How Big Black Burl Figured on the Peace-path.

It were long, and needless too, to tell of every thing that happened in and around our little fort during the fortnight the young Indian remained a captive among the Whites. Captive, however, we should hardly call him, since he was left entirely at liberty to go whithersoever he chose; and there was nothing to hinder him from walking back to Chillicothe, his home, whenever the humor might seize him, except a nice sense of honor and a crippled arm. Every morning, after he had cheered his solitude with a pipe of tobacco, Kumshakah—for that was the young Indian's name—accompanied by Bushie, would go and present himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, that, according to her express desire, he might have his wound dressed. Though grave and reserved in his demeanor toward every one else, Kumshakah could show himself talkative and affable enough when alone with Shekee-thepatee ("Little Raccoon"), as he called his little white friend Bushie. For hours together would these two loving chums—for such they soon became—keep up a lively, confidential interchange of thought and sentiment, each in his own language, and evidently quite as much to the other's entertainment as to his own satisfaction, which was rather remarkable, seeing that neither understood a word the other was saying. The other children of the fort, holding the red stranger in too great awe and dread to trust themselves within his reach, would watch the two with sharp curiosity from a distance, admiring and envying the courage and easy assurance with which their playfellow could rub against so terrible a creature as a skin-clad, feather-crested Indian warrior, who was always whittling with his scalping-knife.

Every day the pair would take a long ramble into the forest, in the course of which they never failed to go or come by the corn-field, where Big Black Burl—his feet in the peace-path, his head in his peace-cap, his heart in his peace-song—was tickling the fat ribs of mother earth with a plow, to make her laugh with johnny-cakes and pumpkin-pies for his little master. Kumshakah had given his big black friend also a new name, Mish-mugwa ("Big Bear"); the title being suggested, no doubt, by the Fighting Nigger's bear-skin rigging no less than by his size, color, and strength. Always on catching his first glimpse of them, where side by side they sat on the topmost rail of the fence, Mish-mugwa would cut short his singing and send forward his wonted salutation, "I yi, you dogs!" Not failing at such times to discover that old "Corny" was sweating and would like to blow awhile, our black Cincinnatus would run his plow into a shady corner, and, likewise taking his seat on the fence, square himself for a little edifying conversation.

These visits were the white spots in the day to Burl. Apart from the pretext they gave him of resting from his work, they afforded him an opportunity of airing his achievements as a hunter, and his exploits as a warrior—i.e., of hearing himself talk. As the young Indian understood not a word of what was said to him, he had but to sit and listen, which he would do with grave and decorous attention, composedly smoking his pipe the while, with his bright eyes fixed on the distant green or blue before him. Once fairly going on this strain, the Fighting Nigger would never stop until he had made a squeezed lemon of every red "varmint" whose "top-knot" he had to show for proof and trophy of his prowess, winding up with a careful enumeration of all the scalps he had ever taken, telling them slowly off on his fingers, that his Indian guest might take a note of it, if so minded. Often, before our big black Munchausen had blown his fill, our little white Munchausen, fired by the illustrious example of his pattern, would come gallantly dashing in, to give his exploits and achievements a little airing likewise. He had caught with alarming aptitude his pattern's inventiveness and proneness to exaggeration; so that, before letting them go, his dogs and cats were sure to swell into wolves and panthers, his garter-snakes into rattlesnakes, his bellowing bull-frogs into roaring buffalo-bulls, and his white calves, seen in the dark, into "ghostises." Nor was Burl unwilling to listen; for, though so fond of talking himself, and so good a talker too, he was one of the best listeners in the world. This trait will seem the more commendable in our hero when we reflect how rarely we find the good talker and the good listener conjoined—more rarely, indeed, than the good talker and the exemplar of every Christian virtue; so rarely, in fact, that we marvel so few of the good talkers have made the discovery for themselves. So to those sallies of his "little man" Burl would listen with indulgent, condescending attention, or with a broad grin of mingled incredulity and admiration; expressing the latter sentiment by such exclamations as "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" "Hoo-weep!" [with a whistle]; the former sentiment by such interrogative phrases as, "See here now!" "Ain't you lettin' on?" "Ain't de little man gwine leetle too fur jes' dar?" "Hadn't my little man better rein up his horses now?"—just by way of keeping his juvenile imitator in the beaten track of the impossible, within the orthodox limits of the marvelous.

