them--the spirit of acquiring wealth by driving a gainful traffic with an ignorant people, and for this purpose ardent spirits was but too well adapted. They transported it, along with articles of necessity, up long rivers, and over difficult portages. And when they had reached the borders of the Upper Lakes, or the banks of the Sasketchawine, they were too far removed from the influence of courts, both judicial and ecclesiastical, to be in much dread of them. Feuds, strifes, and murders ensued. Crime strode unchecked through the land. Every Indian trader became a legislator and a judge. His word was not only a law, but it was a law which possessed the property of undergoing as many repeals and mutations as the interest, the pride, or the passion of the individual rendered expedient. If wealth was accumulated, it is _not_ intended to infer that the pressing wants of the Indians were not relieved--that the trade was not a very acceptable and important one to them, and that great peril and expense were not encountered, and a high degree of enterprise displayed in its prosecution. But it is contended, that if _real_ wants were relieved, _artificial_ ones were created--that if it substituted the gun for the bow, and shrouds and blankets in the place of the more expensive clothing of beaver skins, it also substituted ardent spirits for water--intoxication for sobriety--disease for health. Those who entertain the opinion that the fall of Quebec, celebrated in England and America as a high military achievement, and the consequent surrender of Canada, produced any very important improvement in this state of things, forget that the leading principles and desires of the human heart are alike in all nations, acting under like circumstances. The desire of amassing wealth--the thirst for exercising power--the pride of information over ignorance--the power of vicious over virtuous principles, are not confined to particular eras, nations, or latitudes. They belong to mankind, and they will be pursued with a zeal as irrespective of equal and exact justice, wherever they are not restrained by the ennobling maxims of Christianity. Whoever feels interested in looking back into this period of our commercial Indian affairs, is recommended to peruse the published statistical and controversial volumes, growing out of the Earl of Selkirk's schemes of colonization, and to the proceedings of the North West Company. This iron monopoly grew up out of private adventure. Such golden accounts were brought out of the country by the Tods, the Frobishers, and the M'Tavishes, and M'Gillvrays, who first visited it, that every bold man, who had either talents or money, rushed to the theatre of action. The boundary which had been left to the French, as the limit of trade, was soon passed. The Missinipi, Athabasca, Fort Chipewyan, Slave lake, Mackenzie's and Copper Mine Rivers, the Unjigah and the Oregon, were reached in a few years. All Arctic America was penetrated. The British government is much indebted to Scottish enterprise for the extension of its power and resources in this quarter. But while we admire the zeal and boldness with which the limits of the trade were extended, we regret that a belief in the necessity of using ardent spirits caused them to be introduced, in any quantity, among the North West tribes. Other regions have been explored to spread the light of the gospel. This was traversed to extend the reign of intemperance, and to prove that the love of gain was so strongly implanted in the breast of the white man, as to carry him over regions of ice and snow, woods and waters, where the natives had only been intruded on by the Musk Ox and the Polar bear. Nobody will deem it too much to say, that wherever the current of the fur trade set, the nations were intoxicated, demoralized, depopulated. The terrible scourge of the small pox, which broke out in the country north-west of Lake Superior in 1782, was scarcely more fatal to the natives, though more rapid and striking in its effects, than the power of ardent spirits. Nor did it produce so great a moral affliction. For those who died of the varioloid, were spared the death of ebriety. Furs were gleaned with an iron hand, and rum was given out with an iron heart. There was no remedy for the rigors of the trade; and there was no appeal. Beaver was sought with a thirst of gain as great as that which carried Cortez to Mexico, and Pizarro to Peru. It had deadened the ties of humanity, and cut asunder the cords of private faith.[43] Like the Spaniard in his treatment of Capolicon, when the latter had given him the house full of gold for his ransom, he was himself basely executed. So the northern chief, when he had given his all, gave himself as the victim at last. He was not, however, consumed at the _stake_, but at the _bottle_. The sword of his executioner was _spirits_--his gold, _beaver skins_. And no mines of the precious metals, which the world has ever produced, have probably been more productive of wealth, than the fur-yielding regions of North America. But while the products of the chase have yielded wealth to the white man, they have produced misery to the Indian. The latter, suffering for the means of subsistence, like the child in the parable, had asked for bread, and he received it; but, with it, he received a scorpion. And it is the sting of the scorpion, that has been raging among the tribes for more than two centuries, causing sickness, death, and depopulation in its track. It is the venom of this sting, that has proved emphatically "----the blight of human bliss! Curse to all _states_ of man, but most to _this_." Let me not be mistaken, in ascribing effects disproportionate to their cause, or in overlooking advantages which have brought along in their train, a striking evil. I am no admirer of that sickly philosophy, which looks back upon a state of nature as a state of innocence, and which cannot appreciate the benefits the Indian race have derived from the discovery of this portion of the world by civilized and Christian nations. But while I would not, on the one hand, conceal my sense of the advantages, temporal and spiritual, which hinge upon this discovery, I would not, on the other, disguise the evils which intemperance has caused among them; nor cease to hold it up, to the public, as a great and destroying evil, which was early introduced--which has spread extensively--which is in active operation, and which threatens yet more disastrous consequences to this unfortunate race. Writers have not been wanting, who are prone to lay but little stress upon the destructive influence of ardent spirits, in diminishing the native population, and who have considered its effects as trifling in comparison to the want of food, and the enhanced price created by this want.[44] The abundance or scarcity of food is a principle in political economy, which is assumed as the primary cause of depopulation. And, as such, we see no reason to question its soundness. If the value of labor, the price of clothing and other necessary commodities, can be referred to the varying prices of vegetable and animal food, we do not see that the fact of a people's being civilized or uncivilized, should invalidate the principle; and when we turn our eyes upon the forest we see that it does not. A pound of beaver, which in 1730, when animal food was abundant, was worth here about a French crown, is now, when food is scarce and dear, worth from five to six dollars; and consequently, one pound of beaver _now_ will procure as much food and clothing as five pounds of the like quality of beaver _then_. It is the failure of the race of furred animals, and the want of industry in hunting them, that operate to produce depopulation. And what, we may ask, has so powerful an effect in destroying the energies of the hunter, as the vice of intemperance? Stupefying his mind, and enervating his body, it leaves him neither the vigor to provide for his temporary wants, nor the disposition to inquire into those which regard eternity. His natural affections are blunted, and all the sterner and nobler qualities of the Indian mind prostrated. His family are neglected. They first become objects of pity to our citizens, and then of disgust. The want of wholesome food and comfortable clothing produce disease. He falls at last himself, the victim of disease, superinduced from drinking. Such is no exaggerated picture of the Indian, who is in a situation to contract the habit of intemperance. And it is only within the last year or eighteen months--it is only since the operation of Temperance principles has been felt in this remote place, that scenes of this kind have become unfrequent, and have almost ceased in our village, and in our settlement. And when we look abroad to other places, and observe the spread of temperance in the wide area from Louisiana to Maine, we may almost fancy we behold the accomplishment of Indian fable. It is related, on the best authority, that among the extravagances of Spanish enterprise, which characterized the era of the discovery of America, the natives had reported the existence of a fountain in the interior of one of the islands, possessed of such magical virtues, that whoever bathed in its waters would be restored to the bloom of youth and the vigor of manhood. In search of this wonderful fountain historians affirm, that Ponce de Leon and his followers ranged the island. They only, however, drew upon themselves the charge of credulity. May we not suppose this tale of the salutary fountain to be an Indian allegory of temperance? It will, at least, admit of this application. And let us rejoice that, in the era of temperance, we have found the spring which will restore bloom to the cheeks of the young man, and the panacea that will remove disease from the old. When we consider the effects which our own humble efforts as inhabitants of a distant post have produced in this labor of humanity, have we not every encouragement to persevere? Is it not an effort sanctioned by the noblest affections of our nature--by the soundest principles of philanthropy--by the highest aspirations of Christian benevolence? Is it not the work of patriots as well as Christians? of good citizens as well as good neighbors? Is it not a high and imperious duty to rid our land of the foul stain of intemperance? Is it a duty too hard for us to accomplish? Is there anything unreasonable in the voluntary obligations by which we are bound? Shall we lose property or reputation by laboring in the cause of temperance? Will the debtor be less able to pay his debts, or the creditor less able to collect them? Shall we injure man, woman or child, by dashing away the cup of intoxication? Shall we incur the charge of being denominated fools or madmen? Shall we violate any principles of morality, or any of the maxims of Christianity? Shall we run the risk of diminishing the happiness of others, or putting our own in jeopardy? Finally, shall we injure man--shall we offend God? If neither of these evils will result--if the highest principles of virtue and happiness sanction the measure--if learning applauds it, and religion approves it--if good must result from its success, and injury cannot accrue from its failure, what further motive need we to impel us onward, to devote our best faculties in the cause, and neither to faint nor rest till the modern hydra of intemperance be expelled from our country? FOOTNOTES: [36] Andover. [37] Dr. Johnson. [38] Zoonomia. [39] Robertson's History of America. [40] Heckewelder's Account of the Indians. [41] Purchas' Pilgrims, Part iv., book x. [42] Hackluyt's Voyages. [43] The murder of Wadin, the cold-blooded assassination of Keveny, and the shooting of Semple, are appealed to, as justifying the force of this remark. [44] The North American Review. Sanford's History of the United States, before the Revolution. VENERABLE INDIAN CHIEF. The Cattaraugus (N. Y.) Whig, of a late date, mentions that Gov. Blacksnake, the Grand Sachem of the Indian nation, was recently in that place. He resides on the Allegheny Reservation, about twenty miles from the village; is the successor of Corn Planter, as chief of the Six Nations--a nephew of Joseph Brant, and uncle of the celebrated Red Jacket. He was born near Cayuga Lake in 1749, being now ninety-six years of age. He was in the battle of Fort Stanwix, Wyoming, &c., and was a warm friend of Gen. Washington during the Revolution. He was in Washington's camp forty days at the close of the Revolution--was appointed chief by him, and now wears suspended from his neck a beautiful silver medal presented to him by Gen. Washington, bearing date 1796. FATE OF THE RED RACE IN AMERICA: THE POLICY PURSUED TOWARDS THEM BY GOVERNMENT, AND THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THE TRIBES WHO HAVE REMOVED WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI.[45] The removal of the Indian Tribes within our State boundaries, to the west of the Mississippi, and their present condition and probable ultimate fate, have been the topic of such frequent speculation, misunderstanding, and may we not add, misrepresentation, within a few years past, both at home and abroad, that we suppose some notice of them, and particularly of the territory they occupy, and the result, thus far, of their experiment in self-government, drawn from authentic sources, may prove not unacceptable to the public. The nomadic and hunter states of society never embraced within themselves the elements of perpetuity. They have ever existed, indeed, like a vacuum in the system of nature, which is at every moment in peril, and subject to be filled up and destroyed by the in-rushing of the surrounding element. Civilisation is that element, in relation to non-agricultural and barbaric tribes, and the only question with respect to their continuance as distinct communities has been, how long they could resist its influence, and at what particular era this influence should change, improve, undermine, or destroy them. It is proved by history, that two essentially different states of society, with regard to art and civilisation, cannot both prosperously exist together, at the same time. The one which is in the ascendant will absorb and destroy the other. A wolf and a lamb are not more antagonistical in the system of organic being, than civilisation and barbarism, in the great ethnological impulse of man's diffusion over the globe. In this impulse, barbarism may temporarily triumph, as we see it has done by many striking examples in the history of Asia and Europe. But such triumphs have been attended with this remarkable result, that they have, in the end, reproduced the civilisation which they destroyed. Such, to quote no other example, was the effect of the prostration of the Roman type of civilisation by the warlike and predatory tribes of Northern Europe. Letters and Christianity were both borne down, for a while, by this irresistible on-rush; but they were thereby only the more deeply implanted in the stratum of preparing civilisation; and in due time, like the grain that rots before it reproduces, sprang up with a vigor and freshness, which is calculated to be enduring, and to fill the globe. [Illustration: SAUKIE AND FOX INDIANS.] Civilisation may be likened to an absorbent body, placed in contact with an anti-absorbent, for some of the properties of which it has strong affinities. It will draw these latter so completely out, that, to use a strong phrase, it may be said to eat them up. Civilisation is found to derive some of the means of its perfect development from letters and the arts, but it cannot permanently exist without the cultivation of the soil. It seems to have been the fundamental principle on which the species were originally created, that they should derive their sustenance and means of perpetuation from this industrial labor. Wherever agricultural tribes have placed themselves in juxtaposition to hunters and erratic races, they have been found to withdraw from the latter the means of their support, by narrowing the limits of the forest and plains, upon the wild animals of which, both carnivorous and herbivorous, hunters subsist. When these have been destroyed, the grand resources of these hunters and pursuers have disappeared. Wars, the introduction of foreign articles or habits of injurious tendency, may accelerate the period of their decline--a result which is still further helped forward by internal dissensions, and the want of that political foresight by which civil nations exist. But without these, and by the gradual process of the narrowing down of their hunting grounds, and the conversion of the dominions of the bow and arrow to those of the plough, this result must inevitably ensue. There is no principle of either permanency or prosperity in the savage state. It is a question of curious and philosophic interest, however, to observe the varying and very unequal effects, which different types of civilisation have had upon the wild hordes of men with whom it has come into contact. And still more, perhaps, to trace the original efficiency, or effeminacy of the civil type, in the blood of predominating races, who have been characterized by it. In some of the European stocks this type has remained nearly stationary since it reached the chivalric era. In others, it had assumed a deeply commercial tone, and confined itself greatly to the drawing forth, from the resources of new countries, those objects which invigorate trade. There is no stock, having claims to a generic nationality, in which the _principle of progress_ has, from the outset, been so strongly marked, as in those hardy, brave and athletic tribes in the north of Europe, for whom the name of Teutons conveys, perhaps, a more comprehensive meaning, than the comparatively later one of Saxons. The object of this race appears continually to be, and to have been, to do more than has previously been done; to give diffusion and comprehension to designs of improvement, and thus, by perpetually putting forth new efforts, on the globe, to carry on man to his highest destiny. The same impulsive aspirations of the spirit of progress, the same energetic onwardness of principle which overthrew Rome, overthrew, at another period, the simple institutions of the woad-stained Britons; and, whatever other aspect it bears, we must attribute to the same national energy the modern introduction of European civilisation into Asia. When these principles come to be applied to America, and to be tested by its native tribes, we shall clearly perceive their appropriate and distinctive effects. In South America, where the type of chivalry marked the discoverers, barbarism has lingered among the natives, without being destroyed, for three centuries. In Canada, which drew its early colonists exclusively from the feudal towns and seaports, whose inhabitants had it for a maxim, that they had done all that was required of good citizens, when they had done all that had been _previously done_, the native tribes have remained perfectly stationary. With the exception of slight changes in dress, and an absolute depreciation in morals, they are essentially at this day what they were in the respective eras of Cartier and Champlain. In the native monarchies of Mexico and Peru, Spain overthrew the gross objects of idolatrous worship, and intercalated among these tribes the arts and some of the customs of the 16th century. With a very large proportion of the tribes but little was attempted beyond military subjugation, and less accomplished. The seaboard tribes received the ritual of the Romish church. Many of those in the interior, comprehending the higher ranges of the Andes and Cordilleras, remain to this day in the undisturbed practice of their ancient superstitions and modes of subsistence. It is seen from recent discoveries, that there are vast portions of the interior of the country, unknown, unexplored and undescribed. We are just, indeed, beginning to comprehend the true character of the indigenous Indian civilisation of the era of the discovery. These remarks are sufficient to show how feebly the obligations of letters and Christianity have been performed, with respect to the red men, by the colonists of those types of the early European civilisation, who rested themselves on feudal tenures, military renown, and an ecclesiastical system of empty ceremonies. It was with very different plans and principles that North America was colonized. We consider the Pilgrims as the embodiment of the true ancient Teutonic type. Their Alaric and Brennus were found in the pulpit and in the school-room. They came with high and severe notions of civil and religious liberty. It was their prime object to sustain themselves, not by conquest, but by cultivating the soil. To escape an ecclesiastical tyranny at home, they were willing to venture themselves in new climes. But they meant to triumph in the arts of peace. They embarked with the Bible as their shield and sword, and they laid its principles at the foundation of all their institutions, civil, literary, industrial, and ecclesiastic. They were pious and industrious themselves, and they designed to make the Indian tribes so. They bought their lands and paid for them, and proceeded to establish friendly neighborhoods among the tribes. Religious truth, as it is declared in the Gospel, was the fundamental principle of all their acts. In its exposition and daily use, they followed no interpretations of councils at variance with its plain import. This every one was at liberty to read. Placed side by side with such an enlightened and purposed race, what had the priests of the system of native rites and superstitions to expect? There could be no compromise of rites--no partial conformity--no giving up a part to retain the rest--as had been done in the plains of Central America, Mexico and Yucatan. No toleration of pseudo-paganism, as had been done on the waters of the Orinoco, the Parana and the Paraguay. They must abandon the system at once. The error was gross and total. They must abjure it. They had mistaken darkness for light; and they were now offered the light. They had worshipped Lucifer instead of Immanuel. This the tribes who spread along the shores of the North Atlantic were told, and nothing was held back. They founded churches and established schools among them. They translated the entire Bible, and the version of David's Psalms, and the Hymns of Dr. Watts, into one of their languages. Two types of the human race, more fully and completely antagonistical, in all respects, never came in contact on the globe. They were the alpha and omega of the ethnological chain. If, therefore, the Red Race declined, and the white increased, it was because civilisation had more of the principles of endurance and progress than barbarism; because Christianity was superior to paganism; industry to idleness; agriculture to hunting; letters to hieroglyphics; truth to error. Here lie the true secrets of the Red Men's decline. There are but three principal results which, we think, the civilized world could have anticipated for the race, at the era of the discovery. 1. They might be supposed to be subject to early extermination on the coasts, where they were found. A thousand things would lead to this, which need not be mentioned. Intemperance and idleness alone were adequate causes. 2. Philanthropists and Christians might hope to reclaim them, either in their original positions on the coasts, or in agricultural communities in adjacent parts. 3. Experience and forecast might indicate a third result, in which full success should attend neither of the foregoing plans, nor yet complete failure. There was nothing, exactly, in the known history of mankind, to guide opinion. A mixed condition of things was the most probable result. And this, it might be anticipated, would be greatly modified by times and seasons, circumstances and localities, acting on particular tribes. Nothing less could have been expected but the decline and extinction of some tribe, whilst the removal of others, to less exposed positions, would be found to tell upon their improvement. The effects of letters and Christianity would necessarily be slow; but they were effects, which the history of discovery and civilisation, in other parts of the world, proved to be effective and practical. What was this mixed condition to eventuate in?--how long was it to continue? Were the tribes to exercise sovereign political jurisdiction over the tracts they lived on? Were they to submit to the civilized code, and if so, to the penal code only, or also to the civil? Or, if not, were they to exist by amalgamation with the European stocks, and thus contribute the elements of a new race? These, and many other questions, early arose, and were often not a little perplexing to magistrates, legislatures, and governors. It was evident the aboriginal race possessed distinctive general rights, but these existed contemporaneously, or intermixed with the rights of the discoverers. How were these separate rights to be defined? How were the weak to be protected, and the strong to be restrained, at points beyond the ordinary pale of the civil law? If a red man killed a white, without the ordinary jurisdiction of the courts, could he be seized as a criminal? And if so, were civil offences, committed without the jurisdiction of either territory, cognizable in either, or neither? Could there be a supremacy within a supremacy? And what was the limit between State and United States laws? Such were among the topics entering into the Indian policy. It was altogether a mixed system, and like most mixed systems, it worked awkwardly, confusedly, and sometimes badly. Precedents were to be established for new cases, and these were perpetually subject to variation. Legislators, judges, and executive officers were often in doubt, and it required the wisest, shrewdest, and best men in the land to resolve these doubts, and to lay down rules, or advice, for future proceeding in relation to the Red Race. It will be sufficient to bear out the latter remark, to say, that among the sages who deemed this subject important, were a Roger Williams, a Penn, a Franklin, a Washington, a Jefferson, a Monroe, a Crawford, and a Calhoun. It must needs have happened, that where the Saxon race went, the principles of law, justice, and freedom, must prevail. These principles, as they existed in England at the beginning of the sixteenth century, were transferred to America, with the Cavaliers, the Pilgrims, and the Quakers, precisely, as to the two first topics, as they existed at home. Private rights were, as well secured, and public justice as well awarded here, as there. But they also brought over the aristocratic system, which was upheld by the royal governors, who were the immediate representatives of the crown. The doctrine was imprescriptible, that the fee of all public or unpatented lands was in the crown, and all inhabitants of the realm owed allegiance and fealty to the crown. This doctrine, when applied to the native tribes of America, left them neither fee-simple in the soil, nor political sovereignty over it. It cut them down to vassals, but, by a legal solecism, they were regarded as a sort of free vassals. So long as the royal governments remained, they had the usufruct of the public domain--the right of fishing, and hunting, and planting upon it, and of doing certain other acts of occupancy; but this right ceased just as soon, and as fast, as patents were granted, or the public exigency required the domain. The native chiefs were quieted with presents from the throne, through the local officers, and their ideas of independence and control were answered by the public councils, in which friendships were established, and the public tranquillity looked after. Private purchases were made from the outset, but the idea of a public treaty of purchase of the soil under the proprietary and royal governors, was not entertained before the era of William Penn. It remained for the patriots of 1775, who set up the frame of our present government, by an appeal to arms, to award the aboriginal tribes the full proprietary right to the soil they respectively occupied, and to guarantee to them its full and free use, until such right was relinquished by treaty stipulations. So far, they were acknowledged as sovereigns. This is the first step in their political exaltation, and dates, in our records, from the respective treaties of Fort Pitt, September 17, 1778, and of Fort Stanwix, of October 22, 1784. The latter was as early after the establishment of our independence, as these tribes--the Six nations, who, with the exception of the Oneidas, sided with the parent country--could be brought to listen to the terms of peace. They were followed by the Wyandots, Delawares, and Chippewas, and Ottowas, in January, 1785; by the Cherokees, in November of the same year; and by the Choctaws and Shawnees, in January, 1786. Other western nations followed in 1789; the Creeks did not treat till 1790. And from this era, the system has been continued up to the present moment. It may be affirmed, that there is not an acre of land of the public domain of the United States, sold at the land offices, from the days of General Washington, but what has been acquired in this manner. War, in which we and they have been frequently involved, since that period, has conveyed no _territorial right_. We have conquered them, on the field, not to usurp territory, but to place them in a condition to observe how much more their interests and permanent prosperity would be, and have ever been, promoted by the plough than the sword. And there has been a prompt recurrence, at every mutation from war to peace, punctually, to that fine sentiment embraced in the _first_ article of the _first_ treaty ever made between the American government and the Indian tribes, namely, that all offences and animosities "shall be mutually forgiven, and buried in deep oblivion, and never more be had in remembrance."[46] The first step to advance the aboriginal man to his natural and just political rights, namely, the acknowledgment of his _right to the soil_, we have mentioned; but those that were to succeed it were more difficult and complex in their bearings. Congress, from the earliest traces of their action, as they appear in their journals and public acts, confined the operation of the civil code to the territory actually acquired by negotiation, and treaties duly ratified by the Senate, and proclaimed, agreeably to the Constitution, by the President. So much of this public territory as fell within the respective _State lines_, fell, by the terms of our political compact, under _State laws_, and the jurisdiction of the State courts; and as soon as new tracts of the Indian territory, thus within State boundaries, were acquired, the State laws had an exact corresponding extension until the whole of such Indian lands had been acquired. This provided a definite and clear mode of action, and if it were sometimes the subject of doubt or confliction, such perplexity arose from the great extension of the country, its sparsely settled condition, and the haste or ignorance of local magistrates. And these difficulties were invariably removed whenever the cases came into the Supreme Court of the United States. Without regard to the area of the States, but including and having respect only to the territories, and to the vast and unincorporated wilderness, called the "Indian country," Congress provided a _special code_ of laws, and from the first, held over this part of the Union, and holds over it now, full and complete jurisdiction. This code was designed chiefly to regulate the trade carried on at those remote points between the white and red men, to preserve the public tranquillity, and to provide for the adjudication of offences. Citizens of the United States, carrying the passport, license, or authority of their government, are protected by their papers thus legally obtained; and the tribes are held answerable for their good treatment, and if violence occur, for their lives. No civil process, however, has efficacy in such positions; and there is no compulsory legal collection of debts, were it indeed practicable, on the Indian territories. The customs and usages of the trade and intercourse, as established from early times, prevail there. These customs are chiefly founded on the patriarchal system, which was found in vogue on the settlement of the country, and they admit of compensations and privileges founded on natural principles of equity and right. The Indian criminal code, whatever that is, also prevails there. The only exception to it arises from cases of Americans, maliciously killed within the "Indian country," the laws of Congress providing, that the aggressors should be surrendered into the hands of justice, and tried by the nearest United States courts. These preliminary facts will exhibit some of the leading features of the mixed system alluded to. Its workings were better calculated for the early stages of society, while population was sparse and the two races, as bodies, kept far apart, than for its maturer periods. As the intervening lands became ceded, and sold, and settled, and the tribes themselves began to put on aspects of civilisation, the discrepancies of the system, and its want of homogeneousness and harmony, became more apparent. Throughout the whole period of the administrations of Washington, and John Adams, and Jefferson, a period of twenty years, the low state of our population, and the great extent and unreclaimed character of the public domain, left the Indians undisturbed, and no questions of much importance occurred to test the permanency of the system as regards the welfare of the Indians. Mr. Jefferson foresaw, however, the effect of encroachments beyond the Ohio, and with an enlightened regard for the race and their civilisation, prepared a new and consolidated code of all prior acts, with some salutary new provisions, which had the effect to systematize the trade and intercourse, and more fully to protect the rights of the Indians. This code served, with occasional amendments, through the succeeding administrations of Madison, Monroe, and John Quincy Adams, into that of General Jackson, when, in 1834, the greatly advanced line of the frontiers, the multiplied population, and necessarily increased force of the Indian department, and the large amount of Indian annuities to be paid, called for its thorough revision, and a new general enactment was made. Previously, however, to this time, during the administration of Mr. Monroe, it was perceived that the Indian tribes, as separate communities, living in, and surrounded by, people of European descent, and governed by a widely different system of laws, arts, and customs, could not be expected to arrive at a state of permanent prosperity while thus locally situated. The tendency of the Saxon institutions, laws, and jurisprudence, was to sweep over them. The greater must needs absorb the less. And there appeared, on wise and mature reflection, no reasonable hope to the true friends of the native race, that they could sustain themselves in independency or success as foreign elements in the midst of the State communities. It was impossible that two systems of governments, so diverse as the Indian and American, should co-exist on the same territory. All history proved this. The most rational hope of success for this race, the only one which indeed appeared practical on a scale commensurate with the object, was to remove them, with their own consent, to a position entirely without the boundaries of the State jurisdictions, where they might assert their political sovereignty, and live and develope their true national character, under their own laws. The impelling cause for the action of the government, during Mr. Monroe's administration, was the peculiar condition of certain tribes, living on their own original territories, within the State boundaries, and who were adverse to further cessions of such territory. The question assumed its principal interest in the State of Georgia, within which portions of the Creek and Cherokee tribes were then living. About ten millions of acres of lands were thus in the occupancy of these two tribes. As the population of Georgia expanded and approached the Indian settlements, the evils of the mixed political system alluded to began strongly to evince themselves. In the progress of the dispersion of the human race over the globe, there never was, perhaps, a more diverse legal, political, and moral amalgamation attempted, than there was found to exist, when, in this area, the descendants from the old Saxons, north-men and Hugenots from Europe, came in contact with the descendants (we speak of a theory) of the idle, pastoral, unphilosophic, non-inductive race of central Asia, living in the genial climate and sunny valleys of Georgia and Alabama. The American government had embarrassed itself by stipulating at an early day, with the State of Georgia, to extinguish the Indian title within her boundaries, at the earliest practicable period, when it could be done "peaceably and on reasonable conditions." The Indians, as they advanced in agriculture, became averse to sell. The Georgians, as they increased in numbers, became importunate for the territory to which they had, in this event, the reversionary right. The President was frequently importuned by the State authorities. The Indians were frequently brought to consider the subject, which was one that increased its importance with years. We have deemed it proper to put this matter in its right attitude in relation to the great question of Indian removal; and as furnishing, as it did, reasons for the early consideration and action of the government. It is not our intention to pursue the Georgia question disjunctively--we have neither time nor space for it here, and will only further premise, that it is susceptible of some very different views from those often premised of it.