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The Prairie Flower: A Tale of the Indian Border

by Gustave Aimard · English · Gutenberg #43925 · 571,998 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Prairie Flower: A Tale of the Indian Border

Author: Gustave Aimard

Translator: Sir Lascelles Wraxall


        
Release date: October 10, 2013 [eBook #43925]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43925

Credits: Produced by Camille Bernard and Marc D'Hooghe (Scans generously made available by the Bodleian Library at Oxford)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRAIRIE FLOWER: A TALE OF THE INDIAN BORDER ***
THE PRAIRIE FLOWER

A TALE OF THE INDIAN BORDER

BY

GUSTAVE AIMARD,

AUTHOR OF

"THE INDIAN SCOUT," "TRAPPERS OF ARKANSAS," "TRAIL HUNTER,"
"GOLD SEEKERS," "BEE HUNTERS,"
ETC., ETC.

LONDON:

CHARLES HENRY CLARKE, 13 PATERNOSTER ROW,

1874



                       CONTENTS


             I. A HUNTING ENCAMPMENT
            II. A TRAIL DISCOVERED
           III. THE EMIGRANTS
            IV. THE GRIZZLY BEAR
             V. THE STRANGE WOMAN
            VI. THE DEFENCE OF THE CAMP
           VII. THE INDIAN CHIEF
          VIII. THE EXILE
            IX. THE MASSACRE
             X. THE GREAT COUNCIL
            XI. AMERICAN HOSPITALITY
           XII. THE SHE-WOLF OF THE PRAIRIE
          XIII. THE INDIAN VILLAGE
           XIV. THE RECEPTION
            XV. THE WHITE BUFFALO
           XVI. THE SPY
          XVII. FORT MACKENZIE
         XVIII. A MOTHER'S CONFESSION
           XIX. THE CHASE
            XX. INDIAN DIPLOMACY
           XXI. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
          XXII. IVON
         XXIII. THE PLAN OF THIS CAMPAIGN
          XXIV. THE CAMP OF THE BLACKFEET
           XXV. BEFORE THE ATTACK
          XXVI. RED WOLF
         XXVII. THE ATTACK
        XXVIII. CONCLUSION





CHAPTER I.

A HUNTING ENCAMPMENT.


America is the land of prodigies! Everything there assumes gigantic
proportions, which startle the imagination and confound the reason.
Mountains, rivers, lakes and streams, all are carved on a sublime
pattern.

There is a river of North America--not like the Danube, Rhine, or
Rhone, whose banks are covered with towns, plantations, and time-worn
castles: whose sources and tributaries are magnificent streams, the
waters of which, confined in a narrow bed, rush onwards as if impatient
to lose themselves in the ocean--but deep and silent, wide as an arm
of the sea, calm and severe in its grandeur, it pours majestically
onwards, its waters augmented by innumerable streams, and lazily bathes
the banks of a thousand isles, which it has formed of its own sediment.

These isles, covered with tall thickets, exhale a sharp or delicious
perfume which the breeze bears far away. Nothing disturbs their
solitude, save the gentle and plaintive appeal of the dove, or the
hoarse and strident voice of the tiger, as it sports beneath the shade.

At certain spots, trees that have fallen through old age, or have
been uprooted by the hurricane, collect on its waters; then, attached
by creepers and concealed by mud, these fragments of forests become
floating islands. Young shrubs take root upon them: the petunia and
nenuphar expand here and there their yellow roses; serpents, birds, and
caimans come to sport and rest on these verdurous rafts, and are with
them swallowed up in the ocean.

This river has no name! Others in the same zone are called Nebraska,
Platte, Missouri; but this is simply the _Mecha-Chebe_ the old father
of waters, _the_ river before all! the Mississippi in a word!

Vast and incomprehensible as is infinity, full of secret terrors, like
the Ganges and Irrawaddy, it is the type of fecundity, immensity, and
eternity to the numerous Indian nations that inhabit its banks.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three men were seated on the bank of the river, a little below its
confluence with the Missouri, and were breakfasting on a slice of roast
elk, while gaily chatting together.

The spot where they were seated was remarkably picturesque. The bank
of the river was formed of small mounds, enamelled with flowers. The
strangers had selected for their halt the top of the highest mound,
whence the eye embraced a magnificent panorama. In the foreground,
dense curtains of verdure which undulated with each breath of air: on
the islands innumerable flocks of dark-winged flamingos, perched on
their long legs, plovers and cardinals fluttering from bough to bough,
while numerous alligators lazily wallowed in the mud. Between the
islands, the silvery patches of water reflected the sunbeams. In the
midst of these masses of coruscating light, fishes of every description
sported on the surface of the water, and traced sparkling furrows.
Further back, as far as the eye could reach, the tops of the trees that
bordered the prairie, and whose dark green scarcely showed upon the
horizon.

But the three men we have mentioned seemed to trouble themselves very
slightly about the natural beauties that surrounded them, as they
were fully engaged in appeasing a true hunter's appetite. Their meal,
however, only lasted a few minutes, and when the last fragments had
been devoured, one lighted his Indian pipe, the other took a cigar
from his pocket. They then stretched themselves on the grass, and
began digesting with that beatitude which characterizes smokers, while
following with a languid eye the clouds of bluish smoke that rose in
long spirals with each mouthful they puffed forth. As for the third
man, he leant his back against a tree, crossed his arms, on his chest,
and went to sleep most prosaically.

We will profit by this momentary repose to present these persons to our
readers, and make them better acquainted with each other. The first was
a Canadian half-breed, of about fifty years of age, and known by the
name of "Bright-eye." His life had been entirely spent on the prairie
among the Indians, all of whose tricks he was thoroughly acquainted
with.

Like the majority of his countrymen he was very tall, more than six
feet in height: his body was thin and angular; his limbs were knotty,
but covered with muscles, hard as ropes; his bony and yellow face had
a remarkable expression of frankness and joviality, and his little grey
eyes sparkled with intelligence; his prominent cheekbones, his nose
bent down over a wide mouth supplied with long white teeth, and his
rounded chin, made up a face which was the most singular, and, at the
same time, the most attractive that could be imagined.

His dress differed in no respect from that of the other wood rangers;
that is to say, it was a strange medley of European and Indian
fashions, generally adopted by all the white prairie hunters and
trappers. His weapons consisted of a knife, a pair of pistols, and an
American rifle, now lying on the grass, but within reach of his hand.

His companion was a man of thirty to thirty-two years of age at the
most, but who appeared scarce twenty-five, tall, and well made. His
blue eyes, limpid as a woman's, the long light curls that escaped
beneath the edge of his Panama hat, and floated in disorder on his
shoulders, the whiteness of his skin, which contrasted with the olive
and brown complexion of the hunter, were sufficient evidence that he
was not born in the hot climate of America.

In fact, this young man was a Frenchman, Charles Edward de Beaulieu,
and was descended from one of the oldest families in Brittany. But,
under this slightly effeminate appearance, he concealed a lion's
courage which nothing could startle or even surprise. Skilled in all
bodily exercises, he was also endowed with prodigious strength, and the
delicate skin of his white and unstained hands, with their rosy nails,
covered nerves of steel.

The Count's dress would reasonably have appeared extraordinary in a
country remote from civilization to anyone who had leisure to examine
it. He wore a hunting jacket of green cloth, of a French cut, and
buttoned over his chest; yellow doeskin breeches, fastened by a waist
belt of varnished leather; a cartouche box, and a hunting knife in a
bronzed steel sheath, and with an admirably chiselled hilt: while his
legs were covered by long riding boots, coming up over the knee. Like
his companion, he had laid his rifle on the grass: this weapon, richly
damascened, must have cost an enormous sum.

The Count de Beaulieu, whose father followed the princes into exile
and served them actively, first in Condé's army and then in all the
Royalist plots that were incessantly formed during the Empire, was an
ultra-Royalist. Left an orphan at an early age, and possessed of an
immense fortune, he was nominated a lieutenant in the Gardes du Corps.
After the fall of Charles X., the Count, whose career was broken up,
was assailed by a fearful despondency, and an unenviable disregard for
life filled his heart. Europe became hateful to him, and he resolved
to bid it an eternal farewell. After intrusting the management of his
fortune to a confidential agent, the Count embarked for the United
States.

But American life, narrow, paltry, and egotistic, was not made for him;
for the young man understood the Americans no better than they did
him. His heart was ulcerated by the meanness and trickery he saw daily
committed by the descendants of the Plymouth Brethren, so he one day
resolved to bury himself in the depths of the country, and visit those
immense prairies whence the first lords of the soil had been driven by
the cunning and treachery of their crafty despoilers.

The Count had brought with him from France an old servant of the
family, whose progenitors, for many generations, had uninterruptedly
served the Beaulieus. Before embarking, the Count imparted his plans
to Ivon Kergollec, leaving him at liberty to remain behind or follow;
the servant's choice was not long, he simply replied that his master
had the right to do what he pleased without consulting him, and as it
was his duty to follow his master everywhere, he should do so. Even
when the Count formed the resolve of visiting the prairies, and thought
it right to tell his servant his resolution, the answer was still the
same. Ivon was about forty-five years of age, and was a true type of
the hardy, simple, and withal crafty Breton peasant; he was short
and stumpy, but his well-knit limbs and wide chest denoted immense
strength. His brick-coloured face was illumined by two small eyes,
which sparkled with cleverness and flashed like carbuncles.

Ivon, whose life had been spent calmly and lazily in the gilded halls
of Beaulieu House, had gradually assumed the regular habits of a
nobleman's lackey; having had no occasion to prove his courage, he was
completely ignorant of the possession of that quality, and, although
during the last few months he had been placed in many dangerous
circumstances while following his master, he was still at the same
point, that is to say, he completely doubted himself, and had the
innate conviction that he was as cowardly as a hare; so nothing was
more curious after a meeting with the Indians than to hear Ivon, who
had been fighting like a lion and performing prodigies of valour,
excuse himself humbly to his master for having behaved so badly, as he
was not used to fighting.

It is needless to say that the Count excused him, while laughing
heartily, and telling him as a consolation--for the poor fellow was
very unhappy at this supposed cowardice--that the next time he would
probably do better, and that he would gradually grow accustomed to this
life, which was so different from that he had hitherto led. At this
consolation the worthy man-servant would nod his head sorrowfully, and
reply, with an accent of thorough conviction:--

"No, sir, I can never have any courage. I feel sure of it; it is a sad
truth, but I am a poltroon. I am only too well aware of it."

Ivon was dressed in a complete suit of livery, though, in regard to
present circumstances, he was, like his companions, armed to the teeth,
and his rifle leant against the tree by his side.

Three magnificent horses, full of fire and blood, hobbled a few paces
from the hunters, were carelessly browsing on the climbing peas and
young tree shoots.

We have omitted to mention two peculiarities of the Count. The first
was, he always carried in his right eye a gold eyeglass, fastened round
his neck by means of a black ribbon; the second, that he continually
wore kid gloves, which we confess, greatly to his annoyance, had now
grown very dirty and torn.

And now, by what strange combination of chance were these three men,
so differing in birth, habits, and education, met together some five
or six hundred leagues from any civilized abode, on the banks of a
river, if not unknown, at any rate hitherto unexplored, seated amicably
on the grass, and sharing a breakfast which was more than frugal? We
can explain this in a few words to the reader by cursorily describing
a scene that occurred in the prairie about six months prior to the
beginning of our narrative.

Bright-eye was a determined man, who, with the exception of the time
he served the Hudson's Bay Company, had always hunted and trapped
alone, despising the Indians too much to fear them, and finding in
braving them that delight which the courageous man experiences, when,
alone and beneath the eye of Heaven, he struggles, confiding in his
own resources, against a terrible and unknown danger. The Indians
knew and feared him for many a long year. Many times they had come
into collision with him, and they had nearly always been compelled to
retreat, leaving several of their men on the field. Hence they had
sworn against the hunter one of those hearty Indian hatreds which
nothing can satiate save the punishment of the man who is the object of
it.

But as they knew with what sort of man they had to deal, and did not
care to increase the number of the victims he had already sacrificed,
they resolved to await, with the peculiar patience characteristic of
their race, the propitious moment for seizing their foe, and till then
confine themselves to carefully watching all his movements, so as not
to lose the favourable opportunity when it presented itself.

Bright-eye at this moment was hunting on the banks of the Missouri.
Knowing himself watched, and instinctively suspecting a trap, he took
all the precautions suggested to him by his inventive mind and the deep
knowledge he possessed of Indian tricks. One day, while exploring the
banks of the river, he fancied he noticed, a slight distance ahead
of him, an almost imperceptible movement in the thick brushwood. He
stopped, lay down, and began crawling gently in the direction of the
thicket. Suddenly the forest seemed agitated to its most unexplored
depths, A swarm of Indians rose from the earth, leaped from the trees,
or rushed from behind rocks; the hunter, literally buried beneath the
mass of his enemies, was reduced to a state of powerlessness, before he
could even make an attempt to defend himself.

Bright-eye was disarmed in a twinkling; then a chief walked up to him,
and holding out his hand, said coldly--

"Let my brother rise; the Redskin warriors are waiting for him."

"Good, good," the hunter growled; "all is not over yet, Indian, and I
shall have my revenge."

The chief smiled.

"My brother is like the mockingbird," he said ironically; "he speaks
too much."

Bright-eye bit his lips to keep back the insult that rose to them; he
got up and followed his victors. He was a prisoner to the Piékanns,
the most warlike tribe of the Blackfeet; and the chief who had taken
him was his personal enemy. The chief's name was _Natah Otann_ (the
Grizzly Bear). He was a man of five-and-twenty at the most, with a fine
intelligent face, bearing the imprint of honesty. His tall figure,
well-proportioned limbs, the grace of his movements, and his martial
aspect, rendered him a remarkable man. His long black hair, carefully
parted, fell in disorder on his shoulders; like all the renowned
warriors of his tribe, he wore on the back of his head an ermine skin,
and round his neck bears' claws mingled with buffalo teeth, a very
dear and highly-honoured ornament among the Indians. His shirt of
buffalo hide, with short sleeves, was decorated round the neck with a
species of collar of red cloth, ornamented with fringe and porcupine
quills; the seams of the garment were embroidered with hair taken from
scalps, the whole relieved by small bands of ermine skin. His moccasins
of different colours, were loaded with very elegant embroidery, while
his buffalo hide robe was quilted inside with a number of clumsy
designs, intended to depict the young warrior's achievements.

Natah Otann held in his right hand a fan made of a single eagle's wing,
and, suspended round the wrist from the same hand by a thong, the
short-handled long-lashed whip peculiar to the prairie Indians; on his
back hung his bow and arrows in a quiver of a jaguar's skin; at his
waist a bullet bag, his powder flask, his long hunting knife, and his
club. His shield hung on his left hip, while his gun lay across the
neck of his horse, which wore a magnificent panther skin for a saddle.
The appearance of this savage child of the woods, whose cloak and long
plumes fluttered in the wind, curveting, on a steed as untamed as
himself, had something about it striking, and, at the same time, grand.

Natah Otann was the first sachem of his tribe. He made the hunter a
sign to mount a horse one of the warriors held by the bridle, and the
whole party proceeded at a gallop towards the camp of the tribe. They
rode onward in silence, and the chief seemed to pay no attention to his
prisoner. The latter, free in appearance, and mounted on an excellent
horse, made not the slightest attempt to escape; at a glance he had
judged the position, saw that the Indians did not lose sight of him,
and that he should be immediately recaptured if he attempted flight.
The Piékanns had formed their camp on the slope of a wooded hill.
For two days they seemed to have forgotten their prisoner, to whom
they never once spoke. On the evening of the second day, Bright-eye
was carelessly walking about and smoking his pipe, when Natah Otann
approached him.

"Is my brother ready?" he asked him.

"For what?" the hunter said, stopping and pouring forth a volume of
smoke.

"To die," the chief continued, laconically.

"Quite."

"Good; my brother will die tomorrow."

"You think so," the hunter replied with great coolness.

The Indian looked at him for a moment in amazement; then he repeated,
"My brother will die tomorrow."

"I heard you perfectly well, chief," the Canadian said, with a smile;
"and I repeat again, do you believe it?"

"Let my brother look," the sachem said, with a significant gesture.

The hunter raised his head.

"Bah!" he said, carelessly; "I see that all the preparations are made,
and conscientiously so, but what does that prove? I am not dead yet, I
suppose."

"No, but my brother will soon be so."

"We shall see tomorrow," Bright-eye answered, shrugging his shoulders.

And leaving the astonished chief, he lay down at the foot of a tree
and fell asleep. His sleep was so real, that the Indians were obliged
to wake him next morning at daybreak. The Canadian opened his eyes,
yawned two or three times, as if going to put his jaw out, and got up.
The Redskins led him to the post of torture, to which he was firmly
fastened.

"Well!" Natah Otann said, with a grin, "what does my brother think at
present?"

"Eh!" Bright-eye answered, with that magnificent coolness which never
deserted him, "do you fancy that I am already dead?"

"No, but my brother will be so in an hour."

"Bah!" the Canadian said, carelessly; "many things can happen within an
hour."

Natah Otann withdrew, secretly admiring the intrepid countenance of his
prisoner; but, after taking a few steps, he reflected, and returned to
Bright-eye's side.

"Let my brother listen," he said, "a friend speaks to him."

"Go on, chief, I am all ears."

"My brother is a strong man; his heart is great," Natah Otann said; "he
is a terrible warrior."

"You know something of that, chief, I fancy," the Canadian replied.

The sachem repressed a movement of anger.

"My brother's eye is infallible, his arm is sure," he went on.

"Tell me at once what you want to come to, chief, and don't waste your
time in your Indian beating round the bush."

The chief smiled as he said, in a gentler voice, "Bright-eye is alone;
his lodge is solitary. Why has not so great a warrior a companion?"

The hunter fixed a searching glance on the speaker.

"What does that concern you?" he said.

Natah Otann continued,--

"The nation of the Blackfeet is powerful; the young women of the
Piekann tribe are fair."

The Canadian quickly interrupted him.

"Enough, chief," he said; "in spite of all your shiftings to reach your
point, I have guessed your meaning; but I will never take an Indian
girl to be my wife; so you can refrain from further offers, which will
not have a satisfactory result."

Natah Otann frowned.

"Dog of the palefaces," he cried, stamping his foot angrily, "this
night my young men will make war whistles of thy bones, and will drink
the firewater out of thy skull."

With this terrible threat, the chief finally quitted the hunter, who
regarded him depart with a shrug, and muttered, "The last word is
not spoken yet; this is not the first time I have found myself in
a desperate position, but I have escaped; there are no reasons why
I should be less lucky today. Hum! this will serve me as a lesson:
another time I will be more prudent."

In the meantime the chief had given orders to begin the punishment,
and the preparations were rapidly made. Bright-eye followed all the
movements of the Indians with a curious eye, as if he were a perfectly
unconcerned witness.

"Yes, yes," he went on, "my fine fellows, I see you; you are preparing
all the instruments for my torture; there is the green wood intended
to smoke me like a ham; you are cutting the spikes you mean to run up
under my nails. Eh, eh!" he added, with a perfect air of satisfaction;
"you are going to begin with firing; let's see how skilful you are.
Ah, what fun it is for you to have a white hunter to torture. The Lord
knows what strange ideas may be passing through your Indian noddles;
but I recommend you to make haste, or it is very possible I may escape."

During this monologue, twenty warriors, the most skilful of the tribe,
had ranged themselves about one hundred yards from the prisoner; the
firing commenced; the balls all struck within an inch of the hunter's
head, who, at each shot, shook his head like a drowned sparrow, to the
great delight of the spectators. This amusement had gone on for some
twenty minutes, and would probably have continued much longer, so great
was the fun it afforded the Blackfeet; when suddenly a horseman bounded
into the centre of the clearing, dispersed the Indians in his way by
heavy blows of his whip, and profiting by the stupor occasioned by his
unexpected appearance, galloped up to the prisoner, got down, quickly
cut the thongs that bound him, thrust a brace of pistols in his hand,
and remounted. All this was done in less time than it has taken us to
write it.

"By Tobias!" Bright-eye joyfully exclaimed, "I was quite sure I wasn't
going to die this time."

The Indians are not the men to allow themselves to be long subdued
by any feeling; the first moment of surprise past, they surrounded
the horseman, shouting, gesticulating, and brandishing their weapons
furiously.

"Come, make way there, you scoundrels," the newcomer shouted in a
commanding voice, lashing violently at those who had the imprudence to
come too near him. "Let us be off," he added, turning to the hunter.

"I wish for nothing better," the latter made answer; "but it does not
seem easy."

