The Prairie Chief
Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but they were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red men are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes directly to their Creator.
“And now,” he continued, “as Bald Eagle has said, if our foes find out their mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We must therefore take up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and hasten to meet our brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way to help us. Our band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with our friends, and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall be more than a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp without delay.”
The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this brief address, and the old chief again rose up.
“My braves,” he said, “have listened to the words of wisdom. Let each warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sun stands there.”
He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.
As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.
“Follow me,” said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to obey the orders of the old chief.
“Ay, it’s time to be lookin’ after her,” said Tim, with something like a wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode swiftly through the camp.
“Well, well,” soliloquised the trapper as he followed, “I niver did expect to see Whitewing in this state o’ mind. He’s or’narily sitch a cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you’ve much to answer for!”
Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing’s steed.
Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship, coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily read.
With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt, unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.
“I say, Whitewing,” whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approval—for Tim, who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend’s welfare, rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty—“I say, is that her?”
Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.
“Is that her—the girl, you know?” said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.
“She is my sister—Brighteyes,” replied the Indian quietly, as he continued his work.
“Whew!” whistled the trapper. “Well, well,” he murmured in an undertone, “you’re on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor life’ll turn up soon enough, no doubt. But I’m real sorry for the old ’un,” he added in an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was going on. “She’ll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere joltin’ o’ the nags ’ud shake her old bones a’most out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but Whitewing’ll niver do that. I know him better. Now then”—aloud—“have ye anything more for me to do?”
“Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses.”
“Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes.”
With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.
Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief’s reserve wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.
“Mother,” he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, “we must fly. The Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?”
“I am always ready to do the bidding of my son,” replied this pattern mother. “But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It is better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones.”
“The young ones can take care of themselves,” replied the chief somewhat sternly. “We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our business to live as long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you. Often you have carried me when I could not ride.”
It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language, and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts had been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged was not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the supposition of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, he said nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at once.
The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition was not favourably received, began to obey her son’s directions by throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under her chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet, wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip of deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the wood fire, and awaited her son’s pleasure.
Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight carried into effect.
“We’re all ready,” said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam. “Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an’ a lot o’ youngsters lookin’ after them. All you want now is to get hold o’ her, and be off; an’ the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don’t take long to get over scares an’ find out mistakes. But I’m most troubled about the old woman. She’ll niver be able to stand it.”
To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed to be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised, having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was under a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.
“Is my horse at hand?” asked Whitewing.
“Ay, down by the creek, all ready.”
“And my brother’s horse?”
“Ready too, at the same place; but we’ll want another good ’un—for her, you know,” said Tim suggestively.
“Let the horses be brought to my wigwam,” returned Whitewing, either not understanding or disregarding the last remark.
The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the Indian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood before the door, holding the bridles of the two horses.
Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.
“Ha! that’s it at last. The horse for her,” said the trapper to himself with some satisfaction; “I knowed that Whitewing would have everything straight—even though he is in a raither stumped condition just now.”
As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at the door. Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in his own mind, set aside for “her,” and vaulted into the saddle as a young deer might have done, had it taken to riding.
Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second time that he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off the scent. Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skin curtain of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with a bundle in his arms. He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mounted his somewhat restive horse, and then the trapper became aware—from certain squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among the folds of the bundle that he held the old woman in his arms!
“I say, Whitewing,” he said remonstratively, as he handed up the bundle, which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm, “most of the camp has started. In quarter of an hour or so there’ll be none left. Don’t ’ee think it’s about time to look after her?”
Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression—a look which did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was riding through the half-deserted camp beside him.
“Now, Whitewing,” said the trapper, with some decision of tone and manner, “I’m quite as able as you are to carry that old critter. If you’ll make her over to me, you’ll be better able to look after her, you know. Eh?”
“My brother speaks strangely to-day,” replied the chief. “His words are hidden from his Indian friend. What does he mean by ‘her’?”