[47] That it was one of the prominent considerations which led the administration of Monroe to take up betimes the general question of the Indian tribes, is well known and remembered, and apparent from a perusal of the public documents of the era. Governed by such considerations, Mr. Monroe communicated a special message to Congress on the 27th of January, 1825, recommending the removal of all the tribes within the States and Territories, and providing for their future "location and government." This is the official date and foundation of the plan of removal, which has been so generally, and may we not add, so successfully and propitiously to the best interests of the tribes, carried into effect. "Being deeply impressed with the opinion," observes this venerated statesman, who has, years since, gone to join the patriot spirits who achieved our independence--"that the removal of the Indian tribes from the land which they now occupy, within the limits of the several States and Territories, to the country lying westward and northward thereof, within our acknowledged boundaries, is of very high importance to the Union, and may be accomplished on conditions, and in a manner, to promote the interests and happiness of those tribes, the attention of the government has been long drawn, with great solicitude, to the object. "For the removal of the tribes within the limits of the State of Georgia, the motive has been peculiarly strong, arising from the compact with that State, whereby the United States are bound to extinguish the Indian title to the lands within it, whenever it may be done peaceably, and on reasonable conditions. "In the fulfilment of this compact, I have thought that the United States should act with a generous spirit, that they should omit nothing which should comport with a liberal construction of the instrument, and likewise be in accordance with the just rights of those tribes. From the view which I have taken of the subject, I am satisfied that, in the discharge of these important duties, in regard to both the parties alluded to, the United States will have to encounter no conflicting interests with either: on the contrary, that the removal of the tribes from the Territories which they inhabit, to that which was designated in the message at the commencement of the session, which would accomplish the object for Georgia, under a well digested plan for their government and civilisation, in a mode agreeable to themselves, would not only shield them from impending ruin, but promote their welfare and happiness. _Experience has clearly demonstrated that, in their present state, it is impossible to incorporate them, in such masses, in any form whatever, into our system. It has also demonstrated, with equal certainty, that without a timely anticipation of, and provision against, the dangers to which they are exposed, under causes which it will be difficult, if not impossible, to control, their degradation and extermination will be inevitable._" We have underscored the last two sentences, because they express in forcible and just language, the experience of the American government, in relation to the subject, after an experiment of fifty years, dating from '75, and lie, indeed, at the foundation of the present Indian policy. It is also the experience of sound and calm observers, who have watched the operation of our laws and customs upon the isolated Indian communities in the States. Every year has exemplified the futility of raising them up to the European standard in industry, in intelligence or character, while thus situated; nor indeed, has it been practicable to shield them effectually against the combined effects of intemperance, personal sloth, and of popular and vulgar contumely. Mr. Calhoun, whose report on the subject was transmitted to Congress, with the message above named, communicates the details essential to the execution of the proposed plan. He states the whole number of Indians to be removed from the States and Territories, excluding those located west and north of Lake Michigan and the Straits of St. Mary's, at 97,000 souls, who occupy about 77 millions of acres of land. The country proposed for their location is that stretching immediately west, beyond the boundaries of the States of MISSOURI and ARKANSAS, having the River Arkansas running through its centre from west to east, the Missouri and Red rivers respectively as the northern boundary, and the vast grassy plains east of the Rocky Mountains, as its western limit. The map which we publish of this territory, is drawn on the basis of one which was published by Congress in 1834, in illustration of the report of the committee on Indian affairs of May 30th of that session. It embraces all the locations of tribes to that period. The plan proposed the gratuitous grant of the country to the respective tribes, and their removal to it at government expense. It embraces the transference to it, of their schools established by religious societies, and supported, in part, by the civilisation fund, and all their means of moral and religious culture. It is based on the pursuit of agriculture, the mechanic arts, and the raising of cattle and stock. It invests the tribes with full power of making and executing all their laws and regulations, civil and criminal. It stipulates military protection, to keep the surrounding tribes at peace. It leaves them their political sovereignty; being without the boundary of the States, under their own chiefs and local governors, with such aids as are necessary to enable the various tribes to associate and set up the frame of an associated government to be managed by themselves, and as subsequently proposed in Congress, to be represented in that body whenever the system shall be perfected so as to justify this measure. It proposed, as the basis of removal, a solemn act of Congress, guaranteeing the country to them, and excluding its future incorporation into the States. A second location, in the northern latitudes, was proposed for the Indians west of Michigan, where a further body of 32,266 souls were estimated to reside. Such were the general principles of Mr. Monroe's plan, submitted in 1825, and subsequently adopted by Congress, in its essential features. It has now been in operation EIGHTEEN YEARS, and it is proposed, in bringing this paper to a close, briefly to examine the condition and prospects of the expatriated tribes, in the country to which they have been transferred. By a report from the proper department, transmitted to Congress with the President's message in 1836, the result of the first ten years' experiment is shown to have been the actual migration of 40,000 from their original seats, east, to the allotted Indian territory, west of the Mississippi. Of this number, 18,000 were Creeks, 15,000 Choctaws, 6,000 Cherokees, 2,000 Chippewas, Ottawas, and Pottowattomies, 1,300 Shawnees, 800 Delawares, 500 Quapaws, 400 Seminoles, 600 Kickapoos, 400 Senecas, and an average of, say 250 each, of Appalachicolas, Weas, Piankashaws, Peorias and Kaskaskias. In this statement, small fractions over or under, are omitted. A location and permanent home has been provided for seventeen tribes and parts of tribes; a number which, in the succeeding seven years, we speak from documents before us, has been largely augmented. The whole body of the Cherokees, of the Creeks, or Muscogees, of the Chickasaws and Choctaws, &c., and also, with the exception of one principal band, of the Seminoles, have been removed. Portions of other tribes, not then full, have joined their kindred; and some whole tribes, who had not before come into the arrangement, and ceded their lands east, as the Miamas of the Wabash, and the Wyandots of Sanduskey, have since accepted locations in the Indian territory. The Chickasaws are all located with their affiliated countrymen, the Choctaws; and numbers of the ancient Iroquois confederacy, the Six Nations of New York, as well as the ancient Mohegans and Munsees, have, within a few years, selected locations south of the Missouri. The entire number of red men now concentrated on those plains and valleys, where winter scarcely exerts any severity of power, may be set down at 77,000 souls, leaving, from the official report of 1841, but 21,774 of the original estimated number of 1825, to be removed; exclusive of those west of the straits of Michilimackinac and St. Mary's. From the documents accompanying the annual report transmitted to Congress by the President, in December, 1840, the amount of funds invested by the government in stocks, for the Indians, was $2,580,000, on which the annual interest paid to them was $131,05. Twenty-four of the tribes had permanently appropriated, by treaty, $60,730 per annum, for the purpose of education. The number of schools maintained, and the number of pupils actually taught, are not furnished. It is gratifying to know, from this source, that civilisation, agriculture, and the mechanic arts, are making a rapid progress, and that education and Christianity are walking hand-in-hand. Planting and raising cattle are adopted generally. Portions of the most advanced tribes have devoted themselves to the mechanic arts, supplying themselves, to a limited extent, with smiths, wheelwrights, carpenters, and joiners, and some other branches. Spinning and hand-loom weaving are practised to some extent. There are native merchants, among the three principal southern tribes, who ship their own cotton and other products to market, and supply their people, in return, with such products of the East and West Indies, and other parts of the world, as they require. A large part of the contracts, particularly for Indian corn, required to subsist the United States troops in that quarter of the Union, is furnished by native contractors. Their legislation is performed in representative councils, and is well adapted to the actual and advancing state of society. Many of their leading men are well educated; some of them classically; and the general moral and intellectual tone and habits of the tribes, are clearly and strikingly on the advance. It requires, it is believed, but time and perseverance in civil associations, to lead them to the same results arrived at by other barbarous nations, and to demonstrate to them the value and importance of a general political confederation, founded on the principles of equal rights and equal representation, supported by public virtue and intelligence. Having sketched the cause of the decline of that portion of the North American Indians, who were seated along the Atlantic, and the plan proposed for checking it, we shall now, with the map and documentary evidence before us, devote a few moments to the present condition and prospects of the more prominent tribes. 1. The Choctaws, beginning at the extreme south of the territory, are the first in position. They occupy the country above the State of Arkansas, extending from the Arkansas to the Red river, following up the Canadian branch of the former, comprising an area of about 150 miles in breadth, by 200 in length. They are bounded by Texas south-west. The country is well adapted for grain and the raising of stock, in its middle and northern parts, and for cotton on the south. Many of the natives have large fields, where, but a few years since, the forest was untouched. Saw mills, grist mills, and cotton gins, are either erecting or erected throughout the country. Salt is manufactured by an intelligent Choctaw. Iron ore has been found, and specimens of gold have been picked up in various places. This tribe is governed by a written constitution and laws. Their territory is divided into three districts, each of which elects, once in four years, a ruling chief, and ten representatives. The general council, thus constituted, and consisting of thirty councillors, meets annually, on the first Monday in October. Voters must be Choctaws, of age, and residents of the districts. The three chiefs have a joint veto power on all laws passed; but two-thirds of the council may re-pass them after such rejection. The council of thirty appoint their own speaker and clerk, and keep a journal. They meet in a large and commodious council-house, fitted up with seats for members and spectators, and committee rooms. Their sessions are, usually, about ten days in duration. They are paid two dollars per diem for their services, out of public funds. In addition to this evidence of capacity for self-government, there are judicial districts established, the right of trial by jury is secured, and there is an appeal to the highest tribunal. All the males, of a special age, are subject to do military duty: for this purpose the territory is subdivided into thirty two captaincies, the whole being placed under the orders of a general. The council has passed many good and wholesome laws; among them, one against intemperance and the sale of ardent spirits. The collection of debts is at present not compulsory, being regulated by questions of credit, punctuality, and honor, which are to be adjusted between the buyer and seller. The country is too sparsely settled, and the popular odium against incarceration too strong, to permit a resort to it. Thus, it will be seen, this tribe exhibit in their frame of government the elements of a representative republic, not a pure democracy, with perhaps sufficient conservative power to guard against sudden popular effervescence. The Choctaws have twelve public schools, established by treaty stipulations with the United States. There are several missionaries amongst them, of the Presbyterian and Methodist denominations, whose labors are reported by the public agents to be beneficial, and calculated to advance their condition. There are four public blacksmith shops, two of which are exclusively worked by the natives. The strikers, or assistants, at all the shops, are natives. Shops have also been erected, in various parts of the nation, which are occupied only in the spring and summer, in planting and crop time. The mechanics in these are natives, who are paid, not by the individuals requiring aid, but out of public funds. The nation has an academy located in Scott county, Kentucky, at which 125 students were taught in 1839 and 1840. This institution is now in the process of being established in their own territory. This tribe we learn by the Secretary of War's report, appropriated $18,000 of their annuities, in 1843, to educational purposes. 2. Chickasaws. This tribe is of the same lineage as the Choctaws; and, by a compact with the latter, they occupy the same territory, and live intermixed with them. It constitutes a part of this compact, that the Chickasaws are to concentrate their population, and form a fourth election district, which shall be entitled to elect ten representatives, and three senatorial chiefs, to the national Council. The aggregate amount of the vested funds of this tribe, in 1840, was $515,230 44; of which $146,000 is devoted to orphans. The annual interest paid by the government is $27,063 83. They participate equally in the advantages of the Choctaw academy, and have had many of their youth educated at that institution. 3. Next, in geographical position, to the united Choctaws and Chickasaws, are the Muskogees, who are more generally known under the name of Creeks. They occupy a territory one hundred and fifty miles in length, by ninety in breadth. They are bounded on the south by the Canadian fork of the Arkansas, and by the district of the Seminoles, which lies between the main branch of this stream and its north fork. Their territory reaches to a point opposite the junction of the Neosho, and is protracted thence north to the Cherokee boundary. It is a rich tract, well adapted to the growth of corn, vegetables, and esculents, and the raising of stock. It is not as abundantly watered by running streams as some of the tracts, or rather, it is a characteristic of its smaller streams that they run dry, or stand in pools, during the latter part of summer. In place of these, it has some good springs. The main and the north fork of the Canadian are exemptions from the effects of summer drouth. In point of salubrity, the country is not inferior to other portions of the Indian territory. The government of the Creeks is still essentially the same which they exercised on the banks of the Chattahoochee and the plains of Georgia. They exist in chieftainships, each head of which has his own local jurisdiction, civil and criminal. Each ruling chief has his village and his adherents; and the condition of things partakes of what we shall be understood by designating feudal traits. They have no written constitution; their laws are, however, now reduced in part to writing. General councils, or conventions, not exact in the period of their occurrence, consider and decide all general questions. At these, the chieftainships are all entitled to representation. Local questions, of right and police, come before the local chiefs, and are settled according to usage. They adhere to the original mode of working common or town fields, at which it is the duty of all to assist, both in the original clearing and in the annual labor of planting and reaping. There are also individuals, possessing slaves, who manage pretty extensive plantations. More corn is raised by this tribe than by any other now located West. Over and above their own wants, they have for several years had a large amount for sale and exportation. Less attention has been paid to the raising of stock, for which, indeed, the country has been deemed less propitious; but this branch of industry has of late years attracted more attention. The Creeks had, for many years prior to their removal, been divided into _upper and lower towns_--a distinction which has been transferred to the West. Opothleyoholo is the chief of the Upper, and Roly McIntosh of the Lower Creeks. These two chieftainships embrace the lesser ones, and divide the nation into two parties. It was the Lower towns, headed by the father of the present chief (whose tragic death we have mentioned), that ceded the Georgian territory, and thus sided in the policy of that State. The condition in which this tribe existed, in portions of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, was, in other respects, peculiar. In emerging, as they were well in the process of doing, from the _hunter_ to the _agricultural_ state, the institution of slavery, by which they were surrounded, and in which they participated, gave a peculiar development to their industry. Chiefs, who were averse to work themselves, employed slaves, and thus the relation of planter and slave was established long before the question of their removal occurred. The effects of this were to exalt a portion of the nation above, and to depress others below, the average standing. The disparity which took place in laborious habits and in wealth, also impressed itself on education, dress, manners, and information generally. Although the idea of slavery was well known to the red race from the earliest times, and they all have a word for it, in their native vocabularies, and practised it on their prisoners, yet the result we are considering was accelerated by an admixture of European blood in their chieftains. Hence it is that this tribe, and one or two others in the south, have for years been able to put forth intelligent chiefs to transact their public business, who have astonished the circles at Washington. Yet, if they were followed to the huts of the common people, at home, there was a degree of ignorance and barbarity, even below the standard of our leading northern tribes. Two kinds of testimony, respecting the condition of the southern tribes, both very different, and both true, could therefore be given. The Creeks came west, soured and disappointed, and but little disposed for the effort before them. They had suffered in various ways, and they had left the southern slopes and sunny valleys of the southern Alleganies with "a longing, lingering look." They had never manifested a general interest in schools, and none whatever in religion. The latter is still the prevalent feeling. It is believed there is not a missionary now tolerated among them. There is a more friendly feeling towards education. Neither had they made much advance in mechanic arts. The chiefs were too proud, the common people too indolent, to learn the use of the saw or the hammer. Some change, in this respect, is thought to have ensued. Mechanics are employed for their benefit and at their charges, by the government, which must introduce the elements of mechanical industry. They dress in a rather gaudy, but picturesque manner. They live in comfortable houses of squared or scored logs, fitted up with useful articles of furniture, and they employ beasts of burthen and of pleasure. It is the evidence of the government agents, that the signs of advancing thrift and industry are among them. Time alone, it is believed, is necessary, with a perseverance in present efforts, to carry them onwards to civilisation and prosperity.[48] 4. Seminoles. This tribe is of the language and lineage of the Creeks. They are appropriately placed on a tract within the general area of the latter, bounded on the south by the Canadian fork of the Arkansas, and by the lands of the Choctaws and Chickasaws. The tract has an extent of seventy miles from east to west, and is fully adequate to their wants. A blacksmith's shop is maintained for them; they are furnished with agricultural implements, and have been gratuitously subsisted, as other tribes, one year, at the public expense. It is thought to be unfavorable to their progress, that they have been allowed to migrate with their slaves, who are averse to labor and exert a paralysing influence on their industry. This tribe is far behind the other southern tribes in civilisation and manners. They occupied, while in Florida, a region truly tropical in its climate, and which yielded spontaneously no unimportant part of their subsistence, in the arrowroot and in sea fish. Their chief product thus far, in the west, has been corn. They live under the authority of local chiefs, who, as in all their past history, exercise influence in proportion to their talents and courage. Their withdrawal from scenes and situations which served as nurseries of idle, savage habits, and their association with the other leading tribes, who are now bent on supporting themselves exclusively by agriculture, have been favorable. They have been at peace since their arrival on the waters of the Arkansas; and it is anticipated that they will, by example and emulation, assimilate themselves in industry with the pre-existing tribes. It has already been demonstrated that they will sustain themselves in their new field of labor. But few of their numbers--from the last accounts not exceeding 100[49]--now remain in Florida. 5. Cherokees. This tribe is prominent among the native stocks in the United States, and is foremost in the efforts it has made to take rank among civilized nations. In this effort it has passed through some severe and tragic ordeals from internal dissensions, from which it would seem, that in proportion as the prize is brought within their grasp, are the trials multiplied which delay its seizure. And, notwithstanding its strong claims to consideration on this head, they have, it must be admitted, much to attain. The original position of the Cherokees, in the valleys and the western spurs of the Alleganies, and remote from the disturbing causes which agitated the other tribes, was highly favorable to their increase and advance. No tribe in North America had remained so completely undisturbed, by red or white men, up to the year 1836. They were early, and to a considerable extent, cultivators; and whatever they were in ancient times, they have been a nation at peace, for a long period. Soon after the close of the late war of 1812, a portion of this tribe went over the Mississippi, and, by a compact with government, placed themselves between the waters of the White river and the Arkansas. This advance formed the nucleus of that political party, who have mingled in their recent assemblies under the name of Western Cherokees, and who deemed themselves to be entitled to some rights and considerations above the Eastern Cherokees. The principal dissensions, however, grew out of the question of the cession of the territory east of the Mississippi. This was a broad question of _sale_ or _no sale_, _emigration_ or _non-emigration_. At the head of the affirmative party was Ridge; at the head of the negative, Ross. The latter, in addition to his being the leading chief and most prominent man, was in a large majority, and, for a time, successfully resisted the measure. The former drew a number of the best educated chiefs and men to his side. Availing himself of the temporary absence of his antagonist, Ross, from the country, he ceded the country, and sealed the fate of his tribe east of the Mississippi. It was a minority treaty, but the consideration was ample; it secured large prospective advantages, besides a large and rich domain in the West. It was, therefore, sustained by the government; the U. S. Senate ratified it, adding some further immunities and further compensation, at the instance of Ross. The tribe was removed, but it went west with a deadly feud. In the end, Ridge, like McIntosh, paid for his temerity with his life. A representative government was set up, consisting of a house of delegates or representatives, annually chosen by districts; a senatorial council, with powers of revision or co-action, and an executive elective head. A code of laws has been adopted, and a judiciary created to carry them into effect. This system, which has been in operation some six or seven years, has been found adequate to sustain itself through scenes of severe trial; and it must be regarded as one which, modified as it may be, is destined to endure. The territory of the Cherokees is between that of the Creeks and Osages. It is ample beyond their wants, fertile, and generally well watered. The Arkansas crosses it centrally; it has the Neosho and the State of Arkansas as its eastern boundary. It is well adapted to the cereal grains. Corn, wheat and oats succeed well, together with melons and culinary vegetables of all descriptions. The Cherokees have been long accustomed to husbandry. They own large stocks of horses, cattle, hogs and sheep. They occupy substantial and comfortable houses. Many of their females spin and weave, and numbers of their people are clothed in their own manufactures. Well improved farms extend through their settlements. A number of their merchants are natives, who buy and sell produce, and import foreign merchandise. Reading and writing are common attainments. They have schools and churches. They have mills for grinding grain. They manufacture salt to a limited extent. The country yields stone coal and gypsum. The prairies, which are interspersed through the tract, yield a fine summer range for cattle, and produce a species of grass, which, when properly cured, is little inferior to timothy. With a country which has thus the elements of prosperity in itself, and an intelligent and industrious population, this tribe must, ere long, present the gratifying spectacle of a civilized race. 6. The Osages. This tribe is indigenous, and formerly owned a large part of the territory which is now assigned to others. Their habits and condition have been, however, but little benefited by the use which they have made of their annuities. Great exertions have been made by the local agents to induce them to give up their erratic mode of life, and become agriculturists. To this end stock and agricultural implements have been furnished them, and other facilities given, but without any general effects. Among these may be named the building of mills, and the erection of well built cabins for their chiefs. There is no tribe to which the term predatory may be so appropriately applied as to the Osages. They have, from an early day, been plunderers on that frontier, among red and white men. Possessing a large territory, formerly well supplied with the deer, elk and buffalo, powerful in numbers, courageous in spirit, and enjoying one of the finest climates, these early predatory habits have been transmitted to the present day. They are loth to relinquish this wild license of the prairies--the so-called freedom of the roving Indian. But it is a species of freedom which the settlement of Missouri and Arkansas, and the in-gathering of the semi-civilized tribes from the south and the north, has greatly restricted. Game has become comparatively scarce. The day of the hunter is well nigh past in those longitudes. When to this is added the example of the expatriated Indians, in tillage and grazing, their field labors in fencing and erecting houses, their improved modes of dress, their schools, and their advanced state of government and laws, the hope may be indulged that the Osages will also be stimulated to enter for the prize of civilisation. Such are the six principal tribes who form the nucleus, or, to use a military phrase, the right wing of the expatriated aboriginal population, as the bands are arranged in their order from south to north, in the trans-Ozark or Indian territory. It would afford us pleasure to devote some separate considerations to each of the remaining nineteen tribes and half tribes, or remnants and pioneers of tribes, who make up this imposing and interesting colony, where, for the first time since the settlement of the Continent, the Indian race is presented in an independent, compact, and prosperous condition. But it would manifestly extend this article beyond its just limits, and we must therefore generalize our remaining notices. We still, however, adhere to a geographical method. The Senecas from Sandusky, and the mixed Senecas and Shawnees, are situated north-east of the Cherokees, and between the latter and the western boundary of Missouri. They possess a hundred thousand acres of choice lands. The Sanduskies number 251 souls; the mixed band, 222. They are represented as farmers and stock-raisers, frugal, industrious, and less addicted to intemperance than their neighbors. They cultivated, in 1839, from two hundred and fifty to three hundred acres of corn. They have a blacksmith's shop, under treaty stipulations, and possess good stocks of horses, cattle, and hogs. The Quapaws adjoin the Senecas and Shawnees on the north, and, as the latter, have their lands fronting on the Neosho. This band formerly owned and ceded the south banks of the Arkansas from its mouth as high as the Canadian fork. They are indolent, much addicted to the use of ardent spirits, and depressed in numbers. They have a tract of 96,000 acres. They cultivate, generally, about one hundred acres of corn, in a slovenly manner. Part of their numbers are seated on the waters of Red River, and the Indian predilection for rowing is nourished by the frequent habit of passing to and fro. This erratic habit is an unerring test of the hunter state. The Piankashaws and Weas are of the Miami stock, and came from the waters of the Wabash. They are located on 255 sections, immediately west of the western boundary of Missouri, and about 40 miles south of the Konza. Their population is 384, of which 222 are Weas. Immediately west of them are the Peorias and Kaskaskias of the Illinois family. They number 132, and possess 150 sections, which gives an average of more than a square mile to each soul. Still west of these, are the Ottowas of Ohio, about 200 in number, and above them, a small band of 61 of the Chippewas of Swan Creek and Black River in Michigan. These locations are all on the sources of the Osage River. The lands are fine, partly woods and partly prairie, and are easily cultivated. These six fragmentary bands are not dissimilar in their habits of living and the state of their advance in agriculture. They subsist themselves by raising corn and cattle and hogs. They evince an advancing condition, and are surrounded by circumstances eminently favorable to it. The Shawnees are placed at the junction of the Konza with the Missouri, extending south and west. They number a little short of 1300, and own a territory of ten thousand square miles, or 6,400,000 acres. They are cultivators and graziers in an advanced state of improvement. Hunting may be occasionally resorted to as a sport or amusement, but it has, years since, been abandoned as a source of subsistence. Indeed, the failure of the game in that region would have rendered the latter imperative, had not their improved habits of industry led to it. This tribe have essentially conquered their aversion to labor. They drive oxen and horses trained to the plough. They split rails and build fences. They erect substantial cabins and barns. They have old corn in their cribs from year to year. They own good saddle-horses and saddles, and other articles of caparison, and a traveller or visitor will find a good meal, a clean bed, and kind treatment in their settlements. Next in position to the Shawnees are the Delawares, the descendants of the ancient Lenno Lenapees of Pennsylvania. Allies and kindred in their ancient position, they are still in juxtaposition in their new Their tract begins at the junction of the Konza and Missouri on the north, and after running up the former to the Konza reserve, extends north and west so as to embrace it on the north. It contains about 2450 square miles, or 2,208,000 acres. They number, at the last dates to which we have referred, 826 souls, and are on the increase. In point of habits, industry, and improvement, they are perhaps not inferior to any of the northern stocks. Shielded from intemperance by their position, out of the State limits, where they are exclusively under the influence and protection of Congress laws, this tribe, together with the entire circle of Indian communities on that frontier, has been for some years in a favourable position for recovering and developing their true energies. They have, within a few years, received into their protection a small band(182) of the Monceys, and a smaller one, of 74, of the Stockbridges: the latter, we need hardly inform the intelligent reader, are descendants of the ancient Mohegans, and the former of the Minsi and Minnisinks, who, at the era of the colonization of "Nova Belgica" and New York, were respectively located on the east and the west banks of the Hudson. The Stockbridges are civilized; the Munsees less so, but industrious. Both are poor, and without funds. Immediately succeeding the Delawares are the Kickapoos, an erratic race, who, under various names, in connection with the Foxes and Sacs, have, in good keeping with one of their many names,[50] skipped over half the continent, to the manifest discomfort of both German and American philologists and ethnographers, who, in searching for the so-called "Mascotins," have followed, so far as their results are concerned, an _ignis fatuus_. The Kickapoos have 12,000 square miles, or 768,000 acres. It is a choice, rich tract, and they are disposed, with the example of the Delawares and Shawnees, to profit by it. They raise corn and cattle, hogs and horses, and are prosperous. Their numbers, in 1840, were 470. There is a tract of 200 square miles, on the Great and Little Namaha, assigned to the metifs, or descendants of mixed blood, of the Iowas, Otoes, and Missouris. These separate the removed and semi-civilized tribes, south and west of the Missouri, from the wild indigenes--we mean the Otoes, the Pawnees, the Omahaws, and the Sioux, who extend over vast tracts, and exist without any sensible improvement in their condition. The same remark may be applied to the Konzas, who are, however, hemmed in between the Delawares and the Shawnees, except on their western borders. It is no part of our purpose to consider these tribes, as, over and above the influence of contiguous examples, they constitute no part of the evidence affecting the general question of the plan of removal. That this evidence, as now briefly sketched, is favorable, and indeed highly favorable, to the general condition and prosperity of the removed tribes, is, we apprehend, clearly manifest. Not only have they been placed beyond the wasting influence of causes which oppressed them, within the circle of the State communities; but they have received in exchange for their eastern lands, a territory which, as a whole, is highly fertile and salubrious. It is a territory which has required little comparative labor to cultivate, made up as it is of mixed forests and prairies. It is also, viewed _in extenso_, well watered, having those noble streams, the Red River, the Arkansas, the Konza, the Platte, and the Missouri, with their tributaries, running through it. The range which it affords for cattle and stock, and the abundance of wild hay, of a nutritious quality, has proved very favorable to an incipient agricultural population, and greatly mitigated the ordinary labors of farming in northern climates. There are no latitudes in North America more favorable to the growth of corn. The cotton plant has been introduced by the Choctaws and Chickasaws, on the banks of Red river. It is a region abounding in salt springs and gypsum beds, both which must hereafter be fully developed, and will prove highly advantageous. It is above the first or principal rapids of the great streams running down the plateau of the Rocky Mountains, and consequently affords sites for water-mills, which are scarce and almost unknown on the lower Arkansas. There is, indeed, a combination of circumstances, which are calculated to favor the General Government plan, and foster the Indians in a general attempt at civilisation and self-government. And we look with interest, and not without anxiety, at the result of the experiment. We are aware that there are trials before them, arising from great diversity of feelings and opinions, and states of civilisation. Some of the tribes are powerful, advanced, and wealthy; some feeble and poor. Education has very unequally affected them. Laws are in their embryo state. The Gospel has been but partially introduced. In clothing the native councils with some of the powers of a congress, and regulating their action by constitutional fixity, there is great care and deliberation required, not, at once, to grasp too much. There is perhaps yet greater danger in enlarging the authority of the chiefs and sagamores into something like presidential dimensions. The natives have great powers of imitation; and it is to be feared that they will content themselves by imitating things which they do not fully understand or appreciate. The national character of the Indians is eminently suspicious. There is a fear to trust others, even themselves. Delegated power is narrowly watched, and often begrudged when given. The acts of their public men are uniformly impugned. The thought seems hardly to be entertained by the common Indians, that an officer may be guided by right and honest motives. The principle of suspicion has, so to say, eaten out the Indian heart. The jealousy with which he has watched the white man, in all periods of his history, is but of a piece with that with which he watches his chiefs, his neighbors, and his very family. Exaltation of feeling, liberality of sentiment, justness of reasoning, a spirit of concession, and that noble faith and trust which arise from purity and virtue, are the characteristics of civilisation; and we should not be disappointed if they do not, all at once, grow and flourish in these nascent communities. Still, our hopes predominate over our fears. Where so much has been accomplished as we see by the Cherokees, the Choctaws, and Chickasaws, and our most advanced northern tribes, we expect more. From the tree that bears blossoms, we expect fruit. We have no expectation, however, that without some principles of general political association, the tribes can permanently advance. To assume the character and receive the respect of a commonwealth, they must have the political bonds of a commonwealth. Our Indian tribes have never possessed any of these bonds. They are indeed the apparent remnants of old races, which have been shivered into fragments, and never found the capacity to re-unite. The constant tendency of all things, in a state of nature, has been to divide. The very immensity of the continent, its varied fertility and resources, and its grand and wild features, led to this. Hitherto, the removed tribes in the West have opposed an associated government. They have stoutly and effectually resisted and rejected this part of the government scheme. They fear, the agents say, it is some plan to bring them under the civil yoke. Time, reflection, and education must tend to correct this. More than all, their civil discussions must tend to show the necessity of a more enlarged and general frame of government, in which some individual rights must be yielded to the public, to secure the enjoyment of the rest. We think there is some evidence of the acknowledgment of this want, in their occasional general councils, at which all the tribes have been invited to be present. During the last year (1843) such a convocation was held at Tablequah, the seat of the Cherokee government. At this, there were delegates present from the Creeks, Chickasaws, Delawares, Shawnees, Piankashaws, Weas, Osages, Senecas, Stockbridges, Ottowas, Chippewas, Peorias, Pottowattomies, and Seminoles. The result of these deliberations, we are informed, was a compact in which it was agreed:-- 1. To maintain peace and friendship among each other. 2. To abstain from the law of retaliation for offences. 3. To provide for improvements in agriculture, the arts, and manufactures. 4. To provide against any cession of their territory, in any form. 5. To punish crimes, committed by one tribe, in the bounds of another. 6. To provide for a general citizenship among the contracting parties. 7. To suppress the use or introduction of ardent spirits. These are very mixed principles, containing no basis of a government; yet, futile as they are, we apprehend they contain no effective power for their enforcement. A law without a penalty is like a rope of sand. Any of these parties might nullify either of these acts, by neglecting to enforce it. It is, we apprehend, the mere expression of the popular will, in a council, without any binding obligation of the whole, or a majority of the tribes, to compel obedience from the delinquent members. It may, however, lead to further deliberations; and we cannot but regard the movement as one which betokens political forethought and purpose. Our greatest apprehensions, we must confess, before closing this paper, arise from the peculiar geographical position of the Indian territory with relation to our own. And this could not, perhaps, have been anticipated twenty years ago, when the plan was formed. Our population is on the broad move west. Nothing, it is evident, will now repress them this side of the Pacific. The snowy heights of the Rocky Mountains are already scaled; and we but apply the results of the past to the future, in saying that the path which has been trod by a few, will be trod by many. Now, the removed tribes are precisely in the centre of this path. From the mouth of the Platte, or the Konza, the great highway to the Oregon must run west. Whether this new tide of emigration will be successful or unsuccessful, will those who compose it spare to trample on the red man? Will they suddenly become kind to him, to whom they have been unkind? Will they cease to desire the lands which their children want? Will they consent to see the nation separated by an Indian state? Will they award honors, nay, justice, to that state? Twenty years will answer these questions. * * * * * CHOCTAWS.--An appropriation of $113,000 has been made by Congress for the removal and subsistence of the Choctaws now in Mississippi. There are upwards of six thousand in our state, comprising about eleven hundred families. These are under Colonels Johnson and Fisher. The half of the money due the Indians, and to be paid after their landing in their new homes in the West, is to be funded. This will effectually prevent all speculation, and enable the Indians to obtain and hold what is due them. Those now in the state are guarded against all coercive measures for their removal, and left free to go West or remain in their homes in Mississippi.--_Southern Reformer._ FOOTNOTES: [45] Democratic Review, 1844. [46] Treaty of Fort Pitt, 1778. [47] We have only space to say here, that the cession of the Georgia lands was subsequently made by the Lower Creeks under the chieftaincy of General M'Intosh, who was the first to affix his signature to it. For this act he paid the penalty of his life; the Upper Creeks and their adherents, having assembled in arms, surrounded his house, and fired three hundred balls into it, killing its unhappy, but distinguished inmate. [48] This tribe has, the past year (1843), passed a law expelling all white men who play at cards, from the limits of the nation, whether they have Indian wives or not. [49] Secretary of War's report, 1843. [50] This is said, by one interpretation, to mean Rabbit's Ghost. NURSERY AND CRADLE SONGS OF THE FOREST. The tickenagun, or Indian cradle, is an object of great pride with an Indian mother. She gets the finest kind of broad cloth she possibly can to make an outer swathing band for it, and spares no pains in ornamenting it with beads and ribbons, worked in various figures. In the lodges of those who can afford it, there is no article more showy and pretty than the full bound cradle. The frame of the cradle itself is a curiosity. It consists of three pieces. The vertebral board, which supports the back, the hoop or foot-board, which extends tapering up each side, and the arch or bow, which springs from each side, and protects the face and head. These are tied together with deer's sinews or pegged. The whole structure is very light, and is carved with a knife by the men, out of the linden or maple tree. Moss constitutes the bed of the infant, and is also put between the child's feet to keep them apart and adjust the shape of them, according to custom. A one-point blanket of the trade, is the general and immediate wrapper of the infant, within the hoop, and the ornamented swathing band is wound around the whole, and gives it no little resemblance to the case of a small mummy. As the bow passes directly above the face and eyes, trinkets are often hung upon this, to amuse it, and the child gets its first ideas of ornament from these. The hands are generally bound down with the body, and only let out occasionally, the head and neck being the only part which is actually free. So bound and laced, hooped and bowed, the little fabric, with its inmate, is capable of being swung on its mother's back, and carried through the thickest forest without injury. Should it even fall no injury can happen. The bow protects the only exposed part of the frame. And when she stops to rest, or enters the lodge, it can be set aside like any other household article, or hung up by the cradle strap on a peg. Nothing, indeed, could be better adapted to the exigencies of the forest life. And in such tiny fabrics, so cramped and bound, and bedecked and trinketed, their famous Pontiacs and King Philips, and other prime warriors, were once carried, notwithstanding the skill they afterwards acquired in wielding the lance and war club. The Indian child, in truth, takes its first lesson in the _art of endurance_, in the cradle. When it cries it need not be unbound to nurse it. If the mother be young, she must put it to sleep herself. If she have younger sisters or daughters they share this care with her. If the lodge be roomy and high, as lodges sometimes are, the cradle is suspended to the top poles to be swung. If not, or the weather be fine, it is tied to the limb of a tree, with small cords made from the inner bark of the linden, and a vibratory motion given to it from head to foot by the mother or some attendant. The motion thus communicated, is that of the pendulum or common swing, and may be supposed to be the easiest and most agreeable possible to the child. It is from this motion that the leading idea of the cradle song is taken. I have often seen the red mother, or perhaps a sister of the child, leisurely swinging a pretty ornamented cradle to and fro in this way, in order to put the child to sleep, or simply to amuse it. The following specimens of these wild-wood chaunts, or wigwam lullabys, are taken from my notes upon this subject, during many years of familiar intercourse with the aboriginals. If they are neither numerous nor attractive, placed side by side with the rich nursery stores of more refined life, it is yet a pleasant fact to have found such things even existing at all amongst a people supposed to possess so few of the amenities of life, and to have so little versatility of character. Meagre as these specimens seem, they yet involve no small degree of philological diligence, as nothing can be more delicate than the inflexions of these pretty chaunts, and the Indian woman, like her white sister, gives a delicacy of intonation to the roughest words of her language. The term wa-wa often introduced denotes a _wave_ of the air, or the circle described by the motion of an object through it, as we say, swing, swing, a term never applied to a wave of water. The latter is called tegoo, or if it be crowned with foam, beta. In introducing the subjoined specimens of these simple see saws of the lodge and forest chaunts, the writer felt, that they were almost too frail of structure to be trusted, without a gentle hand, amidst his rougher materials. He is permitted to say, in regard to them, that they have been exhibited to Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith, herself a refined enthusiast of the woods, and that the versions from the original given, are from her chaste and truthful pen. In the following arch little song, the reader has only to imagine a playful girl trying to put a restless child to sleep, who pokes its little head, with black hair and keen eyes over the side of the cradle, and the girl sings, imitating its own piping tones. Ah wa nain? (Who is this?) Ah wa nain? (Who is this?) Wa yau was sa-- (Giving light--meaning the light of the eye) Ko pwasod. (On the top of my lodge.) Who is this? who is this? eye-light bringing To the roof of the lodge? And then she assumes the tone of the little screech owl, and answers-- Kob kob kob (It is I--the little owl) Nim be e zhau (Coming,) Kob kob kob (It is I--the little owl) Nim be e zhau (Coming,) Kit che--kit che. (Down! down!) It is I, it is I, hither swinging, (wa wa) Dodge, dodge, baby dodge; And she springs towards it and down goes the little head. This is repeated with the utmost merriment upon both sides. Who is this, who is this eye-light bringing To the roof of my lodge? It is I, it is I, hither swinging, Dodge, dodge, baby dodge. Here is another, slower and monotonous, but indicating the utmost maternal content: Swinging, swinging, lul la by, Sleep, little daughter sleep, 'Tis your mother watching by, Swinging, swinging she will keep, Little daughter lul la by. 