"Bah! let us try it, at any rate," the stranger continued, carefully
affixing his glass in his eye.

"We will," Bright-eye said cheerfully.

The stranger who had so providentially arrived, was the Count de
Beaulieu, as our readers will probably have conjectured.

"Hilloh!" the Count shouted loudly, "come here, Ivon."

"Here I am, my lord," a voice answered from the forest; and a second
horseman, leaping into the clearing, coolly ranged himself by the side
of the first.

There was something strange in the group formed by these three stoical
men in the midst of the hundreds of Indians yelling around them. The
Count, with his glass in his eye, his haughty glance, and disdainful
lip, was setting the hammer of his rifle. Bright-eye, with a pistol in
each hand, was preparing to sell his life dearly, while the servant
calmly awaited the order to charge the savages. The Indians, furious
at the audacity of the white men, were preparing, with multitudinous
yells and gestures, to take a prompt vengeance on the men who had so
imprudently placed themselves in their power.

"These Indians are very ugly," the Count said; "now that you are free,
my friend, we have nothing more to do here, so let us be off."

And he made a sign, as if to force a passage. The Blackfeet moved
forward.

"Take care," Bright-eye shouted.

"Nonsense," the Count said, shrugging his shoulders, "can these scamps
intend to bar the way?"

The hunter looked at him with the air of a man who does not know
exactly if he has to do with a madman or a being endowed with reason,
so extraordinary did this remark seem to him. The Count dug his spurs
into his horse.

"Well," Bright-eye muttered, "he will be killed, but for all that he is
a fine fellow: I will not leave him."

In truth it was a critical moment: the Indians, formed in close column,
were preparing to make a desperate charge on the three men--a charge
which would, probably, be decisive, for the Europeans, without shelter,
and entirely exposed to the shots of their enemies, could not hope to
escape. Still, that was not the Count's conviction. Not noticing the
gestures and hostile cries of the Redskins, he advanced towards them,
with his glass still in his eye. Since the Count's apparition, the
Indian sachem, as if struck with stupor at the sight, had not made
a move, but stood with his eyes fixed upon him, under the influence
of extraordinary emotion. Suddenly, at the moment when the Blackfeet
warriors were shouldering their guns, or fitting their arrows to the
bows, Natah Otann seemed to form a resolution: he rushed forward, and
raising his buffalo robe,--

"Stop!" he shouted, in a loud voice.

The Indians, obedient to their chiefs voice, immediately halted. The
sachem took three steps, bowed respectfully before the Count, and said
in a submissive voice:--

"My father must pardon his children, they did not know him: but my
father is great, his power is immense, his goodness infinite: he will
forget anything offensive in their conduct toward him."

Bright-eye, astonished at this harangue, translated it to the Count,
honestly confessing that he did not understand what it meant.

"By Jove!" the Count replied, with a smile, "they are afraid."

"Hum!" the hunter muttered, "that is not so clear: it is something
else; but no matter, it will be diamond cut diamond."

Then he turned to Natah Otann.

"The great pale chief," he said, "is satisfied with the respect his red
children feel for him: he pardons them." Natah Otann made a movement of
joy. The three men passed through the ranks of the Indians, and buried
themselves in the forest, their retreat being in no way impeded.

"Ouf!" Bright-eye said, as soon as he found himself in safety, "I'm
well out of that; but," he added shaking his head, "there is something
extraordinary about the matter, which I cannot fathom."

"Now, my friend," the Count said to him, "you are free to go whither
you please."

The hunter thought for an instant. "Bah!" he replied, after a few
moments had passed, "I owe you my life. Although I do not know you, you
strike me as a good fellow."

"You flatter me," the Count remarked, smiling.

"My faith, no; I say what I think. If you are agreeable we will stay
together, at any rate until I have acquitted the debt I owe you by
saving your life in my turn."

The Count offered him his hand.

"Thanks, my friend," he said, much moved; "I accept your offer."

"That is settled, then," the hunter joyfully exclaimed, as he pressed
the offered hand.

Bright-eye, at first attached to the Count by gratitude, soon felt
quite a paternal affection for him. But he understood no more
than the first day the young man's behaviour, for he acted under
all circumstances as if he were in France, and, by his rashness,
universally foiled the hunter's Indian experience. This was carried
so far, that the Canadian, superstitious like all primitive natures,
soon grew into the persuasion that the Count's life was protected by a
charm, so many times had he seen him emerge victoriously from positions
in which anyone else would have infallibly succumbed.

At length, nothing appeared to him impossible with such a companion,
and the most extraordinary propositions the Count made him seemed
perfectly feasible, the more so as success crowned all their
enterprises by some incomprehensible charm, and in a way contrary to
all foresight. The Indians, by a strict agreement, had given up all
contests with them, and even avoided any contact: if they perceived
them at any time, all the Redskins, whatever tribe they might belong
to, treated the Count with the utmost deference, and addressed him with
an expression of terror mingled with love, the explanation of which the
hunter sought in vain, for none of the Indians could or would give it.

This state of things had lasted for six months up to the moment when we
saw the three men breakfasting on the banks of the Mississippi. We will
now take up our story again at the point where we left it, terminating
our explanation, which was indispensable for the right comprehension of
what follows.




CHAPTER II.

A TRAIL DISCOVERED.


Our friends would probably have remained for a long time plunged in
their present state of beatitude had not a slight sound in the river
suddenly recalled them to the exigencies of their position.

"What's that?" the Count said, flipping off the ash from his cigar.

Bright-eye glided among the shrubs, looked for a moment, and then
calmly returned to his seat.

"Nothing," he said; "two alligators sporting in the mud."

"Ah!" the Count said. There was a moment's silence, during which the
hunter mentally calculated the length of the shadow of the trees on the
ground.

"It is past midday," he said.

"You think so," the young man remarked.

"No; I am sure of it, sir Count."

"Confound you! you are at it again," the young man said with a smile.
"I have told you to call me by my Christian name; but if you do not
like that, call me like the Indians."

"Nay!" the hunter objected.

"What is the name they gave me, Bright-eye? I have forgotten."

"Oh! I should not like, sir--"

"Eh?"

"Edward, I meant to say."

"Come, that is better," the young man remarked laughingly; "but I must
beg of you to repeat the nickname."

"They call you 'Glass-eye.'"

"Oh, yes! that's it;" the Count continued his laugh. "Only Indians
could have such an idea as that."

"Oh," Bright-eye went on, "the Indians are not what you suppose them;
they are as crafty as the demon."

"Come, stop that, Bright-eye; I always suspected you of having a
weakness for the Redskins."

"How can you say that, when I am their obstinate enemy, and have been
fighting them for the last forty years?"

"That is the very reason that makes you defend them."

"How so?" the hunter said, astonished at this conclusion, which he was
far from expecting.

"For a very simple reason. No one likes to contend with enemies
unworthy of him, and it is quite natural you should try to elevate
those against whom you have been fighting for forty years."

The hunter shook his head.

"Mr. Edward," he said, with a thoughtful air, "the Redskins are people
whom it takes many a long year to know. They possess at once the craft
of the opossum, the prudence of the serpent, and the courage of the
cougar. A few years hence you will not despise them as you do now."

"My good fellow," the Count objected, "I hope I shall have left the
prairies within a year. I am yearning for a civilized life. I want
Paris, with its opera and balls. No, no; the desert does not suit me."

The hunter shook his head a second time. Then he continued, with a
mournful accent, which struck the young man, and, as if rather speaking
to himself, than replying to the Count's remarks--

"Yes, yes; that is the way with Europeans: when they arrive on the
prairies, they regret civilized life, and the desert is only gradually
appreciated; but when a man has breathed the odours of the savannah,
when during long nights he has listened to the rustling of the wind
in the trees, and the howling of the wild beasts in the virgin
forests--when he has admired that proud landscape which owes nothing to
art, where the hand of God is imprinted at each step in ineffaceable
characters: when he has gazed on the glorious scenes that rise in
succession before him--then he begins by degrees to love this unknown
world, so full of mysteries and strange incidents; his eyes are opened
to the truth, and he repudiates the falsehoods of civilization. At
such a a moment he experiences emotions full of secret charms, and
recognizing no other master save that God, in whose presence he feels
himself so small, he forgets everything to lead a nomadic life, and
remains in the desert, because there alone he feels free, happy--a man,
in a word! Ah, sir, whatever you may say, whatever you may do, the
desert now holds you: you have tasted its joys and its griefs; it will
not allow you to depart so easily--you will not see France again so
speedily--the desert will retain you in spite of yourself."

The young man had listened with an emotion for which he could not
account, to this long harangue. In his heart he recognized, through the
hunter's exaggeration, the justice of his reasoning, and felt startled
at being compelled to allow him to be in the right. Not knowing what
to reply, or feeling that he was beaten, the Count suddenly turned the
conversation.

"Hum!" he began, "I think you said it was past twelve?"

"About a quarter past," the hunter answered.

The Count consulted, his watch.

"Quite right," he said.

"Oh!" the hunter continued, pointing to the sun, "that is the only true
clock; it never goes too fast or too slow, for Heaven regulates it."

The young man bowed his head affirmatively.

"We will start," he said.

"For what good at this moment?" the Canadian asked. "We have nothing
pressing before us."

"That is true; but are you sure we have not lost our way?"

"Lost our way!" the hunter exclaimed, with a start of surprise, almost
of anger; "no, no, it is impossible. I guarantee that within a week we
shall be on Lake Itasca."

"The Mississippi really runs from that lake?"

"Yes; for, in spite of what is asserted, the Missouri is only the
principal branch of that river: the savants would have done better to
assure themselves of the fact, ere they declared that the Mississippi
and Missouri are two separate rivers."

"What would you have, Bright-eye?" the Count said, laughingly. "Savants
are the same in all countries; being naturally indolent, they rely
on one another, and hence the infinity of absurdities they put in
circulation with the most astounding coolness."

"The Indians are never mistaken."

"That is true; but then the Indians are not savants."

"No; they see for themselves, and only assert what they are sure of."

"That is what I meant," the Count replied.

"If you will listen to me, Mr. Edward, we will remain here a few hours
longer to let the great heat pass off, and when the sun is going down
we will start again."

"Very good; let us rest then. Ivon appears to be thoroughly of our
opinion, for he has not stirred."

The Count had risen; before sitting down, he mechanically cast a glance
on the immense plain which lay so calmly and majestically at his feet.

"Eh!" he suddenly exclaimed, "what is that down there?--look,
Bright-eye."

The hunter rose and looked in the direction indicated by the Count.

"Well--do you see nothing?" the young man remarked.

Bright-eye, with his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare
of the sun, looked attentively without replying.

"Well?" the Count said, at the expiration of a moment.

"We are no longer alone," the hunter answered; "there are men down
there."

"How men? We have seen no Indian trail."

"I did not say they were Indians."

"Hum! I suppose at this distance it would be rather difficult to decide
who they are."

Bright-eye smiled.

"You always judge from your knowledge obtained in the civilized world,
Mr. Edward," he answered.

"Which means--?" the young man said, intensely piqued at the
observation.

"That you are always wrong."

"Hang it, my friend! You will allow me to observe, all individuality
apart, that it is impossible at this distance to recognize anybody.
Especially when nothing can be distinguished, save a little white
smoke."

"Is not that enough? Do you believe that all smoke is alike?"

"That is rather a subtle distinction; and I confess that to me all
smoke is alike."

"That's where the error is," the Canadian continued, with great
coolness, "and when you have spent a few years in the prairie you will
not be deceived."

The Count looked at him attentively, convinced that he was laughing at
him; but the other continued, with the utmost calmness--

"What we notice down there is neither the fire of Indians nor of
hunters, but is kindled by white men, not yet accustomed to a desert
life."

"Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain."

"I will do so, and you will soon allow that I am correct. Listen, Mr.
Edward, for this is important to know."

"I am listening, my good fellow."

"You are not ignorant," the hunter continued imperturbably, "that what
is conventionally called the desert is largely populated."

"Quite true," the young man said, smiling.

"Good; but the enemies most to be feared in the prairies are not wild
beasts so much as men; the Indians and hunters are so well aware of
this fact that they try as much as possible to destroy all traces of
their passage and hide their presence."

"I admit that."

"Very good; when the Redskins or the hunters are obliged to light a
fire, either to prepare their food or ward off the cold, they select
most carefully the wood they intend to burn, and never employ any but
dry wood."

"Hum! I do not see the use of that."

"You will soon understand me," the hunter continued; "dry wood only
produces a bluish smoke, which is difficult to detect from the sky, and
this renders it invisible at a short distance; while on the other hand,
green wood, through its dampness, produces a white dense smoke, which
reveals for a long distance the presence of those who kindle it. This
is the reason why, by a mere inspection of that smoke, I told you just
now that the people down there were white men, and strangers, moreover,
to the prairie, else they would have employed dry wood."

"By Jove," the young man exclaimed, "that is curious, and I should like
to convince myself."

"What do you intend doing?"

"Why, go and see who are the people that have lighted the fire."

"Why disturb yourself, since I have told you?"

"That is possible; but what I propose doing is for my personal
satisfaction; since we have been living together you have told me such
extraordinary things, that I should like, once in a way, to know what
faith to place in them."

And not listening to the Canadian's observations, the young man aroused
his servant.

"What do you want, my lord?" the latter said, rubbing his eyes.

"The horses, and quickly too, Ivon."

The Breton rose and bridled the horses; the Count leaped into the
saddle; the hunter imitated him, though shaking his head; and the three
trotted down the hill.

"You will see Mr. Edward," Bright-eye said, "that I was in the right."

"I am certain of it; still I should like to judge for myself."

"If that is the case, allow me to go in front; for, as we do not know
with what people we may have to deal, it is as well to be on our guard."

The Canadian headed the party. The fire the Count had seen from the top
of the hill was not so near as he supposed, the hunter was incessantly
compelled to get out of the way of dense thickets which barred the way,
and this lengthened the distance; so that they took nearly two hours
in reaching the spot they were steering for. When they had at length
arrived within a short distance of the fire which had so perplexed
M. de Beaulieu, the Canadian stopped, making his companions a sign
to imitate him. When they had done so, Bright-eye got down, gave his
horse's bridle to Ivon, and taking his rifle in his hand, said, "I am
going on a voyage of discovery."

"Go," the young man replied, laconically.

The Count was a man of tried courage; but since he had been in the
prairie he had learned one thing, that courage without prudence is
madness in the presence of enemies who never act without calling craft
and treachery to their aid; hence, gradually renouncing his chivalrous
ideas, he was beginning to adopt the habits of the desert, knowing very
well that in an ambuscade the advantage nearly always remains with the
man who first discovers the enemies whom chance may bring in his way.
The Count, therefore, patiently awaited the hunter's return, who had
silently glided among the trees, and disappeared in the direction of
the fire. At the end of about an hour the shrubs shook, and Bright-eye
reappeared at a point opposite to that where he had started. The old
wood ranger had been considerably bothered by the apparition of the
distant fire which the Count pointed out to him from the top of the
hill. So soon as he was alone, putting in practice the axiom, that the
shortest road from one point to another is a curved line, the truth of
which is proved in the prairie, he had taken a wide circuit, in order
to come, if it were possible, on the trail of the men he wished to
observe, and from it discover who they really were.

In the desert, the meeting most feared is that with man. Every stranger
is at first an enemy, and hence persons generally accost each other at
a distance, with the barrel of the gun advanced, and the finger on the
trigger. With that infallible glance the experience of the savannahs
had given him, Bright-eye had noticed from a distance a place where the
grass was laid, and the strangers must have passed along that road.
The hunter, still bent down to escape observation, soon found himself
on the edge of a track about four feet wide, the end of which was lost
in a virgin forest a short distance ahead. After stopping a minute, to
recover his breath, the Canadian placed the butt of his rifle on the
ground, and began carefully studying the traces so deeply imprinted on
the plain. His investigation did not last ten minutes; then he raised
his head with a smile, threw his rifle on his shoulder, and quietly
returned to the spot where he had left his companions, not even taking
the trouble to go to the fire. This brief examination had told him all
he wished to know.

"Well, Bright-eye, any news?" the Count asked, on noticing him.

"The people, whose fire we perceived," the hunter replied, "are
American emigrants, pioneers who wish to set up their tent in the
desert. The family is composed of six persons--four men and two women;
they have a waggon to carry their baggage, and have with them a large
number of beasts."

"Mount your horse, Bright-eye, and let us go and welcome these worthy
people to the desert."

The hunter remained motionless and thoughtful, leaning on his rifle.

"Well," the Count said, "did you not hear me, my friend?"

"Yes, Mr. Edward, I perfectly understood you; but among the traces left
by the emigrants I discovered others which appeared to me suspicious,
and I should like, before venturing into their camp, to beat up the
neighbourhood."

"What traces do you allude to?" the young man asked, quickly.

"Well," the hunter went on, "you know that, rightly or wrongly, the
Redskins claim to be kings of the prairies, and will not endure there
the presence of white men."

"I consider that they are perfectly right in doing so; since the
discovery of America, the white men have gradually dispossessed them of
their territory, and driven them back on the desert; they are defending
their last refuge, and are justified in doing so."

"I am perfectly of your opinion, Mr. Edward; the desert ought to
belong to the hunters and the Indians; unfortunately the Americans do
not think so, and they daily quit their cities and proceed into the
interior, establishing themselves here and there, and confiscating to
their benefit the most fertile countries, and those richest in game."

"What can we do, my good friend?" the Count answered, with a smile;
"it is an irremediable evil, which we must put up with; but I cannot
yet see where you wish to arrive with these reflections, which, though
extremely just, do not appear to me exactly suited to the occasion; so
pray have the goodness to explain your meaning."

"I will do so. Well, I noticed, by certain signs, that the emigrants
are closely followed by a party of Indians, who probably only await a
favourable moment to attack and massacre them."

"The deuce!" the young man said; "that is serious of course you warned
these worthy people of the danger that threatens them."

"I--not at all. I have not spoken to them, nor even seen them."

"What! you have not seen them?"

"No; so soon as I recognized the Indian sign, I hurried back to consult
with you."

"Very good; but as you did not go to their camp, how were you able to
give me such precise information about them and their number?"

"Oh, very easily," the hunter answered simply; "the desert is a book
entirely written by the hand of God, and it cannot hide its secrets
from a man accustomed to read it. I needed only to look at the trail
for a few minutes to divine everything."

The Count fixed on the hunter a glance of surprise. Though he had
been living in the prairie for more than six months, he could not yet
understand the species of divination with which the hunter seemed
gifted, with reference to facts that were to himself as a dead letter.

"Perhaps, though," he said, "the Indians whose trail you detected are
harmless hunters."

Bright-eye shook his head.

"There are no harmless hunters among the Indians, especially when they
are on the trail of white men. These Indians belong to three plundering
tribes which I am surprised to see united; they doubtlessly meditate
some extraordinary expedition, in which the massacre of these emigrants
will be one of the least interesting episodes."

"Who are these Indians? Do you think they are numerous?"

The hunter reflected for a moment.

"The party I discovered is probably only the vanguard of a more
numerous band," he answered; "as far as I could judge, there were not
more than forty; but the Redskin warriors march with the speed of the
antelope, and they can hardly ever be counted; the party is composed of
Comanches, Blackfeet, and Sioux; that is to say, the three most warlike
tribes in the prairie."

"Hum!" the Count remarked, after a moment's reflection, "if these
demons really mean to attack the Americans, as everything leads us to
suppose, the poor fellows appear to be in an awkward position."

"Unless a miracle occur, they are lost," the hunter said, concisely.

"What is to be done--how to warn them?"

"Mr. Edward, take care what you are going to do."

"Still we cannot allow men of our own colour to be murdered almost in
our presence; that would be cowardly."

"Yes; but it would be astounding folly to join them; reflect that there
are only three of us."

"I know it," the young man said, thoughtfully; "still I would never
consent to abandon these poor people without trying to defend them."

"Stay, there is only one thing to be done, and perhaps Heaven will come
to our aid."

"Come, be brief, my friend, time presses."

"In all probability, the Indians have not yet discovered our trail,
although they must be a short distance from us. Let us, then, return to
the spot where we breakfasted, and which commands the entire prairie.
The Indians never attack their enemy before four in the morning; as
soon as they attempt their attack on the emigrants, we will fall on
their rear; surprised by the sudden aid given the Americans, it is
possible they will fly, for the darkness will prevent them counting us,
and they will never suppose that three men were so mad as to make such
an attack upon them."

"By Jove!" the Count said, laughing, "that is a good idea of yours,
Bright-eye, and such as I expected from so brave a hunter as yourself;
let us hurry back to our observatory, so as to be ready for every
event."