Thus seated side by side, on the top of the scraggy corn-field fence, would these three worthies, so strikingly different one from the other, while away the warm summer hours; often, too, long after old Cornwallis, there dozing so contentedly in the shade of the overleaning wood, had dried off and recovered the breath he had not lost. Perhaps, at such times, instead of keeping his eyes on some invisible point in the atmosphere, Kumshakah would be employing them and his hands in the fashioning of two pipes—one of black stone, the other of white stone. On the bowl of the white stone pipe he carved the figure of a little raccoon, on the bowl of the black stone pipe the figure of a big bear—both pipes neatly executed, and the two figures passable likenesses. When he had finished the pipes, and fitted to them stems, handsomely ornamented with the feathers of birds, Kumshakah presented the black pipe to Mish-mugwa, the white pipe to Shekee-thepatee, and to the infinite delight of both; of Bushie, chiefly because he saw in his a token of his red friend's love; of Burl, chiefly because he saw in his the only thing lacking to give completeness to his martial rigging—a war-pipe.

All this time Grumbo maintained toward every one, not even excepting his master, a grim, severe reserve—keeping much alone, seldom indulging in cooked meat, more seldom still in raw, and never tasting his corn-dodgers. The red barbarian, in particular, he regarded with an evil eye—holding him in worse and worse odor, as the rest received him into higher and higher favor. Time and again did the captain essay to explain to his lieutenant how matters stood between them and their prisoner, but in vain. With that consistency of mind and fixedness of purpose for which he was remarkable, our canine hero stubbornly persisted in making it manifest that he was not a dog to be whistled, rubbed, and patted into winking at a measure so lax as that of allowing a red "varmint" to run at large in their midst, without even so much as a block and chain to hamper the freedom of his movements, or some sign to bespeak his inferiority to men and dogs. Perhaps, like some perverse people we have known, Grumbo took particular delight in being unsatisfactory to every one but himself. Or, perhaps by the observance of this policy he meant to reproach his renegade leader for suffering himself to be so easily led away from the orthodox faith in which they had lived so long and happily together, and had acted in such harmonious concert. Perhaps, too, it was meant as a warning that unless he should be given some assurance that business should hereafter be done up in the regular, scientific way, he would break with the captain altogether, and attach himself to the fortunes of some other leader, more consistent and better fitted to command, and who should have a more just appreciation of what was due a brave and faithful follower.

But our four-footed hero, like many a two-footed hero we have read of, was doomed in his day and generation to be misunderstood, unappreciated, maligned, neglected. As usual in such cases, the result was a total upsetting in the mind of the injured one of all orthodox notions of human nature and the eternal fitness of things. I should hardly express myself so boldly were I not backed by the testimony of some of Grumbo's own contemporaries, by whom I have been informed that, a few weeks after the events I am relating, his dogship renounced human society and a mixed diet altogether, and withdrawing himself from the pale of the civilized world to the solitudes of the forest, there, for the rest of his days, lived the life of a misanthropic hermit. According to other contemporaneous testimony, however, no less deserving our serious consideration, an ebony monster, with a woolly head and flat nose, but walking erect on two legs, and in other respects bearing a striking resemblance to man, had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of our canine hero from the theater of human action. Moved with envy and spite at beholding the Fighting Nigger's renown and at hearing his praises in the popular mouth, and itching to inflict upon the object thereof the greatest possible injury he could, with the least possible risk to himself, this ebony monster secretly, and in the most dastardly manner, poisoned the heroic Grumbo—thus cutting short his career of glory in the very prime and flower of his doghood. Be all this as it may, of one thing we are sure, that after that ever-to-be-remembered first of June, 1789, never was the war-dog seen again on the war-path with Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa.

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning "in the leafy month of June." Blue and sunny and loving hung the sky above the dark, green, perilous wilderness, where our pioneer fathers, in daily jeopardy of their lives, were struggling to secure for themselves and their children after them a home in the land so highly favored by Heaven. That morning, on presenting himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, Kumshakah was pronounced by the good woman to be healed of his wound, and told that he might now depart in peace to his own land and people.

With a sorrowful face Burl took down the young Indian's rifle from where it had lain with the others in the rifle-hooks against his cabin wall, and having cleaned and loaded it with care, returned it to its owner, along with his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch, liberally reËnforced with ammunition from his own store. Then he arrayed himself from top to toe in his martial rigging, proposing, as it was Sunday, to escort his captive guest some miles into the wilderness, till he had seen him safe across the border. Having, through Burl's influence, gained his mother's permission to accompany them, Bushie, likewise in honor of the occasion, had put on a clean homespun cotton shirt and a pair of buckskin moccasins, which, with the eagle feathers in his coon-skin cap and his white stone pipe worn tomahawk-wise in his girdle, lent him quite a holiday appearance. All being ready, the three then went to Mrs. Reynolds's door, that Kumshakah might bid farewell to his kind hostess.

"Farewell, Kumshakah," said the good woman, extending her hand. "May the Great Father of us all, whom you call the Great Spirit, have you now and have you ever in his holy keeping, and reward you according to your wondrous kindness to my poor helpless boy in his hour of need."