'Tis your mother loves you dearest, Sleep, sleep, daughter sleep, Swinging, swinging, ever nearest, Baby, baby, do not weep; Little daughter, lul la by. Swinging, swinging, lul la by, Sleep, sleep, little one, And thy mother will be nigh-- Swing, swing, not alone-- Little daughter, lul la by. This of course is exceedingly simple, but be it remembered these chaunts are always so in the most refined life. The ideas are the same, that of tenderness and protective care only, the ideas being few, the language is in accordance. To my mind it has been a matter of extreme interest to observe how almost identical are the expressions of affection in all states of society, as though these primitive elements admit of no progress, but are perfect in themselves. The e-we-yea of the Indian woman is entirely analogous to the lul la by of our language, and will be seen to be exceedingly pretty in itself. 2. The original words of this, with their literal import, are also added, to preserve the identity. (a.) Wa wa--wa wa--wa we yea, (Swinging, twice, lullaby.) Nebaun--nebaun--nebaun, (Sleep thou, thrice.) Nedaunis-ais, e we yea, (Little daughter, lullaby.) Wa wa--wa wa--wa wa, (Swinging, thrice.) Nedaunis-ais, e we yea, (Little daughter lullaby.) (b.) Keguh, ke gun ah wain e ma, (Your mother cares for you.) Nebaun--nebaun--nebaun, e we yea, (Sleep, thrice, lullaby.) Kago, saigizze-kain, nedaunis-ais, (Do not fear, my little daughter.) Nebaun--nebaun--nebaun, (Sleep, thrice.) Kago, saigizze-kain, wa wa, e we yea, (third line repeated.) (c.) Wa wa--wa wa--wa we yea, (Swinging, twice, lullaby.) Kaween neezheka kediausee, (Not alone art thou.) Ke kan nau wai, ne me go, suhween, (Your mother is caring for you.) Nebaun--nebaun--nedaunis-ais, (Sleep, sleep, my little daughter.) Wa wa--wa wa--wa we yea, (Swinging, &c. lullaby.) Nebaun--nebaun--nebaun, (Sleep! sleep! sleep.[51]) THE HARE AND THE LYNX. 3. The story of the Wabose, (Hare,) and the Pighieu, (Lynx,) will at once remind the reader of the so often recited tale of little Red Riding Hood, in which the reciter imitates the tones of the wolf, and the little nursery listener hears with a growing amazement, and starts as if he felt the real wolf's teeth at the close. This story is partly spoken and partly sung. The Teller imitating alternately the Hare, and its enemy, the Lynx. There was once, she says, a little Hare living in the lodge with its grandmother, who was about to send it back to its native land. When it had gone but a little way, a Lynx appeared in the path, and began to sing, Where pretty white one? Where little white one, Where do you go? Tshwee! tshwee! tshwee! tshwee! cried the Hare, and ran back to its grandmother. "See, grandmother," said the timid little creature, "what the Lynx is saying to me," and she repeated the song. "Ho! Nosis," that is to say, courage my grandchild, run along, and tell him you are going home to your native land: so the Hare went back and began to sing, To the point of land I roam, For there is the white one's home,-- Whither I go. Then the Lynx looked at the trembling Hare, and began to sing, Little white one, tell me why Like to leather, thin and dry, Are your pretty ears? Tshwee! tshwee! tshwee! tshwee! cried the Hare, and she ran back to her grandmother, and repeated the words. "Go Nosis, and tell him your uncles fixed them so, when they came from the South." So the Hare ran back and sang, From the south my uncles came, And they fixed my ears the same,-- Fixed my slender ears. and then the Hare laid her pink ears upon her shoulders, and was about to go on, but the Lynx began to sing again,-- Why, why do you go away? Pretty white one, can't you stay? Tell me why your little feet, Are made so dry and very fleet? Tshwee! tshwee! tshwee! tshwee! said the poor little Hare, and she ran back again to the lodge to ask again. "Ho! Nosis!" said the grandmother, who was old and tired, "do not mind him, nor listen to him, nor answer him, but run on." The Hare obeyed, and ran as fast as she could. When she came to the spot where the Lynx had been, she looked round, but there was no one there, and she ran on. But the Lynx had found out all about the little Hare, and knew she was going across to the neck of land; and he had nothing to do but reach it first, and waylay her; which he did: and when the innocent creature came to the place, and had got almost home, the Lynx sprang out of the thicket and eat her up. The original chant, omitting the narrative part as given above, runs in this fashion, word for word. Lynx. Tah kau (where ah!) Tah hau (where ah!) Wa bose (little white one) Wa bose (little white one) Ke te e zha (are you going?) Hare. Na kwa oushing (to the point of land) Ain dah nuk e aum baun (in my native country) In de e zha (I go.) Lynx. Au neen (what!) Au neen (what!) A nau be kaus o yun aig (causes it,) Kish ke mun ing (why like stripes of leather) Ish o tow ug a una, (are your ears?) Hare. Nish ish sha ug (my uncles,) O sha wun e nong (when from the south) Ke e zha waud (they came,) Ningeeaizh e goob un eeg (they did fix me so.) Lynx. Tah kau (where ah!) Tah kau (where ah!) Wa bose (little white one,) Wa bose (little white one,) Ke de e zha (are you going?) Au neen (why?) Na naub o kos o yun (look they so,) Kish ke mun a, (like dry bits of leather,) I izh e zida una, (your feet ha!) 4. THE KITE AND THE EAGLE. This is a specimen of Indian satire. The coward is boastful when there is no danger: pretension succeeds in the absence of real merit! A Kite was boasting how high he could fly, and ventured to speak disparagingly of the eagle, not knowing that the latter overheard him. He began to sing in a loud voice, I upward fly I! I alone disdain the air Till I hang as by a hair Poised in the sky. The Eagle answers disdainfully, looking down from a branch far above the Kite, Who _mounts_ the sky? Who is this, with babbling tongue As he had on the storm-cloud hung, Who flies so high? The Kite in a shrinking, feeble voice, The great Khakake I've sometimes thought he flew so high That he must see within the sky The dawn awake. The Eagle despises him, and yet cannot forbear to answer, I spurn you all, ye prating throng How often have I passed ye by When my broad pinions fleet and strong, Soared up where leapt the thunder cry! Nor ye with feeble wing might dare, Those hill-tops high, to mount in air. and he soared off, up, up into the sky till the boaster could not behold him. But no sooner was the Kite left alone to himself than he began to sing again so as to be heard on every side, I upward fly I, I alone disdain the air Till I hang as by a hair Poised in the sky. Literally thus. Kite. Neen a (I alone) Neen a (I alone) Ta wa e ya (can go up) Bai bwau } As shau dau } (so as to seem as if hanging by a hair) Wa ke ge naun } O shau wush ko geezhig oong a (from the blue sky.) Eagle. Au wa nain (Who is this?) Au wa nain (Who is this?) Tshe mud je wa wa (with babbling tongue, who boasts) Ke pim o saing. (of flying so high?) Kite (shrinkingly) replies, "Oh I was only singing of the great Khakake, it is he who is said to fly so high." Eagle disdainfully replies, "Tshe mud je wa wa, that is great babbler, or bad-tongue, you are below my notice," &c., and soars aloft. Kite, resuming its boasting tone, as soon as the eagle is out of hearing, Neen a (I alone &c., the whole being a Neen a repetition of the first part.) Ta we ya Bai bwau As shau dau Wa ke ge naun, O shau wush ko, geezhig oong a. 5. THE RAVEN AND WOODPECKER. A still farther view of Indian manners and opinions is hid under this simple chant. Opinion among the forest race, makes the whole animated creation cognizant and intelligent of their customs. A young married woman is supposed to go out from the lodge, and busy herself in breaking up dry limbs, and preparing wood, as if to lay in a store for a future and approaching emergency. A raven, perched on a neighbouring tree, espies her, at her work, and begins to sing; assuming the expected infant to be _a boy_. In dosh ke zhig o mun In dosh ke zhig o mun In dosh ke zhig o mun My eyes! my eyes! my eyes! Alluding to the boy (and future man) killing animals as well as men, whose eyes will be left, as the singer anticipates, to be picked out by ravenous birds. So early are the first notions of war implanted. A woodpecker, sitting near, and hearing this song, replies; assuming the sex of the infant to be _a female_. Ne mos sa mug ga Ne mos sa mug ga Ne mos sa mug ga. My worms! my worms! my worms! Alluding to the custom of the female's breaking up dry and dozy wood, out of which, it could pick its favourite food, being the mösa or wood-worm. * * * * * Want of space induces the writer to defer, to a future number, the remainder of his collection of these cradle and nursery chants. They constitute in his view, rude as they are, and destitute of metrical attractions, a chapter in the history of the human heart, in the savage phasis, which deserves to be carefully recorded. It has fallen to his lot, to observe more perhaps, in this department of Indian life, than ordinary, and he would not acquit himself of his duty to the race, were he to omit these small links out of their domestic and social chain. The tie which binds the mother to the child, in Indian life, is a very strong one, and it is conceived to admit of illustration in this manner. It is not alone in the war-path and the council, that the Red Man is to be studied. To appreciate his whole character, in its true light, he must be followed into his lodge, and viewed in his seasons of social leisure and retirement. If there be any thing warm and abiding in the heart or memory of the man, when thus at ease, surrounded by his family, it must come out here; and hence, indeed, the true value of his lodge lore, of every kind. It is out of the things mental as well as physiological, that pertain to maternity, that philosophy must, in the end, construct the true ethnological chain, that binds the human race, in one comprehensive system of unity. FOOTNOTES: [51] These translations are entirely literal--the verbs to "sleep" and to "fear," requiring the imperative mood, second person, present tense, throughout. In rendering the term "wa-wa" in the participial form some doubt may exist, but this has been terminated by the idea of the _existing_ motion, which is clearly implied, although the word is not marked by the usual form of the participle in _ing_. The phrase lul-la-by, is the only one in our language, which conveys the evident meaning of the choral term e-we-yea. The substantive verb is wanting, in the first line of b. and the third of c. in the two forms of the verb, to care, or take care of a person; but it is present in the phrase "kediausee" in the second line of c. These facts are stated, not that they are of the slightest interest to the common reader, but that they may be examined by philologists, or persons curious in the Indian grammar. LANGUAGES OF THE PACIFIC ISLANDS. The Polynesian languages, like those of the Algonquin group of North America, have inclusive and exclusive pronouns to express the words _we_, _ours_, and _us_. They have also causative verbs such as, to make afraid, to make happy, &c., but while there appears this analogy in grammatical principles, there are some strong points of disagreement, and there appears to be no analogy whatever in the sounds of the language. There are eight well characterized dialects in the Polynesian family. They are the Tahitian, the Owyhee, [Hawaiian] Marquesan, or Washingtonian, Austral island, Hervey island, Samoan, Tongatabu, and New Zealand. In seven of these, the name for God is Atua, in the eighth, or Tongua dialect, it is Otua. Great resemblances exist in all the vocabularies. Much of the actual difference arises from exchanges of the consonants r and l, h and s, and a few others. They possess the dual number. The scheme of the pronouns is very complete, and provides for nearly all the recondite distinctions of person. Where the vocabulary fails in words to designate objects which were unknown to them before their acquaintance with Europeans, the missionaries have found it to fall in better with the genius of the language, to introduce new words from the Greek, with some modifications. Thus they have introduced _hipo_ for horse, _arenio_ for lamb, _areto_ for bread, and _baptizo_ for baptism. To continue faithful during a course of prosperity, says Xenophon, hath nothing wonderful in it, but when any set of men continue steadily attached to friends in adversity, they ought, on that account, to be eternally remembered. There are but two sources only, says Polybius, from whence any real benefit can be derived, our own misfortunes and those that have happened to other men. One wise counsel, says Euripides, is better than the strength of many. [Illustration: WOMEN OF THE MANDAN TRIBE] EARLY SKETCHES OF INDIAN WOMEN. _From "New England Prospect."_ CHAPTER XIX. OF THEIR WOMEN, THEIR DISPOSITIONS, EMPLOYMENTS, USAGE BY THEIR HUSBANDS, THEIR APPARELL, AND MODESTY. To satisfie the curious eye of women-readers, who otherwise might thinke their sex forgotten, or not worthy a record, let them peruse these few lines, wherein they may see their owne happinesse, if weighed in the womans ballance of these ruder _Indians_, who scorne the tuterings of their wives, or to admit them as their equals, though their qualities and industrious deservings may justly claime the preheminence, and command better usage and more conjugall esteeme, their persons and features being every way correspondent, their qualifications more excellent, being more loving, pittifull, and modest, milde, provident, and laborious than their lazie husbands. Their employments be many: First their building of houses, whose frames are formed like our garden-arbours, something more round, very strong and handsome, covered with close-wrought mats of their owne weaving, which deny entrance to any drop of raine, though it come both fierce and long, neither can the piercing North winde, finde a crannie, through which he can conveigh his cooling breath, they be warmer than our _English_ houses; at the top is a square hole for the smoakes evacuation, which in rainy weather is covered with a pluver; these bee such smoakie dwellings, that when there is good fires, they are not able to stand upright, but lie all along under the smoake, never using any stooles or chaires, it being as rare to see an _Indian_ sit on a stoole at home, as it is strange to see an _English_ man sit on his heels abroad. Their houses are smaller in the Summer, when their families be dispersed, by reason of heate and occasions. In Winter they make some fiftie or thereescore foote long, fortie or fiftie men being inmates under one roofe; and as is their husbands occasion these poore tectonists are often troubled like snailes, to carrie their houses on their backs sometimes to fishing-places, other times to hunting places, after that to a planting-place, where it abides the longest: an other work is their planting of corne, wherein they exceede our _English_ husband-men, keeping it so cleare with their Clamme shell-hooes, as if it were a garden rather than a corne-field, not suffering a choaking weede to advance his audacious head above their infant corne, or an undermining worme to spoile his spurnes. Their corne being ripe, they gather it, and drying it hard in the Sunne, conveigh it to their barnes, which be great holes digged in the ground in forme of a brasse pot, seeled with rinds of trees, wherein they put their corne, covering it from the inquisitive search of their gurmandizing husbands, who would eate up both their allowed portion, and reserved seede, if they knew where to finde it. But our hogges having found a way to unhindge their barne doores, and robbe their garners, they are glad to implore their husbands helpe to roule the bodies of trees over their holes, to prevent those pioners, whose theeverie they as much hate as their flesh. An other of their employments is their Summer processions to get Lobsters for their husbands, wherewith they baite their hookes when they goe a fishing for Basse or Codfish. This is an every dayes walke, be the weather cold or hot, the waters rough or calme, they must dive sometimes over head and eares for a Lobster, which often shakes them by their hands with a churlish nippe, and bids them adiew. The tide being spent, they trudge home two or three miles, with a hundred weight of Lobsters at their backs, and if none, a hundred scoules meete them at home, and a hungry belly for two days after. Their husbands having caught any fish, they bring it in their boates as farre as they can by water, and there leave it; as it was their care to catch it, so it must be their wives paines to fetch it home, or fast: which done, they must dresse it and cooke it, dish it, and present it, see it eaten over their shoulders; and their loggerships having filled their paunches; their sweete lullabies scramble for their scrappes. In the Summer these _Indian_ women when Lobsters be in their plenty and prime, they drie them to keepe for Winter, erecting scaffolds in the hot sunshine, making fires likewise underneath them, by whose smoake the flies are expelled, till the substance remains hard and drie. In this manner they drie Basse and other fishes without salt, cutting them very thinne to dry suddainely, before the flies spoile them, or the raine moist them, having a speciall care to hang them in their smoakie houses, in the night and dankish weather. In Summer they gather flagges, of which they make Matts for houses and Hempe and rushes, with dying stuffe of which they make curious baskets with intermixed colours and portractures of antique Imagerie these baskets be of all sizes from a quart to a quarter, in which they carry their luggage. In winter time they are their husbunds Caterers, trudging to the Clamm bankes for their belly timber, and their Porters to lugge home their Venison which their lazinesse exposes to the Woolves till they impose it upon their wives shoulders. They likewise sew their husbands shooes, and weave coates of Turkie feathers, besides all their ordinary household drudgerie which daily lies upon them. * * * * * [Of the treatment of babes the writer says]: The young Infant being greased and sooted, wrapt in a beaver skin, bound to his good behaviour with his feete upon a board two foote long and one foote broade, his face exposed to all nipping weather; this little _Pappouse_ travells about with his bare footed mother to paddle in the ice Clammbanks after three or foure dayes of age have sealed his passeboard and his mothers recoverie. For their carriage it is very civill, smiles being the greatest grace of their mirth; their musick is lullabies to quiet their children, who generally are as quiet as if they had neither spleene or lungs. To hear one of these _Indians_ unseene, a good eare might easily mistake their untaught voyce for the warbling of a well tuned instrument. Such command have they of their voices. * * * * * Commendable is their milde carriage and obedience to their husbands, notwithstanding all this their customarie churlishnesse and salvage inhumanitie, not seeming to delight in frownes or offering to word it with their lords, not presuming to proclaime their female superiority to the usurping of the least title of their husbands charter, but rest themselves content under their helplesse condition, counting it the womans portion: since the _English_ arrivall comparison hath made them miserable, for seeing the kind usage of the _English_ to their wives, they doe as much condemne their husbands for unkindnesse, and commend the _English_ for their love. As their husbands commending themselves for their wit in keeping their wives industrious, doe condemne the _English_ for their folly in spoyling good working creatures. These women resort often to the _English_ houses, where _pares cum paribus congregatæ_[52], in Sex I meane, they do somewhat ease their miserie by complaining and seldome part without a releefe: If her husband come to seeke for his _Squaw_ and beginne to bluster, the _English_ woman betakes her to her armes which are the warlike Ladle, and the scalding liquors, threatening blistering to the naked runnaway, who is soon expelled by such liquid comminations. In a word to conclude this womans historie, their love to the _English_ hath deserved no small esteeme, ever presenting them some thing that is either rare or desired, as Strawberries, Hurtleberries, Rasberries, Gooseberries, Cherries, Plummes, Fish, and other such gifts as their poore treasury yeelds them. But now it may be, that this relation of the churlish and inhumane behaviour of these ruder _Indians_ towards their patient wives, may confirme some in the beliefe of an aspersion, which I have often heard men cast upon the _English_ there, as if they should learne of the _Indians_ to use their wives in the like manner, and to bring them to the same subjection, as to sit on the lower hand, and to carrie water and the like drudgerie: but if my own experience may out-ballance an ill-grounded scandalous rumour, I doe assure you, upon my credit and reputation, that there is no such matter, but the women finde there as much love, respect, and ease, as here in old _England_. I will not deny, but that some poore people may carrie their owne water, and doe not the poorer sort in _England_ doe the same; witnesse your _London_ Tankard-bearers, and your countrie-cottagers? But this may well be knowne to be nothing, but the rancorous venome of some that beare no good will to the plantation. For what neede they carrie water, seeing every one hath a Spring at his doore, or the Sea by his house? Thus much for the satisfaction of women, touching this entrenchment upon their prerogative, as also concerning the relation of these _Indians_ Squawes. FOOTNOTES: [52] Equals assembled with equals. PAWNEE BARBARITY. That the tribes west of the Missouri, and beyond the pale of the ordinary influence of civilization, should retain some shocking customs, which, if ever prevalent among the more favoured tribes east of the Mississippi and the Alleghenies, have long disappeared, may be readily conceived. Wild, erratic bands, who rove over immense plains on horseback, with bow and lance, who plunge their knives and arrows daily into the carcasses of the buffalo, the elk and the deer, and who are accustomed to sights of blood and carnage, cannot escape the mental influence of these sanguinary habits, and must be, more or less, blunted in their conceptions and feelings. Where brute life is so recklessly taken, there cannot be the same nice feeling and sense of justice, which some of the more favoured tribes possess, with respect to taking away human life. Yet, it could hardly have been anticipated, that such deeds as we are now called upon to notice, would have their place even in the outskirts of the farther "Far West," and among a people so sunk and degraded in their moral propensities, as the Pawnees. But the facts are well attested. In the fierce predatory war carried on between the Pawnees and Sioux, acts of blood and retaliation, exercised on their prisoners, are of frequent occurrence. In the month of February, 1838, the Pawnees captured a Sioux girl only fourteen years of age. They carried her to their camp on the west of the Missouri, and deliberated what should be done with her. It is not customary to put female captives to death, but to make slaves of them. She, however, was doomed to a harder fate, but it was carefully concealed from her, for the space of some sixty or seventy days. During all this time she was treated well, and had comfortable lodgings and food, the same as the rest enjoyed. On the 22nd of April, the chiefs held a general council, and when it broke up, it was announced that her doom was fixed, but this was still carefully concealed from her. This doom was an extraordinary one, and so far as the object can be deduced, from the circumstances and ceremonies, the national hatred to their enemies was indulged, by making the innocent non-combatant, a sacrifice to the spirit of corn, or perhaps, of vegetable fecundity. When the deliberations of the council were terminated, on that day, she was brought out, attended by the whole council, and accompanied on a visit from lodge to lodge, until she had gone round the whole circle. When this round was finished, they placed in her hands a small billet of wood and some paints. The warriors and chiefs then seated themselves in a circle. To the first person of distinction she then handed this billet of wood and paint; he contributed to this offering, or sort of sacrificial charity some wood and paint, then handed it to the next, who did likewise, and he passed it to the next, until it had gone the entire rounds, and each one had contributed some wood and some paint. She was then conducted to the place of execution. For this purpose they had chosen an open grassy glade, near a cornfield, where there were a few trees. The spot selected was between two of these trees, standing about five feet apart, in the centre of which a small fire was kindled, with the wood thus ceremoniously contributed. Three bars had been tied across, from tree to tree, above this fire, at such a graded height, that the points of the blaze, when at its maximum, might just reach to her feet. Upon this scaffold she was compelled to mount, when a warrior at each side of her held fire under her arm pits. When this had been continued as long as they supposed she could endure the torture, without extinguishing life, at a given signal, a band of armed bow-men let fly their darts, and her body, at almost the same instant, was pierced with a thousand arrows. These were immediately withdrawn, and her flesh then cut with knives, from her thighs, arms and body, in pieces not longer than half a dollar, and put into little baskets. All this was done before life was quite extinct. The field of newly planted corn reached near to this spot. This corn had been dropped in the hill, but not covered with earth. The principal chief then took of the flesh, and going to a hill of corn, squeezed a drop of blood upon the grains. This was done by each one, until all the grains put into the ground, had received this extraordinary kind of sprinkling. This horrible cruelty took place in the vicinity of Council Bluffs. Offers to redeem the life of the prisoner had been made by the traders, in a full council of eighty chiefs and warriors, but they were rejected. The original narrator was an eye witness. He concludes his description by adding, that his wife's brother, a Pawnee, had been taken prisoner by the Sioux, in the month of June following, and treated in the same manner. Truly, it may be said that the precincts of the wild roving Red man, are "full of the abodes of cruelty." * * * * * Hunting and war are arts which require to be taught. The Indian youth, if they were not furnished with bows and arrows, would never learn to kill. The same time spent to teach them war and hunting, if devoted to teach them letters, would make them readers and writers. Education is all of a piece. Example is more persuasive than precept in teaching an Indian. Tell him that he should never touch alcohol, and he may not see clearly why; but show him, by your invariable practice, that you never do, and he may be led to confide in your admonitions. "THE LOON UPON THE LAKE." BY E. F. HOFFMAN. [From the Chippewa.[53]] I looked across the water, I bent o'er it and listened, I thought it was my lover, My true lover's paddle glistened. Joyous thus his light canoe would the silver ripples wake.-- But no!--it is the Loon alone--the loon upon the lake. Ah me! it is the loon alone--the loon upon the lake. I see the fallen maple Where he stood, his red scarf waving, Though waters nearly bury Boughs they then were newly laving. I hear his last farewell, as it echoed from the brake.-- But no, it is the loon alone--the loon upon the lake, Ah me! it is the loon alone--the loon upon the lake. FOOTNOTES: [53] Nenemoshain nindenaindum Meengoweugish abowaugoda Anewahwas mongoduga, &c., &c. TO A BIRD, SEEN UNDER MY WINDOW IN THE GARDEN. By the late Mrs. H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT, who was a grand daughter of the war chief WABOJEEG. Sweet little bird, thy notes prolong, And ease my lonely pensive hours; I love to list thy cheerful song, And hear thee chirp beneath the flowers. The time allowed for pleasures sweet, To thee is short as it is bright, Then sing! rejoice! before it fleet, And cheer me ere you take your flight. ODJIBWA SONG. The following song, taken from the oral traditions of the north, is connected with a historical incident, of note, in the Indian wars of Canada. In 1759, great exertions were made by the French Indian department, under Gen. Montcalm, to bring a body of Indians into the valley of the lower St. Lawrence, and invitations, for this purpose reached the utmost shores of Lake Superior. In one of the canoes from that quarter, which was left on their way down, at the lake of Two Mountains, near the mouth of the Utawas, while the warriors proceeded farther, was a Chippewa girl called Paig-wain-e-osh-e, or the White Eagle, driven by the wind. While the party awaited there, the result of events at Quebec, she formed an attachment for a young Algonquin belonging to the French mission of the Two Mountains. This attachment was mutual, and gave origin to the song, of which the original words, with a literal prose translation, are subjoined: I. Ia indenaindum Ia indenaindum Ma kow we yah Nin denaindum we. Ah me! when I think of him--when I think of him--my sweetheart, my Algonquin. II. Pah bo je aun Ne be nau be koning Wabi megwissun Nene mooshain we Odishquagumee. As I embarked to return, he put the white wampum around my neck--a pledge of truth, my sweetheart, my Algonquin. III. Keguh wejewin Ain dah nuk ke yun Ningee egobun Nene mooshain we Odishquagumee. I shall go with you, he said, to your native country--I shall go with you, my sweetheart--my Algonquin. IV. Nia! nin de nah dush Wassahwud gushuh Aindahnuk ke yaun Ke yau ninemooshai wee Odishquagumee. Alas! I replied--my native country is far, far away--my sweetheart; my Algonquin. V. Kai aubik oween Ain aube aunin Ke we naubee Ne ne mooshai we Odishquagumee. When I looked back again--where we parted, he was still looking after me, my sweetheart; my Algonquin. VI. Apee nay we ne bow Unishe bun Aungwash agushing Ne ne mooshai we Odishquagumee. He was still standing on a fallen tree--that had fallen into the water, my sweetheart; my Algonquin. VII. Nia! indenaindum Nia! in denaindum Ma kow we yuh Nin de nain dum we Odishquagumee. Alas! when I think of him--when I think of him--It is when I think of him; my Algonquin. * * * * * Eloquence on the part of the speakers, is not so much the result of superior force of thought, as of the strong and clear positions of right, in which they have been placed by circumstances. It is the force of truth, by which we are charmed. An Indian war song, sung in public, by the assembled warriors on the outbreak of hostilities, is a declaration of war. NIAGARA, AN ALLEGORY. An old grey man on a mountain lived, He had daughters four and one, And a tall bright lodge of the betula bark That glittered in the sun. He lived on the very highest top, For he was a hunter free, Where he could spy on the clearest day, Gleams of the distant sea. Come out--come out! cried the youngest one, Let us off to look at the sea, And out they ran in their gayest robes, And skipped and ran with glee. Come Su,[54] come Mi,[55] come Hu,[56] come Sa,[57] Cried laughing little Er,[58] Let us go to yonder broad blue deep, Where the breakers foam and roar. And on they scampered by valley and wood, By earth and air and sky, Till they came to a steep where the bare rocks stood, In a precipice mountain high. Inya![59] cried Er, here's a dreadful leap, But we are gone so far, That if we flinch and return in fear, Nos,[60] he will cry ha! ha! Now each was clad in a vesture light, That floated far behind, With sandals of frozen water drops, And wings of painted wind. And down they plunged with a merry skip, Like birds that skim the plain; And hey! they cried let us up and try And down the steep again. And up and down the daughters skipped, Like girls on a holiday, And laughed outright, at the sport and foam They called Niagara. If ye would see a sight so rare, Where nature's in her glee, Go, view the spot in the wide wild west, The land of the brave and free. But mark--their shapes are only seen In fancy's deepest play, But she plainly shews their wings and feet In the dancing sunny spray. FOOTNOTES: [54] Superior. [55] Michigan. [56] Huron. [57] St. Claro. [58] Erie. [59] An exclamation of wonder and surprize.--_Odj. lan._ [60] My father.--_ib._ A PSALM. OR SUPPLICATION FOR MERCY, AND A CONFESSION OF SIN, ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF LIFE, IN THE ODJIBWA-ALGONQUIN TONGUE. BY THE LATE MRS. HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT. 1. Gaitshe minno pimaudizzeyun, Gezha Monedo, gezhigong aibeyun. 2. Keen, maumauwaikumig waozhemigoyun. 3. Keen, kah ozhiéeyong, keen gaugegaikumig, kai nuhwaunemeyong, aikoobemaudizzeyong. 4. Keen, kainuhwaubaimeyong, geezhig tibbikuk tibishko. 5. Keen, Keozheahn-geezhik-geezis, dibbik-geezis, aunungug gia. 6. Keen, kegeozhetoan tshe kimmewung, gia tshe annimikeeaug, tshe sai sai yung, tshe sogepoog gia. 7. Keen kau ozheiyong tshe unnewegauboweyaung, kakinnuk kau ozheudjig akeeng. 8. Kee, gemishemin odjechaugwug, wekaukaine bosigoog. Kee gemishemin kebauzhigo kegwiss Jesus Christ, tshe oonjenebood neenowind. 9. Mozhug issuh nemudjee-inaindumin, kagait mozhug nemudjee-eki-domin; nahwudj neminwaindumin tshe mudjee-dodumaung. 10. Kagaitego me kaisoondje izhauyaungebun mudjee Moneto. 11. Showainemishinaum, Gezha Monedo. 12. Showainemishinaum, Jesus Christ. 13. Maishkoodjetoan ne mudjee-odai-enaunin. 14. Meezhishenaun edush oushke odaiyun. 15. Apaidush nah saugeigsayun, gia dush todumaung kau izhè gugeekwayun. 16. Me ozhissinaum odaiyun tshe minwaindumaung, tshe annahme autogoyun. 17. Showainim neendunahwaitmaugunenaunig unishenaubaig. 18. Showainim kukinnuh menik pemaudizzejig akeeng. 19. Showainemishenaum kaidokoo pemandizzeyong, appe dush neeboyong. 20. Showainemishenaum neen jeechaugonaunig tshe izhowaud keen. 21. Kaugegaikumig edush tshe menawaunegooz eyong ozaum ne mudje-pemaudizzewin auno unnahmeyauyongin. 22. Kauween edush kewee pemaudizzewin, kishpin aitah appainemo yong Kegwiss Jesus Christ. 23. Aipetainemud kegwiss showainemishenaum. Kunnah gai kunnah TRANSLATION. 1. Great good author of Life, Gezha Monedo, abiding in the heavens. 2. Thou hast made all things. 3. Thou art the giver,--Thou, the everlasting preserver of life. 4. Thou hast guarded me, by day and by night. 5. Thou hast made the sun and moon, and the stars. 6. Thou makest the rain, the thunder, the hail, and the snows. 7. Thou didst make man to stand upright, and has placed him over all that is on the earth. 8. Thou hast given us souls, that will never die. Thou hast sent thy son Jesus Christ to die for us. 9. Continually are our thoughts evil, and truly, our words are evil continually. 10. Verily, we deserve punishment with the Spirit of Evil. 11. Show pity on us, Gezha Monedo. 12. Show pity on us, Jesus Christ. 13. Reform our wicked hearts. 14. Give us new hearts. 15. May we love thee with all our hearts, and by our acts obey thy precepts, (or sayings.) 16. Give us hearts to delight in prayer. 17. Show mercy to all our kindred, unishenaubaig, or common people, (means exclusively the Red Men.) 18. Show mercy to all who live on the earth. 19. Pity us, and befriend us, living and dying. 20. And receive our souls to thyself. 21. Ever to dwell in thine abiding place of happiness. 22. Not in our own frail strength of life, do we ask this; but alone in the name of Jesus Christ. 23. Grant us thy mercy, in the name of thy Son. So be it ever. Those who take an interest in the structure of the Indian languages, may regard the above, as an _improvised_ specimen of the capacity of this particular dialect for the expression of scripture truth. The writer, who from early years was a member of the church, had made a translation of the Lords prayer, and, occasionally, as delicate and declining health permitted, some other select pieces from the sacred writings, and hymns, of which, one or two selections may, perhaps, hereafter be made. * * * * * The distinction between the active and passive voice, in the Odjibwa language, is formed by the inflection ego. Ne sageau, I love. Ne sageau-ego, I am loved. TRADITIONARY WAR SONGS OF THE ODJIBWA ALGONQUINS. Whoever has heard an Indian war song, and witnessed an Indian war dance, must be satisfied that the occasion wakes up all the fire and energy of the Indian's soul. His flashing eye--his muscular energy, as he begins the dance--his violent gesticulation as he raises his war-cry--the whole frame and expression of the man, demonstrate this. And long before it comes to his turn to utter his stave, or portion of the chant, his mind has been worked up to the most intense point of excitement: his imagination has pictured the enemy--the ambush and the onset--the victory and the bleeding victim, writhing under his prowess: in imagination he has already stamped him under foot, and torn off his reeking scalp: he has seen the eagles hovering in the air, ready to pounce on the dead carcass, as soon as the combatants quit the field. It would require strong and graphic language to give descriptive utterance, in the shape of song, to all he has fancied, and seen and feels on the subject. He, himself, makes no such effort. Physical excitement has absorbed his energies. He is in no mood for calm and connected descriptions of battle scenes. He has no stores of measured rhymes to fall back on. All he can do is to utter brief, and often highly symbolic expressions of courage--of defiance--of indomitable rage. His feet stamp the ground, as if he would shake it to its centre. The inspiring drum and mystic rattle communicate new energy to every step, while they serve, by the observance of the most exact time, to concentrate his energy. His very looks depict the spirit of rage, and his yells, uttered quick, sharp, and cut off by the application of the hand to the mouth, are startling and horrific. Under such circumstances, a few short and broken sentences are enough to keep alive the theme in his mind; and he is not probably conscious of the fact, that, to an unimpassioned and calm listener, with note book in hand, there is not sufficient said to give coherence to the song. And that such a song, indeed, under the best auspices, is a mere wild rhapsody of martial thought, poured out from time to time, in detached sentences, which are, so to say, cemented into lines by a flexible chorus and known tune. The song and the music are all of a piece. Vivid and glowing, and poetic pictures will float in such a train, and often strike the imagination by their graphic truth and boldness; but the poet must look elsewhere for finished melody, and refined and elaborate composition. The Indian is to be viewed here, as elsewhere, as being in the highest state of his _physical_, not of his _mental_ phasis. Such glimmerings may however be picked out of these warlike rhapsodies, as denote that he is of a noble and independent tone of thinking. We shall at least enable the reader to judge. The following specimens, which have been derived from actors in the depths of the forest, consist of independent songs, or stanzas, each of which is sung by a different or by the same warrior, while the dance is in progress. The words have been taken down from a young Chippewa warrior of lake Superior, of the name of Che che-gwy-ung. It will be perceived that there is a unity in the _theme_, while each warrior exercises the freest scope of expression. This unity I have favoured by throwing out such stanzas as mar it, and afterwards arranging them together. WAR SONG. _a._ In beginning this song the warrior has turned his eyes to the clouds. O shá wan ong (From the place of the south) Un dos´ e wug, (They come,) _repeat_. Pe nä´ se wug, (The birds, _i.e._ the warlike birds.) Ka baim wai wá dung-ig. (Hear the sound of their passing screams on the air.) _b._ The idea of ravenous birds hovering in the sky, still prevails-- Tod ot´ to be (I wish to change myself to be) Pe nä´ se. (A bird.) Ka dow´ we á we yun´. (His swift body--to be like him.) _c._ The warrior now rises above all thoughts of fear. Ne wä be na, (I cast it away.) Né ow a. (My body.) Ne wá be na, (_Repeats._) This is a high symbolical boast of personal bravery. Né ow a. _d._ He appeals to the Great Spirit for extraordinary power. Na bun á kum ig, (On the front part of the earth,) Tshe bá be wish´ em ug. (First shines [strikes] the light.) In do main´ em ik, (Such power to me,) Mon´ e do, (My God,) Shä wa nem id. (In thy mercy give!) By the boldness of this figure he claims the omnipotent power of the sun to see and discover his enemies. _e._ He upbraids such of his people as hold back, and do not join in the dance--that is to say, enlist in the war. Wä go nain´, e win? (Why do ye, warriors,) A be yun ah, (Stand back?) Wä wos is se, we yun. (Ye who bear the mark of the Awasees.) The Awasee is a kind of fish, which is the _totem_ of a clan. _f._ He declares his full purpose to enter into the war. Ne má je, e yeh! (I go to the spot--the war path!) Ne má je, e yeh! (_Repeats_.) Ne me kun ah, e yeh! (My war path!) Ge zhig neen wá tin, (My sky is fair and clear.) The common phrase to denote good fortune. Hoh! Ne monedo netaibuätum (Let others linger. Onward! my o win. God!