The Canadian leaped on his horse, and the three men retraced their
steps. But, according to his custom, Bright-eye, who was apparently a
sworn foe to a straight line, made them describe an infinite number of
turnings, to throw out any person whom accident brought on their track.

They arrived at the top of the hill just at the moment the sun was
disappearing beneath the horizon. The evening breeze was rising, and
beginning to agitate the tops of the great trees with mysterious
murmurs. The howling of the tigers and cougars was already mingled
with the lowing of the elks and buffaloes, and the sharp yelping of the
red wolves, whose dusky outlines appeared here and there on the river
bank. The sky grew more and more gloomy, and the stars began dotting
the vault of heaven.

The three hunters sat down carelessly on the top of the hill, at the
same spot they had left a few hours previously with the intention of
never returning, and made preparations for supper,--preparations which
did not take long, for prudence imperiously ordered them not to light
a fire, which would have at once revealed their presence to the unseen
eyes which were, at the moment, probably surveying the desert in every
direction. While eating a few mouthfuls of pemmican, they kept their
eyes fixed on the camp of the emigrants, whose fire was perfectly
visible in the night.

"Oh Lord!" Bright-eye said, "those people are ignorant of the first law
of the desert, else they would guard against lighting a fire which the
Indians can see for ten leagues round."

"Bah! that beacon will guide us where to go to their aid," the Count
said.

"Heaven grant that it be not in vain."

The meal over, the hunter invited the Count and his servant to sleep
for a few hours.

"For the present," he said, "we have nothing to fear; let me keep watch
for all, as my eyes are accustomed to see in the darkness."

The Count did not allow the invitation to be repeated; he rolled
himself in his cloak, and lay down on the ground. Two minutes
later, himself and Ivon were sleeping the sleep of the righteous.
Bright-eye took his seat against the trunk of a tree, and lit a pipe
to soothe the weariness of his night watch. All at once, he bent
his body forward, placed his ear to the ground, and seemed to be
listening attentively. His practised ear had heard a sound at first
imperceptible, but which seemed to be gradually drawing nearer.

The hunter silently cocked his rifle, and waited. At the expiration of
about a quarter of an hour there was a slight rustling in the thicket,
the branches parted, and a man made his appearance.

This man was Natah Otann, the sachem of the Piékanns.




CHAPTER III.

THE EMIGRANTS.


When he went out on the trail, the hunter's old experience did not
deceive him; and the traces he had followed up were really those of
an emigrant family. As it is destined to play a certain part in our
story, we will introduce it to the reader, and explain, as briefly as
possible, by what chain of events it was at this moment encamped on the
prairies of the Upper Mississippi, or, to speak like the learned, on
the banks of the Missouri.

The history of one emigrant is that of the mass. All are people who,
burdened by a numerous family, find a difficulty in rendering their
children independent, either through the bad quality of the land they
cultivate, or because, in proportion as the population increases, the
land, in the course of a few years, gains an excessive value.

The Mississippi has become during the last few years the highway of
the world. Every vessel that enters on its waters brings the new
establishments the means of supplying themselves, either by barter or
for money, with the chief commodities of existence. Thus the explorers
have spread along both banks of the river, which have become the
highways of emigration, by the prospect they offer the pioneers of
possessing fine estates, and holding them a number of years, without
the troublesome process of paying rent.

The word "country," in the sense we attach to it in Europe, does not
exist for the North American. He is not, like our rustics, attached,
from father to son, to the soil which has been the cradle of his
family. He is only attached to the land by what it may bring him
in; but when it is exhausted by too large a crop, and the colonist
has tried in vain to restore its primitive fertility, his mind is
speedily made up. He disposes of things too troublesome or expensive
to transport; only keeps what is absolutely necessary, as servants,
horses, and domestic utensils; says good-bye to his neighbours, who
press his hand as if the journey he is about to undertake is the
simplest matter in the world, and at daybreak, on a fine spring
morning, he gaily sets out, turning a parting and careless glance at
that country where he and his family have lived so long. His thoughts
are already directed forward; the past no longer exists for him, the
future alone smiles on him and sustains his courage.

Nothing is so simple, primitive, and at the same time picturesque, as
the departure of a family of pioneers. The horses are attached to the
wagons, already laden with the bed furniture and the younger children,
while on the other side are fastened the spinning wheels, and swaying
behind, a skin filled with tallow and pitch. The axes are laid in the
bottom of the cart, and cauldrons and pots roll about pell-mell in the
horses' trough; the tents and provisions are securely fastened under
the vehicle, suspended by ropes. Such is the moveable estate of the
emigrant. The eldest son, or a servant, bestrides the first horse,
the pioneer's wife sits on the other. The emigrant and his sons, with
shouldered rifles, walk round the wagon, sometimes in front, sometimes
behind, followed by their dogs, touching up the oxen and watching over
the common safety.

Thus they set out, travelling by short stages through unexplored
countries and along frightful roads, which they are generally
compelled themselves to make: braving cold and heat, rain and snow,
striving against Indians and wild beasts, seeing at each spot almost
insurmountable difficulties rising before them: but nothing, stops the
emigrants, no peril can check them, no impossibility discourage them.
They march on thus for whole months, keeping intact in their hearts
that faith in their luck which nothing shakes, until they at length
reach a site which offers them those conditions of comfort which they
have sought so long.

But, alas! how many families that have left the cities of America
full of hope and courage have disappeared, leaving no other trace of
their passage of the prairie than their whitened bones and scattered
furniture. The Indians, ever on the watch at the entrance of the
desert, attack the caravans, mercilessly massacre the pioneers, and
carry off into slavery their wives and daughters, avenging themselves
on the emigrants for the atrocities to which they have been victims
during so many centuries, and continuing, to their own profit, that
war of extermination which the white men inaugurated on their landing
in America, and which, since that period, has gone on uninterruptedly.

John Black belonged to the class of emigrants we have just described.
One day, about four months previously, he quitted his house, which was
falling to ruins, and loading the little he possessed on a cart, he
set out, followed by his family, consisting of his wife, his daughter,
his son, and two menservants who had consented to follow his fortunes.
Since that period they had not stopped. They had marched boldly
forward, cutting their way by the help of their axes through the virgin
forests, and determined on traversing the desert, until they found a
spot favourable for the establishment of a new household.

At the period when our story takes place, emigration was much rarer
than it is at present, when, owing to the recent discovery of
auriferous strata in California and on the Fraser River, an emigration
fever has seized on the masses with such intensity, that the old world
is growing more and more depopulated, to the profit of the new. Gold is
a magnet whose strength attracts, without distinction, young or old,
men or women, by the hope, too often deceived, of acquiring in a little
time, at the cost of some slight fatigue, a fortune; which, however,
rarely compensates for the labour undergone in its collection.

It was, therefore, unusual boldness on the part of John Black thus to
venture, without any possible aid, into a country hitherto utterly
unexplored, and of which the Indians were masters. Mr. Black was
born in Virginia: he was a man of about fifty, of middle height, but
strongly built, and gifted with uncommon vigour; and, although his
features were very ordinary, his face had a rare expression of firmness
and resolution.

His wife, ten years younger than himself, was a gentle and holy
creature, on whose brow fatigue and alarm had long before formed deep
furrows, beneath which, however, a keen observer could have still
detected traces of no ordinary beauty.

William Black, the emigrant's son, was a species of giant of more than
six feet in height, aged two-and-twenty, of Herculean build, and whose
jolly, plump face, surrounded by thick tufts of hair of a more than
sandy hue, breathed frankness and joviality.

Diana, his sister, formed a complete contrast with him. She was a
little creature, scarce sixteen years of age, with eyes of a deep
blue like the sky, apparently frail and delicate, with a dreamy brow
and laughing mouth, which belonged both to woman and angel; and whose
strange beauty seduced at the first glance and subjugated at the
first word that fell from her rosy lips. Diana was the idol of the
family--the cherished idol, that everyone adored, and who, by a word
or a glance, could command the obedience of the rude natures that
surrounded her, and who only seemed to live that they might satisfy her
slightest caprices.

Sam and James, the two labourers, were worthy Kentucky rustics, of
extraordinary strength, and who concealed a great amount of cunning
beneath their simple and even slightly silly aspect. These two young
fellows, one of whom was twenty-six, the other hardly thirty, had grown
up in John Black's house, and had vowed to him an unbounded devotion,
of which they had furnished proofs several times since the journey
began.

When John left his house to go in search of a more fertile country,
he proposed to these two men to leave him, not wishing to expose them
to the dangers of the precarious life which was about to begin for
himself; but both shook their heads negatively, replying to all that
was said to them, that it was their duty to follow their master, no
matter whither he went, and they were ready to accompany him to the end
of the world. The emigrant had been obliged to yield to a determination
so clearly expressed, and replied, that as matters were so, they might
follow him. Hence these two honest labourers were not regarded as
servants, but as friends, and treated in accordance. In truth, there
is nothing like a common danger to draw people together; and during
the last four months John Black's family had been exposed to dangers
innumerable.

The emigrant took with him a rather large number of beasts, which
caused the caravan, despite all the precautions taken, to leave such a
wide trail, as rendered an Indian attack possible at any moment. Still,
up to the present moment, when we pay them a visit, no serious danger
had really menaced them. At times they were exposed to rather smart
alarms; but the Indians had always kept at a respectable distance, and
limited themselves to demonstrations, hostile it is true, but never
followed by any results.

During the first week of their march, the emigrants, but little versed
in the mode of life of the Redskins, who incessantly prowled round the
party, had been afflicted with the most exaggerated fears, expecting
every moment to be attacked by those ferocious enemies, about whom
they had heard stories which might make the bravest tremble; but, as
so frequently happens, they had grown used to this perpetual threat
of the Indians, and, while taking the strictest precautions for their
safety, they had learned almost to deride the dangers which they had
so much feared at the outset, and felt convinced that their calm and
resolute attitude had produced an effect on the Redskins, and that the
latter would not venture to come into collision with them.

Still, on this day a vague restlessness had seized on the party: they
had a sort of secret foreboding that a great danger menaced them. The
Indians, who, as we have said, usually accompanied them out of reach
of gunshot, had all at once become invisible. Since their start from
their last camping ground, they had not seen a single one, though they
instinctively suspected that, if the Indians were invisible, they were
not the less present, and possibly in larger numbers than before.
Thus the day passed, sorrowfully and silently for the emigrants: they
marched side by side, eye and ear on the watch, with their fingers on
the trigger, not daring to impart their mutual fears, but (to use a
Spanish expression) having their beards on their shoulders, like men
expecting to be attacked at any moment. Still, the day passed without
the slightest incident occurring to corroborate their apprehensions.

At sunset, the caravan was at the foot of one of those numerous mounds
to which we have already alluded, and so large a number of which border
the banks of the river at this spot. John Black made a sign to his son,
who drove the cart, to stop, get down, and join him: while the two
females looked around them restlessly, the four men, assembled a few
paces in the rear, were engaged in a whispered conversation.

"Boys," Mr. Black said to his attentive companions, "the day is ended,
the sun is descending behind the mountains over there, it is time to
think about the night's rest. Our beasts are fatigued; we ourselves
need to collect our strength for tomorrow's labour; I think, though
open to correction, that we should do well to profit by the short time
left us to establish our camp."

"Yes," James answered, "we have in front of us a hillock, on the top of
which it would be easy for us to take up our quarters."

"And which," William interrupted him, "we could convert into an almost
impregnable fortress in a few hours."

"We should have a hard job in getting the wagon up the hill," the
father said, shaking his head.

"Nonsense," Sam objected, "not so much as you suppose, Master Black; a
little trouble, and we can manage it."

"How so?"

"Why," the servant replied, "we need only unload the wagon."

"That's true; when it's empty, it will be easy to get it to the top of
the hill."

"Stay," William observed, "do you think, father, that it is really
necessary to take all that trouble? A night is soon spent, and I fancy
we should do well to remain where we are: the position is an excellent
one; it is only a few paces to the river bank, and we can lead our oxen
to water."

"No; we must not remain here, the place is too open, and we should have
no shelter if the Indians attacked us."

"The Indians!" the young man said, with a laugh; "why, we have not
seen a single one the whole day."

"Yes; what you say, William, is correct, the Redskins have disappeared;
but shall I tell you my real thoughts? It is really this disappearance,
which I do not understand, that troubles me."

"Why so, father?"

"Because, if they are hiding, they are preparing some ambuscade, and do
not wish us to know the direction where they are."

"Come, father, do you really believe that?" the young man remarked in a
light tone.

"I am convinced of it," the emigrant said earnestly. The two servants
bowed their heads in affirmation.

"You will pardon me, father, if I do not share your opinion," the young
man continued. "For my own part, on the other hand, I feel certain that
these red devils, who have been following us so long, have eventually
understood that they could gain nothing from us but bullets, and, like
prudent men, have given up following us further."

"No, no; you are mistaken, my son, it is not so."

"Look ye, father," the young man continued, with a certain amount of
excitement, "allow me to make an observation which, I think, will bring
you over to my way of thinking."

"Do so, my son; we are here to exchange our opinions freely, and select
the best: the common interest is at stake, and we have to act for the
safety of all: under circumstances so grave as the present, I should
never forgive myself for neglecting good advice, no matter from whom it
came; speak, therefore, without timidity."

"You know, father," the young man went on, "that the Indians understand
honour differently from ourselves; that is to say, when the success of
an expedition is not clearly proved to them, they have no shame about
resigning it, because what they seek in the first place is profit."

"I know all that, my son; but I do not see yet what you are driving at."

"You will soon understand me. For nearly two months, from sunrise, the
moment we set out, to sunset, which is generally the time of our halt,
the Redskins have been following us step by step, and we have been
unable to escape for a single moment these most troublesome neighbours,
who have watched our every movement."

"That is true," John Black said, "but what do you conclude from that?"

"A very simple thing: they have seen that we were continually on our
guard, and that if they attempted to attack us, they would be beaten;
hence they have retired, that is all."

"Unfortunately, William, you have forgotten one thing."

"What is it?"

"This: the Indians, generally not so well armed as the white men, are
afraid to attack them, especially when they suppose they shall have to
deal with persons almost as numerous as themselves, and in the bargain,
sheltered behind wagons and bales of merchandise; but that is not at
all the case here: since they have been watching us, the Indians have
had many opportunities of counting us, and have done so long ago."

"Yes," Sam said.

"Well, they know that we are only four--they are at least fifty, if
they are not more numerous. What can four men, in spite of all their
courage, effect against such a considerable number of enemies? Nothing,
The Redskins know it, and they will act in accordance; that is, when
the opportunity offers, they will not fail to seize it."

"But--"--the young man objected.

"Another consideration to which you have not paid attention," John
Black quietly continued, "is that the Indians, whatever the number of
their enemies may be, never quit them without having attempted, at
least once, to surprise them."

"In truth," William answered, "that astonishes me on their part:
however, I am of your opinion, father; even if the precautions we
propose taking only serve to reassure my mother and sister, it would be
well not to neglect them."

"Well spoken, William," the emigrant remarked, "let us therefore set to
work without delay."

The party broke up, and the four men, throwing their rifles on their
shoulders, began making active preparations for the encampment. Sam
collected the oxen by the aid of the dogs, and led them down to the
river to drink. John, in the meanwhile, went up to the wagon.

"Well, my love," his wife asked him, "why this halt, and this long
discussion? Has any accident occurred?"

"Nothing that need at all alarm you, Lucy," the emigrant answered; "we
are going to camp, that is all."

"Oh, gracious me! I do not know why, but I was afraid lest some
misfortune had happened."

"On the contrary; we are quieter than we have been for a long time."

"How so, father?" Diana asked, thrusting her charming face from under
the canvas which concealed her.

"Those rascally Indians, who frightened us so much, my darling Diana,
have at length made up their minds to leave us; we have not seen a
single one during the whole day."

"Oh, all the better!" the girl said quickly, as she clapped her dainty
palms together; "I confess that I am not brave, and those frightful Red
men caused me terrible alarm."

"Well, you will not see them again, I hope," John Black said, gaily;
though while giving his daughter this assurance to appease her fears,
he did not believe a word he uttered. "Now," he added, "have, the
goodness to get down, so that we may unload the wagon."

"Unload the wagon," the old lady remarked, "why so?

"It is just possible," the husband answered, anxious not to reveal the
real reason, "that we may remain here a few days, in order to rest the
cattle."

"Ah, very good," she said; and she got out, followed by her daughter.

The two ladies had scarce set foot on ground, ere the men began
unloading the wagon. This task lasted nearly an hour. Sam had time
enough to lead the cattle to water, and collect them on the top of the
hill.

"Are we going to camp, then?" Mrs. Black asked.

"Yes," her husband answered.

"Come, Diana," the old lady said.

The two women packed up some kitchen utensils, and clomb the hill,
where, after lighting the fire, they began preparing supper. So soon as
the cart was unloaded, the two labouring men, aided by William, pushed
it behind, while John Black, at the head of the team, began flogging
the horses. The incline was rather steep, but owing to the vigour of
the horses and the impatience of the men, who at each step laid rollers
behind the wheels, the wagon at last reached the top. The rest was as
nothing, and within an hour the camp was arranged as follows.

The emigrants formed, with the bales and trees they felled, a large
circle, in the midst of which the cattle were tied up, and then put up
a tent for the two women. When this was effected, John Black cast a
glance of satisfaction around. His family were temporarily protected
from a coup de main--thanks to the manner in which the bales and trees
were arranged, and the party were enabled to fire from under cover on
any enemy that might attack them, and defend themselves a long time
successfully.

The sun had set for more than an hour before these various preparations
were completed, and supper was ready. The Americans seated themselves
in a circle round the fire, and ate with the appetite of men accustomed
to danger--an appetite which the greatest alarm cannot deprive them of.
After the meal, John Black offered up a prayer, as he did every evening
before going to rest; the others standing, with uncovered heads,
listened attentively to the prayer, and when it was completed, the two
ladies entered the hut prepared for them.

"And now," Black said, "let us keep a careful watch the night is dark,
the moon rises late, and you are aware that the Indians choose the
morning, the moment when sleep is deepest, to attack their enemies."

The fire was covered, so that its light should not reveal the exact
position of the camp; and the two servants lay down side by side on the
grass, where they soon fell asleep: while father and son, standing at
either extremity of the camp, watched over the common safety.




CHAPTER IV.

THE GRIZZLY BEAR.


All was calm in the prairie; not a sound disturbed the silence of the
desert. On the sudden appearance of the Indian, whatever the emotion
Bright-eye might feel, it was impossible for Natah Otann to perceive
anything: the hunter's face remained calm, and not a muscle moved.

"Ah!" he said, "the sachem of the Piékanns is welcome: does he come as
a friend or an enemy?"

"Natah Otann comes to sit by the fire of the palefaces, and smoke the
calumet with them," the chief replied, casting a searching glance
around him.

"Good: if the chief will wait a moment, I will light the fire."

"Bright-eye can light it, the chief will wait: he has come to talk with
the palefaces, and the conversation will be long."

The Canadian looked fixedly at the Redskin; but the Indian was
impassive like himself, and it was impossible to read anything on his
features. The hunter collected a few handfuls of dry wood, struck a
light, and soon a bright flame sprung up, and illumined the mount. The
Indian drew near the fire, took his calumet from his girdle, and began
grimly smoking. Bright-eye not wishing to remain in any way behindhand,
imitated his every movement with perfectly feigned indifference, and
the two men sat for several moments puffing clouds of smoke at each
other. Natah Otann at length broke the silence.

"The pale hunter is a warrior," he said; "why does he try to hide
himself like the water rat?"

Bright-eye did not consider it advisable to reply to this insinuation,
and continued smoking philosophically, while casting a side-glance at
his questioner.

"The Blackfeet have the eye of the eagle," Natah Otann continued,
"their piercing eyes see all that happens on the prairie."

The Canadian made a sign of assent, but did not yet reply; the chief
continued:--

"Natah Otann has seen the trail of his friends the palefaces, his heart
quivered with pleasure in his breast, and he has come to meet them."

Bright-eye slowly removed his pipe from his lips, and turning towards
the Indian, examined him carefully for an instant, and then answered--

"I repeat to my brother that he is welcome: I know that he is a great
chief, and am happy to see him."

"Wah!" the Indian said, with a cunning smile: "is my brother so
satisfied as he says at my presence?"

"Why not, chief?"

"My brother is angry still that the Blackfeet fastened him to the stake
of torture."

The Canadian shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and coldly
answered:--

"Nonsense, chief! why do you fancy I am angry with you or your nation?
war is war; I have no reproaches to make to you. You wished to kill me,
I escaped; so we are quits."