“Well, well, now, ye are slow,” answered Tim; “I wouldn’t ha’ believed that anything short o’ scalpin’ could ha’ took away yer wits like that. Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to ’ee than life.”
“That woman is here,” replied the chief gravely, casting a brief glance down at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast—“my mother.”
“Whew!” whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide indeed. For the third time that day he was constrained to admit that he had been thrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to cleverness, he was no better than a “squawkin’ babby.”
But Little Tim said never a word. Whatever his thoughts might have been after that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian brother, maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and Brighteyes over the rolling prairie.
Chapter Three.
The Massacre and the Chase
The sun was setting when Whitewing and his friend rode into Clearvale. The entrance to the valley was narrow, and for a short distance the road, or Indian track, wound among groups of trees and bushes which effectually concealed the village from their sight.
At this point in the ride Little Tim began to recover from the surprise at his own stupidity which had for so long a period of time reduced him to silence. Riding up alongside of Whitewing, who was a little in advance of the party, still bearing his mother in his arms, he accosted him thus—
“I say, Whitewing, the longer I know you, the more of a puzzle you are to me. I thowt I’d got about at the bottom o’ all yer notions an’ ways by this time, but I find that I’m mistaken.”
As no question was asked, the red man deemed no reply needful, but the faintest symptom of a smile told the trapper that his remark was understood and appreciated.
“One thing that throws me off the scent,” continued Little Tim, “is the way you Injins have got o’ holdin’ yer tongues, so that a feller can’t make out what yer minds are after. Why don’t you speak? why ain’t you more commoonicative?”
“The children of the prairie think that wisdom lies in silence,” answered Whitewing gravely. “They leave it to their women and white brothers to chatter out all their minds.”
“Humph! The children o’ the prairie ain’t complimentary to their white brothers,” returned the trapper. “Mayhap yer right. Some of us do talk a leetle too much. It’s a way we’ve got o’ lettin’ off the steam. I’m afeard I’d bust sometimes if I didn’t let my feelin’s off through my mouth. But your silent ways are apt to lead fellers off on wrong tracks when there’s no need to. Didn’t I think, now, that you was after a young woman as ye meant to take for a squaw—and after all it turned out to be your mother!”
“My white brother sometimes makes mistakes,” quietly remarked the Indian.
“True; but your white brother wouldn’t have made the mistake if ye had told him who it was you were after when ye set off like a mad grizzly wi’ its pups in danger. Didn’t I go tearin’ after you neck and crop as if I was a boy o’ sixteen, in the belief that I was helpin’ ye in a love affair?”
“It was a love affair,” said the Indian quietly.
“True, but not the sort o’ thing that I thowt it was.”
“Would you have refused to help me if you had known better?” demanded Whitewing somewhat sharply.
“Nay, I won’t say that,” returned Tim, “for I hold that a woman’s a woman, be she old or young, pretty or ugly, an’ I’d scorn the man as would refuse to help her in trouble; besides, as the wrinkled old critter is your mother, I’ve got a sneakin’ sort o’ fondness for her; but if I’d only known, a deal o’ what they call romance would ha’ bin took out o’ the little spree.”
“Then it is well that my brother did not know.”
To this the trapper merely replied, “Humph!”
After a few minutes he resumed in a more confidential tone—
“But I say, Whitewing, has it niver entered into your head to take to yourself a wife? A man’s always the better of havin’ a female companion to consult with an’ talk over things, you know, as well as to make his moccasins and leggin’s.”
“Does Little Tim act on his own opinions?” asked the Indian quickly.
“Ha! that’s a fair slap in the face,” said Tim, with a laugh, “but there may be reasons for that, you see. Gals ain’t always as willin’ as they should be; sometimes they don’t know a good man when they see him. Besides, I ain’t too old yet, though p’raps some of ’em thinks me raither short for a husband. Come now, don’t keep yer old comrade in the dark. Haven’t ye got a notion o’ some young woman in partikler?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian gravely.
