HE Indian ever regards the constant pursuit of revenge for an injury an evidence of a high character. Instances are many, in which years have intervened between a revengeful resolve, and the favorable opportunity, yet no sign of relenting would be found in the injured one. Such a disposition is natural to those who are taught to look on war as the chief business of life, and mercy to foes as despicable weakness. The following narrative will illustrate this feature of the Indian character.

About the period of the first settlement of the disciples of George Fox, on the banks of the Delaware, a party of young men, of respectable families, filled with the hopes excited by the glowing accounts of the new country, and having a love of adventure which could not be gratified in their thickly settled and strictly governed native land, resolved to come to America; and putting their resolve in execution they arrived on the banks of the Delaware. The reasons for their preferring to visit Penn’s settlement were very pardonable. Although they loved adventure, they preferred to seek it where the red men were least disposed to use the hatchet and scalping knife, and where there was the clearest prospect of making a good settlement if they felt so disposed.

The party consisted of six young gentlemen of the average age of twenty-two years. Their names were Harold Dean, George Sanford, William Murdstone, James Ballybarn, Richard Gwynne, and Morton Williams. The first was a daring, quick, and restless spirit, and by general consent the leader of the party. He was a winning companion, but selfish, and seemed to have cut loose from all moral principle. The character of the others contained no extraordinary features. They were all possessed of good intentions, and a considerable degree of intelligence; but being destitute of that activity and force of will which belonged to the character of Harold Dean.

The young men arrived in Penn’s settlement, as we have said, and being well provided with all the necessaries of a hunter’s life, resolved to build some cabins on the the banks of the beautiful Schuylkill. But first, Harold Dean succeeded in making the acquaintance of the neighboring Indians. These red men belonged to the great tribe, which the English named the Delawares. They, however, called themselves the Leni Lenape. They were generally well disposed towards the whites, on account of the honorable and peaceful conduct of the founder of the settlement, and received the young Englishmen with every testimonial of friendship and respect. The chiefs assured the young men that they might build their cabins and hunt without the fear of being disturbed by the red men.

Accordingly, Dean selected a high bank, rocky and castellated at the water’s side, and bare of trees for a considerable distance inland, for the site of two cabins. The labor of building log cabins was novel to the young men. Yet, though difficult, its novelty and romantic character made it pleasing. James Ballybarn was a regularly taught carpenter and joiner, and his knowledge was brought into use. Dean planned the cabins in the simplest but most comfortable manner, and all hands worked hard at cutting down trees and hewing them into the proper size and form. While the cabins were preparing, the young pioneers slept in a rude hut constructed of their chests and tools, and covered with the boughs of small trees.

The cabins were finished, much to the gratification of the workmen. They stood within about five yards of each other and presented quite a fine appearance, amid the solitude of the wilderness. Each one was occupied by three young men. By the aid of a friendly Delaware, two canoes were also constructed in the usual Indian style by hollowing out the trunks of large trees. And now the real hardships of the hunter’s life were to be endured; and though our young pioneers succeeded very well for beginners supplying themselves with food, and skins for sale, yet the labor was more difficult than they had expected. One or two began to compare their situation with what it had been in England, and the result of the comparison, was by no means favorable to their remaining in the wilderness. But Harold Dean had fallen in love with the hunter’s life. It offered plenty of exciting occupation to his quick and daring spirit; and he forgot friends and relations at home. His influence over his companions was undisputed. He had a love of being first in every thing, and never spared labor to make himself such. His companions submitted to his lead, and after a little argument, were persuaded that there was no life like a hunter’s.

The party had become very intimate with the Indians, and Harold Dean especially was a general favorite among them. He had cultivated the friendship of a young Indian hunter, named Pakanke. Pakanke was brave, adventurous, and skilled in all the mysteries of woodcraft. He instructed Harold Dean in that art, which was to him so necessary, and joined the young Englishmen in many a hunting excursion.

But other attractions induced Harold to seek the company of Pakanke, and frequently to spend a day at his wigwam. The Indian hunter had a sister, who was one of the most beautiful young women of her tribe, and decidedly the most intelligent. Her father had been killed in battle, and her brother was necessarily her guardian. Many of the young Delawares, foremost in war and the chase, coveted the beautiful Narramattah, but she had refused to share the wigwam of the bravest. Harold Dean met her at the cabin of her brother, and was charmed with her appearance and manners. His fine person and winning attentions also captivated the guileless maid. Pakanke regarded the growing attachment of his English friend and sister with undisguised pleasure, and did all in his power to increase it.

Harold’s friends were now frequently deprived of his company, yet as he told them of the beauties of the sister of Pakanke, they guessed the reason and readily excused him. But was it a fact that Harold loved Narra-mattah? That she loved him there could not be a doubt; she was never happier than when in his presence, and she told him that he had became her Manito, or idol. Harold admired her—that he confessed to himself. But he laughed to scorn the assertions of his friends that he really loved an Indian girl.

At length the precise state of his feelings was divulged. Richard Gwynne rallied him one evening, after the return from the day’s hunting, upon being captivated by a dusky forest beauty.

“Pshaw!” replied Harold, with a contemptuous expression of features, “Gwynne, have you no idea of whiling away the time with women, apart from falling in love with them? You are completely fresh. I love an ignorant savage! I have known too many of the intelligent and enchanting girls of merry old England, to be so foolish. I’ll beguile the time with this Narramattah, but could not for a moment think of loving her, or of going through the Indian sanction of a marriage ceremony.”