--my right!) In presenting these specimens of the original words of some of our western warriors, we are permitted to give the annexed versions of them from the pen of one of our most gifted writers. WAR-SONG--"Pe-nä´ se-wug." (From the Algonquin of Schoolcraft.) BY C. F. HOFFMAN. I. Hear not ye their shrill-piping screams on the air? Up! Braves for the conflict prepare ye--prepare! Aroused from the canebrake, far south by your drum, With beaks whet from carnage, the Battle Birds come. II. Oh God of my Fathers, as swiftly as they, I ask but to swoop from the hills on my prey: Give this frame to the winds, on the Prairie below, But my soul--like thy bolt-- I would hurl on the foe! III. On the forehead of Earth strikes the Sun in his might, Oh gift me with glances as searching as light. In the front of the onslaught, to single each crest, Till my hatchet grows red on their bravest and best. IV. Why stand ye back idly, ye Sons of the Lakes? Who boast of the scalp-locks, ye tremble to take. Fear-dreamers may linger, _my_ skies are all bright-- Charge--charge--on the War-Path, FOR GOD AND THE RIGHT. Take the following additional example, of a death song. These stanzas have all been actually sung on warlike occasions, and repeated in my hearing. They have been gleaned from the traditionary songs of the Chippewas of the north, whose villages extend through the region of lake Superior, and to the utmost sources of the Mississippi. Those bands are the hereditary foes of their western neighbours, the Dacotahs or Sioux, who are generally called by them, by way of distinction, Na do wä´ sees, that is to say, OUR ENEMIES. The allusions in the songs are exclusively to them. In writing the original, I omit the chorus, as it is not susceptible of translation, and would increase considerably the space occupied. DEATH SONG. 1. In opening this song the warrior is to be contemplated as lying wounded on the field of battle. A´ be tuh ge´ zhig, (Under the centre of the sky,) Ne bá baim wä´ wä. (I utter my baim wä wä.) Baimwäwä, is the sound of passing thunders, which will convey a just idea of the violence of this figure. 2. His thoughts revert to the star of his destiny. Ain dah´ so gezhig (Every day, thou star!) Ke gá gun o wá bom in. (I gaze at you.) It is the morning star that is here alluded to. 3. He sees the birds of carnage hovering over the field. A´ be tuh geézh-ig (The half of the day) Ai be yaun (I abide--gazing) Pe nä se wug (Ye warlike birds.) 4. He keeps the flight of these birds before his mind and hears their shrill cries. Pe misk wosh e wug (They fly round the circuit of the sky.) Pe nä´ se wug (The birds--circling) A´ be tuh geezh ig oag. (Round half the circuit of the sky.) The meaning is, approaching him in circle more nearly, as life becomes fainter in him. 5. This figure is continued. He lies bleeding. A´ zha waush e wug (They cross the enemy's line) Pe nä se wug. (The birds.) 6. He feels that he is called to another world. A pit she Mon e doag (The high gods) Ne mud wää (My praise) Wá we ne goag. (They sound.) 7. He is content and willing to go. Kä gait´, ne min wain´ dum (Full happy--I) Ne bun aí kum ig (To lie on the battle-field) Tshe bá be wish e naun. (Over the enemy's line.) DEATH-SONG--"A´ be tuh gé zhig." (From the Algonquin of Schoolcraft.) BY C. F. HOFFMAN. I. Under the hollow sky, Stretched on the Prairie lone, Centre of glory, I Bleeding, disdain to groan, But like a battle cry Peal forth my thunder moan, _Baim-wä-wä_! II. Star--Morning-Star, whose ray Still with the dawn I see, Quenchless through half the day Gazing thou seest me-- Yon birds of carnage, they Fright not my gaze from thee! _Baim-wä-wä_! III. Bird, in thine airy rings Over the foeman's line, Why do thy flapping wings Nearer me thus incline? Blood of the Dauntless brings[*] Courage, oh Bird to thine! _Baim-wä-wä_! Hark to those Spirit-notes! Ye high Heroes divine, Hymned from your god-like throats That Song of Praise is mine! Mine, whose grave-pennon floats[*] Over the foeman's line! _Baim-wä-wä_! WAR SONG. Where are my foes? say, warriors, where? No forest is so black, That it can hide from my quick eye, the vestige of their track: There is no lake so boundless, no path where man may go, Can shield them from my sharp pursuit, or save them from my blow. The winds that whisper in the trees, the clouds that spot the sky, Impart a soft intelligence, to show me where they lie, The very birds that sail the air, and scream as on they go, Give me a clue my course to tread, and lead me to the foe. The sun, at dawn, lifts up his head, to guide me on my way, The moon, at night, looks softly down, and cheers me with her ray. The war-crowned stars, those beaming lights, my spirit casts at night Direct me as I thread the maze, and lead me to the fight. In sacred dreams within my lodge, while resting on the land, Bright omens of success arise, and nerve my warlike hand Where'er I turn, where'er I go, there is a whispering sound, That tells me I shall crush the foe, and drive him from my ground. The beaming WEST invites me on, with smiles of vermil hue, And clouds of promise fill the sky, and deck its heavenly blue, There is no breeze--there is no sign, in ocean, earth or sky, That does not swell my breast with hope, or animate my eye. If to the stormy beach I go, where heavy tempests play. They tell me but, how warriors brave, should conquer in the fray. All nature fills my heart with fires, that prompt me on to go, To rush with rage, and lifted spear, upon my country's foe. APPENDIX NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF ALEXANDER HENRY, ESQ. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. When I reached Michilimackinac I found several other traders, who had arrived before me, from different parts of the country, and who, in general, declared the disposition of the Indians to be hostile to the English, and even apprehended some attack. M. Laurent Ducharme distinctly informed Major Etherington that a plan was absolutely conceived for destroying him, his garrison, and all the English in the upper country; but the commandant believing this and other reports to be without foundation, proceeding only from idle or ill-disposed persons, and of a tendency to do mischief, expressed much displeasure against M. Ducharme, and threatened to send the next person who should bring a story of the same kind, a prisoner to Detroit. The garrison, at this time, consisted of ninety privates, two subalterns and the commandant; and the English merchants at the fort were four in number. Thus strong, few entertained anxiety concerning the Indians, who had no weapons but small arms. Meanwhile, the Indians, from every quarter, were daily assembling, in unusual numbers, but with every appearance of friendship, frequenting the fort, and disposing of their peltries, in such a manner as to dissipate almost every one's fears. For myself, on one occasion, I took the liberty of observing to Major Etherington that, in my judgment, no confidence ought to be placed in them, and that I was informed no less than four hundred lay around the fort. In return the major only rallied me on my timidity; and it is to be confessed that if this officer neglected admonition on his part, so did I on mine. Shortly after my first arrival at Michilimackinac, in the preceding year, a Chippeway, named Wawatam, began to come often to my house, betraying in his demeanor strong marks of personal regard. After this had continued some time, he came, on a certain day, bringing with him his whole family, and, at the same time, a large present consisting of skins, sugar, and dried meat. Having laid these in a heap, he commenced a speech, in which he informed me that some years before he had observed a fast, devoting himself, according to the custom of his nation, to solitude, and to the mortification of his body, in the hope to obtain, from the Great Spirit, protection through all his days; that on this occasion he had dreamed of adopting an Englishman as his son, brother and friend; that, from the moment in which he first beheld me, he had recognized me as the person whom the Great Spirit had been pleased to point out to him for a brother; that he hoped that I would not refuse his present; and that he should forever regard me as one of his family. I could not do otherwise than accept the present, and declare my willingness to have so good a man as this appeared to be for my friend and brother. I offered a present in return for that which I had received, which Wawatam accepted, and then, thanking me for the favor which he said that I had rendered him, he left me, and soon after set out on his winter's hunt. Twelve months had now elapsed since the occurrence of this incident, and I had almost forgotten the person of my brother, when on the second day of June, Wawatam came again to my house, in a temper of mind visibly melancholy and thoughtful. He told me that he had just returned from his _wintering ground_, and I asked after his health; but without answering my question, he went on to say, that he was sorry to find me returned from the Sault; that he intended to go to that place himself, immediately after his arrival at Michilimackinac; and that he wished me to go there along with him and his family the next morning. To all this he joined an inquiry, whether or not the commandant had heard bad news, adding that during the winter he had himself been frequently disturbed with the _noise of evil birds_; and further suggesting that there were numerous Indians near the fort, many of whom had never shown themselves within it. Wawatam was about forty-five years of age, of an excellent character among his nation, and a chief. Referring much of what he heard to the peculiarities of the Indian character, I did not pay all the attention which they will be found to have deserved to the entreaties and remarks of my visitor. I answered that I could not think of going to the Sault so soon as the next morning, but would follow him there after the arrival of my clerks. Finding himself unable to prevail with me, he withdrew for that day; but early the next morning he came again, bringing with him his wife, and a present of dried meat. At this interview, after stating that he had several packs of beaver, for which he intended to deal with me, he expressed a second time his apprehensions, from the numerous Indians who were around the fort, and earnestly pressed me to consent to an immediate departure for the Sault. As a reason for this particular request, he assured me that all the Indians proposed to come in a body, that day, to the fort, to demand liquor of the commandant, and that he wished me to be gone before they should grow intoxicated. I had made, at the period to which I am now referring, so much progress in the language in which Wawatam addressed me, as to be able to hold an ordinary conversation in it; but the Indian manner of speech is so extravagantly figurative that it is only for a perfect master to follow and comprehend it entirely. Had I been further advanced in this respect, I think that I should have gathered so much information, from this my friendly monitor, as would have put me into possession of the design of the enemy, and enable me to save, as well others, as myself; as it was, it unfortunately happened that I turned a deaf ear to every thing, leaving Wawatam and his wife, after long and patient, but ineffectual efforts, to depart alone, with dejected countenances, and not before they had each let fall some tears. In the course of the same day, I observed that the Indians came in great numbers into the fort, purchasing tomahawks, (small axes of one pound weight,) and frequently desiring to see silver arm-bands, and other valuable ornaments, of which I had a large quantity for sale. The ornaments, however, they in no instance purchased, but, after turning them over, left them, saying that they would call again the next day. Their motive, as it afterward appeared, was no other than the very artful one of discovering, by requesting to see them, the particular places of their deposit, so that they might lay their hands on them in the moment of pillage with the greater certainty and dispatch. At night, I turned in my mind the visits of Wawatam; but, though they were calculated to excite uneasiness, nothing induced me to believe that serious mischief was at hand. The next day, being the fourth of June, was the king's birth-day. The morning was sultry. A Chippeway came to tell me that his nation was going to play at _baggatiwag_, with the Sacs or Saakies, another Indian nation, for a high wager. He invited me to witness the sport, adding that the commandant was to be there, and would bet on the side of the Chippeways. In consequence of this information, I went to the commandant, and expostulated with him a little, representing that the Indians might possibly have some sinister end in view; but the commandant only smiled at my suspicions. _Baggatiway_, called by the Canadians _le jeu de la crosse_, is played with a bat and ball. The bat is about four feet in length, curved, and terminating in a sort of racket. Two posts are planted in the ground, at a considerable distance from each other, as a mile or more. Each party has its post, and the game consists in throwing the ball up to the post of the adversary. The ball at the beginning is placed in the middle of the course, and each party endeavors as well to throw the ball out of the direction of its own post, as into that of the adversary's. I did not go myself to see the match which was now to be played without the fort, because, there being a canoe prepared to depart, on the following day for Montreal, I employed myself in writing letters to my friends; and even when a fellow-trader, Mr. Tracy, happened to call upon me, saying that another canoe had just arrived from Detroit, and proposing that I should go with him to the beach, to inquire the news, it so happened that I still remained, to finish my letters; promising to follow Mr. Tracy in the course of a few minutes. Mr. Tracy had not gone more than twenty paces from the door, when I heard an Indian war-cry, and a noise of general confusion. Going instantly to my window, I saw a crowd of Indians within the fort, furiously cutting down and scalping every Englishman they found. In particular, I witnessed the fate of Lieutenant Jemette. I had in the room in which I was a fowling piece, loaded with swan-shot This I immediately seized, and held it for a few minutes, waiting to hear the drum beat to arms. In this dreadful interval I saw several of my countrymen fall, and more than one struggling between the knees of an Indian, who, holding him in this manner, scalped him while yet living. At length, disappointed in the hope of seeing resistance made to the enemy, and sensible of course that no effort of my own unassisted arm could avail against four hundred Indians, I thought only of seeking shelter. Amid the slaughter which was raging, I observed many of the Canadian inhabitants of the fort calmly looking on, neither opposing the Indians nor suffering injury; and from this circumstance I conceived a hope of finding security in their houses. Between the yard door of my own house and that of M. Langlade, my next neighbor, there was only a low fence, over which I easily climbed. At my entrance I found the whole family at the windows, gazing at the scene of blood before them. I addressed myself immediately to M. Langlade, begging that he would put me into some place of safety, until the heat of the affair should be over; an act of charity by which he might perhaps preserve me from the general massacre; but while I uttered my petition, M. Langlade, who had looked for a moment at me, turned again to the window, shrugging his shoulders, and intimating that he could do nothing for me: "_Que voudriez-vous que j'en ferais?_" This was a moment for despair; but the next, a Pani woman,[61] a slave of M. Langlade's, beckoned to me to follow her. She brought me to a door, which she opened, desiring me to enter, and telling me that it led to the garret, where I must go and conceal myself. I joyfully obeyed her directions; and she, having followed me up to the garret-door, locked it after me, and with great presence of mind took away the key. This shelter obtained, if shelter I could hope to find it, I was naturally anxious to know what might still be passing without. Through an aperture, which afforded me a view of the area of the fort, I beheld, in shapes the foulest and most terrible, the ferocious triumphs of barbarian conquerors. The dead were scalped and mangled; the dying were writhing and shrieking under the unsatiated knife and tomahawk; and from the bodies of some, ripped open, their butchers were drinking the blood, scooped up in the hollow of joined hands, and quaffed amid shouts of rage and victory. I was shaken not only with horror, but with fear. The sufferings which I witnessed, I seemed on the point of experiencing. No long time elapsed before, every one being destroyed who could be found, there was a general cry of "All is finished!" At the same instant I heard some of the Indians enter the house in which I was. The garret was separated from the room below only by a layer of single boards, at once the flooring of the one and the ceiling of the other. I could therefore hear every thing that passed; and the Indians no sooner came in than they inquired whether or not any Englishmen were in the house. M. Langlade replied that "he could not say; he did not know of any;" answers in which he did not exceed the truth; for the Pani woman had not only hidden me by stealth, but kept my secret and her own. M. Langlade was therefore, as I presume, as far from a wish to destroy me as he was careless about saving me, when he added to these answers, that "they might examine for themselves, and would soon be satisfied as to the object of their question." Saying this, he brought them to the garret-door. The state of my mind will be imagined. Arrived at the door, some delay was occasioned by the absence of the key, and a few moments were thus allowed me in which to look around for a hiding place. In one corner of the garret was a heap of those vessels of birch bark, used in maple sugar making, as I have recently described. The door was unlocked and opened, and the Indians ascending the stairs, before I had completely crept into a small opening which presented itself at one end of the heap. An instant after, four Indians entered the room, all armed with tomahawks, and all besmeared with blood upon every part of their bodies. The die appeared to be cast. I could scarcely breathe; but I thought the throbbing of my heart occasioned a noise loud enough to betray me. The Indians walked in every direction about the garret, and one of them approached me so closely that at a particular moment, had he put forth his hand, he must have touched me. Still I remained undiscovered; a circumstance to which the dark color of my clothes, and the want of light in the room, which had no window, and in the corner in which I was, must have contributed. In a word, after taking several turns in the room, during which they told M. Langlade how many they had killed, and how many scalps they had taken, they returned down stairs, and I, with sensations not to be expressed, heard the door, which was the barrier between me and my fate, locked for the second time. There was a feather-bed on the floor; and on this, exhausted as I was by the agitation of my mind, I threw myself down and fell asleep. In this state I remained till the dusk of the evening, when I was awakened by a second opening of the door. The person that now entered was M. Langlade's wife, who was much surprised at finding me, but advised me not to be uneasy, observing that the Indians had killed most of the English, but that she hoped I might myself escape. A shower of rain having begun to fall, she had come to stop a hole in the roof. On her going away, I begged her to send me a little water to drink; which she did. As night was now advancing, I continued to lie on the bed, ruminating on my condition, but unable to discover a resource from which I could hope for life. A flight to Detroit had no probable chance of success. The distance from Michilimackinac was four hundred miles; I was without provisions; and the whole length of the road lay through Indian countries, countries of an enemy in arms, where the first man whom I should meet would kill me. To stay where I was threatened nearly the same issue. As before, fatigue of mind, and not tranquility, suspended my cares, and procured me further sleep. The game of baggatiway, as from the description above, will have been perceived, is necessarily attended with much violence and noise. In the ardor of contest, the ball, as has been suggested, if it cannot be thrown to the goal desired, is struck in any direction by which it can be diverted from that designed by the adversary. At such a moment, therefore, nothing could be less liable to excite premature alarm, than that the ball should be tossed over the pickets of the Fort, nor that, having fallen there, it should be followed on the instant by all engaged in the game, as well the one party as the other, all eager, all struggling, all shouting, all in the unrestrained pursuit of a rude athletic exercise. Nothing could be less fitted to excite premature alarm; nothing, therefore, could be more happily devised, under the circumstances, than a stratagem like this; and this was, in fact, the stratagem which the Indians had employed, by which they had obtained possession of the Fort, and by which they had been enabled to slaughter and subdue its garrison, and such of its other inhabitants as they pleased. To be still more certain of success, they had prevailed upon as many as they could, by a pretext the least liable to suspicion, to come voluntarily without the pickets; and particularly the commandant and garrison themselves. The respite which sleep afforded me, during the night, was put an end to by the return of morning. I was again on the rack of apprehension. At sunrise, I heard the family stirring; and presently after Indian voices, informing M. Langlade that they had not found my hapless self among the dead, and they supposed me to be somewhere concealed. M. Langlade appeared, from what followed, to be by this time acquainted with the place of my retreat, of which, no doubt, he had been informed by his wife. The poor woman, as soon as the Indians mentioned me, declared to her husband, in the French tongue, that he should no longer keep me in his house, but deliver me up to my pursuers; giving as a reason for this measure, that should the Indians discover his instrumentality in my concealment, they might revenge it on her children, and that it was better that I should die than they. M. Langlade resisted at first this sentence of his wife's, but soon suffered her to prevail, informing the Indians that he had been told I was in his house, that I had come there without his knowledge, and that he would put me into their hands. This was no sooner expressed than he began to ascend the stairs, the Indians following upon his heels. I now resigned myself to the fate with which I was menaced; and regarding every attempt at concealment as vain, I arose from the bed, and presented myself full in view to the Indians who were entering the room. They were all in a state of intoxication, and entirely naked, except about the middle. One of them, named Wenniway, whom I had previously known, and who was upward of six feet in height, had his entire face and body covered with charcoal and grease, only that a white spot, of two inches in diameter, encircled either eye. This man walked up to me, seized me with one hand by the collar of the coat, while in the other he held a large carving knife, as if to plunge it in my breast; his eyes meanwhile were fixed steadfastly on mine. At length, after some seconds of the most anxious suspense, he dropped his arm, saying, "I won't kill you!" To this he added, that he had frequently engaged in wars against the English, and had brought away many scalps; that on a certain occasion he had lost a brother, whose name was Musinigon, and that I should be called after him. A reprieve upon any terms placed me among the living, and gave me back the sustaining voice of hope; but Wenniway ordered me down stairs, and there informed me that I was to be taken to his cabin, where, and indeed every where else, the Indians were all mad with liquor, death again was threatened, and, not as possible only, but as certain. I mentioned my fears on this subject to M. Langlade, begging him to represent the danger to my master. M. Langlade, in this instance, did not withhold his compassion, and Wenniway immediately consented that I should remain where I was, until he found another opportunity to take me away. Thus far secure, I reascended my garret stairs, in order to place myself the furthest possible out of the reach of insult from drunken Indians; but I had not remained there more than an hour, when I was called to the room below, in which was an Indian, who said that I must go with him out of the Fort, Wenniway having sent him to fetch me. This man, as well as Wenniway himself, I had seen before. In the preceding year, I had allowed him to take goods on credit, for which he was still in my debt; and some short time previous to the surprise of the Fort, he had said, upon my upbraiding him with want of honesty, that "he would pay me before long!" This speech now came fresh into my memory, and led me to suspect that the fellow had formed a design against my life. I communicated the suspicion to M. Langlade; but he gave for answer that "I was not now my own master, and must do as I was ordered." The Indian, on his part, directed that before I left the house, I should undress myself, declaring that my coat and shirt would become him better than they did me. His pleasure in this respect being complied with, no other alternative was left me than either to go out naked, or put on the clothes of the Indian, which he freely gave me in exchange. His motive for thus stripping me of my own apparel was no other, as I afterwards learned, than this, that it might not be stained with blood when he should kill me. I was now told to proceed; and my driver followed me close, until I had passed the gate of the Fort, when I turned toward the spot where I knew the Indians to be encamped. This, however, did not suit the purpose of my enemy, who seized me by the arm, and drew me violently in the opposite direction, to the distance of fifty yards above the Fort. Here, finding that I was approaching the bushes and sand hills, I determined to proceed no further, but told the Indian that I believed he meant to murder me, and if so he might as well strike where I was as at any greater distance. He replied with coolness, that my suspicions were just, and that he meant to pay me in this manner for my goods. At the same time he produced a knife, and held me in a position to receive the intended blow. Both this and that which followed were necessarily the affair of a moment. By some effort, too sudden and too little dependent on thought to be explained or remembered, I was enabled to arrest his arm, and give him a sudden push, by which I turned him from me, and released myself from his grasp. This was no sooner done than I ran toward the Fort, with all the swiftness in my power, the Indian following me, and I expecting every moment to feel his knife. I succeeded in my flight; and, on entering the Fort, I saw Wenniway standing in the midst of the area, and to him I hastened for protection. Wenniway desired the Indian to desist; but the latter pursued me round him, making several strokes at me with his knife, and foaming at the mouth with rage at the repeated failure of his purpose. At length Wenniway drew near to M. Langlade's house; and the door being open, I ran into it. The Indian followed me; but on my entering the house, he voluntarily abandoned the pursuit. Preserved so often, and so unexpectedly, as it had now been my lot to be, I returned to my garret, with a strong inclination to believe that, through the will of an over-ruling power, no Indian enemy could do me hurt; but new trials, as I believed, were at hand, when, at ten o'clock in the evening, I was roused from sleep, and once more desired to descend the stairs. Not less, however, to my satisfaction than surprise, I was summoned only to meet Major Etherington, Mr. Bostwick, and Lieutenant Lesslie, who were in the room below. These gentlemen had been taken prisoners, while looking at the game, without the Fort, and immediately stripped of all their clothes. They were now sent into the fort, under the charge of Canadians, because, the Indians having resolved on getting drunk, the chiefs were apprehensive that they would be murdered if they continued in the camp. Lieutenant Jemette and seventy soldiers had been killed; and but twenty Englishmen, including soldiers, were still alive. These were all within the fort, together with nearly three hundred Canadians belonging to the canoes, &c. These being our numbers, myself and others proposed to Maj. Etherington to make an effort for regaining possession of the fort, and maintaining it against the Indians. The Jesuit missionary was consulted on the project; but he discouraged us, by his representations, not only of the merciless treatment which we must expect from the Indians, should they regain their superiority, but of the little dependence which was to be placed upon our Canadian auxiliaries. Thus the fort and prisoners remained in the hands of the Indians, though, through the whole night, the prisoners and whites were in actual possession, and they were without the gates. That whole night, or the greater part of it, was passed in mutual condolence; and my fellow-prisoners shared my garret. In the morning, being again called down, I found my master, Wenniway, and was desired to follow him. He led me to a small house, within the fort, where, in a narrow room, and almost dark, I found Mr. Ezekiel Solomons, an Englishman from Detroit, and a soldier, all prisoners. With these, I remained in painful suspense, as to the scene that was next to present itself, till ten o'clock in the forenoon, when an Indian arrived, and presently marched us to the lake side, where a canoe appeared ready for departure, and in which we found that we were to embark. Our voyage, full of doubt as it was, would have commenced immediately, but that one of the Indians, who was to be of the party, was absent. His arrival was to be waited for; and this occasioned a very long delay, during which we were exposed to a keen north-east wind. An old shirt was all that covered me; I suffered much from the cold; and in this extremity, M. Langlade coming down to the beach, I asked him for a blanket, promising if I lived to pay him for it, at any price he pleased; but the answer I received was this, that he could let me have no blanket unless there were some one to be security for the payment. For myself, he observed, I had no longer any property in that country. I had no more to say to M. Langlade; but presently seeing another Canadian, named John Cuchoise, I addressed to him a similar request, and was not refused. Naked as I was, and rigorous as was the weather, but for the blanket I must have perished. At noon, our party was all collected, the prisoners all embarked, and we steered for the Isle du Castor, [Beaver Island,] in Lake Michigan. The soldier, who was our companion in misfortune, was made fast to a bar of the canoe, by a rope tied round his neck, as is the manner of the Indians in transporting their prisoners. The rest were left unconfined; but a paddle was put into each of our hands, and we were made to use it. The Indians in the canoe were seven in number, the prisoners four. I had left, as it will be recollected, Major Etherington, Lieutenant Lesslie and Mr. Bostwick, at M. Langlade's, and was now joined in misery with Mr. Ezekiel Solomons, the soldier, and the Englishman who had newly arrived from Detroit. This was on the sixth day of June. The Fort was taken on the fourth; I surrendered myself to Wenniway on the fifth; and this was the third day of our distress. We were bound, as I have said, for the Isles du Castor, which lie in the mouth of Lake Michigan; and we should have crossed the lake, but that a thick fog came on, on account of which the Indians deemed it safer to keep the shore close under their lee. We therefore approached the lands of the Ottawas, and their village of L'Arbre Croche, already mentioned as lying about twenty miles to the westward of Michilimackinac, on the opposite side of the tongue of land on which the Fort is built. Every half hour, the Indians gave their war-whoop, one for every prisoner in their canoe. This is a general custom, by the aid of which, all other Indians, within hearing, are apprised of the number of prisoners they are carrying. In this manner we reached Wagoshense, Fox-point, a long point, stretching westward into the lake, and which the Ottawas make a carrying place, to avoid going round it. It is distant eighteen miles from Michilimackinac. After the Indians had made their war-whoop, as before, an Ottawa appeared upon the beach, who made signs that we should land. In consequence, we approached. The Ottawa asked the news, and kept the Chippeways in further conversation, till we were within a few yards of the land, and in shallow water. At this moment, a hundred men rushed upon us, from among the bushes, and dragged all the prisoners out of the canoe, amid a terrifying shout. We now believed that our last sufferings were approaching; but no sooner were we fairly on shore, and on our legs, than the chiefs of the party advanced, and gave each of us their hands, telling us that they were our friends, and Ottawas, whom the Chippeways had insulted, by destroying the English without consulting with them on the affair. They added that what they had done was for the purpose of saving our lives, the Chippeways having been carrying us to the Isles du Castor only to kill and devour us. The reader's imagination is here distracted by the variety of our fortunes, and he may well paint to himself the state of mind of those who sustained them, who were the sport or the victims of a series of events, more like dreams than realities, more like fiction than truth! It was not long before we were embarked again, in the canoes of the Ottawas, who, the same evening, relanded us at Michilimackinac, where they marched us into the Fort, in view of the Chippewas, confounded at beholding the Ottawas espousing a side opposite to their own. The Ottawas, who had accompanied us in sufficient numbers, took possession of the Fort. We, who had changed masters, but were still prisoners, were lodged in the house of the commandant, and strictly guarded. Early the next morning, a general council was held, in which the Chippeways complained much of the conduct of the Ottawas, in robbing them of their prisoners; alleging that all the Indians, the Ottawas alone excepted, were at war with the English; that Pontiac had taken Detroit; that the King of France had awoke, and repossessed himself of Quebec and Montreal; and that the English were meeting destruction, not only at Michilimackinac, but in every other part of the world. From all this they inferred that it became the Ottawas to restore the prisoners, and to join in the war; and the speech was followed by large presents, being part of the plunder of the Fort, and which was previously heaped in the center of the room. The Indians rarely make their answers till the day after they have heard the arguments offered. They did not depart from their custom on this occasion; and the council therefore adjourned. We, the prisoners, whose fate was thus in controversy, were unacquainted at the time with this transaction; and therefore enjoyed a night of tolerable tranquility, not in the least suspecting the reverse which was preparing for us. Which of the arguments of the Chippeways, or whether or not all were deemed valid by the Ottawas, I cannot say; but the council was resumed at an early hour in the morning and, after several speeches had been made in it, the prisoners were sent for, and returned to the Chippeways. The Ottawas, who now gave us into the hands of the Chippeways, had themselves declared that the latter designed no other than to kill us, and _make broth of us_. The Chippeways, as soon as we were restored to them, marched us to a village of their own, situate on the point which is below the Fort, and put us into a lodge, already the prison of fourteen soldiers, tied two and two, with each a rope about his neck, and made fast to a pole which might be called the supporter of the building. I was left untied; but I passed a night sleepless and full of wretchedness. My bed was the bare ground, and I was again reduced to an old shirt, as my entire apparel; the blanket which I had received, through the generosity of M. Cuchoise, having been taken from me among the Ottawas, when they seized upon myself and the others, at Wagoshense. I was, besides, in want of food, having for two days eaten nothing. I confess that in the canoe with the Chippeways I was offered bread; but, bread, with what accompaniment? They had a loaf, which they cut with the same knives that they had employed in the massacre--knives still covered with blood. The blood they moistened with spittle, and rubbing it on the bread, offered this for food to their prisoners, telling them to eat the blood of their countrymen. Such was my situation on the morning of the seventh of June, in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-three; but a few hours produced an event which gave still a new color to my lot. Toward noon, when the great war-chief, in company with Wenniway was seated at the opposite end of the lodge, my friend and brother, Wawatam, suddenly came in. During the four days preceding, I had often wondered what had become of him. In passing by he gave me his hand but went immediately toward the great chief, by the side of whom and Wenniway, he sat himself down. The most uninterrupted silence prevailed; each smoked his pipe; and this done, Wawatam arose, and left the lodge, saying to me, as he passed, "Take courage!" An hour elapsed, during which several chiefs entered, and preparations appeared to be making for a council. At length, Wawatam re-entered the lodge, followed by his wife, and both loaded with merchandise, which they carried up to the chiefs, and laid in a heap before them. Some moments of silence followed, at the end of which, Wawatam pronounced a speech, every word of which, to me, was of extraordinary interest: "Friends and relations," he began, "what is it that I shall say? You know what I feel. You all have friends and brothers and children, whom as yourselves you love; and you, what would you experience, did you, like me, behold your dearest friend--your brother--in the condition of a slave; a slave exposed every moment to insult, and to menaces of death? This case, as you all know, is mine. See there, (_pointing to myself_,) my friend and brother among slaves, himself a slave! "You all well know that long before the war began, I adopted him as my brother. From that moment he became one of my family, so that no change of circumstances could break the cord which fastened us together. "He is my brother; and, because I am your relation, he is therefore your relation, too: and how, being your relation, can he be your slave? "On the day on which the war began, you were fearful, lest on this very account, I should reveal your secret. You requested, therefore, that I would leave the Fort, and even cross the lake. I did so, but did it with reluctance. I did it with reluctance, notwithstanding that you, Menehwehna, who had the command in this enterprise, gave me your promise that you would protect my friend, delivering him from all danger, and giving him safely to me. "The performance of this promise I now claim. I come not with empty hands to ask it. You, Menehwehna, best know whether or not, as it respects yourself, you have kept your word; but I bring these goods, to buy off every claim which any man among you all may have on my brother, as his prisoner." Wawatam having ceased, the pipes were again filled; and, after they were finished, a further period of silence followed. At the end of this, Menehwehna arose and gave his reply: "My relation and brother," said he, "what you have spoken is the truth. We were acquainted with the friendship which subsisted between yourself and the Englishman, in whose behalf you have now addressed us. We knew the danger of having our secret discovered, and the consequences which must follow; and you say truly that we requested you to leave the Fort. This we did out of regard for you and your family; for, if a discovery of our design had been made, you would have been blamed, whether guilty or not; and you would thus have been involved in difficulties from which you could not have extricated yourself. "It is also true that I promised you to take care of your friend; and this promise I performed, by desiring my son, at the moment of assault, to seek him out, and bring him to my lodge. He went accordingly, but could not find him. The day after I sent him to Langlade's, when he was informed that your friend was safe; and had it not been that the Indians were then drinking the rum which had been found in the Fort, he would have brought him home with him, according to my orders. "I am very glad to find that your friend has escaped. We accept your present; and you may take him home with you." Wawatam thanked the assembled chiefs, and taking me by the hand, led me to his lodge, which was at the distance of a few yards only from the prison lodge. My entrance appeared to give joy to the whole family; food was immediately prepared for me; and I now ate the first hearty meal which I had made since my capture. I found myself one of the family; and but that I had still my fears, as to the other