“Jist so; I thowt as much,” returned the trapper, with a tone and look of satisfaction. “What may her name be?”
“Lightheart.”
“Ay? Lightheart. A good name—specially if she takes after it, as I’ve no doubt she do. An’ what tribe does—”
The trapper stopped abruptly, for at that moment the cavalcade swept out of the thicket into the open valley, and the two friends suddenly beheld the Indian camp, which they had so recently left, reduced to a smoking ruin.
It is impossible to describe the consternation of the Indians, who had ridden so far and so fast to join their friends. And how shall we speak of the state of poor Whitewing’s feelings? No sound escaped his compressed lips, but a terrible light seemed to gleam from his dark eyes, as, clasping his mother convulsively to his breast with his left arm, he grasped his tomahawk, and urged his horse to its utmost speed. Little Tim was at his side in a moment, with the long dagger flashing in his right hand, while Bald Eagle and his dusky warriors pressed close behind.
The women and children were necessarily left in the rear; but Whitewing’s sister, Brighteyes, being better mounted than these, kept up with the men of war.
The scene that presented itself when they reached the camp was indeed terrible. Many of the wigwams were burned, some of them still burning, and those that had escaped the fire had been torn down and scattered about, while the trodden ground and pools of blood told of the dreadful massacre that had so recently taken place. It was evident that the camp had been surprised, and probably all the men slain, while a very brief examination sufficed to show that such of the women and children as were spared had been carried off into slavery. In every direction outside the camp were found the scalped bodies of the slain, left as they had fallen in unavailing defence of home.
The examination of the camp was made in hot haste and profound silence, because instant action had to be taken for the rescue of those who had been carried away, and Indians are at all times careful to restrain and hide their feelings. Only the compressed lip, the heaving bosom, the expanding nostrils, and the scowling eyes told of the fires that raged within.
In this emergency Bald Eagle, who was getting old and rather feeble, tacitly gave up the command of the braves to Whitewing. It need scarcely be said that the young chief acted with vigour. He with the trapper having traced the trail of the Blackfoot war-party—evidently a different band from that which had attacked Bald Eagle’s camp—and ascertained the direction they had taken, divided his force into two bands, in command of which he placed two of the best chiefs of his tribe. Bald Eagle himself agreed to remain with a small force to protect the women and children. Having made his dispositions and given his orders, Whitewing mounted his horse; and galloped a short distance on the enemy’s trail; followed by his faithful friend. Reining up suddenly, he said—
“What does my brother counsel?”
“Well, Whitewing, since ye ask, I would advise you to follow yer own devices. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and know what’s best.”
“Manitou knows what is best,” said the Indian solemnly. “He directs all. But His ways are very dark. Whitewing cannot understand them.”
“Still, we must act, you know,” suggested the trapper.
“Yes, we must act; and I ask counsel of my brother, because it may be that Manitou shall cause wisdom and light to flow from the lips of the white man.”
“Well, I don’t know as to that, Whitewing, but my advice, whatever it’s worth, is, that we should try to fall on the reptiles in front and rear at the same time, and that you and I should go out in advance to scout.”
“Good,” said the Indian; “my plan is so arranged.”
Without another word he gave the rein to his impatient horse, and was about to set off at full speed, when he was arrested by the trapper exclaiming, “Hold on? here’s some one coming after us.”
A rider was seen galloping from the direction of the burned camp. It turned out to be Brighteyes.
“What brings my sister?” demanded Whitewing.
The girl with downcast look modestly requested leave to accompany them.
Her brother sternly refused. “It is not woman’s part to fight,” he said.
“True, but woman sometimes helps the fighter,” replied the girl, not venturing to raise her eyes.
“Go,” returned Whitewing. “Time may not be foolishly wasted. The old ones and the children need thy care.”
Without a word Brighteyes turned her horse’s head towards the camp, and was about to ride humbly away when Little Tim interfered.