"Good: does my brother speak the truth? has he really forgotten?" the
chief asked with some vivacity.

"Why not?" the Canadian answered cautiously. "I have not a forked
tongue, the words my mouth utters come from my heart: I have not
forgotten the treatment you made me undergo, I should lie if I said so:
but I have forgiven it."

"_Ochi_! my brother is a greatheart: he is generous."

"No: I am merely a man who knows Indian customs, that is all: you
did no more and no less than all the Redskins do under similar
circumstances: I cannot be angry with you for having acted according to
your nature."

There was a silence; the two men went on smoking. The Indian was the
first to interrupt it.

"Then my brother is a friend," he said.

"And you?" the hunter asked, answering one question by another.

The chief rose with a gesture full of majesty, and threw back the folds
of his buffalo robe.

"Would an enemy come like this?" he asked, in a gentle voice.

The Canadian could not repress a movement of surprise; the Blackfoot
was unarmed, his girdle was empty: he had not even his scalping
knife,--that weapon from which the Indians part so unwillingly.
Bright-eye offered him his hand.

"Shake hands, chief," he said to him. "You are a man of heart: now
speak, I am listening to you: and, in the first place, will you have a
draught of firewater?"

"The firewater is an evil counsellor," the chief replied, with a smile;
"it makes the Indians mad: Natah Otann does not drink it."

"Come, come, I see that I was mistaken with regard to you, chief; that
pleases me: speak, my ears are open."

"What I have to say to Bright-eye other ears must not listen to."

"My friends are in a deep sleep, you can speak without fear; and even
if they were awake, as you know, they do not understand your language."

The Indian shook his head.

"Glass-eye knows everything," he replied, "the Grizzly Bear will not
speak before him."

"As you please, chief: still, I would remark that I have nothing to say
to you: you can speak, therefore, or be silent at your ease."

Natah Otann seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then continued:--

"Bright-eye will follow his friend to the river bank, and there listen
to the words of the Blackfoot chief."

"Hum!" the hunter said, "and who will watch over my companions during
my absence? No, no," he added, "I cannot do that, chief. The Redskins
have the cunning of the opossum: while I am near the river, my friends
may be surprised. Who will respond for their safety?"

The Indian rose.

"The word of a chief," he said, in a proud voice, and with a gesture
full of majesty.

The Canadian looked at him attentively. "Listen, Redskin," he said to
him, "I do not doubt your honour, so do not take in ill part what I am
going to say to you."

"I listen to my brother," the Indian answered.

"I must watch over my companions. Since you insist on speaking to me in
secret, I consent to follow you, but on one condition, that I do not
lay aside my weapons; in that way, should one of those things happen,
which are too common in the prairie, and which no human foresight can
prevent, I shall be able to face the danger and sell my life dearly: if
what I propose suits you, I am ready to follow you; if not, not."

"Good," the Indian said, with a smile, "my pale brother is right, a
true hunter never quits his weapons. Bright-eye may follow his friend."

"Very well, then," the Canadian said, resolutely, as he threw his rifle
on his shoulder.

Natah Otann began descending the hill. While gliding noiselessly
through the shrubs and thickets, the Canadian walked literally in his
footsteps; but though pretending the most perfect security, he did
not omit carefully examining the vicinity, and lending an ear to the
slightest sound, but all was calm and silent in the desert, and after
some ten minutes' walk the two men reached the riverside.

The Mecha-Chebe rolled its waters majestically in a bed of golden
sand, while at times a few vague shadows appeared on the bank: they
were wild beasts coming to drink in the river. Two leagues from them,
at the top of the hill, sparkled the last flames of an expiring fire,
which appeared at intervals between the branches. Natah Otann stopped
at the extremity of a species of small promontory, the point of which
advanced some distance into the water. This spot was entirely free from
vegetation: the eye could survey the prairie for a great distance, and
detect the slightest movement in the desert.

"Does this place suit the hunter?" the chief asked.

"Capitally," Bright-eye replied, resting the butt of his rifle on the
ground, and crossing his hands over the muzzle: "I am ready to hear the
communication my brother wishes to make me."

The Indian walked up and down the sand with folded arms and drooping
head, like a man who is reflecting deeply. The hunter followed him
with his glance, waiting calmly, till he thought proper to offer an
explanation. It was easy to see that Natah Otann was ripening in his
brain one of those bold projects such as Indians frequently imagine,
but knew not how to enter upon it. The hunter resolved to put a stop to
this state of things.

"Come," he said, "my brother has made me leave my camp; he invited me
to follow him; I consented to do so: now that, according to his desire,
we are free from human ears, will he not speak, so that I may return to
my companions?"

The Indian stopped before him.

"My brother will remain," he said; "the hour is come for an explanation
between us. My brother loves Glass-eye?"

The hunter regarded his querist craftily.

"What good of that question?" he asked: "it must be a matter of
indifference to the chief whether I love or not the man he pleases to
call Glass-eye."

"A chief never loses his time in vain discourses," the Indian said,
peremptorily; "the words his lips utter are always simple, and go
straight to the point; let my brother then answer as clearly as I
interrogate him."

"I see no great inconvenience in doing so. Yes, I love Glass-eye; I
love him not only because he saved my life, but because he is one of
the most honourable men I ever met."

"Good! for what purpose does Glass-eye traverse the prairie? My brother
doubtlessly knows."

"My faith, no! I confess to you, chief, my ignorance on that head is
complete. Still, I fancy that, wearied with the life of cities, he has
come here with no other object than to calm his soul by the sublime
aspect of nature, and the grand melodies of the desert."

The Indian shook his head; the hunter's metaphysical ideas and poetic
phrases were so much Hebrew to him, and he did not understand them.

"Natah Otann," he said, "is a chief, he has not a forked tongue; the
words he utters are as clear as the blood in his veins. Why does not
the hunter speak his language to him?"

"I answer your questions, chief, and that is all. Do you fancy that I
would go out of my way to interrogate my friend as to his intentions?
They do not concern me; I have no right to seek in a man's heart for
the motive of his actions."

"Good! my brother speaks well; his head is grey, and his experience
long."

"That is possible, chief; at any rate you and I are not on such
friendly terms that we should exchange our thoughts without some
restriction, I fancy; you have kept me here for an hour without saying
anything, so it is better for us to separate."

"Not yet."

"Why not? Do you imagine I am like you, and that instead of sleeping o'
nights as an honest Christian should do, I amuse myself with rushing
about the prairie like a jaguar in search of prey?"

The Indian began laughing.

"Wah!" he said, "my brother is very clever; nothing escapes him."

"By Jingo! there is no great cleverness in guessing what you are doing
here."

"Good! then let my brother listen."

"I will do so, but on the condition that you lay aside once for all
those Indian circumlocutions in which you so adroitly conceal your real
thoughts."

"My brother will open his ears, the words of his friend will reach his
heart."

"Come, make an end of it."

"As my brother loves Glass-eye, he will tell him from Natah Otann that
a great danger threatens him."

"Ah!" the Canadian said, casting a suspicious glance at the other, "and
what may the danger be?"

"I cannot explain further."

"Very good," Bright-eye remarked, with a grin, "the information is
valuable, though not very explicit; and pray what must we do to escape
the great danger that menaces us?"

"My brother will wake his friend, they will mount their horses, and
retire at full speed, not stopping till they have crossed the river."

"Hum! and when we have done that, we shall have nought more to fear?"

"Nothing."

"Only think of that," the hunter said, ironically; "and when ought we
to start?"

"At once."

"Better still." Bright-eye walked a few paces thoughtfully; then he
returned, and stood before the chief, whose eyes sparkled in the gloom
like those of a tiger cat, and who followed his every movement.

"Then," he said, "you cannot reveal to me the reason that forces us to
depart?"

"No!"

"It is equally impossible, I suppose, for you to tell me of the nature
of the danger that menaces us?" he went on.

"Yes."

"Is that your last word?"

The Indian bowed his head in affirmation.

"Very good, as it is so," Bright-eye said all at once, striking the
ground with the butt of his rifle, "I will tell it you."

"You?"

"Yes, listen to me carefully; it will not be long, and will interest
you I hope."

The chief smiled ironically.

"My ears are open," he said.

"All the better, for I shall fill them with news which, perhaps, will
not please you."

"I listen," the impassive Indian repeated.

"As you said to me a moment back--and the confidence on your part was
useless, for I have known you so long on the prairie--the Redskins have
the eyes of an eagle, and they are birds of prey, whom nothing escapes."

"Go on."

"Here I am; your scouts have discovered, as was not difficult, the
trail of an emigrant family; that trail you have been following a
long time so as not to miss your blow; supposing that the moment had
arrived to deal it, you have assembled Comanches, Sioux, and Blackfeet,
all demons of the same breed, in order this very night to attack people
whom you have been watching for so many days, and whose riches you
covet because you suppose them so great---eh?"

Natah Otann's face revealed no emotion. He remained calm, although
internally restless and furious at having his thoughts so well guessed.

"There is truth in what the hunter says," he replied, coldly.

"It is all true," Bright-eye exclaimed.

"Perhaps; but I do not see in it for what reason I should have come
here to warn my Paleface brother."

"Ah, you do not see that; very well. I will explain it to you. You
came to seek me, because you are perfectly well aware that Glass-eye,
as you call him, is not the man to allow the crime you meditate to be
committed with impunity in his presence."

The Blackfoot shrugged his shoulders. "Can a warrior, however brave he
may be, hold his ground against four hundred?" he said.

"Certainly not," Bright-eye went on; "but he can control them by his
presence, and employ his ascendency over them to compel them to give
up their prospects; and that is what Glass-eye will undoubtedly do,
for reasons of which I am ignorant, for all of you have for him an
incomprehensible respect and veneration, and as you fear lest you
may see him come among you at the first shot fired, terrible as the
destroying angel, you seek to remove him by a pretext, plausible with
anyone else, but which will produce on him no other effect than making
him engage in the affair. Come, is that really all? have I completely
unmasked you? Reply."

"My brother knows all; I repeat, his wisdom is great."

"Now, I presume, you have nothing to add? Very well, good night."

"A moment."

"What more?"

"You must."

"Very well; but make haste."

"My brother has spoken in his own cause, but not in that of Glass-eye;
let him wake his friend, and impart our conversation to him; mayhap he
is mistaken."

"I do not believe it, chief," the hunter answered, with a shake of his
head.

"That is possible," the Indian persisted; "but let my brother do as I
have asked him."

"You lay great stress on it, chief!"

"Great."

"I do not wish to vex you about such a trifle. Well! you will soon
allow that I was right."

"Possibly; I will await my brother's reply for half an hour."

"Very good; but where shall I bring it to you?"

"Nowhere!" the Indian exclaimed, sharply. "If I am right, my brother
will imitate the cry of the magpie twice; if I am mistaken, it will be
that of the owl."

"Very good, that's agreed; you shall soon hear, chief."

The Indian bowed gracefully.

"May the Wacondah be with my brother!" he said.

After this courteous salutation, the two men parted. The Canadian
carelessly threw his rifle on his shoulder, and stalked back to his
camp, while the Indian followed him with his glance, apparently
remaining insensible; but as soon as the hunter had disappeared, the
chief lay down in the sand, glided along in the shade like a serpent,
and in his turn disappeared amid the bushes, following the direction
taken by Bright-eye, though at a considerable distance.

The latter did not fancy himself followed; he therefore paid no
attention to what went on around him, and regained his camp without
noticing anything of an extraordinary nature. Had not the Canadian
been preoccupied, and his old experience lulled to sleep for the
moment, he would have certainly perceived, with that penetration
which distinguished him, that the desert was not in its usual state
of tranquillity: he would have felt unusual tremors in the leaves,
and possibly have seen eyes flashing in the shade of the tall grass.
He soon reached the camp where the Count and Ivon were sleeping
profoundly. Bright-eye hesitated a few seconds ere awakening the young
man whose sleep was so peaceful; still, reflecting that the least
imprudence might entail terrible consequences, whose result it was
impossible to calculate, he bent over him, and gently touched his
shoulder. Though the touch was so slight, it sufficed to wake the
Count; he opened his eyes, sat up, and looking at the old hunter--

"Is there anything fresh, Bright-eye?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir Count," the Canadian replied, seriously.

"Oh, oh, how gloomy you are, my good fellow," the young man said, with
a laugh. "What's the matter then?"

"Nothing, yet; but we may soon have a row with the Redskins."

"All the better, for that will warm us, as it is horribly cold," he
replied, shivering. "But how do you know the fact?"

"During your sleep I received a visitor."

"Ah?"

"Yes."

"And who was the person who selected such an important moment to pay
you a visit?"

"The sachem of the Blackfeet."

"Natah Otann?"

"Himself."

"Upon my word, he must be a somnambulist, to amuse himself by walking
about the desert at night."

"He does not walk, he watches."

"Oh, I am in a bother; so keep me no longer in suspense; tell me what
passed between you. Natah Otann is not the man to put himself out of
the way without strong reasons, and I am burning to know them."

"You shall judge."

Without any further preface, the hunter described in its fullest
details the conversation he had with the chief.

"By Jove! that's serious," the Count said when Bright-eye had ended
his story. "This Natah Otann is a gloomy scoundrel, whose plans you
fully penetrated, and you behaved splendidly in answering him so
categorically. For what has this villain taken me? Does he fancy, I
wonder, that I shall act as his accomplice? Let him dare to attack
those poor devils of emigrants down there, and by the saints, I swear
to you, Bright-eye, that blood will be shed between us, if you help me."

"Can you doubt it?"

"No, my friend, I thank you; with you and my coward of an Ivon, I shall
manage to put them to flight."

"Is my lord calling me?" the Breton asked, raising his head.

"No, no, Ivon, my good fellow; I only say that we shall soon have some
fighting."

The Breton emitted a sigh, and muttered, as he lay down again,--

"Ah! if I had as much courage as I possess goodwill; but alas! as you
know, I am a wonderful coward, and I shall prove more harm to you than
good."

"You will do all you can, my friend, and that will be sufficient."

Ivon sighed in reply. Bright-eye had listened laughingly to this
colloquy. The Breton still possessed the privilege of astonishing him,
for he did not at all comprehend his singular organization. The Count
turned towards him.

"So it is settled?" he said.

"Settled," the hunter answered.

"Then give the signal; my friend."

"The owl, I suppose?"

"By Jove!" the Count said.

Bright-eye raised his fingers to his mouth, and, as had been agreed
with Natah Otann, imitated twice the cry of the owl, with rare
perfection. Hardly had the echo of the last cry died away, than a great
rumour was heard in the bushes, and, before the three men had time to
put themselves in a posture of defence, some twenty Indians rushed upon
them, disarmed them in a twinkling, and reduced them to a state of
utter defencelessness. The Count shrugged his shoulders, leant against
a tree, and, thrusting his glass in his eye, said,---

"This is very funny."

"Well, I can't see the point of the joke," muttered Ivon, in a grand
aside.

Among the Indians, whom it was easy to recognize as Blackfeet, was
Natah Otann! After removing the weapons of the white men, so that they
could not attempt a surprise this time, he walked towards the hunter.

"I warned Bright-eye," he said.

The hunter smiled contemptuously.

"You warned us after the fashion of Redskins," he replied.

"What does my brother mean?"

"I mean that you warned us of a danger that threatened us, and not that
you intended treachery."

"It is the same thing," the Indian replied, with utter calmness.

"Bright-eye, my friend, do not argue with those scoundrels," the Count
said.

And turning haughtily to the chief,--

"Come! what do you want of us?" he asked.

Since his arrival on the prairie, and through his constant contact with
the Indians the Count had almost unconsciously learned their language,
which he spoke rather fluently.

"We do not wish to do you any hurt; we only intend to prevent your
interference in our affairs," Natah Otann said respectfully; "we should
be very sorry to have recourse to violent measures."

The young man burst into a laugh.

"You are humbugs! I can manage to escape, in spite of you."

"Let my brother try it."

"When the moment arrives; as for the present, it is not worth the
trouble!"

While speaking in this light tone, the young man took his case from
his pocket, chose a cigar, and, pulling out a lucifer match, stooped
down and rubbed it on a stone. The Indians, considerably puzzled by his
movements, followed them anxiously; but suddenly they uttered a yell of
terror, and fell back several paces. The match had caught fire with the
friction; a delicious blue flame sported about its extremity. The Count
carelessly twisted the slight morsel of wood between his fingers, while
waiting till all the sulphur was consumed. He did not notice the terror
of the Indians.

The latter, with a movement as swift as thought, stooped down, and each
picking up the first piece of wood he found at his feet, all began
rubbing it against the stones. The Count, in amazement, looked at
them, not yet understanding what they were about. Natah Otann seem to
hesitate for a moment; a smile of strange meaning played, rapidly as
lightning, over his gloomy features; but reassuming almost immediately
his cold impassiveness, he took a step forward, and respectfully bowing
before the Count--

"My father commands the fire of the sun," he said, with all the
appearance of a mysterious terror, while pointing to the match.

The young man smiled; he had guessed the secret.

"Which of you," he said haughtily, "would dare to contend with me?"

The Indians regarded each other with amazement. These men, so intrepid
and accustomed to brave the greatest dangers, were vanquished by the
incomprehensible power their prisoner possessed. As, while talking
to the chief, the Count had not watched his match, it had gone out
before he could use it, and he threw it away. The Indians rushed upon
it, to assure themselves that the flame was real. Without appearing to
attach any importance to this action, the Count drew a second match
from his box, and renewed his experiment. His triumph was complete; the
Redskins, in their terror, fell at his feet, imploring him to pardon
them. Henceforth he might dare anything. These primitive men, terrified
by the two miracles he had performed, regarded him as a superior being
to themselves, and were completely mastered by him. While Bright-eye
laughed in his sleeve at the Indians' simplicity, the young man
cleverly employed his triumph.

"You see what I can do," he said.

"We see it," Natah Otann made answer.

"When do you intend to attack the emigrants?"

"When the moon has set, the warriors of the tribe will assault their
camp."

"And you?"

"Will guard our brother."

"So you now fancy that is possible," the Count said, haughtily.

The Redskins shuddered at the flash of his glance.

"Our brother will pardon us," the chief replied, submissively; "we only
knew him imperfectly."

"And now?"

"Now we know that he is our master, let him command, and we will obey."

"Take care!" he said, in a tone which made them shudder, "for I am
about to put your obedience to a rude trial."

"Our ears are open to receive our brother's words."

"Draw nearer."

The Blackfeet took a few hesitating steps in advance, for they were not
yet completely reassured.

"And now listen to me attentively," he said, "and when you have
received my orders, take care to execute them thoroughly."




CHAPTER V.

THE STRANGE WOMAN.


We are now obliged to return to the Americans' camp. As we have said,
Black and his son were mounting guard, and the pioneer was far from
easy in his mind. Although not yet possessed of all the experience
required for a desert life, the four months he had spent in fatiguing
marches and continued alarms had endowed him with a certain degree
of vigilance, which, under existing circumstances, might prove very
useful; not, perhaps, to prevent an attack, but, at least, to repulse
it. The situation of his camp was, besides, excellent; for from it he
surveyed the prairie for a great distance, and could easily perceive
the approach of an enemy.

Father and son were seated by the fire, rising from time to time, in
turn, to cast glances over the desert, and assure themselves that
nothing menaced their tranquillity. Black was a man gifted with an iron
will and a lion's courage; hitherto his schemes had been unsuccessful,
and he had sworn to make himself an honourable position, no matter at
what cost.

He was the descendant of an old family of squatters. The squatter being
an individuality peculiar to America, and vainly sought elsewhere, we
will describe him as he is, in a few words. On the lands belonging to
the United States, not yet cleared or put up for sale, large numbers
of persons have settled, with the desire of eventually _purchasing_
their lots. These inhabitants are called squatters. We will not say
that they are the pick of the western emigrants, but we know that,
in certain districts, they have constituted themselves a regular
Government, and have elected magistrates to watch over the execution
of the Draconian laws they have themselves laid down to insure the
tranquillity of the territories they have invaded. But by the side of
these quasi-honest squatters, who bow their necks beneath a yoke that
is often harsh, there is another class of squatters, who understand
the possession of land in its widest sense; that is to say, whenever
they discover, in their vagabond peregrinations, a tract of land that
suits them, they instal themselves there without any further inquiry,
and caring nothing for the rightful owner, who, when he arrives with
his labourers to till his estate, is quite annoyed to find it is in the
hands of an individual who, trusting to the axiom that possession is
nine points of the law, refuses to give it up, and if he insist, drives
him away by means of his rifle and revolver.