Indians, I felt as happy as the situation could allow. In the course of the next morning, I was alarmed by a noise in the prison lodge; and looking through the openings of the lodge in which I was, I saw seven dead bodies of white men dragged forth. Upon my inquiry into the occasion, I was informed that a certain chief, called by the Canadians Le Grand Sable, had not long before arrived from his winter's hunt; and that he having been absent when the war begun, and being now desirous of manifesting to the Indians at large his hearty concurrence in what they had done, had gone into the prison lodge, and there, with his knife, put the seven men, whose bodies I had seen, to death. Shortly after, two of the Indians took one of the dead bodies, which they chose as being the fattest, cut off the head, and divided the whole into five parts, one of which was put into each of five kettles, hung over as many fires kindled for this purpose, at the door of the prison lodge. Soon after things were so far prepared, a message came to our lodge, with an invitation to Wawatam to assist at the feast. An invitation to a feast is given by him who is the master of it. Small cuttings of cedar wood, of about four inches in length, supply the place of cards; and the bearer by word of mouth states the particulars. Wawatam obeyed the summons, taking with him, as usual, to the place of entertainment, his dish and spoon. After an absence of about half an hour, he returned, bringing in his dish a human hand, and a large piece of flesh. He did not appear to relish the repast, but told me that it was then, and always had been the custom among all the Indian nations, when returning from war, or on overcoming their enemies, to make a war-feast from among the slain. This he said inspired the warrior with courage in attack, and bred him to meet death with fearlessness. In the evening of the same day, a large canoe, such as those which came from Montreal, was seen advancing to the fort. It was full of men, and I distinguished several passengers. The Indian cry was made in the village; a general muster ordered; and to the number of two hundred they marched up to the fort, where the canoe was expected to land. The canoe, suspecting nothing, came boldly to the fort, where the passengers, as being English traders, were seized, dragged through the water, beat, reviled, marched to the prison lodge, and there stripped of their clothes and confined. Of the English traders that fell into the hands of the Indians at the capture of the Fort, Mr. Tracy was the only one who lost his life. Mr. Ezekiel Solomons and Mr. Henry Bostwick were taken by the Ottawas, and after the peace carried down to Montreal, and there ransomed. Of ninety troops, about seventy were killed; the rest, together with those of the posts in the Bay des Puants, and at the river St. Joseph, were also kept in safety by the Ottawas till the peace, and then either freely restored, or ransomed at Montreal. The Ottawas never overcame their disgust at the neglect with which they had been treated, in the beginning of the war, by those who afterwards desired their assistance as allies. In the morning of the ninth of June, a general council was held, at which it was agreed to remove to the island of Michilimackinac, as a more defensible situation in the event of an attack by the English. The Indians had begun to entertain apprehensions of want of strength. No news had reached them from the Potawatamies, in the Bay des Puants; and they were uncertain whether or not the Monomins would join them. They even feared that the Sioux would take the English side. This resolution fixed, they prepared for a speedy retreat. At noon the camp was broken up, and we embarked, taking with us the prisoners that were still undisposed of. On our passage we encountered a gale of wind, and there were some appearances of danger. To avert it, a dog, of which the legs were previously tied together, was thrown into the lake; an offering designed to soothe the angry passions of some offended Manito. As we approached the island, two women in the canoe in which I was, began to utter melancholy and hideous cries. Precarious as my condition still remained, I experienced some sensations of alarm from these dismal sounds, of which I could not then discover the occasion. Subsequently, I learned that it is customary for the women, on passing near the burial places of relations, never to omit the practice of which I was now a witness, and by which they intend to denote their grief. By the approach of evening we reached the island in safety, and the women were not long in erecting our cabins. In the morning, there was a muster of the Indians, at which there were found three hundred and fifty fighting men. In the course of the day, there arrived a canoe from Detroit, with ambassadors, who endeavored to prevail on the Indians to repair thither to the assistance of Pontiac; but fear was now the prevailing passion. A guard was kept during the day, and a watch by night, and alarms were very frequently spread. Had an enemy appeared, all the prisoners would have been put to death; and I suspected that, as an Englishman, I should share their fate. Several days had now passed, when one morning a continued alarm prevailed, and I saw the Indians running in a confused manner toward the beach. In a short time I learned that two large canoes from Montreal were in sight. All the Indian canoes were immediately manned, and those from Montreal were surrounded and seized, as they turned a point behind which the flotilla had been concealed. The goods were consigned to a Mr. Levy, and would have been saved if the canoe men had called them French property; but they were terrified and disguised nothing. In the canoes was a large proportion of liquor, a dangerous acquisition, and which threatened disturbance among the Indians, even to the loss of their dearest friends. Wawatam, always watchful of my safety, no sooner heard the noise of drunkenness, which in the evening did not fail to begin, than he represented to me the danger of remaining in the village, and owned that he could not himself resist the temptation of joining his comrades in the debauch. That I might escape all mischief he therefore requested that I would accompany him to the mountain, where I was to remain hidden till the liquor should be drank. We ascended the mountain accordingly. It is this mountain which constitutes that high land in the middle of the island, of which I have spoken before, as a figure considered as resembling a _turtle_, and therefore called _Michilimackinac_. It is thickly covered with wood, and very rocky toward the top. After walking more than half-a-mile, we came to a large rock, at the base of which was an opening, dark within, and appearing to be the entrance of a cave. Here, Wawatam recommended that I should take up my lodging, and by all means remain till he returned. On going into the cave, of which the entrance was nearly ten feet wide, I found the further end to be rounded in its shape, like that of an oven, but with a further aperture, too small, however, to be explored. After thus looking around me, I broke small branches from the trees, and spread them for a bed; then wrapped myself in my blanket and slept till daybreak. On awaking I felt myself incommoded by some object upon which I lay; and removing it, found it to be a bone. This I supposed to be that of a deer, or some other animal, and what might very naturally be looked for in the place in which it was; but, when daylight visited my chamber, I discovered, with some feelings of horror, that I was lying on nothing less than a heap of human bones and skulls, which covered all the floor! The day passed without the return of Wawatam, and without food. As night approached, I found myself unable to meet its darkness in the charnel-house, which, nevertheless, I had viewed free from uneasiness during the day. I chose, therefore, an adjacent bush for this night's lodging, and slept under it as before; but in the morning, I awoke hungry and dispirited, and almost envying the dry bones, to the view of which I returned. At length the sound of a foot reached me, and my Indian friend appeared, making many apologies for his long absence, the cause of which was an unfortunate excess in the enjoyment of his liquor. This point being explained, I mentioned the extraordinary sight that had presented itself in the cave to which he had commended my slumbers. He had never heard of its existence before; and, upon examining the cave together, we saw reason to believe that it had been anciently filled with human bodies. On returning to the lodge, I experienced a cordial reception from the family, which consisted of the wife of my friend, his two sons, of whom the eldest was married, and whose wife, and a daughter of thirteen years of age, completed the list. Wawatam related to the other Indians, the adventure of the bones. All of them expressed surprise at hearing it, and declared that they had never been aware of the contents of this cave before. After visiting it, which they immediately did, almost every one offered a different opinion as to its history. Some advanced, that at a period when the waters overflowed the land, (an event which makes a distinguished figure in the history of their world,) the inhabitants of this island had fled into the cave, and been there drowned; others, that those same inhabitants, when the Hurons made war upon them, (as tradition says they did,) hid themselves in the cave, and being discovered, were there massacred. For myself, I am disposed to believe that this cave was an ancient receptacle of the bones of prisoners, sacrificed and devoured at war-feasts. I have always observed that the Indians pay particular attention to the bones of sacrifices, preserving them unbroken, and depositing them in some place kept exclusively for that purpose. A few days after the occurrence of the incidents recorded above, Menehwehna, whom I now found to be the great chief of the village of Michilimackinac, came to the lodge of my friend; and when the usual ceremony of smoking was finished, he observed that Indians were now daily arriving from Detroit, some of whom had lost relations or friends in the war, and who would certainly retaliate on any Englishman they found; upon which account, his errand was to advise that I should be dressed like an Indian, an expedient whence I might hope to escape all future insult. I could not but consent to the proposal, and the chief was so kind as to assist my friend and his family in effecting that very day the desired metamorphosis. My hair was cut off, and my head shaved, with the exception of a spot on the crown, of about twice the diameter of a crown-piece. My face was painted with three or four different colors; some parts of it red, and others black. A shirt was provided for me, painted with vermilion, mixed with grease. A large collar of wampum was put round my neck, and another suspended on my breast. Both my arms were decorated with large bands of silver above the elbow, besides several smaller ones on the wrists; and my legs were covered with _mitases_, a kind of hose, made, as is the favorite fashion, of scarlet cloth. Over all, I was to wear a scarlet blanket or mantle, and on my head a large bunch of feathers. I parted, not without some regret, with the long hair which was natural to it, and which I fancied to be ornamental; but the ladies of the family, and of the village in general, appeared to think my person improved, and now condescended to call me handsome, even among Indians. Protected, in a great measure, by this disguise, I felt myself more at liberty than before; and the season being arrived in which my clerks from the interior were to be expected, and some part of my property, as I had a right to hope, recovered, I begged the favor of Wawatam that he would enable me to pay a short visit to Michilimackinac. He did not fail to comply, and I succeeded in finding my clerks; but, either through the disturbed state of the country, as they represented to be the case, or through their misconduct, as I had reason to think, I obtained nothing; and nothing, or almost nothing, I now began to think would be all that I should need during the rest of my life. To fish and to hunt, to collect a few skins, and exchange them for necessaries, was all that I seemed destined to do, and to acquire, for the future. I returned to the Indian village, where at this time much scarcity of food prevailed. We were often for twenty-four hours without eating; and when in the morning we had no victuals for the day before us, the custom was to black our faces with grease and charcoal, and exhibit, through resignation, a temper as cheerful as if in the midst of plenty. A repetition of the evil, however, soon induced us to leave the island in search of food; and accordingly we departed for the bay of Boutchitaouy; distant eight leagues, and where we found plenty of wild fowl and fish. While in the bay, my guardian's daughter-in-law was taken in labor of her first child. She was immediately removed out of the common lodge; and a small one, for her separate accommodation was begun and finished by the women in less than half an hour. The next morning we heard that she was very ill, and the family began to be much alarmed on her account; the more so, no doubt, because cases of difficult labor are very rare among Indian women. In this distress, Wawatam requested me to accompany him into the woods; and on our way informed me that if he could find a snake, he should soon secure relief to his daughter-in-law. On reaching some wet ground, we speedily obtained the object of our search, in a small snake, of the kind called the garter snake. Wawatam seized it by the neck, and holding it fast, while it coiled itself round his arm, he cut off its head, catching the blood in a cup that he had brought with him. This done, he threw away the snake, and carried home the blood, which he mixed with a quantity of water. Of this mixture he administered first one table-spoonful, and shortly after a second. Within an hour the patient was safely delivered of a fine child; and Wawatum subsequently declared that the remedy, to which he had resorted, was one that never failed. On the next day, we left the bay of Boutchitaouy; and the young mother, in high spirits, assisted in loading the canoe, barefooted, and knee-deep, in the water. The medical information, the diseases, and the remedies of the Indians, often engaged my curiosity during the period through which I was familiar with these nations; and I shall take this occasion to introduce a few particulars connected with their history. The Indians are in general free from disorders; and an instance of their being subject to dropsy, gout, or stone, never came within my knowledge. Inflammations of the lungs are among their most ordinary complaints; and rheumatism still more so, especially with the aged. Their mode of life, in which they are so much exposed to the wet and cold, sleeping on the ground, and inhaling the night air, sufficiently accounts for their liability to these diseases. The remedies on which they most rely are emetics, cathartics, and the lancet; but especially the last. Bleeding is so favorite an operation among the women that they never lose an occasion of enjoying it, whether sick or well. I have sometimes bled a dozen women in a morning as they sat in a row, along a fallen tree, beginning with the first, opening the vein, then proceeding to the second, and so on, having three or four individuals bleeding at the same time. In most villages, and particularly in those of the Chippeways, this service was required of me; and no persuasion of mine could ever induce a woman to dispense with it. In all parts of the country, and among all the nations that I have seen, particular individuals arrogate to themselves the art of healing, but principally by means of pretended sorcery; and operations of this sort are always paid for by a present made before they are begun. Indeed, whatever, as an impostor, may be the demerits of the operator, his reward may generally be said to be fairly earned by dint of corporeal labor. I was once present at a performance of this kind, in which the patient was a female child of about twelve years of age. Several of the elder chiefs were invited to the scene; and the same compliment was paid to myself, on account of the medical skill for which it was pleased to give me credit. The physician (so to call him) seated himself on the ground; and before him, on a new stroud blanket, was placed a basin of water, in which were three bones, the larger ones, as it appeared to me, of a swan's wing. In his hand he had his _shishiquoi_, or rattle, with which he beat time to his _medicine song_. The sick child lay on a blanket, near the physician, she appeared to have much fever, and a severe oppression of the lungs, breathing with difficulty, and betraying symptoms of the last stage of consumption. After singing for some time, the physician took one of the bones out of the basin: the bone was hollow; and one end being applied to the breast of the patient, he put the other into his mouth, in order to remove the disorder by suction. Having persevered in this as long as he thought proper, he suddenly seemed to force the bone into his mouth, and swallow it. He now acted the part of one suffering severe pain; but, presently, finding relief, he made a long speech, and after this returned to singing, and to the accompaniment of his rattle. With the latter during his song, he struck his head, breast, sides, and back, at the same time straining, as if to vomit forth the bone. Relinquishing this attempt, he applied himself to suction a second time, and with the second of the three bones; and this also he soon seemed to swallow. Upon its disappearance, he began to distort himself in the most frightful manner, using every gesture which could convey the idea of pain; at length he succeeded, or pretended to succeed, in throwing up one of the bones. This was handed about to the spectators, and strictly examined; but nothing remarkable could be discovered. Upon this, he went back to his song and rattle; and after some time threw up the second of the two bones. In the groove of this, the physician upon examination, found, and displayed to all present, a small while substance, resembling a piece of the quill of a feather. It was passed round the company from one to the other; and declared, by the physician, to be the thing causing the disorder of his patient. The multitude believe that these physicians, whom the French call _jongleurs_, or jugglers, can inflict as well as remove disorders. They believe that by drawing the figure of any person in sand or ashes, or on clay, or by considering any object as the figure of a person, and then pricking it with a sharp stick, or other substance, or doing, in any other manner, that which done to a living body would cause pain or injury, the individual represented, or supposed to be represented, will suffer accordingly. On the other hand, the mischief being done, another physician, of equal pretensions, can by suction remove it. Unfortunately however, the operations which I have described were not successful in the instance referred to; for, on the day after they had taken place, the girl died. With regard to flesh-wounds, the Indians certainly effect astonishing cures. Here, as above, much that is fantastic occurs; but the success of their practice evinces something solid. At the Sault de Sainte-Marie I knew a man who, in the result of a quarrel, received the stroke of an axe in his side. The blow was so violent, and the axe driven so deep, that the wretch who held it could not withdraw it, but left it in the wound, and fled. Shortly after, the man was found, and brought into the fort, where several other Indians came to his assistance. Among these, one, who was a physician immediately withdrew, in order to fetch his _penegusan_, or medicine bag, with which he soon returned. The eyes of the sufferer were fixed, his teeth closed, and his case apparently desperate. The physician took from his bag a small portion of a very white substance, resembling that of a bone; this he scraped into a little water, and forcing open the jaws of the patient with a stick, he poured the mixture down his throat. What followed was, that in a very short space of time the wounded man moved his eyes; and beginning to vomit, threw up a small lump of clotted blood. The physician now, and not before, examined the wound, from which I could see the breath escape, and from which a part of the omentum depended. This the physician did not set about to restore to its place, but, cutting it away, minced it into small pieces, and made his patient swallow it. The man was then carried to his lodge, where I visited him daily. By the sixth day he was able to walk about; and within a month he grew quite well, except that he was troubled with a cough. Twenty years after his misfortune he was still alive. Another man, being on his wintering-ground, and from home, hunting beaver, was crossing a lake, covered with smooth ice, with two beavers on his back, when his foot slipped, and he fell. At his side, in his belt, was his axe, the blade of which came upon the joint of his wrist; and, the weight of his body coming upon the blade, his hand was completely separated from his arm, with the exception of a small piece of the skin. He had to walk three miles to his lodge, which was thus far away. The skin, which alone retained his hand to his arm, he cut through, with the same axe which had done the rest; and fortunately having on a shirt, he took it off, tore it up, and made a strong ligature above the wrist, so as in some measure to avoid the loss of blood. On reaching his lodge, he cured the wound himself, by the mere use of simples. I was a witness to its perfect healing. I have said that these physicians, jugglers, or practitioners of pretended sorcery, are supposed to be capable of inflicting diseases; and I may add, that they are sometimes themselves sufferers on this account. In one instance I saw one of them killed, by a man who charged him with having brought his brother to death by malefic arts. The accuser, in his rage, thrust his knife into the belly of the accused, and ripped it open. The latter caught his bowels in his arms, and thus walked toward his lodge, gathering them up, from time to time, as they escaped his hold. His lodge was at no considerable distance, and he reached it alive, and died in it. Our next encampment was on the island of Saint-Martin, off Cape Saint-Ignace, so called from the Jesuit mission of Saint Ignatius to the Hurons, formerly established there. Our object was to fish for sturgeon, which we did with great success; and here, in the enjoyment of a plentiful and excellent supply of food, we remained until the twentieth day of August. At this time, the autumn being at hand, and a sure prospect of increased security from hostile Indians afforded, Wawatam proposed going to his intended wintering-ground. The removal was a subject of the greatest joy to myself, on account of the frequent insults, to which I had still to submit, from the Indians of our band or village, and to escape from which I would freely have gone almost anywhere. At our wintering-ground we were to be alone; for the Indian families, in the countries of which I write, separate in the winter season, for the convenience as well of subsistence as of the chase, and re-associate in the spring and summer. In preparation, our first business was to sail for Michilimackinac, where being arrived, we procured from a Canadian trader, on credit, some trifling articles, together with ammunition, and two bushels of maize. This done, we steered directly for lake Michigan. At L'Arbre Croche we stopped one day on a visit to the Ottawas, where all the people, and particularly Okinochumaki, the chief, the same who took me from the Chippeways, behaved with great civility and kindness. The chief presented me with a bag of maize. It is the Ottawas, it will be remembered, who raise this grain for the market of Michilimackinac. Leaving L'Arbre Croche, we proceeded direct to the mouth of the river Aux Sables, on the south side of the lake, and distant about a hundred and fifty miles from fort Michilimackinac. On our voyage we passed several deep bays and rivers, and I found the banks of the lake to consist in mere sands, without any appearance of verdure; the sand drifting from one hill to another, like snow in winter. Hence, all the rivers, which here entered the lake, are as much entitled to the epithet of _sandy_ as that to which we were bound. They are also distinguished by another particularity, always observable in similar situations. The current of the stream being met, when the wind is contrary, by the waves of the lake, it is driven back, and the sands of the shore are at the same time washed into its mouth. In consequence, the river is able to force a passage into the lake, broad only in proportion to its utmost strength; while it hollows for itself, behind the sand-banks, a basin of one, two, or three miles across. In these rivers we killed many wildfowl and beaver. To kill beaver, we used to go several miles up the rivers, before the approach of night, and after the dusk came on suffer the canoe to drift gently down the current, without noise. The beaver in this part of the evening come abroad to procure food, or materials for repairing their habitations; and as they are not alarmed by the canoe, they often pass it within gun-shot. While we thus hunted along our way, I enjoyed a personal freedom of which I had been long deprived, and became as expert in the Indian pursuits as the Indians themselves. On entering the river Aux Sables, Wawatam took a dog, tied its feet together, and threw it into the stream, uttering, at the same time, a long prayer, which he addressed to the Great Spirit, supplicating his blessing on the chase, and his aid in the support of the family, through the dangers of a long winter. Our lodge was fifteen miles above the mouth of the stream. The principal animals which the country afforded were the stag or red deer, the common American deer, the bear, raccoon, beaver and marten. The beaver feeds in preference on young wood of the birch, aspen, and poplar tree, (_populus nigra_ called by the Canadians _liard_,) but in defect of these on any other tree, those of the pine and fir kinds excepted. These latter it employs only for building its dams and houses. In wide meadows, where no wood is to be found, it resorts, for all its purposes, to the roots of the rush and water lily. It consumes great quantities of food, whether of roots or wood; and hence often reduces itself to the necessity of removing into a new quarter. Its house has an arched dome-like roof, of an elliptical figure, and rises from three to four feet above the surface of the water. It is always entirely surrounded by water; but, in the banks adjacent, the animal provides holes or _washes_, of which the entrance is below the surface, and to which it retreats on the first alarm. The female beaver usually produces two young at a time, but not unfrequently more. During the first year the young remain with their parents. In the second they occupy an adjoining apartment, and assist in building, and in procuring food. At two years old, they part, and build houses of their own; but often rove about for a considerable time, before they fix upon a spot. There are beavers, called by the Indians _old bachelors_, who live by themselves, build no houses, and work at no dams, but shelter themselves in holes. The usual method of taking these is by traps, formed of iron, or logs, and baited with branches of poplar. According to the Indians, the beaver is much given to jealousy. If a strange male approaches the cabin, a battle immediately ensues. Of this the female remains an unconcerned spectator, careless to which party the law of conquest may assign her. Among the beaver which we killed, those who were with me pretended to show demonstrations of this fact; some of the skins of the males, and almost all of the older ones, bearing marks of violence, while none were ever to be seen on the skins of the females. The Indians add, that the male is as constant as he is jealous, never attaching himself to more than one female; while the female, on her side, is always fond of strangers. The most common way of taking the beaver is that of breaking up its house, which is done with trenching tools, during the winter, when the ice is strong enough to allow of approaching them; and when, also, the fur is in its most valuable state. Breaking up the house, however, is only a preparatory step. During this operation, the family make their escape to one or more of their _washes_. These are to be discovered by striking the ice along the bank, and where the holes are, a hollow sound is returned. After discovering and searching many of these in vain, we often found the whole family together in the same wash. I was taught occasionally to distinguish a full wash from an empty one, by the motion of the water above its entrance, occasioned by the breathing of the animals concealed in it. From the washes they must be taken out with the hands; and in doing this, the hunter sometimes receives severe wounds from their teeth. While a hunter, I thought, with the Indians, that the beaver flesh was very good; but after that of the ox was again within my reach, I could not relish it. The tail is accounted a luxurious morsel. Beavers, say the Indians, were formerly a people endowed with speech, not less than with the other noble faculties they possess; but the Great Spirit has taken this away from them, lest they should grow superior in understanding to mankind. The raccoon was another object of our chase. It was my practice to go out in the evening, with dogs, accompanied by the youngest son of my guardian, to hunt this animal. The raccoon never leaves its hiding place till after sunset. As soon as a dog falls on a fresh track of the raccoon, he gives notice by a cry, and immediately pursues. His barking enables the hunter to follow. The raccoon, which travels slowly, and is soon overtaken, makes for a tree, on which he remains till shot. After the falling of the snow, nothing more is necessary, for taking the raccoon, than to follow the track of his feet. In this season, he seldom leaves his habitation; and he never lays up any food. I have found six at a time, in the hollow of one tree, lying upon each other, and nearly in a torpid state. In more than one instance, I have ascertained that they have lived six weeks without food. The mouse is their principal prey. Raccoon hunting was my more particular and daily employ. I usually went out at the first dawn of day, and seldom returned till sunset, or till I had laden myself with as many animals as I could carry. By degrees I became familiarized with this kind of life; and had it not been for the idea, of which I could not divest my mind, that I was living among savages, and for the whispers of a lingering hope, that I should one day be released from it--or if I could have forgotten that I had ever been otherwise than as I then was--I could have enjoyed as much happiness in this as in any other situation. One evening, on my return from hunting, I found the fire put out, and the opening in the top of the lodge covered over with skins; by this means excluding, as much as possible, external light. I further observed that the ashes were removed from the fire-place, and that dry sand was spread where they had been. Soon after, a fire was made withoutside the cabin, in the open air, and a kettle hung over it to boil. I now supposed that a feast was in preparation. I supposed so only, for it would have been indecorous to inquire into the meaning of what I saw. No person, among the Indians themselves, would use this freedom. Good breeding requires that the spectator should patiently wait the result. As soon as the darkness of night had arrived, the family, including myself, were invited into the lodge. I was now requested not to speak, as a feast was about to be given to the dead, whose spirits delight in uninterrupted silence. As we entered, each was presented with his wooden dish and spoon, after receiving which we seated ourselves. The door was next shut, and we remained in perfect darkness. The master of the family was master of the feast. Still in the dark, he asked every one, by turn, for his dish, and put into each two boiled ears of maize. The whole being served, he began to speak. In his discourse, which lasted half an hour, he called upon the manes of his deceased relations and friends, beseeching them to be present, to assist him in the chase, and to partake of the food which he had prepared for them. When he had ended, we proceeded to eat our maize, which we did without other noise than what was occasioned by our teeth. The maize was not half boiled, and it took me an hour to consume my share. I was requested not to break the spikes, [cob,] as this would be displeasing to the departed spirits of their friends. When all was eaten, Wawatam made another speech, with which the ceremony ended. A new fire was kindled, with fresh sparks, from flint and steel; and the pipes being smoked, the spikes were carefully buried, in a hole made in the ground for that purpose, within the lodge. This done, the whole family began a dance, Wawatam singing, and beating a drum. The dance continued the greater part of the night, to the great pleasure of the lodge. The night of the feast was that of the first day of November. On the twentieth of December, we took an account of the produce of our hunt, and found that we had a hundred beaver skins, as many raccoons, and a large quantity of dried venison; all which was secured from the wolves, by being placed upon a scaffold. A hunting excursion, into the interior of the country, was resolved on; and early next morning the bundles were made up by the women for each person to carry. I remarked that the bundle given to me was the lightest, and those carried by the women the largest and heaviest of the whole. On the first day of our march, we advanced about twenty miles, and then encamped. Being somewhat fatigued, I could not hunt; but Wawatam killed a stag, not far from our encampment. The next morning we moved our lodge to the carcass. At this station we remained two days, employed in drying the meat. The method was, to cut it into slices, of the thickness of a steak, and then hang it over the fire in the smoke. On the third day we removed, and marched till two o'clock in the afternoon. While the women were busy in erecting and preparing the lodges, I took my gun and strolled away, telling Wawatam that I intended to look out for some fresh meat for supper. He answered that he would do the same; and on this we both left the encampment, in different directions. The sun being visible, I entertained no fear of losing my way; but in following several tracks of animals, in momentary expectation of falling in with the game, I proceeded to a considerable distance, and it was not till near sunset that I thought of returning. The sky, too, had become overcast, and I was therefore left without the sun for my guide. In this situation, I walked as fast as I could, always supposing myself to be approaching our encampment, till at length it became so dark that I ran against the trees. I became convinced that I was lost; and I was alarmed by the reflection that I was in a country entirely strange to me, and in danger from strange Indians. With the flint of my gun I made a fire, and then laid me down to sleep. In the night, it rained hard. I awoke cold and wet; and as soon as light appeared, I recommenced my journey, sometimes walking and sometimes running, unknowing where to go, bewildered, and like a madman. Toward evening, I reached the border of a large lake, of which I could scarcely discern the opposite shore. I had never heard of a lake in this part of the country, and therefore felt myself removed further than ever from the object of my pursuit. To tread back my steps appeared to be the most likely means of delivering myself; and I accordingly determined to turn my face directly from the lake, and keep this direction as nearly as I could. A heavy snow began to descend, and night soon afterward came on. On this, I stopped and made a fire; and stripping a tree of its sheet of bark, lay down under it to shelter me from the snow. All night, at small distances, the wolves howled around, and to me seemed to be acquainted with my misfortune. Amid thoughts the most distracted, I was able at length to fall asleep; but it was not long before I awoke, refreshed, and wondering at the terror to which I had yielded myself. That I could really have wanted the means of recovering my way, appeared to me almost incredible, and the recollection of it like a dream, or as a circumstance which must have proceeded from the loss of my senses. Had this not happened, I could never, as I now thought, have suffered so long, without calling to mind the lessons which I had received from my Indian friend, for the very purpose of being useful to me in difficulties of this kind. These were, that, generally speaking, the tops of pine trees lean toward the rising of the sun; that moss grows toward the roots of trees on the side which faces the north; and that the limbs of trees are most numerous, and largest on that which faces the south. Determined to direct my feet by these marks, and persuaded that I should thus, sooner or later, reach lake Michigan, which I reckoned to be distant about sixty miles, I began my march at break of day. I had not taken, nor wished to take, any nourishment since I left the encampment; I had with me my gun and ammunition, and was therefore under no anxiety in regard to food. The snow lay about half a foot in depth. My eyes were now employed upon the trees. When their tops leaned different ways, I looked to the moss, or to the branches; and by connecting one with another, I found the means of traveling with some degree of confidence. At four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun, to my inexpressible joy, broke from the clouds, and I had now no further need of examining the trees. In going down the side of a lofty hill, I saw a herd of red deer approaching. Desirous of killing one of them for food, I hid myself in the bushes, and on a large one coming near, presented my piece, which missed fire, on account of the priming having been wetted. The animals walked along, without taking the least alarm; and, having re-loaded my gun, I followed them, and presented a second time. But now a disaster of the heaviest kind had befallen me; for, on attempting to fire, I found that I had lost the cock. I had previously lost the screw by which it was fastened to the lock; and to prevent this from being lost also, I had tied it in its place, with a leather string. The lock, to prevent its catching in the boughs, I had carried under my molton coat. Of all the sufferings which I had experienced, this seemed to me the most severe. I was in a strange country, and knew not how far I had to go. I had been three days without food; I was without the means of procuring myself either food or fire. Despair had almost overpowered me; but I soon resigned myself into the hands of that Providence, whose arm had so often saved me, and returned on my track, in search of what I had lost. My search was in vain, and I resumed my course, wet, cold, and hungry, and almost without clothing. The sun was setting fast, when I descended a hill, at the bottom of which was a small lake, entirely frozen over. On drawing near, I saw a beaver lodge in the middle, offering some faint prospect of food; but I found it already broken up. While I looked at it, it suddenly occurred to me that I had seen it before; and turning my eyes round the place, I discovered a small tree which I had myself cut down, in the autumn, when, in company with my friends, I had taken the beaver. I was no longer at a loss, but knew both the distance and the route to the encampment. The latter was only to follow the course of a small stream of water, which ran from the encampment to the lake on which I stood. An hour before, I had thought myself the most miserable of men; and now I leaped for joy, and called myself the happiest. The whole of the night, and through all the succeeding day, I walked up the rivulet, and at sunset reached the encampment, where I was received with the warmest expressions of pleasure by the family, by whom I had been given up for lost, after a long and vain search for me in the woods. Some days elapsed, during which I rested myself, and recruited my strength; after this, I resumed the chase, secure that, as the snow had now fallen, I could always return by the way I went. In the course of the month of January, I happened to observe that the trunk of a large pine tree was much torn by the claws of a bear, made both in going up and down. On further examination, I saw that there was a large opening in the upper part, near which the smaller branches were broken. From these marks, and from the additional circumstance that there were no tracks on the snow, there was reason to believe that a bear lay concealed in the tree. On returning to the lodge, I communicated my discovery; and it was agreed that all the family should go together in the morning, to assist in cutting down the tree, the girth of which was not less than three fathoms. The women at first opposed the undertaking, because our axes, being only of a pound and a half weight, were not well adapted to so heavy a labor; but the hope of finding a large bear, and obtaining from its fat a great quantity of oil, an article at the time much wanted, at length prevailed. Accordingly, in the morning, we surrounded the tree, both men and women, as many at a time as could conveniently work at it; and here we toiled like beavers till the sun went down. This day's work carried us about half way through the trunk; and the next morning we renewed the attack, continuing it until about two o'clock in the afternoon, when the tree fell to the ground. For a few minutes, every thing remained quiet, and I feared that all our expectations were disappointed; but as I advanced to the opening, there came out, to the great satisfaction of all our party, a bear of extraordinary size, which, before she had proceeded many yards, I shot. The bear being dead, all my assistants approached, and all, but more particularly my old mother, (as I was wont to call her,) took her head in her hands, stroking and kissing it several times; begging a thousand pardons for taking away her life; calling her their relation and grandmother; and requesting her not to lay the fault upon them, since it was truly an Englishman that had put her to death. This ceremony was not of long duration; and if it was I that killed their grandmother, they were not themselves behindhand in what remained to be performed. The skin being taken off, we found the fat in several places six inches deep. This being divided into two parts, loaded two persons; and the flesh parts were as much as four persons could carry. In all, the