“Hold on, girl! I say, Whitewing, she’s not so far wrong. Many a time has woman rendered good service in warfare. She’s well mounted, and might ride back with a message or something o’ that sort. You’d better let her come.”
“She may come,” said Whitewing, and next moment he was bounding over the prairie at the full speed of his fiery steed, closely followed by Little Tim and Brighteyes.
That same night, at a late hour, a band of savage warriors entered a thicket on the slopes of one of those hills on the western prairies which form what are sometimes termed the spurs of the Rocky Mountains, though there was little sign of the great mountain range itself, which was still distant several days’ march from the spot. A group of wearied women and children, some riding, some on foot, accompanied the band. It was that which had so recently destroyed the Indian village. They had pushed on with their prisoners and booty as far and as fast as their jaded horses could go, in order to avoid pursuit—though, having slain all the fighting men, there was little chance of that, except in the case of friends coming to the rescue, which they thought improbable. Still, with the wisdom of savage warriors, they took every precaution to guard against surprise. No fire was lighted in the camp, and sentries were placed all round it to guard them during the few hours they meant to devote to much-needed repose.
While these Blackfeet were eating their supper, Whitewing and Little Tim came upon them. Fortunately the sharp and practised eyes and intellects of our two friends were on the alert. So small a matter as a slight wavering in the Blackfoot mind as to the best place for encamping produced an effect on the trail sufficient to be instantly observed.
“H’m! they’ve took it into their heads here,” said Little Tim, “that it might be advisable to camp an’ feed.”
Whitewing did not speak at once, but his reining up at the moment his friend broke silence showed that he too had observed the signs.
“It’s always the way,” remarked the trapper with a quiet chuckle as he peered earnestly at the ground which the moon enabled him to see distinctly, “if a band o’ men only mention campin’ when they’re on the march they’re sure to waver a bit an’ spoil the straight, go-ahead run o’ the trail.”
“One turned aside to examine yonder bluff,” said the Indian, pointing to a trail which he saw clearly, although it was undistinguishable to ordinary vision.
“Ay, an’ the bluff didn’t suit,” returned Tim, “for here he rejoins his friends, an’ they go off agin at the run. No more waverin’. They’d fixed their eyes a good bit ahead, an’ made up their minds.”
“They are in the thicket yonder,” said the Indian, pointing to the place referred to.
“Jist what I was goin’ to remark,” observed the trapper. “Now, Whitewing, it behoves us to be cautious. Ay, I see your mind an’ mine always jumps togither.”
This latter remark had reference to the fact that the Indian had leaped off his horse and handed the reins to Brighteyes. Placing his horse also in charge of the Indian girl, Tim said, as the two set off—
“We have to do the rest on fut, an’ the last part on our knees.”
By this the trapper meant that he and his friend would have to creep up to the enemy’s camp on hands and knees, but Whitewing, whose mind had been recently so much exercised on religious matters, at once thought of what he had been taught about the importance of prayer, and again the words, “looking unto Jesus,” rushed with greater power than ever upon his memory, so that, despite his anxiety as to the fate of his affianced bride and the perilous nature of the enterprise in hand, he kept puzzling his inquiring brain with such difficulties as the absolute dependence of man on the will and leading of God, coupled with the fact of his being required to go into vigorous, decisive, and apparently independent action, trusting entirely to his own resources.
“Mystery,” thought the red man, as he and his friend walked swiftly along, taking advantage of the shelter afforded by every glade, thicket, or eminence; “all is mystery!”
But Whitewing was wrong, as many men in all ages have been on first bending their minds to the consideration of spiritual things. All is not mystery. In the dealings of God with man, much, very much, is mysterious, and by us in this life apparently insoluble; but many things—especially those things that are of vital importance to the soul—are as clear as the sun at noonday. However, our red man was at this time only beginning to run the spiritual race, and, like many others, he was puzzled.