We know a capital story of a gentleman, who, starting from New York
with two hundred labourers, to clear a virgin forest he had purchased
some ten years previously, and never turned to any use, found, on
arriving at his claim, a town of four thousand souls built on the site
of his virgin forest, of which not a tree remained. After numberless
discussions, the said gentleman esteemed himself very fortunate in
being able to depart with a whole skin, and without paying damages to
his despoilers, whom he had momentarily hoped to oust. But there is no
more chance of ousting a squatter, than you can get a dollar out of a
Yankee, when he has once pocketed it.

John Black belonged to the former of the two classes we have described.
When he reached the age of twenty, his father gave him an axe, a rifle
with twenty charges of powder, and a bowie knife, saying to him--

"Listen, boy. You are now tall and strong; it would be a shame for you
to remain longer a burden on me. I have your two brothers to support.
America is large; there is no want of land. Go in God's name, and
never let me hear of you again. With the weapons I give you, and the
education you have received, your fortune will soon be made, if you
like: before all, avoid all disagreeable disputes, and try not to be
hanged."

After this affectionate address, the father tenderly embraced his son,
put him out of the cabin, and slammed the door in his face. From that
moment John Black had never heard of his father--it is true that he
never tried to obtain any news about him.

Life had been rough to him at the outset; but owing to his character,
and a certain elasticity of principle, the sole inheritance his family
had given him, he had contrived to gain a livelihood, and bring up his
children without any great privations. Either through the isolation in
which he had passed his youth, or for some other reason we are ignorant
of, Black adored his wife and children, and would not have parted from
them on any account. When fatality compelled him to give up the farm he
occupied, and look for another, he set out gaily, sustained by the love
of his family, no member of which was ungrateful for the sacrifices he
imposed on himself; and he had resolved to go this time so far, that
no one would ever come to dispossess him, for he had been obliged to
surrender his farm to its legitimate proprietor, which he had done on
the mere exhibition of the title deeds, without dreaming of resistance
--a conduct which had been greatly blamed by all his neighbours.

Black wished to see his family happy, and watched over it with the
jealous tenderness of a hen for its chicks. Thus, on this evening,
an extreme alarm had preyed on him, though he could not explain the
cause: the disappearance of the Indians did not seem to him natural;
everything around was too calm, the silence of the desert too profound:
he could not remain at any one spot, and, in spite of his son's
remarks, rose every moment to take a look over the intrenchments.

William felt for his father a great affection, mingled with respect:
the state in which he saw him vexed him the more, because there was
nothing to account for his extraordinary restlessness.

"Good gracious, father!" he said, "do not trouble yourself so much; it
really causes me pain to see you in such a state. Do you suppose that
the Indians would have attacked us by such a moonlight as this? Look,
objects can be distinguished as in broad day; I am certain you might
even read the Bible by the silvery rays."

"You are right for the present moment, Will. The Redskins are too
crafty to face our rifles during the moonshine; but in an hour the moon
will have set, and the darkness will then protect them sufficiently to
allow them to reach the foot of the barricade unnoticed."

"Do not imagine they will attempt it, my dear father! Those red devils
have seen us sufficiently close to know that they can only expect a
volley of bullets from us."

"Hum! I am not of your opinion; our beasts would be riches to them: I
do not wish to abandon them, as we should then be compelled to return
to the plantations to procure others, which would be most disagreeable,
you will allow."

"It is true; but we shall not be reduced to that extremity."

"May Heaven grant it, my boy; but do you hear nothing?"

The young man listened attentively.

"No," he said, at the end of a moment.

The emigrant proceeded with a sigh: "I visited the river bank this
morning, and I have rarely seen a spot better suited for a settlement.
The virgin forest that extends behind us would supply excellent
firewood, without reckoning the magnificent planks to be obtained from
it: there are several hundred acres around, which, from their proximity
to the water, would produce, I am certain, excellent crops."

"Would you feel inclined to settle here, then?"

"Have you any objection?"

"I--none at all! provided we can live and work together. I care little
at what place we stop: this spot appears to me as good as another, and
it is far enough from the settlements to prevent our being turned out,
at least for a great number of years."

"That is exactly my view."

At this moment a gentle quivering ran along the tall grass.

"This time I am certain I am not mistaken," the emigrant exclaimed; "I
heard something."

"And I too!" the young man said, rising quickly, and seizing his rifle.

The two men hurried to the entrenchments, but they saw nothing of a
suspicious nature: the prairie was still perfectly calm.

"'Tis some wild beast going down to drink, or returning," Will said, to
reassure his father.

"No, no," the latter replied, with a shake of the head; "it is not the
noise made by any animal--it was the echo of a man's footfall, I am
convinced."

"The simplest way is to go and see."

"Come then."

The two men resolutely climbed over the intrenchments, and with rifles
outstretched, went round the camp, carefully searching the bushes, and
assuring themselves that no foe lurked in them.

"Well!" they exclaimed, when they met.

"Nothing--and you?"

"Nothing."

"It is strange," John Black muttered, "and yet the noise was very
distinct."

"That is true; but I repeat, father, that it was nothing but an animal
leaping somewhere near. In a night so calm as this, the slightest sound
is heard for a great distance; besides, we are now certain that no one
is concealed near us."

"Let us go back," the emigrant said, thoughtfully. They began climbing
over the entrenchments; but both stopped suddenly, by mutual agreement,
hardly checking a cry of amazement, almost of terror. They had just
perceived a human being, whose outline it was impossible to trace at
such a distance, crouched over the fire.

"This time I will have it out," the emigrant exclaimed, taking a
prodigious bound into the camp.

"And I, too," his son murmured, as he followed his example.

But when they came opposite their strange visitor, their surprise
was redoubled. In spite of themselves, they stopped to gaze on the
stranger, without thinking to ask how he had entered their camp, and by
what right he had done so.

As far as they could form a judgment, they soon began to consider
the extraordinary being before them--a woman; but years, the mode of
life she led, and perchance cares, had furrowed her face with such a
multitude of cross hatchings, that it was impossible to conjecture her
age, or whether she had formerly been lovely. The large black eyes,
surmounted by thick brows crossing her curved nose, and deep sunk,
flashed with a gloomy fire; her salient and empurpled cheekbones, her
large mouth studded with dazzling teeth, and her thin lips and square
chin, gave her at first an appearance which was far from arousing
sympathy and exciting confidence; while her long black hair, matted
with leaves and grass, fell in disorder on her shoulders. She wore a
costume more suited for a man than a woman. It was composed of a long
robe of buffalo hide, with short sleeves, fastened on the hips by a
girdle bedizened with beads. This robe had the skirt fringed with
feathers, and only came down to the knee. Her _mitasses_ were fastened
round the ankles, and reached slightly above the knee, where they were
held up by garters of buffalo hide. Her _humpis_ or slippers were plain
and unornamented. She wore iron rings on her wrist, two or three bead
collars round her neck, and earrings. From her girdle hung on one side
a powder flask, an axe, and a bowie knife; on the other, a bullet pouch
and a long Indian pipe. Across her knees lay a rather handsome gun, of
English manufacture.

She was crouching over the fire, which she gazed at fixedly, with her
chin on the palm of her hand.

On the arrival of the Americans, she did not rise, and did not even
appear to notice their presence. After examining her attentively for
some time, Black walked up, and, tapping her on the shoulder, said--

"You are welcome, woman; it seems as if you were cold, and the fire
does not displease you."

She slowly raised her head on feeling the touch, and, fixing on her
questioner a gloomy glance, in which it was easy to perceive a slight
wildness, she replied in English, in a hollow voice, and with guttural
accent--

"The Palefaces are mad; they ever think themselves in their towns; they
forget that in the prairie the trees have ears and the leaves eyes to
see and hear all that is done. The Blackfeet Indians raise their hair
very skilfully."

The two men looked at each other on hearing these words, whose meaning
they were afraid to guess, though they seemed somewhat obscure.

"Are you hungry? Will you eat?" John Black continued, "or is it thirst
that troubles you? I can, if you like, give you a good draught of
firewater to warm you."

The woman frowned.

"Fire-water is good for Indian squaws," she said, "what good would it
do me to drink it? Others will come who will soon dispose of it. Do you
know how many hours you still have to live?"

The emigrant shuddered, in spite of himself at this species of menace.

"Why speak to me thus?" he asked; "have you any cause of complaint
against me?"

"I care little," she continued. "I am not among the living, since my
heart is dead."

She turned her head in every direction with a slow and solemn movement,
while carefully examining the country.

"Stay," she continued, pointing with her lean arm to a mound of grass a
short distance off, "'twas there he fell--'tis there he rests. His head
was cleft asunder by an axe during his sleep--poor James! This spot is
ill-omened: do you not know it? The vultures and the crows alone stay
here at long intervals. Why, then, have you come here? Are you weary of
life? Do you hear them? They are approaching; they will soon be here."

Father and son exchanged a glance.

"She is mad. Poor creature!" Black muttered.

"Yes; that is what they all say on the prairies," she exclaimed, with
some accusation in her voice. "They call me _Ohucahauck Chiké_ (the
evil one of the earth), because they fear me as their evil genius. You,
also, fancy me mad, eh? ah! ah! ah!"

She burst into a strident laugh, which ended in a sob; she buried
her face in her hands, and wept. The two men felt awed in spite of
themselves; this strange grief, these incoherent words, all aroused
their interest in favour of this poor creature, who appeared so
unhappy. Pity was at work in their hearts, and they regarded her
silently without daring to disturb her. In a few moments she raised her
head, passed the back of her hand over her eyes to dry them, and spoke
again. The wild expression had disappeared; the very sound of her voice
was no longer the same; as if by enchantment, a complete change had
taken place in her.

"Pardon," she said mournfully, "the extravagant words I have uttered.
The solitude in which I live, and the heavy burden of woe which has
crushed me so long, at times trouble my reason; and then the place
where we now stand reminds me of terrible scenes, whose cruel memory
will never be erased from my mind."

"Madam, I assure you--," John Black continued, not knowing what he
said, so great was his surprise.

"Now the fit has passed away." She interrupted him with a gentle
and melancholy smile, which gave her countenance a very different
expression from that the Americans had hitherto remarked; "I have been
following you for the last two days to come to your help; the Redskins
are preparing to attack you--"

The two men shuddered: and, forgetting all else to think only of the
pressing danger, they cast a restless glance around them.

"You know it?" Black exclaimed.

"I know all," she answered; "but reassure yourselves. You have still
two hours ere their horrible war cry will sound in your ears; that is
more than enough to render you safe."

"Oh! we have good rifles and keen sight," said William, clutching his
weapon in his nervous hands.

"What can four rifles, however good they may be, do against two or
three hundred tigers thirsting for blood, like those you will have to
fight? You do not know the Redskins, young man."

"That is true," he answered; "but what is to be done?"

"Seek a refuge?--where find help in these immense solitudes?" the
father added, casting a despairing glance around him.

"Did I not tell you I wished to help you?" she said, sharply.

"Yes; you told us so; but I try in vain to detect of what use you can
be to us."

She smiled a melancholy smile.

"It is your good angel that brought you to the spot where you now are.
While I was watching you all the day, I trembled lest you might not
encamp here. Come!"

The two men, surprised by the ascendancy this strange creature had
gained over them in a few minutes, followed her without reply. After
walking about a dozen steps, she stopped, and turned toward them.

"Look," she said, stretching out her thin arm in a north-west
direction, "your enemies are there, scarce two leagues off, buried in
the tall grass. I have heard their plans, and was present at their
council, though they little suspected it. They are only waiting for the
moon to set, ere they attack you. You have scarce an hour left."

"My poor wife!" Black murmured.

"It is impossible for me to save you all: to fancy it would be madness;
but I can, if you wish it, attempt to save your wife and daughter from
the fate that menaces them."

"Speak! speak!"

"This tree, at the foot of which we are now standing, although
apparently possessing all the vigour of youth, is internally hollow,
so that only the bark stands upright. Your wife and daughter, supplied
with some provisions, will get into the tree and remain there in safety
till the danger has passed away. As for ourselves--"

"As for us," Black quickly interrupted her, "we are men accustomed to
danger: our fate is in the hands of God."

"Good; but do not despair: all is not lost yet."

The American shook his head.

"As you said yourself, what can four men do against a legion of demons
like those who menace us? But that is not the question of the moment. I
do not see the hole by which my wife and daughter can enter the tree."

"It is twenty to twenty-four feet up, hidden among the branches and
leaves."

"The Lord be praised! they will be sheltered."

"Yes; but make haste and warn them, while your son and I make all the
preparations."

Black, convinced of the necessity of haste, ran off, while the stranger
and William constructed, with that dexterity produced by the approach
of danger, a species of handy ladder, by which the two women could not
merely ascend the tree, but go down into the cavity. Black waked the
ladies, and called the servants; in a few words he explained to them
what was passing; then, loading his wife and daughter with provisions,
furs, and other indispensable objects, he led them to the spot where
the stranger was expecting them.

"This is my most precious treasure," Black said; "if I save it, I shall
be solely indebted to you."

The two ladies began thanking their mysterious protectress; but she
imposed silence on them by a peremptory gesture.

"Presently, presently," she said; "if we escape, we shall have plenty
of time for mutual congratulations; but at this moment we have
something more important to do than exchange compliments. We must get
into a place of safety."

The two ladies fell back, quite repulsed by this rough reception, while
casting a curious and almost alarmed glance on the strange creature.
But the latter, perfectly stoical, seemed to notice nothing. She
explained in a few clear words the means she had found to conceal them:
recommended them to remain silent in the hollow tree, and then ordered
them to mount. The two ladies, after embracing Black and his son, began
resolutely ascending the rungs of the improvised ladder. They reached
in a few seconds an enormous branch, on which they stopped, by the
orders of the stranger. Black then threw down into the interior of the
tree the furs and provisions, after which the ladder was placed inside,
and the ladies glided through the hole.

"We leave you the ladder, which is useless to us," the stranger then
said. "But be very careful not to come out till you have seen me again;
the least imprudence, under the circumstances, might cost your lives.
However, keep your minds at rest. Your imprisonment will not be long, a
few hours at the most: so be of good cheer."

The ladies once again tried to express their gratitude; but, without
listening, the stranger made Black a sign to follow her, and rapidly
descended from the tree. Aided by the Americans, she then began
removing every trace that might have revealed where the ladies were
bestowed. When the stranger had assured herself, by a final glance,
that all was in order, and nothing could betray those who were so
famously hidden, she sighed, and followed by the two men, walked to the
intrenchments.

"Now," she said, "let us watch attentively around us, for these demons
will probably crawl close up in the shadows. You are free and honest
Americans, show these accursed Indians what you can do."

"Let them come!" Black muttered hoarsely.

"They will soon do so," she replied, and pointed to several almost
imperceptible black dots, which, however, grew larger, and were
evidently approaching the encampment.




CHAPTER VI.

THE DEFENCE OF THE CAMP.


The Redskins have a mode of fighting which foils all the methods
employed by European tactics. In order to understand their system
properly, we must, in the first place, bear in mind that the Indian
idea of honour is different from ours. This understood, the rest may be
easily admitted. The Indians, in undertaking an enterprise, have only
one object--success, and all means are good to attain it. Gifted with
incontestable courage, at times rash to an excess, stopping at nothing,
and recoiling before no difficulty--for all that, when the success
of these enterprises appears to them dubious, and that consequently
the object is missed, they retire as easily as they advanced, not
considering their honour compromised by a retreat, or by leaving the
battlefield to an enemy more powerful than themselves, or well on his
guard.

Thus, their system of fighting is most simple, and they only proceed by
surprises. The Redskins will follow the enemy's trail for entire months
with unequalled patience, never relaxing their watch for a moment,
spying him night and day, while ever careful not to be themselves
surprised: then, when the occasion at last presents itself, and they
fancy the moment arrived to execute the project, all the chances for or
against which they have so long calculated, they act with a vigour and
fury which frequently disconcert those they attack; but if after the
first onset they are repulsed--if they see that those they attack will
not let themselves be intimidated, and are prepared to resist, then, on
a given signal, they disappear as if by enchantment, and, without any
shame, begin watching again for a more favourable moment.

Black, on the advice of the stranger, had placed himself and his
party in such positions that they could survey the prairie in every
direction. The stranger and himself were leaning on their rifles in
the angle that faced the river. The prairie at this moment presented
a singular appearance. The breeze, which at sunset had risen with a
certain strength, was gently dying out, scarce bending the tops of the
great trees. The moon, almost departed, only cast over the landscape an
uncertain and timorous gleam, which, in lieu of dissipating the gloom,
only rendered the darkness visible, through the striking contrasts
between the obscurity and the pale and fugitive rays of the declining
planet.

At times, a dull roar or sharp bark rose in the silence, and, like a
sinister appeal, reminded the emigrant that implacable and ferocious
enemies were on the watch around, although invisible. The purity of the
atmosphere was so great, that the slightest sound could be heard for an
immense distance, and it was easy to distinguish the enormous blocks of
granite that formed black dots on the ground.

"Do you know for certain that we shall be attacked this night?" the
American asked, in a low voice.

"I was present at the last council of the chiefs," the unknown replied
distinctly.

The emigrant bent on her a scrutinising glance, which she recognised,
and immediately understood; she shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"Take care," she said to him, with a certain emphasis, "let not doubt
invade your mind; what interest should I have in deceiving you?"

"I know not," he replied dreamily "but I also ask myself what interest
you have in defending me?"

"None; since you place the matter on that footing, what do I care
whether your wealth is plundered, your wife, your daughter, and
yourself scalped? it is a matter of supreme indifference to me; but
must the affair be only regarded from that side? Do you imagine that
material interests have a great weight with me? If that is your
opinion, I shall withdraw, leaving you to get out of your present
position in the best way you can."

While uttering these words, she had thrown her rifle over her shoulder,
and prepared to climb over the palisade, but Black quickly checked her.

"You do not understand me," he said; "any man in my place would act as
I do; my position is fearful, you allow it yourself; you entered my
camp, and it is impossible for me to guess how. Still, I have hitherto
put the utmost confidence in you, as you cannot deny; but I do not
know who you are, or what motive causes you to act. Your words, far
from explaining, plunge me, on the contrary, into greater uncertainty;
the safety of my entire family and all I possess is at stake: reflect
seriously on all this, and I defy you to disapprove of my not putting
utter confidence in you, although you are, doubtlessly, deserving of
it, so long as I do not know who you are."

"Yes," she answered, after a moment's reflection, "you are right, the
world is so, people must first of all give their name and quality;
egotism is so thoroughly the master over the whole surface of the
globe, that even to do a person a service, you require a certificate
of honesty, for no one will admit disinterestedness of heart,--that
aberration of generous minds, which practical people brand as madness.
Unfortunately, you must take me for what I appear, at the risk of
seeing me go away, and hence any confidence on my part would be
superfluous. You will judge me by my acts, the only proof I can and
will give you of the purity of my intentions; you are free to accept or
decline my assistance, and after all is over, you can thank or curse me
at your choice."

Black was more perplexed than ever; the stranger's explanations only
rendered the fog denser, instead of affording him light. Still, in
spite of himself, he felt himself attracted toward her. After a few
moments of serious reflection, he raised his head, struck his rifle
barrel smartly with his right hand, and looking his companion well in
the face, said in a firm voice,--

"Listen, I will no longer try to learn whether you come from God or the
devil; if you are a spy of our enemies, or our devoted friend--events,
as you said, will soon decide the question. But bear this in mind, I
will carefully watch your slightest gesture, your every word. At the
first suspicious word or movement, I will put a bullet through your
head, even if I am killed the moment after. Is that a bargain?"

The stranger began laughing.

"I accept," she said. "I recognise the Yankee in that proposition."

After this, the conversation ceased, and their entire attention was
concentrated on the prairie. The most profound calm still continued
to brood over the desert; apparently, all was in the same state as at
sunset. Still the stranger's piercing eyes distinguished on the river
bank several wild beasts flying precipitately, and others escaping
across the river, instead of continuing to drink. One of the truest
axioms in the desert is:--there can be no effect without a cause.
Everything has a reason in the prairie, all is analysed or commented
on; a leaf does not fall from a tree, a bird fly away, without the
observer knowing or guessing why it has happened.

After a few moments of profound examination, the stranger seized the
emigrant's arm, and bending down to his ear, said in a weak voice, like
the sighing of the breeze, one word which made him tremble, as she
stretched out her arm in the direction of the plain.

"Look!"

Black bent forward.

"Oh!" he said a minute after, "what is the meaning of this?"