carcass must have exceeded five hundred weight. As soon as we reached the lodge, the bear's head was adorned with all the trinkets in the possession of the family, such as silver arm bands and wrist bands, and belts of wampum, and then laid upon a scaffold, set up for its reception, within the lodge. Near the nose was placed a large quantity of tobacco. The next morning no sooner appeared than preparations were made for a feast to the manes. The lodge was cleaned and swept; and the head of the bear lifted up, and a new stroud blanket, which had never been used before, spread under it. The pipes were now lit; and Wawatam blew tobacco smoke into the nostrils of the bear, telling me to do the same, and thus appease the anger of the bear, on account of my having killed her. I endeavored to persuade my benefactor and friendly adviser that she no longer had any life, and assured him that I was under no apprehension from her displeasure; but the first proposition obtained no credit, and the second gave but little satisfaction. At length, the feast being ready, Wawatam commenced a speech, resembling in many things his address to the manes of his relations and departed companions; but having this peculiarity, that he here deplored the necessity under which men labored thus to destroy their _friends_. He represented, however, that the misfortune was unavoidable, since without doing so they could by no means subsist. The speech ended, we all ate heartily of the bear's flesh; and even the head itself, after remaining three days on the scaffold, was put into the kettle. It is only the female bear that makes her winter lodging in the upper parts of trees, a practice by which the young are secured from the attacks of wolves and other animals. She brings forth in the winter season; and remains in her lodge till the cubs have gained some strength. The male always lodges in the ground, under the roots of trees. He takes to this habitation as soon as the snow falls, and remains there until it has disappeared. The Indians remark that the bear comes out in the spring with the same fat which he carried in in the autumn, but after exercise of only a few days becomes lean. Excepting for a short part of the season, the male lives constantly alone. The fat of our bear was melted down, and the oil filled six porcupine skins. A part of the meat was cut into strips and fire-dried, after which it was put into the vessels containing the oil, where it remained in perfect preservation until the middle of summer. February, in the country and by the people where and among whom I was, is called the Moon of Hard or Crusted Snow; for now the snow can bear a man, or at least dogs, in pursuit of animals of the chase. At this season, the stag is very successfully hunted, his feet breaking through at every step, and the crust upon the snow cutting his legs with its sharp edges to the very bone. He is consequently, in this distress, an easy prey; and it frequently happened that we killed twelve in the short space of two hours. By this means we were soon put into possession of four thousand weight of dried venison, which was to be carried on our backs, along with all the rest of our wealth, for seventy miles, the distance of our encampment from that part of the lake shore at which in the autumn we left our canoes. This journey it was our next business to perform. Our venison and furs and peltries were to be disposed of at Michilimackinac, and it was now the season for carrying them to market. The women, therefore, prepared our loads; and the morning of departure being come, we set off at daybreak, and continued our march till two o'clock in the afternoon. Where we stopped, we erected a scaffold, on which we deposited the bundles we had brought, and returned to our encampment, which we reached in the evening. In the morning, we carried fresh loads, which being deposited with the rest, we returned a second time in the evening. This we repeated till all was forwarded one stage. Then, removing our lodge to the place of deposit, we carried our goods, with the same patient toil, a second stage; and so on, till we were at no great distance from the shores of the lake. Arrived here, we turned our attention to sugar making, the management of which, as I have before related, belongs to the women, the men cutting wood for the fires, and hunting and fishing. In the midst of this, we were joined by several lodges of Indians, most of whom were of the family to which I belonged, and had wintered near us. The lands belonged to this family, and it had, therefore, the exclusive right to hunt on them. This is according to the custom of the people; for each family has its own lands. I was treated very civilly by all the lodges. Our society had been a short time enlarged by this arrival of our friends, when an accident occurred which filled the whole village with anxiety and sorrow. A little child, belonging to one of our neighbors, fell into a kettle of boiling syrup. It was instantly snatched out, but with little hope of its recovery. So long, however, as it lived, a continual feast was observed; and this was made to the Great Spirit and Master of Life, that he might be pleased to save and heal the child. At this feast I was a constant guest; and often found difficulty in eating the large quantity of food which, on such occasions as these, is put upon each man's dish. The Indians accustom themselves both to eat much and to fast much with facility. Several sacrifices were also offered; among which were dogs, killed and hung upon the tops of poles, with the addition of stroud blankets and other articles. These also were given to the Great Spirit, in humble hope that he would give efficacy to the medicines employed. The child died. To preserve the body from the wolves, it was placed upon a scaffold, where it remained till we went to the lake, on the border of which was the burial ground of the family. On our arrival there, which happened in the beginning of April, I did not fail to attend the funeral. The grave was made of a large size, and the whole of the inside lined with birch bark. On the bark was laid the body of the child, accompanied with an axe, a pair of snow shoes, a small kettle, several pairs of common shoes, its own strings of beads, and because it was a girl, a carrying belt and a paddle. The kettle was filled with meat. All this was again covered with bark; and at about two feet nearer the surface, logs were laid across, and these again covered with bark, so that the earth might by no means fall upon the corpse. The last act before the burial performed by the mother, crying over the dead body of her child, was that of taking from it a lock of hair for a memorial. While she did this I endeavored to console her, by offering the usual arguments: that the child was happy in being released from the miseries of this present life, and that she should forbear to grieve, because it would be restored to her in another world, happy and everlasting. She answered that she knew it, and that by the lock of hair she should discover her daughter, for she would take it with her. In this she alluded to the day when some pious hand would place in her own grave, along with the carrying belt and paddle, this little relic, hallowed by maternal tears. I have frequently inquired into the ideas and opinions of the Indians in regard to futurity, and always found that they were somewhat different in different individuals. Some suppose their souls to remain in this world, although invisible to human eyes; and capable, themselves, of seeing and hearing their friends, and also of assisting them, in moments of distress and danger. Others dismiss from the mortal scene the unembodied spirit, and send it to a distant world or country, in which it receives reward or punishment, according to the life which it has led in its prior state. Those who have lived virtuously, are transported into a place abounding with every luxury, with deer and all other animals of the woods and water, and where the earth produces, in their greatest perfection, all its sweetest fruits. While, on the other hand, those who have violated or neglected the duties of this life, are removed to a barren soil, where they wander up and down, among rocks and morasses, and are stung by gnats as large as pigeons. While we remained on the border of the lake, a watch was kept every night, in the apprehension of a speedy attack from the English, who were expected to avenge the massacre of Michilimackinac. The immediate grounds of this apprehension were the constant dreams, to this effect, of the more aged women. I endeavored to persuade them that nothing of the kind would take place; but their fears were not to be subdued. Amid these alarms, there came a report concerning a real, though less formidable enemy discovered in our neighborhood. This was a panther, which one of our young men had seen, and which animal sometimes attacks and carries away the Indian children. Our camp was immediately on the alert, and we set off into the woods, about twenty in number. We had not proceeded more than a mile before the dogs found the panther, and pursued him to a tree, on which he was shot. He was of a large size. On the twenty-fifth of April, we embarked for Michilimackinac. At La Grande Traverse we met a large party of Indians, who appeared to labor, like ourselves, under considerable alarm; and who dared proceed no further, lest they should be destroyed by the English. Frequent councils of the united bands were held; and interrogations were continually put to myself as to whether or not I knew of any design to attack them. I found that they believed it possible for me to have a foreknowledge of events, and to be informed by dreams of all things doing at a distance. Protestations of my ignorance were received with but little satisfaction, and incurred the suspicion of a design to conceal my knowledge. On this account, therefore, or because I saw them tormented with fears which had nothing but imagination to rest upon, I told them, at length, that I knew there was no enemy to insult them; and that they might proceed to Michilimackinac without danger from the English. I further, and with more confidence, declared, that if ever my countrymen returned to Michilimackinac I would recommend them to their favor, on account of the good treatment which I had received from them. Thus encouraged, they embarked at an early hour the next morning. In crossing the bay we experienced a storm of thunder and lightning. Our port was the village of L'Arbre Croche, which we reached in safety, and where we staid till the following day. At this village we found several persons who had been lately at Michilimackinac, and from them we had the satisfaction of learning that all was quiet there. The remainder of our voyage was therefore performed with confidence. In the evening of the twenty-seventh we landed at the fort, which now contained only two French traders. The Indians who had arrived before us were very few in number; and by all, who were of our party, I was used very kindly. I had the entire freedom both of the fort and camp. Wawatam and myself settled our stock, and paid our debts; and this done, I found that my share of what was left consisted in a hundred beaver skins, sixty raccoon skins, and six otter, of the total value of about one hundred and sixty dollars. With these earnings of my winter's toil I proposed to purchase clothes, of which I was much in need, having been six months without a shirt; but, on inquiring into the prices of goods, I found that all my means would not go far. I was able, however, to buy two shirts, at ten pounds of beaver each; a pair of _leggins_, or pantaloons, of scarlet cloth, which, with the ribbon to garning them _fashionably_, cost me fifteen pounds of beaver; a blanket, at twenty pounds of beaver; and some other articles, at proportionable rates. In this manner my wealth was soon reduced; but not before I had laid in a good stock of ammunition and tobacco. To the use of the latter I had become much attached during the winter. It was my principal recreation after returning from the chase; for my companions in the lodge were unaccustomed to pass the time in conversation. Among the Indians the topics of conversation are but few, and limited, for the most part, to the transactions of the day, the number of animals which they have killed, and of those which have escaped their pursuit, and other incidents of the chase. Indeed, the causes of taciturnity among the Indians may be easily understood, if we consider how many occasions of speech, which present themselves to us, are utterly unknown to them; the records of history, the pursuits of science, the disquisitions of philosophy, the systems of politics, the business and the amusements of the day, and the transactions of the four corners of the world. Eight days had passed in tranquillity, when there arrived a band of Indians from the bay of Saguenaum. They had assisted at the siege of Detroit, and came to muster as many recruits for that service as they could. For my own part, I was soon informed that, as I was the only Englishman in the place, they proposed to kill me, in order to give their friends a mess of English broth to raise their courage. This intelligence was not of the most agreeable kind; and in consequence of receiving it, I requested my friend to carry me to the Sault de Saint-Marie, at which place I knew the Indians to be peaceably inclined, and that M. Cadotte enjoyed a powerful influence over their conduct. They considered M. Cadotte as their chief; and he was not only my friend, but a friend to the English. It was by him that the Chippeways of Lake Superior were prevented from joining Pontiac. Wawatam was not slow to exert himself for my preservation, but, leaving Michilimackinac in the night, transported himself and all his lodge to Point Saint-Ignace, on the opposite side of the strait. Here we remained till daylight, and then went into the Bay of Boutchitaouy, in which we spent three days in fishing and hunting, and where we found plenty of wild fowl. Leaving the bay, we made for the Isle aux Outardes, where we were obliged to put in, on account of the wind coming ahead. We proposed sailing for the Sault the next morning. But when the morning came, Wawatam's wife complained that she was sick, adding that she had had bad dreams, and knew that if we went to the Sault we should all be destroyed. To have argued, at this time, against the infallibility of dreams, would have been extremely unadvisable, since I should have appeared to be guilty, not only of an odious want of faith, but also of a still more odious want of sensibility to the possible calamities of a family which had done so much for the alleviation of mine. I was silent, but the disappointment seemed to seal my fate. No prospect opened to console me. The return to Michilimackinac could only insure my destruction; and to remain at the island was to brave almost equal danger, since it lay in the direct route between the fort and the Missisaki, along which the Indians from Detroit were hourly expected to pass, on the business of their mission. I doubted not but, taking advantage of the solitary situation of the family, they would carry into execution their design of killing me. Unable, therefore, to take any part in the direction of our course, but a prey, at the same time, to the most anxious thoughts as to my own condition, I passed all the day on the highest part to which I could climb, of a tall tree, from whence the lake, on both sides of the island, lay open to my view. Here I might hope to learn, at the earliest possible, the approach of canoes, and by this means be warned in time to conceal myself. On the second morning I returned, as soon as it was light, to my watch tower, on which I had not been long before I discovered a sail coming from Michilimackinac. The sail was a white one, and much larger than those usually employed by the northern Indians. I therefore indulged a hope that it might be a Canadian canoe, on the voyage to Montreal; and that I might be able to prevail upon the crew to take me with them, and thus release me from all my troubles. My hopes continued to gain ground; for I soon persuaded myself that the manner in which the paddles were used on board the canoe was Canadian, and not Indian. My spirits were elated; but disappointment had become so usual with me, that I could not suffer myself to look to the event with any strength of confidence. Enough, however, appeared at length to demonstrate itself to induce me to descend the tree, and repair to the lodge, with my tidings and schemes of liberty. The family congratulated me on the approach of so fair an opportunity of escape; and my father and brother, (for he was alternately each of these) lit his pipe, and presented it to me, saying, "My son, this may be the last time that ever you and I shall smoke out of the same pipe! I am sorry to part with you. You know the affection which I have always borne you, and the dangers to which I have exposed myself and family, to preserve you from your enemies; and I am happy to find that my efforts promise not to have been in vain." At this time a boy came into the lodge, informing us that the canoe had come from Michilimackinac, and was bound to the Sault de Saint-Marie. It was manned by three Canadians, and was carrying home Madame Cadotte, the wife of M. Cadotte, already mentioned. My hopes of going to Montreal being now dissipated, I resolved on accompanying Madame Cadotte, with her permission, to the Sault. On communicating my wishes to Madame Cadotte, she cheerfully acceded to them. Madame Cadotte, as I have already mentioned, was an Indian woman of the Chippeway nation, and she was very generally respected. My departure fixed upon, I returned to the lodge, where I packed up my wardrobe, consisting of my two shirts, pair of _leggins_, and blanket. Besides these, I took a gun and ammunition, presenting what remained further, to my host. I also returned the silver arm bands with which the family had decorated me the year before. We now exchanged farewells with an emotion entirely reciprocal. I did not quit the lodge without the most grateful sense of the many acts of goodness which I had experienced in it, nor without the sincerest respect for the virtues which I had witnessed among its members. All the family accompanied me to the beach; and the canoe had no sooner put off than Wawatam commenced an address to the Kichi Manito, beseeching him to take care of me, his brother, till we should next meet. This, he had told me, would not be long, as he intended to return to Michilimackinac for a short time only, and would then follow me to the Sault. We had proceeded to too great a distance to allow of our hearing his voice, before Wawatam had ceased to offer up his prayers. Being now no longer in the society of the Indians, I put aside the dress, putting on that of a Canadian: a molton, or blanket coat, over my shirt, and a handkerchief about my head, hats being very little worn in this country. At daybreak, on the second morning of our voyage, we embarked, and presently perceived several canoes behind us. As they approached, we ascertained them to be the fleet, bound for the Missisaki, of which I had been so long in dread. It amounted to twenty sail. On coming up with us, and surrounding our canoe, and amid general inquiries concerning the news, an Indian challenged me for an Englishman, and his companions supported him by declaring that I looked very like one; but I affected not to understand any of the questions which they asked me, and Madame Cadotte assured them that I was a Canadian, whom she had brought on his first voyage from Montreal. The following day saw us safely landed at the Sault, where I experienced a generous welcome from M. Cadotte. There were thirty warriors at this place, restrained from joining in the war only by M. Cadotte's influence. Here, for five days, I was once more in possession of tranquillity; but, on the sixth, a young Indian came into M. Cadotte's, saying that a canoe full of warriors had just arrived from Michilimackinac; that they had inquired for me; and that he believed their intentions to be bad. Nearly at the same time, a message came from the good chief of the village, desiring me to conceal myself until he should discover the views and temper of the strangers. A garret was the second time my place of refuge; and it was not long before the Indians came to M. Cadotte's. My friend immediately informed Mutchikiwish, their chief, who was related to his wife, of the design imputed to them, of mischief against myself. Mutchikiwish frankly acknowledged that they had had such a design; but added that, if displeasing to M. Cadotte, it should be abandoned. He then further stated, that their errand was to raise a party of warriors to return with them to Detroit; and that it had been their intention to take me with them. In regard to the principal of the two objects thus disclosed, M. Cadotte proceeded to assemble all the chiefs and warriors of the village; and these, after deliberating for some time among themselves, sent for the strangers, to whom both M. Cadotte and the chief of the village addressed a speech. In these speeches, after recurring to the designs confessed to have been entertained against myself, who was now declared to be under the protection of all the chiefs, by whom any insult I might sustain would be avenged, the ambassadors were peremptorily told that they might go back as they came, none of the young men of this village being foolish enough to join them. A moment after, a report was brought that a canoe had just arrived from Niagara. As this was a place from which every one was anxious to hear news, a message was sent to these fresh strangers, requesting them to come to the council. The strangers came accordingly, and being seated, a long silence ensued. At length, one of them, taking up a belt of wampum, addressed himself thus to the assembly: "My friends and brothers, I am come, with this belt, from our great father, Sir William Johnson. He desired me to come to you as his ambassador, and tell you that he is making a great feast at Fort Niagara; that his kettles are all ready and his fires lit. He invites you to partake of the feast, in common with your friends, the Six Nations, who have all made peace with the English. He advises you to seize this opportunity of doing the same, as you cannot otherwise fail of being destroyed; for the English are on their march with a great army, which will be joined by different nations of Indians. In a word, before the fall of the leaf, they will be at Michilimackinac, and the Six Nations with them." The tenor of this speech greatly alarmed the Indians of the Sault, who, after a very short consultation, agreed to send twenty deputies to Sir William Johnson, at Niagara. This was a project highly interesting to me, since it offered me the means of leaving the country. I intimated this to the chief of the village, and received his promise that I should accompany the deputation. Very little time was proposed to be lost, in setting forward on the voyage; but the occasion was of too much magnitude not to call for more than human knowledge and discretion; and preparations were accordingly made for solemnly invoking and consulting the Great Turtle. For invoking and consulting the Great Turtle, the first thing to be done was the building of a large house or wigwam, within which was placed a species of tent, for the use of the priest and reception of the spirit. The tent was formed of moose skins, hung over a framework of wood. Five poles, or rather pillars, of five different species of timber, about ten feet in height, and eight inches in diameter, were set in a circle of about four feet in diameter. The holes made to receive them were about two feet deep; and the pillars being set, the holes were filled up again, with the earth which had been dug out. At top the pillars were bound together by a circular hoop, or girder. Over the whole of this edifice, were spread the moose skins, covering it at top and around the sides, and made fast with thongs of the same; except that on one side a part was left unfastened, to admit of the entrance of the priest. The ceremonies did not commence but with the approach of night. To give light within the house, several fires were kindled round the tent. Nearly the whole village assembled in the house, and myself among the rest. It was not long before the priest appeared, almost in a state of nakedness. As he approached the tent the skins were lifted up, as much as was necessary to allow of his creeping under them on his hands and knees. His head was scarcely withinside, when the edifice, massy as it has been described, began to shake; and the skins were no sooner let fall, than the sounds of numerous voices were heard beneath them, some yelling, some barking as dogs, some howling like wolves, and in this horrible concert were mingled screams and sobs, as of despair, anguish, and the sharpest pain. Articulate speech was also uttered, as if from human lips, but in a tongue unknown to any of the audience. After some time, these confused and frightful noises were succeeded by a perfect silence; and now a voice, not heard before, seemed to manifest the arrival of a new character in the tent. This was a low and feeble voice, resembling the cry of a young puppy. The sound was no sooner distinguished, than all the Indians clapped their hands for joy, exclaiming, that this was the Chief Spirit, the Turtle, the spirit that never lied! Other voices, which they had discriminated from time to time, they had previously hissed, as recognizing them to belong to evil and lying spirits, which deceive mankind. New sounds came from the tent. During the space of half an hour, a succession of songs were heard, in which a diversity of voices met the ear. From his first entrance, till these songs were finished, we heard nothing in the proper voice of the priest; but now, he addressed the multitude, declaring the presence of the Great Turtle, and the spirit's readiness to answer such questions as should be proposed. The questions were to come from the chief of the village, who was silent, however, till after he had put a large quantity of tobacco into the tent, introducing it at the aperture. This was a sacrifice offered to the spirit; for spirits are supposed by the Indians to be as fond of tobacco as themselves. The tobacco accepted, he desired the priest to inquire whether or not the English were preparing to make war upon the Indians; and whether or not there were at fort Niagara a large number of English troops. These questions having been put by the priest, the tent instantly shook; and for some seconds after it continued to rock so violently that I expected to see it leveled with the ground. All this was a prelude, as I supposed, to the answers to be given; but a terrific cry announced, with sufficient intelligibility, the departure of the Turtle. A quarter of an hour elapsed in silence, and I waited impatiently to discover what was to be the next incident in this scene of imposture. It consisted in the return of the spirit, whose voice was again heard, and who now delivered a continued speech. The language of the Great Turtle, like that which we had heard before, was wholly unintelligible to every ear, that of his priest excepted; and it was, therefore, not till the latter gave us an interpretation, which did not commence before the spirit had finished, that we learned the purport of this extraordinary communication. The spirit, as we were now informed by the priest, had, during his short absence, crossed lake Huron, and even proceeded as far as fort Niagara, which is at the head of lake Ontario, and thence to Montreal. At fort Niagara, he had seen no great number of soldiers; but on descending the St. Lawrence, as low as Montreal, he had found the river covered with boats, and the boats filled with soldiers, in number like the leaves of the trees. He had met them on their way up the river, coming to make war upon the Indians. The chief had a third question to propose, and the spirit, without a fresh journey to fort Niagara, was able to give an instant and most favorable answer. "If," said the chief, "the Indians visit Sir William Johnson, will they be received as friends?" "Sir William Johnson," said the spirit, (and after the spirit the priest,) "Sir William Johnson will fill their canoes with presents, with blankets, kettles, guns, gunpowder and shot, and large barrels of rum, such as the stoutest of the Indians will not be able to lift; and every man will return in safety to his family." At this, the transport was universal; and, amid the clapping of hands, a hundred voices exclaimed, "I will go, too! I will go, too!" The questions of public interest being resolved, individuals were now permitted to seize the opportunity of inquiring into the condition of their absent friends, and the fate of such as were sick. I observed that the answers, given to these questions, allowed of much latitude of interpretation. Amid this general inquisitiveness, I yielded to the solicitations of my own anxiety for the future; and having first, like the rest, made my offering of tobacco, I inquired whether or not I should ever revisit my native country. The question being put by the priest, the tent shook as usual; after which I received this answer: "That I should take courage, and fear no danger, for that nothing would happen to hurt me; and that I should, in the end, reach my friends and country in safety." These assurances wrought so strongly on my gratitude, that I presented an additional and extra offering of tobacco. The Great Turtle continued to be consulted till near midnight, when all the crowd dispersed to their respective lodges. I was on the watch, through the scene I have described, to detect the particular contrivances by which the fraud was carried on; but such was the skill displayed in the performance, or such my deficiency of penetration, that I made no discoveries, but came away as I went, with no more than those general surmises which will naturally be entertained by every reader. On the 10th of June, I embarked with the Indian deputation, composed of sixteen men. Twenty had been the number originally designed; and upward of fifty actually engaged themselves to the council for the undertaking; to say nothing of the general enthusiasm, at the moment of hearing the Great Turtle's promises. But exclusively of the degree of timidity which still prevailed, we are to take into account the various domestic calls, which might supersede all others, and detain many with their families. In the evening of the second day of our voyage, we reached the mouth of the Missisaki, where we found about forty Indians, by whom we were received with abundant kindness, and at night regaled at a great feast, held on account of our arrival. The viand was a preparation of the roe of the sturgeon, beat up, and boiled, and of the consistence of porridge. After eating, several speeches were made to us, of which the general topic was a request that we should recommend the village to Sir William Johnson. This request was also specially addressed to me, and I promised to comply with it. On the 14th of June, we passed the village of La Cloche, of which the greater part of the inhabitants were absent, being already on a visit to Sir William Johnson. This circumstance greatly encouraged the companions of my voyage, who now saw that they were not the first to run into danger. The next day, about noon, the wind blowing very hard, we were obliged to put ashore at Point aux Grondines, a place of which some description has been given before. While the Indians erected a hut, I employed myself in making a fire. As I was gathering wood, an unusual sound fixed my attention for a moment; but, as it presently ceased, and as I saw nothing from which I could suppose it to proceed, I continued my employment, till, advancing further, I was alarmed by a repetition. I imagined that it came from above my head; but after looking that way in vain, I cast my eyes on the ground, and there discovered a rattlesnake, at not more than two feet from my naked legs. The reptile was coiled, and its head raised considerably above its body. Had I advanced another step before my discovery, I must have trodden upon it. I no sooner saw the snake than I hastened to the canoe, in order to procure my gun; but the Indians, observing what I was doing, inquired the occasion, and being informed, begged me to desist. At the same time they followed me to the spot, with their pipes and tobacco pouches in their hands. On returning, I found the snake still coiled. The Indians, on their part, surrounded it, all addressing it by turns, and calling it their _grandfather_; but yet keeping at some distance. During this part of the ceremony they filled their pipes; and now each blew the smoke toward the snake, who, as it appeared to me, really received it with pleasure. In a word, after remaining coiled, and receiving incense, for the space of half an hour, it stretched itself along the ground in visible good humor. Its length was between four and five feet. Having remained outstretched for some time, at last it moved slowly away, the Indians following it, and still addressing it by the title of grandfather, beseeching it to take care of their families during their absence, and to be pleased to open the heart of Sir William Johnson, so that he might _show them charity_, and fill their canoes with rum. One of the chiefs added a petition that the snake would take no notice of the insult which had been offered him by the Englishman, who would even have put him to death but for the interference of the Indians, to whom it was hoped he would impute no part of the offense. They further requested that he would remain and inhabit their country, and not return among the English, that is, go eastward. After the rattlesnake was gone, I learned that this was the first time that an individual of the species had been seen so far to the northward and westward of the river Des Français; a circumstance, moreover, from which my companions were disposed to infer that this _manito_ had come or been sent on purpose to meet them; that his errand had been no other than to stop them on their way; and that consequently it would be most advisable to return to the point of departure. I was so fortunate, however, as to prevail with them to embark; and at six o'clock in the evening we again encamped. Very little was spoken of through the evening, the rattlesnake excepted. Early the next morning we proceeded. We had a serene sky and very little wind, and the Indians therefore determined on steering across the lake to an island which just appeared in the horizon; saving, by this course, a distance of thirty miles, which would be lost in keeping the shore. At nine o'clock, A.M., we had a light breeze astern, to enjoy the benefit of which we hoisted sail. Soon after the wind increased, and the Indians, beginning to be alarmed, frequently called on the rattlesnake to come to their assistance. By degrees the waves grew high; and at eleven o'clock it blew a hurricane, and we expected every moment to be swallowed up. From prayers the Indians now proceeded to sacrifices, both alike offered to the god rattlesnake, or _manito kinibic_. One of the chiefs took a dog, and after tying its fore legs together, threw it overboard, at the same time calling on the snake to preserve us from being drowned, and desiring him to satisfy his hunger with the carcass of the dog. The snake was unpropitious, and the wind increased. Another chief sacrificed another dog, with the addition of some tobacco. In the prayer which accompanied these gifts, he besought the snake, as before, not to avenge upon the Indians the insult which he had received from myself, in the conception of a design to put him to death. He assured the snake that I was absolutely an Englishman, and of kin neither to him nor to them. At the conclusion of this speech, an Indian who sat near me observed, that if we were drowned it would be for my fault alone, and that I ought myself to be sacrificed, to appease the angry manito; nor was I without apprehensions that in case of extremity this would be my fate; but happily for me, the storm at length abated, and we reached the island safely. The next day was calm, and we arrived at the entrance of the navigation which leads to lake Aux Claies. (This lake is now called lake Simcoe.) We presently passed two short carrying-places, at each of which were several lodges of Indians, (these Indians are Chippeways, of the particular description called Missisakies; and from their residence at Matchedash, or Matchitashk, also called Matchedash or Matchitashk Indians,) containing only women and children, the men being gone to the council at Niagara. From this, as from a former instance, my companions derived new courage. On the 18th of June, we crossed lake Aux Claies, which appeared to be upwards of twenty miles in length. At its further end we came to the carrying-place of Toronto. Here the Indians obliged me to carry a burden of more than a hundred pounds weight. The day was very hot, and the woods and marshes abounded with musquitoes; but the Indians walked at a quick pace, and I could by no means see myself left behind. The whole country was a thick forest, through which our only road was a foot-path, or such as, in America, is exclusively termed an _Indian path_. Next morning at ten o'clock, we reached the store of lake Ontario. Here we were employed two days in making canoes out of the bark of the elm tree, in which we were to transport ourselves to Niagara. For this purpose the Indians first cut down a tree; then stripped off the bark in one entire sheet of about eighteen feet in length, the incision being lengthwise. The canoe was now complete as to its top, bottom, and sides. Its ends were next closed by sewing the bark together; and a few ribs and bars being introduced, the architecture was finished. In this manner we made two canoes, of which one carried eight men and the other nine. On the 21st, we embarked at Toronto, and encamped in the evening four miles short of fort Niagara, which the Indians would not approach till morning. At dawn, the Indians were awake, and presently assembled in council, still doubtful as to the fate they were to encounter, I assured them of the most friendly welcome; and at length, after painting themselves with the most lively colors, in token of their own peaceable views, and after singing the song which is in use among them on going into danger, they embarked, and made for point Missisaki, which is on the north side of the mouth of the river or strait of Niagara, as the fort is on the south. A few minutes after I crossed over to the fort; and here I was received by Sir William Johnson, in a manner for which I have ever been gratefully attached to his person and memory. Thus was completed my escape from the sufferings and dangers which the capture of fort Michilimackinac brought upon me; but the property which I had carried into the upper country was left behind. The reader will therefore be far from attributing to me any idle or unaccountable motive, when he finds me returning to the scene of my misfortunes. FOOTNOTES: [61] The Panies are an Indian nation of the South. NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF FRANCES NOBLE. James Whidden, the maternal grandfather of Mrs. Shute, was a captain in the army at the taking of Cape Breton in 1745. He owned a tract of land on Swan Island, in the river Kennebec, where he lived with his family. One of his daughters married Lazarus Noble, of Portsmouth, who lived on the island with her father. The Indians had been accustomed to visit Capt. Whidden for the purposes of trade. There was a garrison on the island to secure the inhabitants from the attacks of the enemy in time of war. One morning, about the year 1755, a little after daybreak, two boys went out of the garrison and left the gate open. The Indians were on the watch, and, availing themselves of the opportunity, about ninety entered the garrison. The inhabitants immediately discovered that the enemy was upon them; but there was no escape. Captain Whidden and his wife retreated to the cellar, and concealed themselves. Noble and his hired man met the Indians at the head of the stairs, and fired upon them, wounding one of them in the arm. The Indians did not return the fire, but took Noble, his wife and seven children, with Timothy Whidden and Mary Holmes, prisoners. The hired man and two boys escaped. The captives were carried to the water's side and bound; excepting such as could not run away. The Indians then returned to the garrison, burnt the barn and plundered the house, cut open the feather beds, strewed the feathers in the field, and carried off all the silver and gold they could find, and as much of the provisions as they chose. It was supposed they omitted to burn the house from the suspicion that the captain and his wife, from whom they had, in times of peace, received many favors, were concealed in it. Captain Whidden, after the destruction of his property on the island returned to Greenland, in this state, which is supposed to have been his native place, and there died. The Indians also took, in a wood on the island, an old man by the name of Pomeroy, who was employed in making shingles. Having collected their captives and plunder, they immediately left the island, and commenced their return to Canada to dispose of their prey. Pomeroy was old and feeble, and unable to endure the fatigue of the march, without more assistance than the savages thought fit to render him, and they killed him on the journey. They were more attentive to the children, as for them they undoubtedly expected a higher price or a greater ransom. Abigail, one of the children, died among the Indians. The other captives arrived safe in Canada, and were variously disposed of. Mr. Noble was sold to a baker in Quebec, and his wife to a lady of the same place as a chambermaid. They were allowed to visit each other and to sleep together. Four of the children were also sold in Quebec, as were Timothy Whidden and Mary Holmes. The captives in that city were exchanged within a year, and returned to their homes. Mr. Whidden and Miss Holmes were afterward united in marriage. Fanny Noble, the principal subject of this memoir, at the time of her captivity, was about thirteen months old. She was carried by a party of Indians to Montreal. In their attempts to dispose of her, they took her one day to the house of Monsieur Louis St. Auge Charlee, an eminent merchant of that place, who was at that time on a journey to Quebec. His lady was called into the kitchen by one of her maids to see a poor infant crawling on the tile floor in dirt and rags, picking apple peelings out of the cracks. She came in, and on kindly noticing the child, Fanny immediately caught hold of the lady's gown, wrapped it over her head, and burst into tears. The lady could not easily resist this appeal to her compassion. She took up the child, who clung about her neck and repeatedly embraced her. The Indians offered to sell her their little