So saying, Harold turned away from Gwynne, and entered the cabin. But what he had said had struck one ear and touched one heart for which it was not intended. Pa-kanke had parted from Harold a moment before Gwynne had spoken to him, and hearing his sister’s name mentioned, had checked his pace to hear what was said of her. Eavesdropping is a vice practised by the untutored children of the forest as well as by civilized men, and it is sometimes pardonable. Pa-kanke understood sufficient English to comprehend that Harold Dean was confessing that he was trifling with Narramattah’s love, and never intended to marry her. In an instant, all his esteem and friendship for the young Englishman had turned to the gall of hatred and revenge. He at first thought of seeking him at once, and demanding redress for the insult offered to his family and race. But reining his passion, he resolved to wait a more promising opportunity.

The next day, Harold Dean and Pakanke went upon the hunt together, and the Indian took the earliest occasion, when they were alone, to explain to the Englishman the extent of his sister’s affection for him, and to demand that he should marry her. Harold endeavored to soothe the indignant feelings of the red man, and told him that he could love his sister, but could not marry her, as he had a wife already in England. Pakanke told him that he was deceitful; that he was a snake, whose bright colors lured simple maidens near that he might sting them; that he had seemed a friend, but to be a more deadly foe; and that he should marry Narra-mattah, or feel that the red man can revenge an insult as he can repay a kindness. He concluded in these forcible words: “Take to your wigwam, pale face, the maiden you have loved; keep and take care of the wild flower which you have sought and trained to await your coming, or the big wind shall hurl you to the earth!”

Harold evaded the demand, and finally induced the young Indian to wait until the next day, when they should see Narramattah together, and then he would decide. But the deceitful Englishman did not intend to see the maiden, he had wronged, again. It was a mere ruse to escape the Indian’s vengeance for a time. The next day, when Pakanke came for Harold he was not to be found at the cabin; and Pakanka turned to Narramattah, to tell her of her wrongs, and his burning resolve to revenge them. The poor, trusting forest maiden seemed as if struck speechless by the information that Harold had fled, after declaring that he never intended to take her to his wigwam. The wild flower was crushed by the ruthless blast; and her mind, unable to withstand the shock, became distracted. When Pakanke arose in the morning, his sister was gone. He searched eagerly every where in the neighborhood of the village for her, but in vain. At length news was brought him that Narrantattah’s mangled body had been found at the foot of a high precipice, near the Wissahicon creek. He hurried to the spot, and found the information true.

The distracted girl had either thrown herself from the precipice, or accidentally fallen from it in her wanderings. Pakanke paused to drop the few tears of grief forced from his eyes; and then, over his sister’s body, bade the Great Spirit mark his vow, never to rest until the murderer of his sister had met the fate he deserved. The body of Narramattah was given to her friends to be placed in the cold grave near her father; and many were the tears shed for her unhappy fate, by the Delaware women.

Pakanke, alone, again sought the cabins of the Englishmen, and this time, he found the object of his search. Harold Dean, calculating the exact time of Pakanke’s visit on the day before, had gone with his friends on a hunting expedition far into the country, and had returned with them to the cabins just before Pakanke arrived. He calculated that the Indian would be satisfied with any trifling excuse invented for the occasion, and did not dream that the affair had reached a tragic crisis. Pakanke’s appearance in the cabin surprised him. The Indian was unusually calm and collected, and betrayed no sign of any but the most peaceable intentions. He said he came for Harold to fulfil his promise to accompany him to the wigwam; and finding there could be no further evasion, Harold consented to accompany him.

The two hunters left the cabins and proceeded through the woods, as Harold thought, towards the Delaware village, but as Pakanke knew, in a different direction. They spoke occasionally, concerning hunting and the game of the season; but the Indian was afraid to trust himself to many words, and Harold was meditating some plan of escape from the proposed marriage. At length they approached what seemed to be a deep ravine, and Harold’s eye wandered around for the best place for crossing. They were nearing the high over-hanging precipice, and Pakanke knew it. “This is the best crossing,” said he to Harold, as they approached the tree-covered edge of the rock from which Narramattah had thrown herself, or fallen. “This is rather a disagreeable path, I think,” said Harold, as he looked over to the opposite bank of the creek. “It leads to thy grave!” shrieked Pakanke, as, with an effort, made giant strong by passion, he snatched Harold’s rifle, stabbed him in the back, and hurled him from the rock. Then he leaned over its edge to look down. The rock was about one hundred feet high, and its top projected far beyond its base. Harold shrieked as he was thrown from the rock, but all was soon over. Pakanke saw, as he leaned over the edge, that his victim had been literally dashed to pieces; and a smile of gratified revenge appeared upon his lips as he turned away to descend to the spot, to secure the scalp. After this customary trophy from a conquered foe had been obtained, Pakanke returned to the Delaware village, and gladdened the ears of the chiefs and warriors with the circumstances of his exploit. He then sent information of it to Harold’s friends, accompanied with an assurance that if they were snakes they would be served in the same way, but if friends, they would not be disturbed.

The terrible death of Harold appalled the young Englishmen, and they were so mistrustful of the good intentions of the red men, that they unanimously resolved to quit the vicinity and return to the settlement at once. Accordingly, the most valuable of their skins and all their necessary articles of clothing, and their fire-arms, were packed up, the cabins set on fire, and they set out for the settlement. Two of them remained in Philadelphia, the others returned to England, and conveyed the news of the death of Harold Dean to his parents. They were not disconsolate, although they wept for him. He had always been a wild spirit and a bad son, and his treachery to poor Narramattah was but one additional item in a catalogue of such deeds, which had made his fame ignoble in England.

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