The prairie, as we have already mentioned, was covered in several
places by blocks of granite and dead trees; singularly enough, these
black dots, at first a considerable distance from the camp, seemed
approaching insensibly, and now were only a short way from it. As it
was physically impossible for rocks and trees to move of their own
accord, there must be a cause for this, which the worthy emigrant,
whose mind was anything but subtle, cudgelled his brains in vain
to guess. This new Birnam Wood, which moved all alone, made him
excessively uncomfortable; his son and servants had also noticed the
same fact, though equally unable to account for it. Black remarked
specially that a tree he remembered perfectly well seeing that same
evening more than one hundred and fifty feet from the mound, had
suddenly come so close, that it was hardly thirty paces off. The
stranger, without evincing any emotion, whispered--

"They are the Indians!"

"The Indians?" he said, "impossible!"

She knelt behind the palisade, shouldered her rifle, and after taking a
careful aim, pulled the trigger. A flash traversed the darkness, and at
the same moment the pretended tree bounded like a deer. A terrible yell
was raised, and the Redskins appeared, rushing toward the camp like a
herd of wolves, brandishing their weapons, and howling like demons.
The Americans, very superstitious people, reassured by seeing that
they had only to deal with men, when they feared some spell, received
their enemies bravely with a rolling and well-directed fire. Still,
the Indians, probably knowing the small number of white men, did not
recoil, but pushed on boldly. The Redskins were hardly a few yards off,
and were preparing to carry the barricades, when a shot, fired by the
stranger, tolled over an Indian ahead of the rest, at the instant he
turned to his comrades to encourage them to follow him.

The fall of this man produced an effect which the Americans, who
fancied themselves lost, were far from anticipating. As if by
enchantment, the Indians disappeared, the yells ceased, and the deepest
silence prevailed again. It might be supposed that all that had passed
was a dream. The Americans regarded each other with amazement, not
knowing to what they should attribute this sudden retreat.

"That is incomprehensible," Black said, after assuring himself by a
hasty glance that none of his party were wounded; "can you explain
that, mistress, you, who seem to be our guardian angel, for it is to
your last shot we owe the rest we at present enjoy?"

"Ah!" she said, with a sarcastic smile, "you are beginning to do me
justice, then."

"Do not speak about that," the emigrant said, with an angry voice; "I
am a fool; pardon me, and forget my suspicions."

"I have forgotten them," she replied. "As for that which astounds you,
it is very simple. The man I killed, or, at any rate, wounded, was an
Indian chief of great reputation; on seeing him fall, his warriors were
discouraged, and they ran to carry him off the field, lest his scalp
should fall into your hands."

"Oh, oh!" Black said, with a gesture of disgust; "do these Pagans fancy
we are like themselves? No, no! I would kill them to the last man, in
self-defence, and no one could blame me for it; but as for scalping,
that is a different matter. I am an honest Virginian, without a drop of
red blood in my veins. My father's son does not commit such infamy."

"I approve your remarks," the stranger said, in a sorrowful voice;
"scalping is a frightful torture; unfortunately, many white men on the
prairies do not think like you; they have adopted Indian fashions, and
scalp, without ceremony, the enemies they kill."

"They are wrong."

"Possibly; I am far from justifying them."

"So that," the emigrant joyfully exclaimed, "we are free from these red
devils."

"Do not rejoice yet; you will soon see them return."

"What, again?"

"They have only suspended their attack to carry off their killed and
wounded, and probably to invent some other plan, to get the better of
you."

"Oh, that will not be difficult; in spite of all our efforts, it will
be impossible for us to resist that flock of birds of prey, who rush on
us from all sides, as on a carcass. What can five rifles effect against
that legion of demons?"

"Much, if you do not despair."

"Oh, as for that, you may be easy, we will not yield an inch; we are
resolved to die at our posts."

"Your bravery pleases me," the stranger said, "perhaps all will end
better than you suppose."

"May Heaven hear you, my worthy woman."

"Let us lose no time; the Indians may return to the charge at any
moment, so let us try to be as successful this time as the first."

"I will."

"Good! Are you a man of resolution?"

"I fancy I have proved it."

"That is true. How many days' provisions have you here?"

"Four, at the least."

"That is to say, eight, if necessary."

"Pretty nearly."

"Good! Now, if you like, I will get rid of your enemies for a long
time."

"I ask nothing better."

Suddenly the war cry of the Redskins was again heard, but this time
more strident and unearthly than the first.

"It is too late!" the stranger said, sorrowfully, "All that is left is
to die bravely."

"Let us die, then; but first kill as many of these Pagans as we can,"
John Black answered. "Hurrah! my boys, for Uncle Sam!"

"Hurrah!" his comrades shouted, brandishing their weapons.

The Indians responded to this challenge by yells of rage, and the
combat recommenced, though this time it was more serious. After rising
to utter their formidable war cry, the Indians scattered, and advanced
slowly toward the camp, by crawling on the ground. When they found
in their road the stump of a tree or a bush capable of offering them
shelter, they stopped to fire an arrow or a bullet. The new tactics
adopted by their enemies disconcerted the Americans, whose bullets were
too often wasted; for, unluckily, the Indians were almost invisible in
the gloom, and, with that cunning so characteristic of them, shook the
grass so cleverly, that the deceived emigrants did not know where to
aim.

"We are lost," Black exclaimed despondingly.

"The position is indeed becoming critical; but we must not despair
yet," the stranger remarked; "one chance is left us; a very poor one,
I grant; but which I shall employ when the moment arrives. Try to hold
out in a hand-to-hand fight."

"Come," the emigrant said, shouldering his rifle, "there is one of the
devils who will not get any further."

A Blackfoot warrior, whose head rose at this moment above the grass,
had his skull fractured by the American's bullet. The Redskins suddenly
rose, and rushed, howling, on the barricade, where the emigrants
awaited them firmly. A point-blank discharge received the Indians, and
a hand-to-hand fight began. The Americans, standing on the barricades
and clubbing their rifles, dashed down every one who came within their
reach. Suddenly, at the moment when the emigrants, overpowered by
numbers, fell back a step, the stranger rushed up the barricade, with a
torch in her hand, and uttering such a savage yell, that the combatants
stopped, with a shudder. The flame of the torch was reflected on the
stranger's face, and imparted to it a demoniac expression. She held her
head high, and stretched out her arm, with a magnificent gesture of
authority.

"Back!" she shrieked. "Back, devils!"

At this extraordinary apparition, the Redskins remained for a moment
motionless, as if petrified, but then they rushed headlong down the
slope, flying, with the utmost terror. The Americans, interested
witnesses of this incomprehensible scene, gave a sigh of relief. They
were saved! Saved by a miracle! They then rushed toward the stranger,
to express their gratitude to her.

She had disappeared!

In vain did the Americans look for her everywhere; they could not
imagine whither she was gone: she seemed to have suddenly become
invisible. The torch she held in her hand, when addressing the Indians,
lay on the ground, where it still smoked; it was the only trace she
left of her presence in the emigrants' camp.

John Black and his companions lost themselves in conjectures on her
account, while dressing, as well as they could, the wounds they had
received in the engagement, when his wife and daughter suddenly
appeared in the camp. Black rushed toward them.

"How imprudent of you!" he exclaimed. "Why have you left your hiding
place, in spite of the warnings given you?"

His wife looked at him in amazement.

"We left it," she replied, "by the directions of the strange woman to
whom we are all so deeply indebted this night."

"What! have you seen her again?"

"Certainly; a few moments back she came to us; we were half dead
with terror, for the sounds of the fighting reached us, and we were
completely ignorant of what was occurring. After reassuring us, she
told us that all was over, that we had nothing more to fear, and that,
if we liked, we could rejoin you."

"But she--what did she do?"

"She led us to this spot; then, in spite of our entreaties, she went
away, saying that as we no longer needed her, her presence was useless,
while important reasons compelled her departure."

The emigrant then told the ladies all about the events of the night,
and the obligations they owed to this extraordinary female. They
listened to the narrative with the utmost attention, not knowing to
what they should attribute her strange conduct, and feeling their
curiosity aroused to the utmost pitch. Unfortunately, the peculiar
way in which the stranger had retired, did not appear to evince any
great desire on her part to establish more intimate relations with the
emigrants.

In the desert, however, there is but little time to be given to
reflections and comments; action is before all; men must live and
defend themselves. Hence Black, without losing further time in
trying to solve the riddle, occupied himself actively in repairing
the breaches made in his entrenchments, and fortifying his camp more
strongly, were that possible, by piling up on the barricades all the
articles within reach. When these first duties for the common safety
were accomplished, the emigrant thought of his cattle. He had placed
them at a spot where the bullets could not reach them, close to the
tent, into which his wife and daughter had again withdrawn, and had
surrounded them by a quantity of interlaced branches. On entering this
corral, Black uttered a cry of amazement, which was soon changed into,
a yell of fury. His son and the men ran up; the horses and one-half the
cattle had disappeared. During the fight the Indians had carried them
off, and the noise had prevented their flight being heard. It seemed
probable that the stranger's interference, by striking the Indians with
terror, had alone prevented the robbery being completed, and the whole
of the cattle carried off.

The loss was enormous to the emigrant; although all his cattle had not
disappeared, enough had been carried off to render further progress
impossible. His resolution was formed with that promptitude so
characteristic of the Northern Americans.

"Our beasts are stolen," he said; "I must have them back."

"Quite right," William answered; "at daybreak we will go on their
track."

"I, but not you, my son," the emigrant said. "Sam will go with me."

"What shall I do then?"

"Stay in the camp, to guard your mother and sister. I will leave James
with you."

The young man made no reply.

"I will not let the Pagans boast of having eaten my oxen," Black said,
wrathfully. "By my father's soul, I will get them back, or lose my
scalp!"

The night had passed away while the camp was being fortified. The sun,
though still invisible, was beginning to tinge the horizon with a
purple light.

"Ah, look!" Black continued, "here's day; let us lose no time, but set
off. I recommend your mother and sister to your care, Will, as well as
all that is here."

"You can go, father," the young man said. "I will keep good watch
during your absence; you may be easy."

The emigrant pressed his son's hand, threw his rifle, over his
shoulder, made a sign to Sam to follow him, and walked towards the
entrenchment.

"It is useless to wake your mother," he said, as he walked on; "when
she comes out of the tent, you will tell her what has occurred, and
what I have done; I am certain she will approve of it. So, good-bye, my
boy, and mind you are on the watch."

"And you, father--good luck!"

"May Heaven grant it, boy," the emigrant said, sorrowfully. "Such
splendid cattle!"

"Stay!" the young man exclaimed, holding his father back, at the moment
the latter was preparing to climb over the barricades. "What is that I
see down there?"

The emigrant turned quickly.

"Do you see anything, Will---whereabouts?"

"Look, father, in that direction. But what is the meaning of it? It
must be our cattle."

The emigrant looked in the direction his son indicated.

"What!" he exclaimed joyfully; "why, those are our cattle. Where on
earth do they come from? And who is bringing them back?"

In fact, at a great distance on the prairie, the American's cattle were
visible, galloping rapidly in the direction of the camp, and raising a
cloud of dust behind them.




CHAPTER VII.

THE INDIAN CHIEF.


The Count de Beaulieu was far from suspecting, as he carelessly
prepared to light a cigar, that the lucifer match he employed would at
once render him so important in the sight of the Indians. But, so soon
as he recognized the power of the weapon chance placed in his hands,
he resolved to employ it, and turn to his own profit the superstitious
ignorance of the Redskins. Enjoying, in his heart, the triumph he had
obtained, the Count frowned, and employing the language and emphatic
gestures of the Indians, when he saw they were sufficiently recovered
to listen to him, he addressed them with that commanding tone which
always imposes on the masses.

"Let my brothers open their ears; the words my lips utter must be
heard and understood by all. My brothers are simple men, prone to
error; truth must enter their hearts like an iron wedge. My goodness
is great, because I am powerful; instead of chastising them when
they dared to lay hands on me, I am satisfied with displaying my
power before their eyes. I am a great physician of the pale faces; I
possess all the secrets of the most famous medicines. If I pleased,
the birds of the air and the fish of the river would come to do me
homage, because the Master of Life is within me, and has given me his
medicine rod. Listen to this, Redskins, and remember it: when the first
man was born, he walked on the banks of the Mecha-Chebe; there he met
the Master of Life: the Master of Life saluted him, and said to him,
'Thou art my son.' 'No,' the first man made answer, 'thou art my son,
and I will prove it to thee, if thou dost not believe me; we will sit
down and plant in the earth the medicine rod we hold in our hands; the
one who rises first will be the younger, and the son of the other.'
They sat down then, and looked at each other for a long time, until at
length the Master of Life turned pale, and the flesh left his bones; on
which the first man exclaimed, joyfully, 'At length thou art assuredly
dead.' And they regarded each other thus during ten times ten moons,
and ten times more; and as at the end of that time the bones of the
Master of Life were completely bleached, the first man rose and said,
'Yes, now there is no more doubt; he is certainly dead.' He then took
the medicine stick of the Master of Life, and drew it from the earth.
But then the Master of Life rose, and taking the stick from him, said
to him, 'Stop! here I am; I am thy father, and thou art my son.' And
the first man recognized him as his father. But the Master of Life
then added, 'Thou art my son, first man; thou can'st not die; take my
medicine staff; when I have to communicate with my Redskin sons, I
will send thee.' This is the medicine staff. Are you ready to execute
my orders?"

These words were uttered with so profound an accent of truth, the
legend related by the Count was so true and so well known by all, that
the Indians, whom the miracle of the match had already disposed to
credulity, put complete faith in it, and answered respectfully--

"Let my father speak: what he wishes we wish. Are we not his children?"

"Hence," the Count continued, "I wish to speak with you, chief, alone."

Natah Otann had listened to the Count's discourse with the deepest
attention: at times, an observer might have noticed a flash of joy
cross his features, immediately followed, however, by a feeling of
pleasure, which lit up his intelligent eyes: he applauded, like his
warriors, perhaps more warmly than they, when the young man ceased
speaking; on hearing him say that he would speak with the sachem alone,
a smile played on his lips: he made the Indians a sign to retire, and
walked towards the Count with an ease and grace which the other could
not refrain from noticing. There was a native nobility in this young
chief, which pleased at the first glance, and attracted sympathy.

After bowing respectfully, the Blackfeet warriors went down the hill,
and collected about one hundred yards from the camping place.

There were two men whom the Count's eloquence had surprised quite as
much as the Indian warriors. These were Bright-eye and Ivon; neither
of them understood a syllable, and the young man's Indian science
completely threw them out; they awaited in the utmost anxiety the
denouement of this scene, whose meaning they could not decipher.

When left alone (for the hunter and Ivon soon also withdrew), the
Frenchman and the Indian examined each other with extreme attention.
But whatever efforts the white man made to read the sentiments of the
man he had before him, he was obliged to allow that he had to deal
with one of those superior natives, on whose faces it is impossible to
read anything, and who, under all circumstances, are ever masters of
their impressions; furthermore, the fixity and metallic lustre of the
Indian's eye caused him to feel a secret uneasiness, which he hastened
to remove by speaking, as if that would break the charm.

"Chief," he said, "now that your warriors have retired--"

Natah Otann interrupted him by a sign, and bowed courteously.

"Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte," he said, with an accent which a native
of the banks of the Seine would have envied: "I think the slight
practice you have had in speaking our language is wearisome to you; if
you would please to express yourself in French, I fancy I understand
that language well enough to follow you."

"Eh?" the Count exclaimed, with a start of surprise, "what is that you
say?"

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the Count's feet he would not have been
more surprised and terrified than on hearing this savage, who wore the
complete costume of the Blackfeet, and whose face was painted of four
different colours, express himself so purely in French. Natah Otann did
not seem to notice his companion's agitation, but continued coldly--

"Deign to pardon me, Monsieur le Comte, for employing terms which must
certainly have offended you by their triviality; but the few occasions
I have for speaking French in this desert must serve as an excuse."

M. de Beaulieu was a prey to one of those surprises which grow
gradually greater. He no longer knew were he awake, or suffering
from a nightmare; what he heard seemed to him so incredible and
incomprehensible, that he could not find words to express his feelings.

"Who on earth are you?" he exclaimed, when sufficiently master of
himself to speak.

"I!" Natah Otann remarked carelessly; "why, you see I am a poor Indian,
and nothing more."

"'Tis impossible," the young man said.

"I assure you, sir, that I have told you the exact truth. Hang it,"
he added with charming frankness, "if you find me a little less--what
shall I say?--coarse, you must not consider it a crime; that results
from considerations entirely independent of my will, which I will tell
you some day, if you wish to hear them."

The Count, as we think we have said, was a man of great courage, whom
but few things could disturb; the first impression passed, he bravely
took his part; perfectly master of himself henceforth, he frankly
accepted the position which accident had so singularly made for him.

"By Jove!" he said, with a laugh, "the meeting is a strange one, and
may reasonably surprise me; you will therefore pardon, my dear sir,
that astonishment--in extreme bad taste, I grant--which I at first
evidenced on hearing you address me as you did. I was so far from
expecting to meet, six hundred leagues from civilised countries, a man
so well bred as yourself, that I confess I at first hardly knew what
Saint to invoke."

"You flatter me, sir; believe me that I feel highly grateful for the
good opinion you are good enough to have of me; now, if you permit, we
will go back to our business."

"On my faith, I am so staggered by all that has happened, that I really
do not know what I am about."

"Nonsense, that is nothing; I will lead you back to the right track;
after the charming address you made us, you seem to desire speech with
me alone."

"Hum!" the Count said, with a smile, "I am afraid that I must have
appeared to you supremely ridiculous with my legend, especially my
remarks, but then I could not suspect that I had an auditor of your
stamp."

Natah Otann shook his head sadly; a melancholy expression for a moment
darkened his face.

"No," he said, "you acted as you were bound to do; but while you were
speaking, I was thinking of those poor Indians sunk so deeply in error,
and asking myself whether there was any hope of their regeneration
before the white men succeed in utterly destroying them."

The chief uttered these words with such a marked accent of grief and
hatred, that the Count was moved by the thought how this man, with a
soul of fire, must suffer at the brutalization of his race.

"Courage!" he said, holding out his hand to him.

"Courage!" the Indian repeated, bitterly, though clasping the proffered
hand; "after each defeat I experienced in the struggle I have
undertaken, the man who has served as my father, and unfortunately made
me what I am, never ceases to say that to me."

There was a moment of silence; each was busied with his own thoughts;
at length Natah Otann proceeded:--

"Listen, Monsieur le Comte; between men of a certain stamp there is a
species of undefinable feeling, which attaches them to each other in
spite of themselves; for the six months your have been traversing the
desert in every direction, I have never once lost sight of you; you
would have been dead long ere this, but I spread a secret ægis over
you. Oh, do not thank me," he said, quickly, as the young man made a
sign, "I have acted rather in my own interest than yours. What I say
surprises you, I daresay, but it is so. Allow me to tell you, that I
have views with reference to yourself, whose secrets I will unfold to
you in a few days, when we know each other better; as for the present,
I will obey you in whatever you wish; in the eyes of my countrymen, I
will keep up that miraculous halo which surrounds your brow. You wish
these American emigrants to be left at peace, very good; for your sake
I pardon this race of vipers; but I ask you one favour in return."

"Speak!"

"When you are certain the people you wish to save are in security,
accompany me to my village,--that is all I desire. That will not cost
you much, especially as my tribe is encamped not more than a day's
march from the spot where you now are."

"I accept your proposition, chief. I will accompany you wherever you
please, though not till I am certain that my _protégés_ no longer
require my aid."

"That is agreed. Stay, one word more."

"Say it."

"It is well understood that I am only an Indian like the rest, even to
the two white men who accompany you!"

"You demand it?"

"For our common welfare: a word spoken thoughtlessly, any indiscretion,
how trifling soever, would destroy us both. Ah! you do not know the
Redskins yet," he added, with that melancholy smile which had already
given the Count so much subject for thought.

"Very good," he answered; "you may be easy; I am warned."

"Now, if you think proper, I will recall my warriors; a longer
conference between us might arouse their jealousy."

"Do so; I trust entirely to you."

"You will have no reason to repent it," Natah Otann replied, graciously.

While the chief went to join his companions, the Count walked up to the
two white men.

"Well?" Bright-eye asked him, "have you obtained what you wanted from
that man?"

"Perfectly," he answered; "I only wished to say a few words to him."

The hunter looked at him cunningly.

"I did not think him so easy," he said.

"Why so, my friend?"

"His reputation is great in the desert; I have known him for a very
long period."

"Ah!" the young man said, not at all sorry to obtain some information
about the man who perplexed him so greatly; "what reputation has he
then?"