captive, but she declined buying, not choosing probably in the absence of her husband to venture on such a purchase. The Indians left the house, and slept that night on the pavements before the door. Fanny, who had again heard the voice of kindness, to which she had not been accustomed from her savage masters, could not be quiet, but disturbed the slumbers and touched the heart of the French lady by her incessant cries. This lady had then lately lost a child by death, and was perhaps more quick to feel for the sufferings of children, and more disposed to love them, than she would otherwise have been. Early the next morning the Indians were called into the house; Fanny was purchased, put into a tub of water, and having been thoroughly washed, was dressed in the clothes of the deceased child, and put to bed. She awoke smiling, and seemed desirous of repaying her mistress' kindness by her infantile prattle and fond caresses. Fanny could never learn for what price she was bought of the Indians, as her French mother declined answering her questions upon that subject, telling her to be a good girl, and be thankful that she was not still in their power. M. and Madam St. Auge took a lively interest in their little captive, and treated her with much tenderness and affection. She felt for them a filial attachment. When her parents were exchanged, her mother, on her return home, called upon Fanny, and took the child in her arms, but no instinct taught her to rejoice in the maternal embrace, and she fled for protection to her French mamma. Mrs. Noble received many presents from the French lady, and had the satisfaction to see that her daughter was left in affectionate hands. Fanny was taught to call and consider M. and Madam St. Auge as her parents. They had her baptized by the name of Eleanor, and educated her in the Roman Catholic religion. She learned her Pater Nosters and Ave Marias, went to mass, crossed herself with holy water, and told her beads with great devotion. When four or five years old, she was enticed away from her French parents by Wheelwright, who had been employed by the government of Massachusetts to seek for captives in Canada. He carried her to the Three Rivers, where he had several other captives, and left her, as he pretended, with a relation of her French father for a few days, when she expected to return to Montreal. But she had not been to the Three Rivers more than twenty-four hours, when the old squaw who had sold her to Madam St. Auge came along in a sleigh, accompanied by a young sanop, seized upon Fanny, and carried her to St. Francois, where they kept her about a fortnight. She had now attained an age when she would be sensible of her misfortunes, and bitterly lamented her separation from her French parents. The Indians endeavored to pacify and please her by drawing on her coat or frock the figures of deer, wolves, bears, fishes, &c.; and once, probably to make her look as handsomely as themselves, they painted her cheeks in the Indian fashion, which very much distressed her, and the old squaw made them wipe off the paint. At one time she got away from the savages, and sought refuge in the best looking house in the village, which belonged to a French priest, who kissed her, asked her many questions, and treated her kindly, but gave her up to the claim of her Indian masters. While at St Francois, her brother, Joseph Noble, who had not been sold to the French, but still lived with the Indians, came to see her, but she had a great aversion to him. He was in his Indian dress, and she would not believe him to be a relation, or speak to him if she could avoid it. She was at last turned back by the Indians to Montreal, and to her great satisfaction was delivered to her French father, who rewarded the Indians for returning her. It was doubtless the expectation of much reward which induced the old squaw to seize her at the Three Rivers, as the Indians not unfrequently stole back captives, in order to extort presents for their return from the French gentlemen to whom the same captives had before been sold. Before this time she had been hastily carried from Montreal, hurried over mountains and across waters, and concealed among flags, while those who accompanied her were evidently pursued, and in great apprehension of being overtaken; but the occasion of this flight or its incidents she was too young to understand or distinctly to remember, and she was unable afterward to satisfy herself whether her French father conveyed her away to keep her out of the reach of her natural friends, or whether she was taken by those friends, and afterward retaken, as at the Three Rivers, and returned to Montreal. The French parents cautiously avoided informing her upon this subject, or upon any other which should remind her of her captivity, her country, her parents, or her friends, lest she should become discontented with her situation, and desirous of leaving those who had adopted her. They kept her secreted from her natural friends, who were in search of her, and evaded every question which might lead to her discovery. One day, when M. St. Auge and most of his family were at mass, she was sent with another captive to the third story of the house, and the domestics were required strictly to watch them, as it was known that some of her relations were then in the place endeavoring to find her. Of this circumstance she was then ignorant, but she was displeased with her confinement, and with her little companion found means to escape from their room and went below. While raising a cup of water to her mouth, she saw a man looking at her through the window, and stretching out his arm toward her, at the same time speaking a language which she could not understand. She was very much alarmed, threw down her water, and ran with all possible speed to her room. Little did she suppose that it was her own father, from whom she was flying in such fear and horror. He had returned to Canada to seek those of his children who remained there. He could hear nothing of his Fanny; but watching the house, he perceived her, as was just stated, and joyfully stretching his arms toward her, exclaimed, "There's my daughter! O! that's my daughter!" But she retreated, and he could not gain admittance, for the house was guarded and no stranger permitted to enter. How long he continued hovering about her is unknown, but he left Canada without embracing her or seeing her again. Her French parents put her to a boarding school attached to a nunnery in Montreal, where she remained several years, and was taught all branches of needle-work, with geography, music, painting, &c. In the same school were two Misses Johnsons, who were captured at Charlestown, in 1754, and two Misses Phipps, the daughters of Mrs. Howe, who was taken at Hinsdale, in 1755. Fanny was in school when Mrs. Howe came for her daughters, and long remembered the grief and lamentations of the young captives when obliged to leave their school and mates to return to a strange, though their native country, and to relatives whom they had long forgotten. While at school at Montreal, her brother Joseph again visited her. He still belonged to the St. Francois tribe of Indians, and was dressed remarkably fine, having forty or fifty broaches in his shirt, clasps on his arm, and a great variety of knots and bells about his clothing. He brought his little sister Ellen, as she was then called, and who was then not far from seven years old, a young fawn, a basket of cranberries and a lump of sap sugar. The little girl was much pleased with the fawn, and had no great aversion to cranberries and sugar, but she was much frightened by the appearance of Joseph, and would receive nothing from his hands, till, at the suggestion of her friends, he had washed the paint from his face and made some alteration in his dress, when she ventured to accept his offerings, and immediately ran from his presence. The next day, Joseph returned with the Indians to St. Francois, but some time afterward M. St. Auge purchased him of the savages, and dressed him in the French style; but he never appeared so bold and majestic, so spirited and vivacious, as when arrayed in his Indian habit and associating with his Indian friends. He however became much attached to St. Auge, who put him to school; and when his sister parted with him upon leaving Canada, he gave her a strict charge not to let it be known where he was, lest he too should be obliged to leave his friends and return to the place of his birth. When between eleven and twelve years of age, Fanny was sent to the school of Ursuline nuns in Quebec, to complete her education. Here the discipline was much more strict and solemn than in the school at Montreal. In both places the teachers were called half nuns, who, not being professed, were allowed to go in and out at pleasure; but at Quebec the pupils were in a great measure secluded from the world, being permitted to walk only in a small garden by day, and confined by bolts and bars in their cells at night. This restraint was irksome to Fanny. She grew discontented; and at the close of the year was permitted to return to her French parents at Montreal, and again enter the school in that city. While Fanny was in the nunnery, being then in her fourteenth year, she was one day equally surprised and alarmed by the entrance of a stranger, who demanded her of the nuns as a redeemed captive. Her father had employed this man, Arnold, to seek out his daughter and obtain her from the French, who had hitherto succeeded in detaining her. Arnold was well calculated for this employment. He was secret, subtle, resolute and persevering. He had been some time in the city without exciting a suspicion of his business. He had ascertained where the captive was to be found--he had procured the necessary powers to secure her, and in his approach to the nunnery was accompanied by a sergeant and a file of men. The nuns were unwilling to deliver up their pupil, and required to know by what right he demanded her. Arnold convinced them that his authority was derived from the governor, and they durst not disobey. They, however, prolonged the time as much as possible, and sent word to M. St. Auge, hoping that he would be able in some way or other to detain his adopted daughter. Arnold, however, was not to be delayed or trifled with. He sternly demanded the captive by the name of Noble in the governor's name, and the nuns were awed into submission. Fanny, weeping and trembling, was delivered up by those who wept and trembled too. She accompanied Arnold to the gate of the nunnery, but the idea of leaving forever those whom she loved and going with a company of armed men, she knew not whither, was too overwhelming, and she sank upon the ground. Her cries and lamentations drew the people around her, and she exclaimed bitterly against the cruelty of forcing her away, declaring that she could not and would not go any further as a prisoner with those frightful soldiers. At this time an English officer appeared in the crowd; he reasoned with her, soothed her, and persuaded her to walk with him, assuring her the guard should be dismissed and no injury befall her. As they passed by the door of M. St. Auge, on their way to the inn, her grief and exclamations were renewed, and it was with great difficulty that she could be persuaded to proceed. But the guard had merely fallen back, and were near enough to prevent a rescue, had an attempt been made. Captain M'Clure, the English officer, promised her that she should be permitted to visit her French parents the next day. She found them in tears, but they could not detain her. M. St. Auge gave her a handful of money, and embraced her, blessed her, and rushed out of the room. His lady supplied her with clothes, and their parting was most affectionate and affecting. She lived to a considerably advanced age, but she could never speak of this scene without visible and deep emotion. She was carried down the river to Quebec, where she tarried a few days, and then sailed with Captain Wilson for Boston. She arrived at that port in July, one month before she was fourteen years of age. She was joyfully received by her friends, but her father did not long survive her return. After his death she resided in the family of Captain Wilson, at Boston, until she had acquired the English language, of which before she was almost entirely ignorant. She then went to Newbury, and lived in the family of a relative of her father, where she found a home, and that peace to which she had long been a stranger. Her education had qualified her for the instruction of youth, and she partially devoted herself to that employment. She was engaged in a school at Hampton, where she formed an acquaintance with Mr. Jonathan Tilton, a gentleman of good property in Kensington, whom she married about the year 1776. He died in 1798. In 1801, she married Mr. John Shute, of New Market, and lived in the village of Newfields, in that town, till her death, in September, 1819. She was much respected and esteemed in life, and her death was, as her life had been, that of a Christian. NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF QUINTIN STOCKWELL. In the year 1677, September the 19th, between sunset and dark, the Indians came upon us.[62] I and another man, being together, we ran away at the outcry the Indians made, shouting and shooting at some others of the English that were hard by. We took a swamp that was at hand for our refuge; the enemy espying us so near them, ran after us, and shot many guns at us; three guns were discharged upon me, the enemy being within three rods of me, besides many others before that. Being in this swamp, which was miry, I slumped in and fell down, whereupon one of the enemy stepped to me, with his hatchet lifted up to knock me on the head, supposing that I had been wounded and so unfit for any other travel. I, as it happened, had a pistol by me, which, though uncharged, I presented to the Indian, who presently stepped back, and told me if I would yield I should have no hurt; he said, which was not true, that they had destroyed all Hatfield, and that the woods were full of Indians, whereupon I yielded myself, and falling into their hands, was by three of them led away unto the place whence first I began to make my flight. Here two other Indians came running to us, and the one lifting up the butt end of his gun, to knock me on the head, the other with his hand put by the blow, and said I was his friend. I was now by my own house, which the Indians burnt the last year, and I was about to build up again; and there I had some hopes to escape from them. There was a horse just by, which they bid me take. I did so, but made no attempt to escape thereby, because the enemy was near, and the beast was slow and dull. Then was I in hopes they would send me to take my own horses, which they did; but they were so frightened that I could not come near to them, and so fell still into the enemy's hands. They now took and bound me and led me away, and soon was I brought into the company of other captives, who were that day brought away from Hatfield, who were about a mile off; and here methought was matter of joy and sorrow both: joy to see company, and sorrow for our condition. Then were we pinioned and led away in the night over the mountains, in dark and hideous ways, about four miles further, before we took up our place for rest, which was in a dismal place of wood, on the east side of that mountain. We were kept bound all that night. The Indians kept waking, and we had little mind to sleep in this night's travel. The Indians dispersed, and as they went made strange noises, as of wolves and owls, and other wild beasts, to the end that they might not lose one another, and if followed they might not be discovered by the English. About the break of day we marched again, and got over that great river at Pecomptuck [Deerfield] river mouth, and there rested about two hours. Here the Indians marked out upon the trees the number of their captives and slain, as their manner is. Now was I again in great danger, a quarrel having arose about me, whose captive I was; for three took me. I thought I must be killed to end the controversy, so when they put it to me, whose I was, I said three Indians took me; so they agreed to have all a share in me. I had now three masters, and he was my chief master who laid hands on me first; and thus was I fallen into the hands of the worst of all the company, as Asphelon, the Indian captain, told me which captain was all along very kind to me, and a great comfort to the English. In this place they gave us some victuals, which they had brought from the English. This morning also they sent ten men forth to the town of Deerfield to bring away what they could find. Some provision, some corn out of the meadow, they brought to us on horses, which they had there taken. From hence we went up about the falls, where we crossed that river again; and whilst I was going, I fell right down lame of my old wounds, which I had in the war, and whilst I was thinking I should therefore be killed by the Indians, and what death I should die, my pain was suddenly gone, and I was much encouraged again. We had about eleven horses in that company, which the Indians used to convey burdens, and to carry women. It was afternoon when we now crossed that river. We traveled up it till night, and then took up our lodging in a dismal place, and were staked down, and spread out on our backs; and so we lay all night, yea, so we lay many nights. They told me their law was that we should lie so nine nights, and by that time it was thought we should be out of our knowledge. The manner of staking down was thus: our arms and legs stretched out, were staked fast down, and a cord about our necks, so that we could stir noways. The first night of staking down, being much tired, I slept as comfortable as ever. The next day we went up the river, and crossed it, and at night lay in Squakheag [Northfield] meadows. Our provision was soon spent, and while we lay in those meadows the Indians went a hunting, and the English army came out after us. Then the Indians moved again, dividing themselves and the captives into many companies, that the English might not follow their tracks. At night, having crossed the river, we met again at the place appointed. The next day we crossed it again on Squakheag side, and there we took up our quarters for a long time. I suppose this might be about thirty miles above Squakheag; and here were the Indians quite out of all fear of the English, but in great fear of the Mohawks. Here they built a long wigwam, and had a great dance, as they call it, and concluded to burn three of us, and had got bark to do it with; and, as I understood afterward, I was one that was to be burnt, sergeant Plimpton another, and Benjamin Waite's wife the third. Though I knew not which was to be burnt, yet I perceived some were designed thereunto; so much I understood of their language. That night I could not sleep for fear of next day's work. The Indians being weary with the dance, lay down to sleep, and slept soundly. The English were all loose; then I went out and brought in wood, and mended the fire, and made a noise on purpose, but none awakened. I thought if any of the English would awake, we might kill them all sleeping. I removed out of the way all the guns and hatchets, but my heart failing me, I put all the things where they were again. The next day, when we were to be burnt, our master and some others spoke for us, and the evil was prevented in this place. Hereabouts we lay three weeks together. Here I had a shirt brought to me to make, and one Indian said it should be made this way, a second another way, a third his way. I told them I would make it that way my chief master said; whereupon one Indian struck me on the face with his fist. I suddenly rose up in anger, ready to strike again; upon this happened a great hubbub, and the Indians and English came about me. I was fain to humble myself to my master, so that matter was put up. Before I came to this place, my three masters were gone a hunting; I was left with another Indian, all the company being upon a march; I was left with this Indian, who fell sick, so that I was fain to carry his gun and hatchet, and had opportunity, and had thought to have dispatched him and run away; but did not, for that the English captives had promised the contrary to one another; because, if one should run away, that would provoke the Indians, and endanger the rest that could not run away. Whilst, we were here, Benjamin Stebbins, going with some Indians to Wachuset Hills, made his escape from them, and when the news of his escape came we were all presently called in and bound; one of the Indians, a captain among them, and always our great friend, met me coming in, and told me Stebbins was run away; and the Indians spake of burning us; some, of only burning and biting off our fingers, by and by. He said there would be a court, and all would speak their minds, but he would speak last, and would say, that the Indian who let Stebbins run away was only in fault, and so no hurt should be done us, and added, "fear not," so it proved accordingly. Whilst we lingered hereabout, provision grew scarce; one bear's foot must serve five of us a whole day. We began to eat horse-flesh, and eat up seven in all; three were left alive and not killed. After we had been here, some of the Indians had been down, and fallen upon Hadley, and were taken by the English, agreed with and let go again. They were to meet the English upon such a plain, there to make further terms. Ashpalon was much for it, but Wachuset sachems, when they came, were much against it, and were for this: that we should meet the English, indeed, but there fall upon them and fight them, and take them. Then Ashpalon spake to us English, not to speak a word more to further that matter, for mischief would come of it. When those Indians came from Wachuset there came with them squaws and children, about four score, who reported that the English had taken Uncas, and all his men, and sent them beyond seas. They were much enraged at this, and asked if it were true; we said, no. Then was Ashpalon angry, and said he would no more believe Englishmen. They examined us every one apart, and then they dealt worse with us for a season than before. Still provision was scarce. We came at length to a place called Squaw Maug river; there we hoped for salmon; but we came too late. This place I account to be above two hundred miles above Deerfield. We now parted into two companies; some went one way, and some went another way; and we went over a mighty mountain, it taking us eight days to go over it, and traveled very hard too, having every day either snow or rain. We noted that on this mountain all the water run northward. Here also we wanted provision; but at length we met again on the other side of the mountain, viz: on the north side, at a river that runs into the lake; and we were then half a day's journey off the lake. We staid there a great while, to make canoes to go over the lake. Here I was frozen, and again we were like to starve. All the Indians went a hunting, but could get nothing; divers days they powwowed, and yet got nothing; then they desired the English to pray, and confessed they could do nothing; they would have us pray, and see what the Englishman's God could do. I prayed, so did sergeant Plimpton, in another place. The Indians reverently attended, morning and night. Next day they got bears; then they would needs have us desire a blessing, and return thanks at meals; after a while they grew weary of it, and the sachem bid forbid us. When I was frozen they were very cruel toward me because I could not do as at other times. When we came to the lake we were again sadly put to it for provision. We were fain to eat touchwood fried in bear's grease. At last we found a company of raccoons, and then we made a feast; and the manner was that we must eat all. I perceived there would be too much for one time, so one Indian who sat next to me bid me slip away some to him under his coat, and he would hide it for me till another time. This Indian, as soon as he had got my meat, stood up and made a speech to the rest, and discovered me; so that the Indians were very angry and cut me another piece, and gave me raccoon grease to drink, which made me sick and vomit. I told them I had enough; so ever after that they would give me none, but still tell me I had raccoon enough. So I suffered much, and being frozen, was full of pain, and could sleep but a little, yet must do my work. When they went upon the lake, and as they came to it, they lit of a moose and killed it, and staid there till they had eaten it all up. After entering upon the lake, there arose a great storm, and we thought we should all be cast away, but at last we got to an island, and there they went to powwowing. The powwow said that Benjamin Waite and another man was coming, and that storm was raised to cast them away. This afterward appeared to be true, though then I believed them not. Upon this island we lay still several days, and then set out again, but a storm took us, so that we lay to and fro, upon certain islands, about three weeks. We had no provision but raccoons, so that the Indians themselves thought they should be starved. They gave me nothing, so that I was sundry days without any provision. We went on upon the lake, upon that isle, about a day's journey. We had a little sled upon which we drew our load. Before noon, I tired, and just then the Indians met with some Frenchmen; then one of the Indians that took me, came to me, and called me all manner of bad names, and threw me down upon my back. I told him I could not do any more; then he said he must kill me. I thought he was about to do it, for he pulled out his knife and cut out my pockets, and wrapped them about my face, helped me up, and took my sled and went away, giving me a bit of biscuit, as big as a walnut, which he had of the Frenchman, and told me he would give me a pipe of tobacco. When my sled was gone, I could run after him, but at last I could not run, but went a foot-pace. The Indians were soon out of sight I followed as well as I could, and had many falls upon the ice. At last, I was so spent, I had not strength enough to rise again, but I crept to a tree that lay along, and got upon it, and there I lay. It was now night, and very sharp weather: I counted no other but that I must die here. Whilst I was thinking of death, an Indian halloed, and I answered him; he came to me, and called me bad names, and told me if I could not go, he must knock me on the head. I told him he must then do so; he saw how I had wallowed in the snow, but could not rise; then he took his coat and wrapt me in it, and went back and sent two Indians with a sled. One said he must knock me on the head, the other said no, they would carry me away and burn me. Then they bid me stir my instep, to see if that were frozen; I did so. When they saw that, they said that was Wurregen. There was a chirurgeon among the French, they said, that could cure me; then they took me upon a sled, and carried me to the fire, and made much of me; pulled off my wet and wrapped me in my dry clothes, and made me a good bed. They had killed an otter, and gave me some of the broth made of it, and a bit of the flesh. Here I slept till toward day, and then was able to get up and put on my clothes. One of the Indians awaked, and seeing me walk, shouted, as rejoicing at it. As soon as it was light, I and Samuel Russell went before on the ice, upon a river. They said I must go where I could on foot, else I should freeze. Samuel Russell slipt into the river with one foot; the Indians called him back, and dried his stockings, and then sent us away, and an Indian with us to pilot us. We went four or five miles before they overtook us. I was then pretty well spent. Samuel Russell was, he said, faint, and wondered how I could live, for he had, he said, ten meals to my one. Then I was laid on the sled, and they ran away with me on the ice; the rest and Samuel Russell came softly after. Samuel Russell I never saw more, nor know I what became of him. They got but half way, and we got through to Shamblee about midnight. Six miles off Shamblee, (a French town,) the river was open, and, when I came to travel in that part of the ice, I soon tired; and two Indians ran away to town, and one only was left; he would carry me a few rods, and then I would go as many, and then a trade we drove, and so were long in going the six miles. This Indian was now kind, and told me that if he did not carry me I would die, and so I should have done, sure enough; and he said I must tell the English how he helped me. When we came to the first house, there was no inhabitant. The Indian was also spent, and both were discouraged; he said we must now die together. At last he left me alone, and got to another house, and thence came some French and Indians; and brought me in. The French were kind, and put my hands and feet in cold water, and gave me a dram of brandy, and a little hasty pudding and milk; when I tasted victuals, I was hungry, and could not have forborne it, but I could not get it. Now and then they would give me a little, as they thought best for me. I laid by the fire with the Indian that night, but could not sleep for pain. Next morning, the Indians and French fell out about me, because the French, as the Indians said, loved the English better than the Indians. The French presently turned the Indians out of doors, and kept me. They were very kind and careful, and gave me a little something now and then. While I was here, all the men in that town came to see me. At this house I was three or four days, and then invited to another, and after that to another. In this place I was about thirteen days, and received much civility from a young man, a bachelor, who invited me to his house, with whom I was for the most part of the time. He was so kind as to lodge me in the bed with himself, gave me a shirt, and would have bought me, but could not, as the Indians asked one hundred pounds for me. We were then to go to a place called Sorel, and that young man would go with me, because the Indians should not hurt me. This man carried me on the ice one day's journey, for I could not now go at all, and there was so much water on the ice we could go no farther. So the Frenchman left me, and provision for me. Here we staid two nights, and then traveled again, for now the ice was strong, and in two days more we came to Sorel. When we got to the first house, it was late in the night; and here again the people were kind. Next day, being in much pain, I asked the Indians to carry me to the chirurgeons, as they had promised, at which they were wroth, and one of them took up his gun to knock me, but the Frenchman would not suffer it, but set upon him and kicked him out of doors. Then we went away from thence, to a place two or three miles off, where the Indians had wigwams. When I came to these wigwams, some of the Indians knew me, and seemed to pity me. While I was here, which was three or four days, the French came to see me; and it being Christmas time, they brought cakes and other provisions with them and gave to me, so that I had no want. The Indians tried to cure me, but could not. Then I asked for the chirurgeon, at which one of the Indians in anger struck me on the face with his fist. A Frenchman being by, spoke to him, but I knew not what he said, and then went his way. By and by came the captain of the place into the wigwam, with about twelve armed men, and asked where the Indian was that struck the Englishman. They took him and told him he should go to the bilboes, and then be hanged. The Indians were much terrified at this, as appeared by their countenances and trembling. I would have gone too, but the Frenchman bid me not fear; that the Indians durst not hurt me. When that Indian was gone, I had two masters still. I asked them to carry me to that captain, that I might speak for the Indian. They answered, "You are a fool. Do you think the French are like the English, to say one thing and do another? They are men of their words." I prevailed with them, however, to help me thither, and I spoke to the captain by an interpreter, and told him I desired him to set the Indian free, and told him what he had done for me. He told me he was a rogue, and should be hanged. Then I spoke more privately, alledging this reason, that because all the English captives were not come in, if he were hanged, it might fare the worse with them. The captain said "that was to be considered." Then he set him at liberty upon this condition, that he should never strike me more, and every day bring me to his house to eat victuals. I perceived that the common people did not like what the Indians had done and did to the English. When the Indian was set free, he came to me, and took me about the middle, and said I was his brother; that I had saved his life once, and he had saved mine thrice. Then he called for brandy and made me drink, and had me away to the wigwams again. When I came there, the Indians came to me one by one, to shake hands with me, saying Wurregen Netop, and were very kind, thinking no other but that I had saved the Indian's life. The next day he carried me to that captain's house, and set me down.[*] They gave me my victuals and wine, and being left there a while by the Indians, I showed the captain my fingers, which, when he and his wife saw, they ran away from the sight, and bid me lap it up again, and sent for the chirurgeon; who, when he came, said he could cure me, and took it in hand, and dressed it. The Indians toward night came for me; I told them I could not go with them. They were displeased, called me rogue, and went away. That night I was full of pain; the French feared that I would die; five men did watch with me, and strove to keep me cheerly, for I was sometimes ready to faint. Oftentimes they gave me a little brandy. The next day the chirurgeon came again, and dressed me; and so he did all the while I was among the French. I came in at Christmas, and went thence on the second of May. Being thus in the captain's house, I was kept there till Benjamin Waite came; and now my Indian master, being in want of money, pawned me to the captain for fourteen beavers' skins, or the worth of them, at such a day; if he did not pay, he must lose his pawn, or else sell me for twenty-one beavers, but he could not get beaver, and so I was sold. By being thus sold, adds Dr. Mather, he was in God's good time set at liberty, and returned to his friends in New England again. FOOTNOTES: [62] At Deerfield, Mass. NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF PETER WILLIAMSON. I was born within ten miles of the town of Aberdeen, in the north of Scotland, of reputable parents. At eight years of age, being a sturdy boy, I was taken notice of by two fellows belonging to a vessel, employed (as the trade then was) by some of the worthy merchants of Aberdeen in that villainous and execrable practice of stealing young children from their parents, and selling them as slaves in the plantations abroad, and on board the ship I was easily cajoled by them, where I was conducted between decks, to some others they had kidnapped in the same manner, and in about a month's time set sail for America. When arrived at Philadelphia, the captain sold us at about sixteen pounds per head. What became of my unhappy companions I never knew; but it was my lot to be sold for seven years, to one of my countrymen, who had in his youth been kidnapped like myself, but from another town. Having no children of his own, and commiserating my condition, he took care of me, indulged me in going to school, where I went every winter for five years, and made a tolerable proficiency. With this good master I continued till he died, and, as a reward for my faithful service, he left me two hundred pounds currency, which was then about an hundred and twenty pounds sterling, his best horse, saddle, and all his wearing apparel. Being now seventeen years old, and my own master, having money in my pocket, and all other necessaries, I employed myself in jobbing for near seven years; when I resolved to settle, and married the daughter of a substantial planter. My father-in-law made me a deed of gift of a tract of land that lay (unhappily for me, as it has since proved) on the frontiers of the province of Pennsylvania, near the forks of Delaware, containing about two hundred acres, thirty of which were well cleared and fit for immediate use, on which were a good house and barn. The place pleasing me well, I settled on it. My money I expended in buying stock, household furniture, and implements for out-of-door work; and being happy in a good wife, my felicity was complete: but in 1754, the Indians, who had for a long time before ravaged and destroyed other parts of America unmolested, began now to be very troublesome on the frontiers of our province, where they generally appeared in small skulking parties, committing great devastations. Terrible and shocking to human nature were the barbarities daily committed by these savages! Scarce did a day pass but some unhappy family or other fell victims to savage cruelty. Terrible, indeed, it proved to me, as well as to many others. I, that was now happy in an easy state of life; blessed with an affectionate and tender wife, became on a sudden one of the most unhappy of mankind: scarce can I sustain the shock which forever recurs on recollecting the fatal second of October, 1754. My wife that day went from home, to visit some of her relations; as I staid up later than usual, expecting her return, none being in the house besides myself, how great was my surprise and terror, when, about eleven o'clock at night, I heard the dismal war-whoop of the savages, and found that my house was beset by them. I flew to my chamber window, and perceived them to be twelve in number. Having my gun loaded, I threatened them with death, if they did not retire. But how vain and fruitless are the efforts of one man against the united force of so many blood-thirsty monsters! One of them, that could speak English, threatened me in return, "That if I did not come out they would burn me alive," adding, however, "that if I would come out and surrender myself prisoner, they would not kill me." In such deplorable circumstances, I chose to rely on their promises, rather than meet death by rejecting them; and accordingly went out of the house, with my gun in my hand, not knowing that I had it. Immediately on my approach they rushed on me like tigers, and instantly disarmed me. Having me thus in their power, they bound me to a tree, went into the house, plundered it of every thing they could carry off, and then set fire to it, and consumed what was left, before my eyes. Not satisfied with this, they set fire to my barn, stable, and outhouses, wherein were about two hundred bushels of wheat, six cows, four horses, and five sheep, all of which were consumed to ashes. Having thus finished the execrable business about which they came, one of the monsters came to me with a tomahawk and threatened me with the worst of deaths if I would not go with them. This I agreed to, and then they untied me, gave me a load to carry, under which I traveled all that night, full of the most terrible apprehensions, lest my unhappy wife should likewise have fallen into their cruel power. At daybreak my infernal masters ordered me to lay down my load, when, tying my hands again round a tree, they forced the blood out at my fingers' ends. And then kindling a fire near the tree to which I was bound, the most dreadful agonies seized me, concluding I was to be made a sacrifice to their barbarity. The fire being made, they for some time danced round me after their manner, whooping, hollowing and shrieking in a frightful manner. Being satisfied with this sort of mirth, they proceeded in another manner: taking the burning coals, and sticks flaming with fire at the ends, holding them to my face, head, hands, and feet, and at the same time threatening to burn me entirely if I cried out. Thus, tortured as I was, almost to death, I suffered their brutalities, without being able to vent my anguish otherwise than by shedding silent tears; and these being observed, they took fresh coals and applied them near my eyes, telling me my face was wet, and that they would dry it for me, which indeed they cruelly did. How I underwent these tortures has been matter of wonder to me, but God enabled me to wait with more than common patience for the deliverance I daily prayed for. At length they sat down round the fire, and roasted the meat, of which they had robbed my dwelling. When they had supped, they offered some to me; though it may easily be imagined I had but little appetite to eat, after the tortures and miseries I had suffered, yet was I forced to seem pleased with what they offered me, lest by refusing it they should resume their hellish practices. What I could not eat I contrived to hide, they having unbound me till they imagined I had eat all; but then they bound me as before; in which deplorable condition I was forced to continue the whole day. When the sun was set, they put out the fire, and covered the ashes with leaves, as is their usual custom, that the white people might not discover any traces of their having been there. Going from thence along the Susquehanna, for the space of six miles, loaded as I was before, we arrived at a spot near the Appalachian mountains, or Blue hills, where they hid their plunder under logs of wood. From thence they proceeded to a neighboring house, occupied by one Jacob Snider and his unhappy family, consisting of his wife, five children, and a young man his servant. They soon got admittance into the unfortunate man's house, where they immediately, without the least remorse, scalped both parents and children; nor could the tears, the shrieks, or cries of poor innocent children prevent their horrid massacre. Having thus scalped them, and plundered the house of every thing that was movable, they set fire to it, and left the distressed victims amidst the flames. Thinking the young man belonging to this unhappy family would be of service to them in carrying part of their plunder, they spared his life, and loaded him and myself with what they had here got, and again marched to the Blue hills, where they stowed their goods as before. My fellow sufferer could not support the cruel treatment which we were obliged to suffer, and complaining bitterly to me of his being unable to proceed any farther, I endeavored to animate him, but all in vain, for he still continued his moans and tears, which one of the savages perceiving, as we traveled along, came up to us, and with his tomahawk gave him a blow on the head, which felled the unhappy youth to the ground, whom they immediately scalped and left. The suddenness of this murder shocked me to that degree, that I was in a manner motionless, expecting my fate would soon be the same: however, recovering my distracted thoughts, I dissembled my anguish as well as I could from the barbarians; but still, such was my terror, that for some time I scarce knew the days of the