Bright-eye seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"Are you afraid to explain yourself clearly on that head?" the Count
asked.

"I have no reason for that; on the contrary, with the exception of that
day on which he wished to flay me alive--a slight mistake, which I
pardon with my whole heart,--our relations have always been excellent."

"The more so," the Count said, with a laugh, "because you never met
again, to my knowledge, till this day."

"That is what I meant to say. Look you--Natah Otann, between ourselves,
is one of those Indians whom it is far more advantageous not to see: he
is like the owl--his presence always forebodes evil."

"The deuce! You trouble me greatly by speaking so, Bright-eye."

"Suppose I had said nothing, then," he answered, quickly; "for my part,
I should prefer to be silent."

"That is possible; but the little you have allowed to escape has, I
confess, so awakened my curiosity, that I should not be sorry to learn
more."

"Unfortunately, I know nothing."

"Still you spoke of his reputation--is that bad?"

"I did not say so," Bright-eye answered, with reserve. "You know, Mr.
Edward, that Indian manners are very different from ours: what is bad
to us is regarded very differently by Indians; and so--"

"So, I suppose," the Count interrupted, "Natah Otann has an execrable
reputation."

"No, I assure you; that depends upon the way in which you look at
matters."

"Good; and what is your personal opinion?"

"Oh, I, as you are aware, am only a poor fellow; still it seems to me
as if this demon of an Indian is more crafty than his whole tribe;
between ourselves, he is regarded as a sorcerer by his countrymen, who
are frightfully afraid of him."

"Is that all?"

"Nearly."

"After that," the Count said, lightly, "as he has asked me to accompany
him to his village, the few days we spend with him will enable us to
study him at our ease."

The hunter gave a start of surprise.

"You will not do so, I trust, Sir?"

"I do not see what can prevent me."

"Yourself, Sir; who, I hope, will not walk, with your eyes open, into
the lion's jaws."

"Will you explain--yes, or no?" the Count exclaimed with rising
impatience.

"Oh, what is the use of explaining?--will what I say stop you? No, I
am persuaded of that. You see, therefore, it is useless for me to say
more; besides, it is too late--the chief is returning."

The Count made a movement of ill-humour, at once suppressed; but this
movement did not escape Natah Otann, who at this moment appeared on the
plateau. The young man walked toward him.

"Well?" he asked eagerly.

"My young men consent to do what our Paleface father desires; if he
will mount his horse and follow us, he can convince himself that our
intentions are loyal."

"I follow you, chief," the Count replied, making Ivon a sign to bring
up his horse.

The Blackfeet welcomed the three hunters with unequivocal signs of joy.

"Forward!" the young man said.

Natah Otann raised his arm. At this signal the warriors drove in their
knees, and the horses started like a hurricane. No one, who has not
witnessed it, can form an idea of an Indian chase: nothing stops
the Redskins--no obstacle is powerful enough to make them deviate
from their course; they go in a straight line, rolling like a human
whirlwind across the prairie crossing gulleys, ravines, and rocks, with
dizzy rapidity. Natah Otann, the Count, and his two companions, were
at the head of the cavalcade, closely followed by the warriors. All at
once the chief checked his horse, shouting at the top of his voice--

"Halt!"

All obeyed, as if by enchantment: the horses stopped dead, and remained
motionless, as if their feet were planted in the ground.

"Why stop?" the Count asked; "we had better push on."

"It is useless," the chief said, calmly; "let my Pale brother look
before him."

The Count bent on his horse's neck.

"I can see nothing," he said.

"That is true," the Indian said; "I forgot that my brother has the eyes
of the Palefaces; in a few minutes he will see."

The Blackfeet anxiously collected round their chief, whom they
questioned with their glances. The latter, apparently impassive, looked
straight ahead, distinguishing in the darkness objects invisible to
all but himself. The Indians, however, had not long to wait, for some
horsemen soon came up at full speed. When they arrived near Natah
Otann's party, they stopped.

"What has happened?" the chief asked, sternly; "why are my sons running
away thus? They are not warriors I see, but timid women."

The Indians bowed their heads with humility at this reproach, but
made no answer. The chief continued--"Will no one inform us of
what has happened--why my chosen warriors are flying like scattered
antelopes--where is Long Horn?"

A warrior emerged from the ranks.

"Long Horn is dead," he said, sorrowfully.

"He was a wise and renowned warrior; he has gone to the happy hunting
grounds to hunt with the upright warriors. As he is dead, why did not
the Blackbird take the totem in his hand in his place?"

"Because the Blackbird is dead," the warrior answered, in the same tone.

Natah Otann frowned, and his brow was contracted by the effort he made
to suppress his passion.

"Oh!" he said, bitterly, "the greathearts of the east have fought
well; their rifles carry truly. The two best chiefs of the nation have
fallen, but the Red Wolf still remained--why did he not avenge his
brothers?"

"Because he has also fallen," the warrior said, in a mournful voice.

A shudder of anger ran through the ranks.

"Wah!" Natah Otann exclaimed, with grief, "what is he also dead?"

"No; but he is dangerously wounded."

After these words there was a silence. The chief looked around him, and
then said--

"So; four Palefaces have held at bay two hundred Blackfeet warriors;
killed and wounded their bravest chiefs, and those warriors have not
taken their revenge. Ah! ah! what will the White Buffalo say when he
hears that? He will give petticoats to my sons, and make them prepare
food for the more courageous warriors, instead of sending them on the
warpath."

"The camp of the Long Knives was in our power," the Indian replied,
who had hitherto spoken for his comrades, "we already had them down
with our knees on their chests, a portion of their cattle was carried
off, and the scalps of the Palefaces were about to be attached to our
girdles, when the Evil Genius suddenly appeared in their midst, and, by
her mere appearance, changed the face of the combat."

The chief's face became still severer at this news, which his warriors
received with unequivocal marks of terror.

"The 'Evil Genius!'" he said; "of whom is my brother speaking?"

"Of whom else can I speak to my father, save the _Lying She-wolf of the
Prairies?_?" the Indian said, in a low voice.

"Oh! oh!" Natah Otann answered, "did my brother see the She-wolf?"

"Yes; we assure our father," the Blackfeet shouted altogether, happy to
clear themselves from the accusation of cowardice that weighed on them.

Natah Otann seemed to reflect for a moment.

"At what place are the cattle my brothers carried off from the Long
Knives?" he asked.

"We have brought them with us," a warrior answered, "they are here."

"Good," Natah Otann continued, "let my brothers open their ears to
hear the words the Great Spirit breathes unto me:--the Long Knives are
protected by the She-wolf: our efforts would be useless, and my sons
would not succeed in conquering them; I will make a great medicine to
break the charm of the She-wolf when we return to our village, but till
then we must be very cunning to deceive the She-wolf, and prevent her
being on her guard. Will my sons follow the advice of an experienced
chief?"

"Let my father utter his thoughts," a warrior answered, in the name of
all, "he is very wise: we will do what he wishes: he will deceive the
She-wolf better than we can."

"Good; my sons have spoken well. This is what we will do:--We will
return to the camp of the Palefaces, and will restore them their
beasts; the Palefaces, deceived by this friendly conduct, will no
longer suspect us; when we have made the great medicine, we will then
seize their camp and all it contains, and the Lying She-wolf will be
unable to defend them. I have spoken; what do my sons think?"

"My father is very crafty," the warrior replied; "what he has said is
very good, his sons will perform it."

Natah Otann cast a glance of triumph at the Count de Beaulieu, who
admired the skill with which the chief, while appearing to reprimand
the Indians for the ill success of their enterprise, and evincing the
greatest wrath against the Americans, had succeeded in a few minutes in
inducing them to carry out his secret wishes.

"Oh! oh!" the Count murmured, aside, "this Indian is no common man, he
deserves studying."

Still, a moment of tumult had followed the chief's words. The
Blackfeet, recovered from the panic and terror which had made them fly
with the feet of gazelles, to escape speedily from the ruined camp,
where they had experienced so rude a defeat, had got off their horses,
and were engaged, some in laying on their wounds chewed leaves of the
oregano, others in collecting the cattle and horses which they had
stolen from the Palefaces, and which were scattered about.

"Who is this Lying She-wolf of the Prairies, who inspires such horror
in these men?" the Count asked Bright-eye.

"No one knows her," the hunter answered, in a low voice, "she is a
woman whose mysterious life has hitherto foiled the most careful
attempts at investigation: she does no harm to any but the Indians,
whose implacable foe she appears to be: the Redskins affirm that she is
invulnerable, that bullets and arrows rebound from her without doing
her any injury. I have often seen her, though I have had no opportunity
of speaking with her. I believe her to be mad, for I have seen her
perform some of the wildest freaks at some moments, though at others
she appears in full possession of her senses: in a word, she is an
incomprehensible being, who leads an extraordinary life in the heart of
the prairies."

"Is she alone?"

"Always."

"You excite my curiosity to the highest degree," the Count said; "no
one, I suppose, could give me any information about this woman?"

"One person could do so, if he cared to speak."

"Who's that?"

"Natah Otann," the hunter said, in a low voice.

"That is strange," the Count muttered; "what can there be in common
between him and this woman?"

Bright-eye only answered by a significant glance.

The conversation was broken off, and at the chief's order the Blackfeet
remounted their horses.

"Forwards!" Natah Otann said, taking the head of the column again with
the Count and his companions.

The whole troop set out at a gallop in the direction of the American
camp, taking the cattle in their midst.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE EXILE.


We are compelled, for the proper comprehension of the facts that will
follow, to break off our story for a moment, in order to describe a
strange adventure which happened on the Western Prairies some thirty
odd years before our story opens.

The Indians, whom people insist so wrongly, in our opinion, in
regarding as savages, have certain customs which display a thorough
knowledge of the human heart. The Comanches, who appear to remember
that in old times they enjoyed a far advanced civilization, have
retained the largest amount of those customs which are, certainly,
stamped with originality.

One day in the month of February, which they call _the Moon of the
Arriving Eagles_, and in the year 1795 or 1796, a village of the Red
Cow tribe was in a state of extraordinary agitation. The hachesto, or
public speaker, mounted on the roof of a lodge, summoned the warriors
for the seventh hour of the day to the village square, near the ark
of the first man, where a grand council would be held. The warriors
asked each other in vain the purport of this unforeseen meeting, but no
one could tell them: the hachesto himself was ignorant, and they were
obliged to await the hour of assembling, although the comments and
suppositions still went on to a great extent.

The Redskins, whom badly-informed authors represent to us as cold,
silent men, are, on the contrary, very gay, and remarkable gossips when
together. What has caused the contrary supposition is, that in their
relations with white men the Indians are, in the first place, checked
by the difficulties of the language--equally insurmountable, by the
way, for both parties--and next by the distrust which every American
native feels towards Europeans, whoever they may be, owing to the
inveterate hatred that separates the two races.

During our lengthened residence among Indian tribes we often had
opportunities for noticing what mistakes are made with respect to the
Redskins. During their long evening gossips in the villages, or the
hunting expeditions, there was a rolling fire of jokes and witticisms,
often lasting whole hours, to the great delight of the audience, who
laughed that hearty Indian laugh, without care or afterthought, which
cleaves the mouth to the ears, and draws tears of delight,--a laugh
which, for metallic resonance, can only be compared with that of
negroes, though the former is far more spiritual than the latter, whose
notes have ever something bestial about them.

Toward the decline of day, the hour selected for the meeting, the
village square presented a most animated appearance. The warriors,
women, children, and dogs, those inseparable guests of the Redskins,
pressed round a large circle left empty in the centre for the
council fire, near which the principal chiefs of the nation crouched
ceremoniously. At a sign from an old sachem whose hair, white as
silver, fell in a cloud on his shoulders, the pipe bearer brought in
the great calumet, the stem of which he presented to each chief in
turn, while holding the bowl in the palm of his hand. When all the
chiefs had smoked, the pipe bearer turned the calumet to the four
cardinal points, while murmuring mysterious words which no one heard;
then he emptied the ash into the fire, saying aloud,--

"Chiefs, warriors, women, and children of the Red Cow, your sachems are
assembled to judge a very grave question; pray to the Master of Life to
inspire them with wise words."

Then the pipe bearer, after bowing respectfully to the chiefs,
withdrew, taking the calumet with him. The council began, and, at a
sign from the aged sachem, a chief rose, and bowing, took the word:--

"Venerated sachems, chiefs, and warriors of my nation," he said, in a
loud voice, "the mission with which I am entrusted is painful to my
heart: listen to me indulgently, be not governed by passion; but let
justice alone preside over the severe decree which you will, perhaps,
be compelled to pronounce. The mission which I am entrusted with is
painful, I repeat; it fills my heart with sadness: I am compelled to
accuse before you two renowned chiefs belonging to two illustrious
families, who have, with equal claims, deserved well of the nation on
many occasions by rendering it signal services; these chiefs, as I must
name them before you, are the Bounding Panther, and the Sparrow Hawk."

On hearing these names, so well known and justly esteemed, pronounced,
a shudder of astonishment and pain ran though the crowd. But, at a sign
from the oldest chief, silence was almost immediately re-established,
and the chief continued--

"How is it that a cloud has suddenly passed over the mind of these two
warriors, and tarnished their intellect to such an extent, that these
two men, who so long loved one another as brothers, whose friendship
was cited among the nation, have suddenly become implacable enemies,
so that, when they see each other, their eyes flash lightning, and
their hands seek their weapons to commit murder? No one can say;
no one knows it; these chiefs, when interrogated by the sachems,
maintained an obstinate silence, instead of revealing the causes of
their cruel enmity, which brings trouble and desolation on the tribe.
Such a scandal must not last longer; tolerating it would be giving a
pernicious example to our children! Sachems, chiefs, and warriors, in
the name of justice, I demand that these irreconcilable enemies should
be eternally banished from the tribe this very evening at sunset. I
have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"

The chief sat down amid a mournful silence in this assembly of nearly
two thousand people; the beating of their sorrow-laden hearts might
almost be heard, such sustained attention did each one give to the
words pronounced in the council.

"Has any chief any observation to offer on the accusation which has
just been brought?" the old sachem said, in a weak voice, which was,
however, perfectly heard in every part of the square. A member of the
council rose.

"I take the word," he said, "not to refute Tiger Cat's accusation,
for unfortunately all he has said is most scrupulously correct; far
from exaggerating facts, he has, with that goodness and wisdom which
reside in him, weakened the odiousness of that hatred; I only wish to
offer a remark to my brothers. The chiefs are guilty, that is only too
fully proved; a longer discussion on that point would be tedious; but,
as Tiger Cat himself told us, with that loyalty which distinguishes
him, these two men are renowned chiefs, chosen warriors, and they have
rendered the nation signal services; we all love and cherish them for
different reasons; let us be severe, but not cruel; let us not drive
them from among us as unclean creatures; before striking, let us make
one more attempt to reconcile them; this last step, taken in the
presence of the whole nation, will, doubtlessly, touch their hearts,
and we shall have the happiness of keeping two illustrious chiefs. If
they remain deaf to our prayers, if our observations do not obtain the
success we desire, then, as the case will be without a remedy, let us
be implacable; put an end to this scandal which has lasted too long,
and, as Tiger Cat asked, drive them for ever from our nation, which
they dishonour. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"

After bowing to the sachems, the chief resumed his seat in the midst
of a murmur of satisfaction, produced by his hearty language. Although
these two speeches were contained in the programme of the ceremony,
and everyone knew what the result of the meeting would be, the
unreconciled chiefs had so much sympathy among the nation, that many
persons still hoped they would be reconciled at the last moment, when
they saw themselves on the point of being banished. The strangest thing
connected with the hatred between the two men was, that the reason of
it was completely unknown, and no one knew how to account for it. When
silence was restored, the oldest sachem, after a consultation with his
colleagues in a low voice, took the word.

"Let the Bounding Panther and the Sparrowhawk be introduced to our
presence."

At the two opposite corners of the square, the crowd parted like
overripe fruit, and left a passage for a small band of warriors, in
the centre of which the two accused men walked. When they met, they
remained perfectly calm, a slight arching of the eyebrows being the
only sign of emotion they displayed. They were each about twenty-five
years of age, well built, and active, and of martial aspect. They wore
their grand costume and war paint, but their weapons were carried
by their respective friends. They presented themselves before the
council with great respect and modesty, which the assembly approved of
heartily. After looking at them with a glance at once sorrowful and
benevolent, the eldest sachem rose with an effort, and, supported by
two of his colleagues, who held him under the arms, he at length spoke
in a weak voice.

"Warriors, my beloved children," he said, "from the spot where you
stood you heard the accusation brought against you; what have you to
say in your defence?--are those words true? do you really entertain
this irreconcilable hatred to each other? Speak."

The two chiefs bowed their heads silently. The sachem continued--

"My cherished children, I was already very old, when your mother, a
child, whose birth I also saw, brought you into the world. I was the
first to teach you the use of those weapons, which later became so
terrible in your vigorous hands. Now that I am about to sleep the
eternal sleep, only to wake again in the happy hunting grounds, give
me a supreme consolation which will make me the happiest of men, and
repay me for all the sorrow you have caused me. Come, children, you are
young and adventurous, love alone ought to find a place in your hearts;
hatred is a passion belonging to a ripe age, it does not become youth;
offer one another those honest hands, embrace, like the two brothers
you are, and let all be eternally forgotten between you. I implore you,
my children; you cannot resist the prayers of an old man so near the
tomb as I am."

There was a moment of supreme anxiety in the crowd; all waited with
panting hearts for what was about to happen. The two chiefs directed a
tender glance at the old sachem, who regarded them with tears in his
eyes, then turned towards each other; their lips trembled, as if they
wished to speak; a nervous tremor agitated their bodies, but no sound
passed their lips; their arms remained inert by their sides.

"Answer," the old man continued, "yes or no. You must; I command it."

"No," they replied together, in a hoarse though firm voice.

The sachem drew himself up.

"It is well," he said. "As no generous feeling remains in your hearts,
as hatred has eaten them up entirely, and you are no longer men but
monsters, listen to the irrevocable sentence which your sachems, your
equals, your relations, and friends pronounce upon you. The nation
rejects you from its bosom; you are no longer children of our tribe.
Fire and water are refused you on the hunting ground of your nation,
we no longer know you. Chiefs who answer for you with their heads
will lead you twenty-five leagues from the village; you, Bounding
Panther, in a southern, and you, Sparrowhawk, in a northern direction;
you are forbidden, under penalty of death, ever to set your foot again
on the territory of your nation; each of you will take one of these
arrows, painted of diverse colours, which will serve as a passport
with the tribes through which you pass. Seek a nation to adopt you,
for henceforth you have neither country nor family. Go, accursed ones!
these arrows are the last presents you will receive from your brothers.
Go, and may the Master of Life soften your tiger hearts! As for us, we
know you no more. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"

The old man sat down again in the midst of general emotion; he veiled
his face with the skirt of his buffalo robe, and wept. The two chiefs
tottered away like drunken men, led to opposite corners of the square
by their friends. They passed through the ranks of their countrymen,
bowed down by the maledictions showered on them as they passed.

At the extremity of the village, horses were awaiting them. They
galloped off, still followed by their escort. When each arrived at the
spot where he was to be left, the warriors dismounted, threw their arms
on the ground, and went off at full speed. Not a word had been uttered
during the long ride, which lasted fourteen hours.

We will follow the Sparrowhawk: as for the Bounding Panther, no one
ever knew what became of him; his traces were so completely lost, that
it was impossible to find them again. The Sparrowhawk was a man of
tried courage and energy; still, finding himself alone, abandoned by
all those he had loved, a momentary feeling of discouragement and cold
rage almost turned him mad. But his pride soon revolted, he wrestled
with his sorrow, and after allowing his horse to take its necessary
rest, he set out boldly.

He wandered about at hazard for many a month, following no precise
direction, living by the chase, caring very little where he stopped, or
the people with whom chance might bring him in contact. One day, after
a long and perilous chase after an elk, which by a species of fatality
he could not catch up, he suddenly found himself before a dead horse.
He looked around him: no great distance off lay a sword, near which was
a corpse, easily recognizable as that of a European by the dress.

Sparrowhawk felt his curiosity excited; with that sagacity peculiar to
the Indians, he began ferreting about in every direction. His search
was almost immediately crowned with success; he saw, at the foot of a
tree, an old man with greyish hair and wild beard, dressed in tattered
clothes, and lying motionless. The Indian quickly went up to examine
the condition of the stranger, and try to restore him, if he were not
dead. The first thing Sparrowhawk did was to lay his hand on the heart
of the man he wished to succour. The heart beat, but so feebly, it
seemed as if it must soon stop. All the Indians are to a certain extent
doctors, that is to say, they possess a knowledge of certain plants, by
means of which they often effect really wonderful cures.

While trying to restore the stranger, the Indian examined him
attentively. Though his hair was beginning to turn grey, the man was
still young, not more than forty to forty-five; he was tall and
well-built; his forehead was wide and high; his nose aquiline; his
mouth large, and his chin square. His clothes, though in rags, were
well cut and made of fine cloth, which plainly showed that he must
belong to a better class of society--the reader will understand that
these delicate distinctions escaped the notice of the Indian--he
only saw a man of intelligent appearance, and on the point of death;
and though he belonged to the white race, a race which, like all his
countrymen, he detested, and for good reasons--at the sight of such
distress, he forgot his antipathy, and only thought of helping him.

Near the stranger there lay, in confusion on the grass, a surgeon's
pocketbook, a brace of pistols, a gun, a sabre, and an open book.
For a long time Sparrowhawk's efforts met with no success, and he
was despairing whether he could raise the dying man to life, when a
transient glow suffused his face, and his heart began beating more
quickly and strongly. Sparrowhawk made a gesture of delight at this
unexpected success. It was almost incredible! This warrior, whose whole
life had been hitherto spent in waging war of ambushes and surprises
with the whites, and committing the most refined cruelties on the
unhappy Spaniards who fell into his hands, now rejoiced at recalling to
life this individual, who, to him, was a natural enemy.

In a few minutes the stranger slowly opened his eyes, but he closed
them again at once, as the light probably dazzled them. Sparrowhawk did
not lose heart, and resolved to carry out a good work so well begun.
His expectations were not deceived: the stranger presently opened his
eyes again; he made an effort to rise, but was too weak, his strength
failed him, and he fell back again. The Indian then gently supported
him, and seated him against the trunk of the catalpa, at whose foot he
had been hitherto lying. The stranger thanked him by a sign, muttering
one word, _beber_ (drink).

The Comanches, whose life is passed in periodical excursions into the
Spanish territory, know a few words of that language. Sparrowhawk spoke
it rather fluently. He seized the gourd hanging to his saddle bow, and
which he had filled two hours before, and put it to the stranger's
lips; so soon as he had tasted the water, he began swallowing it in
heavy gulps. But the Indian, fearing an accident, soon took the gourd
from his lips. The stranger wished to drink again.

"No," he said, "my father is too weak, he must eat something first."

The patient smiled, and pressed his hand. The Indian rose joyfully;
took from his provision bag some fruit, and handed it to the man.
Through these attentions the stranger was sufficiently recovered,
within an hour, to get up. He then explained to Sparrowhawk, in bad
Spanish, that he and one of his friends were travelling together, that
their horses died of fatigue, while themselves could procure nothing to
eat or drink in the desert. The result was, that his friend died in his
arms only the previous day, after frightful suffering, and he should
have probably shared the same fate, had not his lucky star, or rather
Providence, sent him help.

"Good," the Indian replied, when the stranger ended his narrative, "my
father is now strong, I will lasso a horse, and lead him to the first
habitation of the men of his own colour."

At this proposition the stranger frowned; a look of hatred and haughty
contempt was legible on his face.

"No," he said; "I will not return to the men of my colour, they have
rejected and persecuted me, I hate them; I wish to live henceforward in
the desert."

"Wah!" the Indian exclaimed, in surprise, "has my father no nation?"

"No," he answered, "I am alone, without country, relatives, or friends;
the sight of a man of my colour excites me to hatred and contempt; all
are ungrateful, I will live far from them."

"Good," the Indian said; "I, too, am rejected by my nation; I, too, am
alone; I will remain with my father--I will be his son."

"What?" the stranger ejaculated, fancying he had misunderstood him, "Is
it possible? Does banishment also exist among your wandering tribes?
You, like myself, are abandoned by those of your race and blood, and
condemned to remain alone--alone for ever?"

"Yes," Sparrowhawk said, sorrowfully, bowing his head.

"Oh!" the stranger said, directing a glance of strange meaning toward
heaven, "oh, men! they are the same everywhere, cruel, unnatural, and
heartless!"

He walked about for a few moments, muttering certain words in a
language the Indian did not understand; then he returned quickly to
him, and pressing his hand, said, with feverish energy:--

"Well, then, I accept your proposition; our fate is the same, and we
ought not to separate again. Victims both of the spite of man, we will
live together; you have saved my life, Redskin; at the first impulse I
was vexed at it, but now I thank Providence, as I can still do good,
and force men to blush at their ingratitude."

This speech was far too full of philosophic precepts for Sparrowhawk
thoroughly to understand it; still, he caught its sense, that was
enough for him, as he was too glad to find in his companion a man
afflicted by similar misfortunes to his own.

"Let my father open his ears," he said; "he will remain here while I go
and find a horse for him; there are many manadas in the neighbourhood,
and I shall soon have what we want; my father will be patient during
Sparrowhawk's absence. I will leave him food and drink."

"Go," the stranger said; and two hours later the Indian returned with a
magnificent steed.

Several days were then spent in vagabond marches, though each took them
deeper into the desert. The stranger seemed afraid of meeting white
men; but with the exception of the story he had told of his narrow
escape from death, he maintained an obstinate silence as to his past
life. The Indian knew not then who he was, nor why he had ventured so
far into the desert at the risk of perishing. Each time Sparrowhawk
asked him any details about his life he turned the conversation, and
that so adroitly, that the Indian could never bring him back to the
starting point. One day, as they were rambling along side by side,
talking, Sparrowhawk, who was rather vexed at the slight confidence the
stranger placed in him, asked categorically--

"My father was a great chief in his nation?"

The stranger smiled sorrowfully.

"Perhaps," he answered; "but now I am nothing."

"My father is mistaken," the Indian said, seriously; "the warriors of
his nation may not have valued him, but he still remains the same."

"All that is smoke," the stranger replied. "The love of country is the
greatest and noblest passion the Master of Life has placed in the heart
of man--my father had a revered name among his people."

The stranger frowned, and his face assumed an expression the Indian had
never seen before.

"My name is a curse," he said, "no one will hear it uttered again; it
has been like a brand seared on my forehead by the partisans of the man
whom I, humble as I am, helped to overthrow."

Sparrowhawk made a gesture of supreme disdain.

"The chief of the nation must return to his warriors: if he betrays
them, they are masters of his scalp," he said, in a firm voice.

The stranger, surprised at being so well understood by this primitive
man, smiled proudly.

"In demanding his head," he said, "I staked my own; I wished to save my
country. Who can blame me?"

"No one," Sparrowhawk replied, quickly; "every warrior must die."

There was a lengthened silence; Sparrowhawk was the first to break it.

"We are destined," he said, "to live long days together, my father
wishes his name to remain unknown, and I will not insist on knowing it;
still, we cannot wander about at hazard, we must find a tribe to adopt
us, men to recognize us as brothers."

"For what purpose?"

"To be strong and everywhere respected: we owe it to our brothers, as
they owe it to us; life is only a loan which the Master of Life makes
us, on the condition that it is profitable to those who surround us. By
what name shall I present my father to the men from whom we may ask
asylum and protection?"

"By any you please, my son; as I am no longer to hear my own, any other
is a matter of indifference to me."

Sparrowhawk reflected for an instant.

"My father is strong," he said, "his scalp is beginning to resemble the
snows of winter, he will henceforth be called the White Buffalo."

"The White Buffalo; be it so," the stranger answered, with a sigh;
"that name is as good as another; perhaps I shall thus escape the
weapons of those who have sworn my death."

The Indian, charmed at knowing how henceforth to call his friend, then
said to him, joyfully--

"In a few days we shall reach a village of Blood Indians or Kenhas,
where we shall be received as if we were sons of the nation; my father
is wise, I am strong, the Kenhas will be happy to receive us; courage,
old father! this country of adoption will be, perhaps, worth your own."

"France, farewell!" the stranger uttered, in a choking voice.

Four days later they reached the village of the Kenhas, where a
friendly reception was given them.

"Well," Sparrowhawk said to his companion, after they had been adopted
according to all the Indian rites, "what does my father think? Is he
happy?"

"I fancy," the other said, with a melancholy air, "that nothing can
restore the exile the country he has lost."




CHAPTER IX.

THE MASSACRE.


Days, months, years, passed away: the White Buffalo seemed to have
completely renounced that country which he was forbidden ever to see
again. He had completely adopted Indian customs, and, through his
wisdom, had so thoroughly acquired the esteem and respect of the Kenha
nation, that he was counted among the most revered sachems.

Sparrowhawk, after giving on many occasions undeniable proofs of his
courage and military talents, had gained also a firm and honourable
place in the nation. If an experienced chief were required for a
dangerous expedition, he was ever selected by the council of the
sachems, for they knew that success constantly crowned his enterprises.
Sparrowhawk was a man of clear mind, who at once understood the
intellectual value of his European friend; obedient to the old man's
lessons, he never acted under any circumstances without having taken
his advice, and always followed his counsels: hence he speedily began
reaping the advantage of his skilful conduct. Thus, when he two years
later married a Kenha girl, and when his wife made him father of a boy,
he took him in his arms, and presented him to the old man, saying, with
great emotion:

"The White Buffalo sees this warrior, he is his son, my father will
make a man of him."

"I swear it," the old man replied, firmly.

When the child was weaned, the father kept the promise he had made his
friend, and gave him his son, leaving him at liberty to educate the
boy as he thought fit. The old man, rejuvenated by the hope of this
education, which gave him the chance of making a man after his own
heart of this frail creature, joyfully accepted the difficult task. The
child received from its parents the name of Natah Otann, a significant
name, for it is that borne by the most dangerous animal of Northern
America, the grizzly bear.

Natah Otann made rapid progress under the guidance of the White
Buffalo. The latter had a few books by him, which enabled him to give
his pupil a very extensive education, and make him very learned. Thence
resulted the strange circumstance of an Indian, who, while following
exactly the customs of his fathers, hunting and fighting like them, and
who was now leading his tribe, being at the same time a distinguished
man, who would not have been out of place in any European drawing room,
and whose great intellect had understood and appreciated everything.

Singularly enough, Natah Otann, on attaining manhood, far from
despising his countrymen, brutalized and ignorant as they were, felt
an ardent love for them, and a violent desire to regenerate them.
From that moment his life had an object, which was the constant
preoccupation of his existence--to restore the Indians to the rank from
which they had fallen, by combining them into a great and powerful
nation. The White Buffalo, the confidant of all the young chief's
thoughts, at first accepted these projects with the sceptical smile
of old men, who, having grown weary of everything, have retained no
hope in the depths of their heart: he fancied that Natah Otann, under
the impression of youthful ardour, let himself be carried away by an
unreflecting movement, whose folly he would soon recognize. But when
able to appreciate how deeply these ideas were rooted in the young
man's heart, when he saw him set resolutely to work, the old man
trembled, and was afraid of his handiwork. He asked himself if he had
done well in acting as he had done, in developing so fully this chosen
intellect, which alone, and with no other support than its will, was
about to undertake a struggle in which it must inevitably succumb.

He then sought to destroy with his own hands the edifice he had built
with so much labour: he wished to turn in another direction the ardour
that devoured his pupil, and give another object to his life, by
changing his plan. It was too late. The evil was irremediable. Natah
Otann, on seeing his master thus contradict himself, defeated him with
his own weapons, and obliged him to bow his head before the merciless
blows of that logic he had himself taught his pupil.

Natah Otann was a strange composite of good and evil; in him all was
in extreme. At times, the most noble feelings seemed to reside in him;
he was good and generous; then, suddenly, his ferocity and cruelty
attained gigantic proportions, which terrified the Indians themselves.
Still, he was generally good and gentle toward his countrymen, who,
unaware of the cause, but subject to his influences, feared him, and
trembled at a word that fell from his lips, or a simple frown.

The white men, and especially the Spaniards and Americans, were Natah
Otann's implacable enemies; he waged a merciless war on them, attacking
them wherever he could surprise them, and killing, under the most
horrible tortures, those who were so unhappy as to fall into his hands.
Hence his reputation on the prairies was great; the terror he inspired
was extreme; several times already the United States had tried to get
rid of this terrible and implacable foe; but all their plans failed,
and the Indian chief, bolder and more cruel than ever, drew nearer to
the American frontier, reigned uncontrolled in the desert, of which he
was absolute lord, and at times went, fire and sword in hand, to the
very cities of the Union to demand that tribute which he claimed even
from white men.

We must not be taxed with exaggeration. All we here narrate is
scrupulously exact; and if we now and then alter facts, it is only to
weaken them. If we uncovered the incognito that veils our characters,
many of our readers would recognize them at the first glance, and
certify to the truth of our statements.

A terrible scene of massacre, of which Natah Otann was the originator,
had aroused general indignation against him. The facts are as follow:--

An American family, consisting of father, mother, two sons of about
twelve, a little girl between three and four years of age, and five
servants, left the Western States with the intention of working a claim
they had bought on the Upper Mississippi. At the period we are writing
of, white men rarely traversed these districts, which were entirely
left to the Indians, who wandered over them in every direction, and,
with a few half-bred and Canadian hunters and trappers, were the sole
masters of these vast solitudes. On leaving the clearings, their
friends warned the emigrants to be on their guard. They had been
advised not to enter into the desert in so small a body, but await
other emigrants, who would soon proceed to the same spot; for a caravan
of fifty to sixty determined men might pass safe and sound through the
Indians.

The head of the American family was an old soldier of the war of
independence, gifted with heroic courage, and thorough British
obstinacy. He answered coldly, to those who gave him this advice,
that his servants and himself could hold their own against all the
Prairie Indians; for they had good rifles and firm hearts, and would
reach their claim in the face of all opposition. Then he made his
preparations like a man whose mind, being made up, admits of no delay,
and he started against the judgment of his friends, who predicted
numberless misfortunes. The first few days, however, passed quietly
enough, and nothing happened to confirm these predictions. The
Americans advanced peacefully through a delicious country, and no
sign revealed the approach of the Indians, who seemed to have become
invisible.

The Americans are men who pass most easily from extreme prudence to
the most foolish and rash confidence, and on this occasion were true
to their character. When they saw that all was quiet around them, and
no obstacle checked their progress, they began to laugh and deride
the apprehensions of their friends; they gradually relaxed in their
vigilance; neglected the precautions usual on the prairie; and at
last almost wished to be attacked by Indians, to make them feel the
weight of their arms. Things went on thus for nearly two months; the
emigrants were not more than ten days' march from their claim; they
no longer thought of the Indians: if at times they alluded to them in
the evening, before going to sleep, it was only to laugh at the absurd
fears of their friends, who fancied it impossible to take a step in the
desert without falling into an ambuscade of the Redskins.

One night, after a fatiguing day, the emigrants went to bed, after
placing sentries round the camp, rather to keep wild beasts off than
through any other motive; the sentinels, accustomed not to be troubled,
and fatigued by their day's labours, watched for a few moments, then
their eyelids gradually sank, and they fell asleep. Their awakening was
destined to be terrible.

About midnight, fifty Blackfeet, led by Natah Otann, glided like demons
in the darkness, clambered into the encampment, and ere the Americans
could seize their weapons, or even dream of defence, they were bound.
Then a horrible scene took place, the frightful interludes of which
the pen is impotent to describe. Natah Otann organised the massacre,
if we may be allowed to employ the term, with unexampled coolness and
cruelty. The chief of the party and his five servants were stripped
and attached to trees, flogged, and martyrized, while the two lads
were literally roasted alive in their presence. The mother, half mad
with terror, escaped, carrying off her little girl in her arms: but,
after running a long distance, her strength failed her, and she fell
senseless. The Indians caught her up; imagining her to be dead, they
disdained to scalp her; but they carried off the child, which she
pressed to her bosom with almost herculean strength. The child was
taken back to Natah Otann.

"What shall we do with it?" the warrior asked, who presented it to him.

"Into the fire!" he replied, laconically.

The Blackfoot calmly prepared to execute the pitiless order he had
received.

"Stop!" the father cried with a piercing shriek. "Do not kill an
innocent creature in that horrible manner. Are not the atrocious
tortures you inflict on us enough?"

The Blackfoot hesitated, and looked at his chief; the latter reflected.

"Stay," he said, raising his hand, and addressing the emigrant; "you
wish your child to live?"

"Yes!" the father answered.

"Good!" he answered, "I will sell you her life."

The American shuddered at this proposition. "On what terms?" he asked.

"Listen!" he said, laying a stress on every word, and darting at him a
glance which made him tremble to the marrow. "My conditions are these.
I am master of all your lives; they belong to me; I can prolong or cut
them short without the slightest opposition from you; but, I hardly
know why," he added, with a sardonic smile, "I feel merciful today;
your child shall live. Still, remember this; whatever the nature of the
torture I inflict on you, at the first cry you utter, your child shall
be strangled. You have it in your power to save her if you will."

"I accept," the other answered. "What do I care for the most atrocious
torture, so long as my child lives?"

A sinister smile played round the chief's lips. "It is well," he said.

"One word more."

"Speak."

"Grant me a single favour; let me give a last kiss to this poor
creature."

"Give him his child," the chief commanded.

An Indian presented the little girl to the wretched man. The innocent,
as if comprehending what was taking place, put her arms round her
father's neck, and burst into tears. The latter, frightfully bound
as he was, could only bestow kisses on her, into which his whole
soul passed. The scene had something hideous about it; it resembled a
witches' Sabbath. The five men fastened naked to trees, the children
twisting on the burning charcoal, and uttering piercing cries, and
these stoical Indians, illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire,
completed the most fearful picture that the wildest imagination could
have invented.

"Enough," Natah Otann said.

"A last gift, a last remembrance."

The chief shrugged his shoulders. "For what good?" he said.

"To render the death you intend for me less cruel."

"What is it you want?"

"Hang round my daughter's neck this earring, suspended by a lock of my
hair."

"Is that really all?"

"It is."

"Very good."

The chief came up, took from the emigrant's ear a ring he wore in it,
and cut off with a scalping knife a lock of his hair; then, turning to
him with a sardonic laugh, he said--

"Listen carefully. Your companions and yourself are going to be flayed
alive; of a strip of your skin I will make a bag to hold the lock of
hair and ring. You see that I am generous, for I grant you more than
you ask; but remember the conditions."

The emigrant looked at him disdainfully.

"Keep your promises as well as I shall mine: and now begin the
torture--you will see a man die."

Things were done as had been arranged; the emigrant and his servants
were flayed alive. The emigrant endured the torture with a courage
which even the chief admired. Not a cry, not a groan, issued from his
bleeding chest; he was made of granite. When his skin was entirely
stripped off, Natah Otann went up to him; the unhappy wretch was not
yet dead.

"Thou art a man," he said to him. "Die satisfied. I will keep the
promise I made thee."

And moved doubtlessly by a feeling of pity for so much firmness, he
blew out his brains.

This horrible punishment lasted four hours. The Indians plundered all
the Americans possessed, and what they could not carry off they burned.
Natah Otann rigidly kept the oath he had made to his victim: as he
said, from a strip of his skin, imperfectly tanned, he made a bag, in
which he placed the lock of hair, and hung it round the child's neck
by a cord also made of his skin. On the homeward road to his village,
Natah Otann paid the most assiduous attention to the poor little
creature; and, on rejoining the tribe, the chief declared before all
that he adopted the girl, and gave her the name of Prairie Flower.

At the period our story begins, Prairie Flower was fourteen years
of age; she was a charming creature, gentle and simple, lovely as
the princess of a fairy tale. Her large blue eyes, veiled by long
brown lashes, reflected the azure of the heaven, and she ran about,
careless and wild, through the forests and over the prairie, dreaming
at times beneath the shady recesses of the giant trees, living as
the birds live, forgetting the past, which was to her as yesterday,
caring nothing for the future, which to her had no existence, and only
thinking of the present to be happy.

The charming girl had unconsciously become the idol of the tribe. The
old White Buffalo more especially felt an unbounded affection for her;
but the experiment he had made with Natah Otann disgusted him with a
second trial at education. He only watched over her with truly paternal
care, correcting any fault he might notice in her with a patience and
kindness nothing could weary. This old tribune, like all energetic and
implacable men, had the heart of a lamb; having entirely renounced the
world which mistook him, he had refreshed his soul in the desert, and
recovered the illusions and generous impulses of his youth.

Prairie Flower had retained no remembrance of her early years; as
no one ever alluded in her presence to the terrible scenes which
introduced her to the tribe, fresher impressions had completely effaced
them. Loved and petted by all, Prairie Flower fancied herself a child
of the tribe. Her long tresse

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