week, or what I did. They still kept on their course near the mountains, where they lay skulking four or five days, rejoicing at the plunder they had got. When provisions became scarce, they made their way toward Susquehanna, and passing near another house, inhabited by an old man, whose name was John Adams, with his wife and four small children, and meeting with no resistance, they immediately scalped the mother and her children before the old man's eyes. Inhuman and horrid as this was, it did not satisfy them; for when they had murdered the poor woman, they acted with her in such a brutal manner as decency will not permit me to mention. The unhappy husband, not being able to avoid the sight, entreated them to put an end to his miserable being; but they were as deaf to the tears and entreaties of this venerable sufferer as they had been to those of the others, and proceeded to burn and destroy his house, barn, corn, hay, cattle, and every thing the poor man a few hours before was master of. Having saved what they thought proper from the flames, they gave the old man, feeble, weak, and in the miserable condition he then was, as well as myself, burdens to carry, and loading themselves likewise with bread and meat, pursued their journey toward the Great Swamp. Here they lay for eight or nine days, diverting themselves, at times, in barbarous cruelties on the old man: sometimes they would strip him naked, and paint him all over with various sorts of colors; at other times they would pluck the white hairs from his head, and tauntingly tell him he was a fool for living so long, and that they would show him kindness in putting him out of the world. In vain were all his tears, for daily did they tire themselves with the various means they tried to torment him; sometimes tying him to a tree, and whipping him; at other times, scorching his furrowed cheek with red hot coals, and burning his legs quite to the knees. One night, after he had been thus tormented, while he and I were condoling each other at the miseries we daily suffered, twenty-five other Indians arrived, bringing with them twenty scalps and three prisoners, who had unhappily fallen into their hands in Conogocheague, a small town near the river Susquehanna, chiefly inhabited by the Irish. These prisoners gave us some shocking accounts of the murders and devastations committed in their parts; a few instances of which will enable the reader to guess at the treatment the provincials have suffered for years past. This party who now joined us, had it not, I found, in their power to begin their violences so soon as those who visited my habitation; the first of their tragedies being on the 25th of October, 1754, when John Lewis, with his wife and three small children, were inhumanly scalped and murdered, and his house, barn, and every thing he possessed burnt and destroyed. On the 28th, Jacob Miller, with his wife and six of his family, with every thing on his plantations, shared the same fate. The 30th, the house, mill, barn, twenty head of cattle, two teams of horses, and every thing belonging to George Folke, met with the like treatment, himself, wife, and all his miserable family, consisting of nine in number, being scalped, then cut in pieces and given to the swine. One of the substantial traders, belonging to the province, having business that called him some miles up the country, fell into the hands of these ruffians, who not only scalped him, but immediately roasted him before he was dead; then, like cannibals, for want of other food, eat his whole body, and of his head made, what they called, an Indian pudding. From these few instances of savage cruelty, the deplorable situation of the defenseless inhabitants, and what they hourly suffered in that part of the globe, must strike the utmost horror, and cause in every breast the utmost detestation, not only against the authors, but against those who, through inattention, or pusillanimous or erroneous principles, suffered these savages at first, unrepelled, or even unmolested, to commit such outrages, depredations and murders. The three prisoners that were brought with these additional forces, constantly repining at their lot, and almost dead with their excessive hard treatment, contrived at last to make their escape: but being far from their own settlements, and not knowing the country, were soon after met by some others of the tribes or nations at war with us and brought back. The poor creatures, almost famished for want of sustenance, having had none during the time of their escape, were no sooner in the power of the barbarians than two of them were tied to a tree, and a great fire made round them, where they remained till they were terribly scorched and burnt; when one of the villains with his scalping knife ripped open their bellies, took out their entrails, and burned them before their eyes, while the others were cutting, piercing, and tearing the flesh from their breasts, hands, arms and legs, with red-hot irons, till they were dead. The third unhappy victim was reserved a few hours longer, to be, if possible, sacrificed in a more cruel manner: his arms were tied close to his body, and a hole being dug deep enough for him to stand upright, he was put into it, and earth rammed and beat in all round his body up to his neck, so that his head only appeared above ground; they then scalped him, and there let him remain for three or four hours in the greatest agonies; after which they made a small fire near his head, causing him to suffer the most excruciating torments; while the poor creature could only cry for mercy by killing him immediately, for his brains were boiling in his head. Inexorable to all he said, they continued the fire till his eyes gushed out of their sockets. Such agonizing torments did this unhappy creature suffer for near two hours before he was quite dead. They then cut off his head, and buried it with the other bodies; my task being to dig the graves; which, feeble and terrified as I was, the dread of suffering the same fate enabled me to do. A great snow now falling, the barbarians were fearful lest the white people should, by their tracks, find out their skulking retreats, which obliged them to make the best of their way to their winter quarters, about two hundred miles farther from any plantations or inhabitants. After a long and painful journey, being almost starved, I arrived with this infernal crew at Alamingo. There I found a number of wigwams full of their women and children. Dancing, singing and shouting were their general amusements. And in all their festivals and dances they relate what succcesses they have had, and what damages they have sustained in their expeditions; in which I now unhappily became a part of their theme. The severity of the cold increasing, they stripped me of my clothes for their own use, and gave me such as they usually wore themselves, being a piece of blanket, and a pair of moccasins, or shoes, with a yard of coarse cloth, to put round me instead of breeches. At Alamingo, I remained near two months, till the snow was off the ground. Whatever thoughts I might have of making my escape, to carry them into execution was impracticable, being so far from any plantations or white people, and the severe weather rendering my limbs in a manner quite stiff and motionless; however, I contrived to defend myself against the inclemency of the weather as well as I could, by making myself a little wigwam with the bark of the trees, covering it with earth, which made it resemble a cave; and to prevent the ill effects of the cold, I kept a good fire always near the door. My liberty of going about was indeed, more than I could have expected, but they well knew the impracticability of my escaping from them. Seeing me outwardly easy and submissive, they would sometimes give me a little meat, but my chief food was Indian corn. At length the time came when they were preparing themselves for another expedition against the planters and white people; but before they set out, they were joined by many other Indians. As soon as the snow was quite gone, they set forth on their journey toward the back parts of the province of Pennsylvania; all leaving their wives and children behind in their wigwams. They were now a formidable body, amounting to near one hundred and fifty. My business was to carry what they thought proper to load me with, but they never entrusted me with a gun. We marched on several days without any thing particular occurring, almost famished for want of provisions; for my part, I had nothing but a few stalks of Indian corn, which I was glad to eat dry; nor did the Indians themselves fare much better, for as we drew near the plantations they were afraid to kill any game, lest the noise of their guns should alarm the inhabitants. When we again arrived at the Blue hills, about thirty miles from the Irish settlements before mentioned, we encamped for three days, though God knows we had neither tents nor any thing else to defend us from the inclemency of the air, having nothing to lie on by night but the grass; their usual method of lodging, pitching, or encamping, by night, being in parcels of ten or twelve men to a fire, where they lie upon the grass or brush wrapped up in a blanket, with their feet to the fire. During our stay here, a sort of council of war was held, when it was agreed to divide themselves into companies of about twenty men each; after which every captain marched with his party where he thought proper. I still belonged to my old masters, but was left behind on the mountains with ten Indians, to stay till the rest should return; not thinking it proper to carry me nearer to Conogocheague, or the other plantations. Here I began to meditate an escape, and though I knew the country round extremely well, yet I was very cautious of giving the least suspicion of any such intention. However, the third day after the grand body left, my companions thought proper to traverse the mountains in search of game for their sustenance, leaving me bound in such a manner that I could not escape. At night, when they returned, having unbound me, we all sat down together to supper on what they had killed, and soon after (being greatly fatigued with their day's excursion) they composed themselves to rest, as usual I now tried various ways to try whether it was a scheme to prove my intentions or not; but after making a noise and walking about, sometimes touching them with my feet, I found there was no fallacy. Then I resolved, if possible, to get one of their guns, and, if discovered, to die in my defense, rather than be taken. For that purpose I made various efforts to get one from under their heads, (where they always secured them,) but in vain. Disappointed in this, I began to despair of carrying my design into execution; yet, after a little recollection, and trusting myself to the divine protection, I set forward, naked and defenseless as I was. Such was my terror, however, that in going from them I halted, and paused every four or five yards, looking fearfully toward the spot where I had left them, lest they should awake and miss me; but when I was two hundred yards from them, I mended my pace, and made as much haste as I possibly could to the foot of the mountains; when, on a sudden, I was struck with the greatest terror at hearing the wood cry, as it is called, which the savages I had left were making upon missing their charge. The more my terror increased the faster I pushed on, and scarce knowing where I trod, drove through the woods with the utmost precipitation, sometimes falling and bruising myself, cutting my feet and legs against the stones in a miserable manner. But faint and maimed as I was, I continued my flight till daybreak, when, without having any thing to sustain nature but a little corn left, I crept into a hollow tree, where I lay very snug, and returned my prayers and thanks to the divine Being that had thus far favored my escape. But my repose was in a few hours destroyed at hearing the voices of the savages near the place where I was hid, threatening and talking how they would use me if they got me again. However, they at last left the spot where I heard them, and I remained in my apartment all that day without further molestation. At night I ventured forward again, frightened; thinking each twig that touched me a savage. The third day I concealed myself in like manner as before, and at night traveled, keeping off the main road as much as possible, which lengthened my journey many miles. But how shall I describe the terror I felt on the fourth night, when by the rustling I made among the leaves, a party of Indians, that lay round a small fire, which I did not perceive, started from the ground, and seizing their arms, ran from the fire among the woods. Whether to move forward or rest where I was, I knew not, when to my great surprise and joy, I was relieved by a parcel of swine that made toward the place where I guessed the savages to be; who, on seeing them, imagined they had caused the alarm, very merrily returned to the fire, and lay again down to sleep. Bruised, crippled, and terrified as I was, I pursued my journey till break of day, when, thinking myself safe, I lay down under a great log, and slept till about noon. Before evening I reached the summit of a great hill, and looking out if I could spy any habitations of white people, to my inexpressible joy I saw some, which I guessed to be about ten miles distant. In the morning, I continued my journey toward the nearest cleared lands I had seen the day before, and, about four o'clock in the afternoon, arrived at the house of John Bell, an old acquaintance, where, knocking at the door, his wife, who opened it, seeing me in such a frightful condition, flew from me screaming, into the house. This alarmed the whole family, who immediately fled to their arms, and I was soon accosted by the master with his gun in his hand. But on making myself known, (for he before took me to be an Indian,) he immediately caressed me, as did all his family, with extraordinary friendship, the report of my being murdered by the savages having reached them some months before. For two days and nights they very affectionately supplied me with all necessaries, and carefully attended me till my spirits and limbs were pretty well recovered, and I thought myself able to ride, when I borrowed of these good people (whose kindness merits my most grateful returns) a horse and some clothes, and set forward for my father-in-law's house in Chester county, about one hundred and forty miles from thence, where I arrived on the 4th of January, 1755, (but scarce one of the family could credit their eyes, believing, with the people I had lately left, that I had fallen a prey to the Indians,) where I was received and embraced by the whole family with great affection. Upon enquiring for my dear wife, I found she had been dead two months! This fatal news greatly lessened the joy I otherwise should have felt at my deliverance from the dreadful state and company I had been in. NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF JONATHAN CARVER. Gen. Webb, who commanded the English army in North America, which was then (1757) encamped at fort Edward, having intelligence that the French troops, under Monsieur Montcalm, were making some movements toward fort William Henry, he detached a corps of about fifteen hundred men, consisting of English and provincials, to strengthen the garrison. In this party I went as a volunteer among the latter. The apprehensions of the English general were not without foundation; for, the day after our arrival, we saw lake George, (formerly lake Sacrament,) to which it lies contiguous, covered with an immense number of boats; and, in a few hours, we found our lines attacked by the French general, who had just landed with eleven thousand regulars and Canadians, and two thousand Indians. Colonel Monro, a brave officer, commanded the fort, and had no more than two thousand three hundred men with him, our detachment included. With these, he made a gallant defense, and probably would have been able, at last, to preserve the fort, had he been properly supported, and permitted to continue his efforts. On every summons to surrender, sent by the French general, who offered the most honorable terms, his answer repeatedly was, that he yet found himself in a condition to repel the most vigorous attack his besiegers were able to make; and, if he thought his present force insufficient, he could soon be supplied with a greater number from the adjacent army. But the colonel having acquainted General Webb with his situation, and desired that he would send him some fresh troops, the general dispatched a messenger to him with a letter, wherein he informed him that it was not in his power to assist him, and, therefore, gave him orders to surrender up the fort, on the best terms he could procure. This packet fell into the hands of the French general, who immediately sent a flag of truce, desiring a conference with the governor. They accordingly met, attended only by a small guard, in the center between the lines; when Monsieur Montcalm told the colonel that he was come in person to demand possession of the fort, as it belonged to the king his master. The colonel replied, that he knew not how that could be, nor should he surrender it up, while it was in his power to defend it. The French general rejoined, at the same time delivering the packet into the colonel's hand, "By this authority do I make the requisition." The brave governor had no sooner read the contents of it, and was convinced that such were the orders of the commander-in-chief, and not to be disobeyed, than he hung his head in silence, and reluctantly entered into a negotiation. In consideration of the gallant defense the garrison had made, they were to be permitted to march out with all the honors of war, to be allowed covered wagons to transport their baggage to fort Edward, and a guard to protect them from the fury of the savages. The morning after the capitulation was signed, as soon as day broke, the whole garrison, now consisting of about two thousand men, besides women and children, were drawn up within the lines, and on the point of marching off, when great numbers of the Indians gathered about, and began to plunder. We were at first in hopes that this was their only view, and suffered them to proceed without opposition. Indeed, it was not in our power to make any, had we been so inclined; for though we were permitted to carry off our arms, yet we were not allowed a single round of ammunition. In these hopes, however, we were disappointed; for presently some of them began to attack the sick and wounded, when such as were not able to crawl into the ranks, notwithstanding they endeavored to avert the fury of their enemies by their shrieks or groans, were soon dispatched. Here we were fully in expectation that the disturbance would have concluded; and our little army began to move; but in a short time we saw the front division driven back, and discovered that we were entirely encircled by the savages. We expected every moment that the guard, which the French, by the articles of capitulation, had agreed to allow us, would have arrived, and put an end to our apprehensions; but none appeared. The Indians now began to strip every one, without exception, of their arms and clothes, and those who made the least resistance felt the weight of their tomahawks. I happened to be in the rear division, but it was not long before I shared the fate of my companions. Three or four of the savages laid hold of me, and while some held their weapons over my head, the others soon disrobed me of my coat, waistcoat, hat, and buckles, omitting not to take from me what money I had in my pocket. As this was transacted close by the passage that led from the lines on to the plain, near which a French sentinel was posted, I ran to him and claimed his protection; but he only called me an English dog, and thrust me with violence back again into the midst of the Indians. I now endeavored to job a body of our troops that were crowded together at some distance; but innumerable were the blows that were made at me with different weapons, as I passed on; luckily, however, the savages were so close together that they could not strike at me without endangering each other. Notwithstanding which, one of them found means to make a thrust at me with a spear, which grazed my side, and from another I received a wound, with the same kind of weapon, in my ankle. At length I gained the spot where my countrymen stood, and forced myself into the midst of them. But before I got thus far out of the hands of the Indians, the collar and wristbands of my shirt were all that remained of it, and my flesh was scratched and torn in many places by their savage gripes. By this time the war-whoop was given, and the Indians began to murder those that were nearest to them, without distinction. It is not in the power of words to give any tolerable idea of the horrid scene that now ensued; men, women, and children were dispatched in the most wanton and cruel manner, and immediately scalped. Many of these savages drank the blood of their victims, as it flowed warm from the fatal wound. We now perceived, though too late to avail us, that we were to expect no relief from the French; and that, contrary to the agreement they had so lately signed, to allow us a sufficient force to protect us from these insults, they tacitly permitted them; for, I could plainly perceive the French officers walking about at some distance, discoursing together with apparent unconcern. For the honor of human nature, I would hope that this flagrant breach of every sacred law proceeded rather from the savage disposition of the Indians, which, I acknowledge, it is sometimes almost impossible to control, and which might now unexpectedly have arrived to a pitch not easily to be restrained, than to any premeditated design in the French commander. An unprejudiced observer would, however, be apt to conclude, that a body of ten thousand christian troops--most christian troops--had it in their power to prevent the massacre from becoming so general. But, whatever was the cause from which it arose, the consequences of it were dreadful, and not to be paralleled in modern history. As the circle in which I stood inclosed, was by this time much thinned, and death seemed to be approaching with hasty strides, it was proposed by some of the most resolute, to make one vigorous effort, and endeavor to force our way through the savages, the only probable method of preserving our lives, that now remained. This, however desperate, was resolved on, and about twenty of us sprang at once into the midst of them. In a moment we were all separated, and what was the fate of my companions I could not learn till some months after, when I found that only six or seven of them effected their design. Intent only on my own hazardous situation, I endeavored to make my way through my savage enemies in the best manner possible. And I have often been astonished since, when I have recollected with what composure I took, as I did, every necessary step for my preservation. Some I overturned, being at that time young and athletic, and others I passed by, dexterously avoiding their weapons; till at last two very stout chiefs, of the most savage tribes, as I could distinguish by their dress, whose strength I could not resist, laid hold of me by each arm, and began to force me through the crowd. I now resigned myself to my fate, not doubting but that they intended to dispatch me, and then to satiate their vengeance with my blood, as I found they were hurrying me toward a retired swamp that lay at some distance. But, before we had got many yards, an English gentleman of some distinction, as I could discover by his breeches, the only covering he had on, which were of fine scarlet velvet, rushed close by us. One of the Indians instantly relinquished his hold, and springing on this new object, endeavored to seize him as his prey; but the gentleman being strong, threw him on the ground, and would probably have got away, had not he who held my other arm quitted me to assist his brother. I seized the opportunity, and hastened away to join another party of English troops that were yet unbroken, and stood in a body at some distance. But before I had taken many steps, I hastily cast my eye toward the gentleman, and saw the Indian's tomahawk gash into his back, and heard him utter his last groan. This added both to my speed and desperation. I had left this shocking scene but a few yards, when a fine boy, about twelve years of age, that had hitherto escaped, came up to me, and begged that I would let him lay hold of me, so that he might stand some chance of getting out of the hands of the savages. I told him that I would give him every assistance in my power, and to this purpose, bid him lay hold; but in a few moments he was torn from my side, and by his shrieks I judge was soon demolished. I could not help forgetting my own cares for a minute, to lament the fate of so young a sufferer; but it was utterly impossible for me to take any methods to prevent it. I now got once more into the midst of friends, but we were unable to afford each other any succor. As this was the division, that had advanced the furthest from the fort, I thought there might be a possibility (though but a bare one) of my forcing my way through the outer ranks of the Indians, and getting to a neighboring wood, which I perceived at some distance. I was still encouraged to hope by the almost miraculous preservation I had already experienced. Nor were my hopes in vain, or the efforts I made ineffectual. Suffice to say, that I reached the wood; but, by the time I had penetrated a little way into it, my breath was so exhausted that I threw myself into a break, and lay for some minutes apparently at the last gasp. At length I recovered the power of respiration; but my apprehensions returned with all their former force, when I saw several savages pass by, probably in pursuit of me, at no very great distance. In this situation I knew not whether it was better to proceed, or endeavor to conceal myself where I lay till night came on; fearing, however, that they would return the same way, I thought it most prudent to get further from the dreadful scene of my distresses. Accordingly, striking into another part of the wood, I hastened on as fast as the briers and the loss of one of my shoes would permit me; and after a slow progress of some hours, gained a hill that overlooked the plain which I had just left, from whence I could discern that the bloody storm still raged with unabated fury. But, not to tire my readers, I shall only add, that after passing three days without subsistence, and enduring the severity of the cold dews for three nights, I at length reached fort Edward; where, with proper care my body soon recovered its wonted strength, and my mind, as far as the recollection of the late melancholy events would permit, its usual composure. It was computed that fifteen hundred persons were killed or made prisoners by these savages during this fatal day. Many of the latter were carried off by them and never returned. A few, through favorable accidents, found their way back to their native country, after having experienced a long and severe captivity. The brave Col. Monro had hastened away, soon after the confusion began, to the French camp, to endeavor to procure the guard agreed by the stipulation; but his application proving ineffectual, he remained there till General Webb sent a party of troops to demand and protect him back to fort Edward. But these unhappy occurrences, which would probably have been prevented had he been left to pursue his own plans, together with the loss of so many brave fellows, murdered in cold blood, to whose valor he had been so lately a witness, made such an impression on his mind that he did not long survive. He died in about three months, of a broken heart, and with truth might it be said, that he was an honor to his country. I mean not to point out the following circumstance as the immediate judgment of Heaven, and intended as an atonement for this slaughter, but I cannot omit that very few of those different tribes of Indians that shared in it ever lived to return home. The small-pox, by means of their communication with the Europeans, found its way among them, and made an equal havoc to what they themselves had done. The methods they pursued on the first attack of that malignant disorder, to abate the fever attending it, rendered it fatal. While their blood was in a state of fermentation, and nature was striving to throw out the peccant matter, they checked her operations by plunging into the water; the consequence was that they died by hundreds. The few that survived, were transformed by it into hideous objects, and bore with them to the grave deep indented marks of this much dreaded disease. Monsieur Montcalm fell soon after on the plains of Quebec. That the unprovoked cruelty of this commander was not approved of by the generality of his countrymen, I have since been convinced of by many proofs. Only one, however, which I received from a person who was witness to it, shall I at present give. A Canadian merchant, of some consideration, having heard of the surrender of the English fort, celebrated the fortunate event with great rejoicings and hospitality, according to the custom of that country; but no sooner did the news of the massacre which ensued reach his ears, than he put an immediate stop to the festivities, and exclaimed in the severest terms against the inhuman permission; declaring at the same time that those who had connived at it had thereby drawn down on that part of their king's dominions the vengeance of Heaven. To this he added, that he much feared the total loss of them, would deservedly be the consequence. How truly this prediction has been verified, we well know. NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF MRS. SCOTT. Mrs. Scott, a resident of Washington county, Virginia, was taken captive by Indians on the night of the twenty-ninth of June, 1785. Her husband and all her children were slain; and before morning she was forced to commence her march through the wilderness. On the eleventh day of her captivity, while in charge of four Indians, provision becoming scarce, a halt was made, and three of the number went on a hunting excursion. Being left in the care of an old man, she made him believe she was reconciled to her condition, and thus threw him off his guard. Anxious to escape, and having matured her plans, she asked him, in the most disinterested manner possible, to let her go to a small stream, near by, and wash her apron, which was besmeared with the blood of one of her children. He gave her leave, and while he was busy in "graining a deer-skin," she started off. Arriving at the stream, without a moment's hesitation, she pushed on in the direction of a mountain. Traveling till late at night, she came into a valley where she hoped to find the track along which she had been taken by her captors, and thereby be able to retrace her steps. Hurrying across the valley to the margin of a river, which she supposed must be the eastern branch of the Kentucky, she discovered in the sand the tracks of two men who had followed the stream upward and returned. Thinking them to be the prints of pursuers, and that they had returned from the search, she took courage, thanked God, and was prepared to continue her flight. On the third day she came very near falling into the hands of savages, a company whom she supposed had been sent to Clinch river on a pilfering excursion. Hearing their approach before they came in sight, she concealed herself, and they passed without noticing her. She now became greatly alarmed, and was so bewildered as to lose her way and to wander at random for several days. At length, coming to a stream that seemed to flow from the east, she concluded it must be Sandy river; and resolving to trace it to its source, which was near a settlement where she was acquainted, she pushed on for several days, till she came into mountainous regions and to craggy steeps. There, in the vicinity of a "prodigious water-fall," she was forced to leap from a precipice, upon some rocks, and was so stunned as to be obliged to make a short delay in her journey. Soon after passing through the mountain, (Laurel mountain,) she was bitten by a snake which she supposed was venomous. She killed it, and expected her turn to die would come next; but the only injury she received was some pain and the slight swelling of one foot. A writer, whose narration we follow, and whose facts are more reliable than his philosophy, thinks that, being "reduced to a mere skeleton, with fatigue, hunger and grief," she was probably, on that account, "saved from the effects of the poisonous fangs." Leaving the river, Mrs. Scott came to a forked valley, and watching the flight of birds, took the branch they did, and in two days came in sight of New Garden, the settlement on Clinch river, before referred to. Thus, after wandering in the wilderness for six long weeks, almost destitute of clothing, without a weapon of defense or instrument for obtaining provision; exposed to wild beasts and merciless savages; subsisting a full month on the juice of young cane stalks, sassafras leaves and similar food, looking to God in prayer for guidance by day, and for protection by night, shielded from serious harm, and led by an unseen Hand, on the eleventh of August, the wanderings of the widowed and childless captive were brought to a close. J. C. THE END. * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Punctuation has been corrected without note. Alternate and archaic spellings have been retained unless listed below. Obvious misprints have been corrected without note. Inconsistencies in the hyphenation of native words have been retained. Page 10: "Allegany" changed to "Alleghany" (in which I had descended the Alleghany). Page 10: "Apalachian" changed to "Appalachian" (their parent beds in the Appalachian range.) Page 13: "bouyancy" changed to "buoyancy" (idea of the buoyancy of American character). Page 13: "Cincinnatti" changed to "Cincinnati" (the late Dr. Sellman of Cincinnati). Page 16: "Cincinnatti" changed to "Cincinnati" (occurred on the descent to Cincinnati). Page 23: "Pittsburg" changed to "Pittsburgh" (from Pittsburgh to Shawneetown). Page 29: "seige" changed to "siege" (he was at the siege of Bergen-op-zoom) and (at the siege of Louisburg). Page 32: "withou-" changed to "without" (without beds or fire). Page 37: "deluvial" changed to "diluvial" (large areas of diluvial earth). Page 40: "porphorytic" changed to "porphyritic" (the greenstone is handsomely porphyritic). Page 41: "Sante" changed to "Santa" (to Santa Fe and Chihuahua.) Page 42: "mountanious" changed to "mountainous" (the wide and mountainous tracts). Page 42: "minerological" changed to "mineralogical" (several objects of mineralogical and geological collection). Page 43: "Massachussetts" changed to "Massachusetts" (the one native of Massachusetts). Page 44: "injre" changed to "injure" (hobbled he will injure his legs). Page 44: "characterestics" changed to "characteristics" (thus united characteristics of three varieties). Page 48: "shists" changed to "schists" (broken down slates and schists). Page 55: "seanned" changed to "scanned" (and vale after vale were patiently scanned). Page 58: "ancle" changed to "ankle" (well nigh cured his ankle). Page 68: "auspicies" changed to "auspices" (under better auspices). Page 71: "CONSTUTION" changed to "CONSTITUTION" (AND CONSTITUTION OF THE INDIAN FAMILY). Page 74: "lattitude" changed to "latitude" (the tribes north of latitude 42°.) Page 75: "somtimes" changed to "sometimes" (and such is, sometimes the case). Page 76: "horriffic" changed to "horrific" (is to some horrific). Page 83: "cot" changed to "not" (did not alter her purpose). Page 86: "indominitable" changed to "indomitable" (and each was the indomitable foe of the race.) Page 93: "accasion" changed to "occasion" (On another occasion). Page 100: "her's" changed to "hers" (She rested with hers suspended). Page 100: "dissention" changed to "dissension" (Internal dissension has done more to destroy). Page 109: "Sault-ste-Mairie" changed to "Sault Ste-Marie" (and aged and respected hunter of Sault Ste-Marie). Page 111: "impercations" changed to "imprecations" (denouncing imprecations upon). Page 114: "Bawaiting" changed to "Bawating" (they were permitted to remain at Bawating). Page 114: "Obenangoes" changed to "Obinangoes" (The Obinangoes eventually emigrated). Page 114: "compasionate" changed to "compassionate" (mild, and compassionalte tone). Page 114: "ths" changed to "the" (again assured that the cord). Page 124: "un" changed to "an" (he had made an upright figure). Page 125: word missing in original (The idea grew into his mind that at some "missing word"). Page 126: "passsed" changed to "passed" (many days passed). Page 132: "Bawiting" changed to "Batwating" (along the north coast of lake Huron to Bawating) and (along the north shore of lake Huron and of Bawating). Page 135: "beseiged" changed to "besieged" (who besieged twelve and took nine). Page 135: "Pittsburg" changed to "Pittsburgh" (the present sites of Pittsburg and Erie). Page 140: "Chagomiegon" changed to "Chagoimegon" (rendezvous was Chagoimegon). Page 145: "cheiftan" changed to "chieftain" (And the fate of their chieftain deplore--deplore). Page 148: "glace" changed to "glance" (only necessary to glance backward a short way). Page 161: "visiter" changed to "visitor" (that the fearful visitor came.) Page 165: "motly" changed to "motley" (The motley heap of gaudy and soiled stuffs). Page 179: "listle" changed to "little" (and be allowed a little time to replenish). Page 189: "peces" changed to "pieces" (on the bright side of one of the brass pieces). Page 192: "Chegoimgon" changed to "Chegoimegon" (located at Chegoimegon, on Lake Superior). Page 192: "Sault Ste. Maries" changed to "Sault Ste Marie" (the late Mr. Nolin, of Sault Ste. Marie). Page 193: "authoritive" changed to "authoritative" (adding in an authoritative voice). Page 197: "eat" changed to "ate" (took up the grass braid and ate it). Page 200: "INTERPRTER" changed to "INTERPRETER" (TO THE INTERPRETER). Page 201: "groupe" changed to "group" (Philology brings into one group). Page 203: "geograghical" changed to "geographical" (these tribes in their geographical position). Page 212: "atlar" changed to "altar" (to violating the altar). Page 214: "Chesapeak" changed to "Chesapeake" (lying on the eastern shores of Chesapeake bay.) Page 219: "recal" changed to "recall" (from the race whose memory they recall). Page 225: "raphsodies" changed to "rhapsodies" (to these bold and unfettered rhapsodies). Page 233: duplicate "of" deleted (and modes of life). Page 234: "groupes" changed to "groups" (and the adjacent groups of islands). Page 234: incomplete sentence in original (a popular corruption, in the north-west, of Athabasca, which see.) Page 234: "erea" changed to "era" (in the present era of the United States). Page 235: "lauguage" changed to "language" (their language as observed by). Page 240: "alcadia" changed to "alcaldia" (of the alcaldia mayor of Nexapa). Page 248: "Massachusets" changed to "Massachusetts" (and in part in Springfield, Massachusetts.) Page 250: "Mechilimackinac" changed to "Michilimackinac" (Chippewa chief of Point St. Ignace, Michilimackinac). Page 252: "Lousiana" changed to "Louisiana" (during their residence in Louisiana.) Page 254: "molodious" changed to "melodious" (They have melodious soft voices). Page 258: "Janerio" changed to "Janeiro" (the woods and mountains south of Rio Janerio.) Page 265: "Apallachians" changed to "Appalachians" (Appalachians; a nation of Indians who formerly). Page 265: "Apallachian" changed to "Appalachian" (the leading range of the Appalachian mountains.) Page 265: "Apallachians" changed to "Appalachians" (the northern groups of the West Indies, to the Appalachians). Page 267: "Shoisk" changed to "Shoiskw" in the table for consistency. Page 271: duplicate sentence deleted (Minwäwa, a pleasant sound.) Page 275: "preceeded" changed to "preceded" (a negative form when it is preceded by the adverb.) Page 281: "synonomous" changed to "synonymous" (used as synonymous with person.) Page 282: "Posessive" changed to "Possessive" (B: Possessive inflection.) Page 286 and 287 appear to have been reversed in the original. The pages have been switched, but the beginning of page 288 does not correspond to the preceding text. Page 288: "Louisaina" changed to "Louisiana" (in upper Louisiana). Page 288: "seige" changed to "siege" (after a siege, Aug. 13, 1521.) Page 299: "acurate" changed to "accurate" (a subject of accurate investigation). Page 300: the last sentence on the page is incomplete in the original. Page 303: "ryhme" changed to "rhyme" (have neither rhyme nor metre). Page 307: "succesful" changed to "successful" (the warrior who should be successful). Page 313: "charcter" changed to "character" (of a highly favorable character). Page 317: "fron" changed to "from" (attracted much attention from observing). Page 319: "arrrived" changed to "arrived" (had first arrived in the lakes.) Page 326: "languages" changed to "language" (speaking a different type of language). Page 331: "maratime" changed to "maritime" (to share in the maritime enterprise). Page 343: "retured" changed to "returned" (and then returned to the boats). Page 352: "esents" changed to "presents" (and distributing small presents). Page 377: there is a typo in regard to the annual interest paid as stated in the original. The amount is left as printed in the original. Page 377: "Michilimachinac" changed to "Michilimackinac" (west of the straits of Michilimackinac). Page 386: incomplete sentence in original (in juxtaposition in their new). Page 386: "Delewares" changed to "Delawares" (with the example of the Delawares). Page 388: "disscusions" changed to "discussions" (their civil discussions must tend to show). Page 402: "Febuary" changed to "February" (In the month of February). Page 415: The two footnotes referenced in the Death Song on this page are missing in the original. Page 426: "possesion" changed to "possession" (regaining possession of the fort). Page 434: "snos" changed to "sons" (his two sons). Page 441: "lilly" changed to "lily" (of the rush and the water lily.) Page 451: "Michilinackinac" changed to "Michilimackinac" (who had been lately at Michilimackinac). Page 460: "insence" changed to "incense" (after remaining coiled, and receiving incense). Page 463: "inabitants" changed to "inhabitants" (to secure the inhabitants from the attack). Page 477: Original is missing the footnote referenced in the text. Page 479: "villanous" changed to "villianous" (in that villianous and execrable practice). Page 481: "Apalachian" changed to "Appalachian" (at a spot near the Appalachian mountains). Page 483: "have" changed to "gave" (These prisoners gave us some shocking accounts). Page 484: "moccasons" changed to "moccasins" (and a pair of moccasins). Page 495: "Archepelago" changed to "Archipelago" (called the northern Archipelago.)