With deep respect the young brave approached and took the proffered hand, which, with delicate emphasis, he shook just once, and there was a shining in his bright, wild eyes, as eloquent of gratitude as had it been the glistening of a tear. In further answer to her words, the purport whereof he had read in her face and voice, he made a brief speech in his own language, which, spoken in tones deep, melodious, and earnest, and delivered with singular grace and dignity, ever after lived in the white mother's remembrance like a strain of music, which, though unintelligible to the ear, is understood and echoed by the heart. Then the young Indian turned and, followed by Burl and Bushie, walked slowly and thoughtfully away.

As side by side they pursued their tramp through the green entanglements of the forest, the black hunter was far less talkative than usual, and the red hunter scarcely spoke at all, though, Indian-like, listening with respectful attention whenever his companion seemed to be addressing him in particular. But, as if reserving all his regrets for the parting moment, Bushie—now mounted on Burl's shoulder, now walking hand in hand with Kumshakah—kept up a lively prattle which never ceased, and to which the others listened with pleased ears. Sometimes, while riding aloft, he would amuse himself by catching at the slender, pliant branches of the trees brought within his reach, which he would draw after him as far as he could bend them, then letting them fly back, leave them swinging to and fro. At length, as if this amusement had suggested it to his mind, the boy struck up a cadence from one of Burl's songs, singing in a clear, piping voice:

An' de jay-bird flew away—
De jay-bird flew away—
An' lef' de lim' a-swingin'—
A-swingin'.

"Mus'n't sing sich songs on Sunday, Bushie—sing hymns on Sunday. So, j'ine in wid me an' help me sing Caneyan's Happy Sho' for Kumshy, pore Kumshy, who's gwine to leabe us, neber to come no mo'. It'll do him good."

So, joining their voices, they sung a simple hymn which, with a plaintive melody expressive of yearning, had for its burden the following words:

O dat will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O dat will be joyful, to meet to part no more;
To meet to part no more,
On Caneyan's happy shore;
An' dar we'll meet at Jesus' feet,
An' meet to part no more.

At noon they reached the spot where, a fortnight before, Kumshakah brought down the eagle, which, stripped of its plumage and still bleeding, Burl had found on the trail a few hours after. Here a spring of clear, cool, sparkling water gurgled out from underneath a moss-grown rock in the hill-side, and here they halted. They quenched their thirst from the spring, then seating themselves on the moss-grown trunk of a fallen tree that lay near by, Burl and Kumshakah lighted their pipes and sat for many minutes smoking in thoughtful, even melancholy, silence. For, strange as it may seem, though neither had spoken a word intelligible to the other since the beginning of their acquaintance, a decided and cordial friendship had sprung up between the Fighting Nigger and his Indian captive, insomuch that they were now very loath to part. But the feeling which had arisen between the young Indian and the little white boy was of a far more tender nature, each beholding in the other the preserver of his life, and with a mutual gratitude heightened by mutual admiration. Such is the power of instinct, which can discover what words might try to reveal and fail. Their pipes smoked out, they broke their fast on some jerked venison and buttered johnny-cakes, which Burl, hospitable to the last, had brought along in his hunting-pouch. By the time they had finished their simple repast and smoked another pipe, the forest shadows had slowly shifted round from west to east, and were now beginning perceptibly to lengthen, admonishing them that the hour was come when they must part and go their separate ways.

But something more remained yet to be done. Taking the white stone pipe which he had carved for Shekee-thepatee and filling its virgin bowl with tobacco, Kumshakah lighted it, and slowly, with great solemnity, drew a few whiffs therefrom, then offered it to Mish-mugwa. This the young Indian did in token of his earnest wish that the peace and friendship now existing between them should endure from that day forth, let come what might, and that the sentiment, thus consecrated, should be cherished as in some sort a solemn and religious duty. Poor Burl did not know that Indians had any ceremonies at all; nor, until his acquaintance with Kumshakah, that they had any thing in common with the human race, excepting the art of fighting, and, to a limited degree, as it seemed to him, the power of speech. So, till he had gone home that night and told the white hunters of the circumstance, he could but vaguely guess at the sentiment to which this simple ceremony of smoking the peace-pipe gave expression. Nevertheless, with that facility at entering, for the time being, into the feelings, thoughts, and ways of others peculiar to his race, and which is due to self-unconscious imitation rather than to self-determined adaptability, Mish-mugwa took the proffered symbol of peace and friendship, and with a solemnity that would have seemed ludicrous to any one but a black man or a red man, gave just as many whiffs as he had seen Kumshakah give, then, with the air of one who knew as well as anybody what he was doing, returned the pipe to Kumshakah.

The peace-pipe emptied of its ashes and returned to its owner, the young brave rose at once and silently extended his hand. Burl seized it with a huge, devouring grip that would have made any one but an Indian wince, and with a big, round, stag-like tear in either big, round, ox-like eye, thus bid farewell: "Good-by, Kumshy. De good Lord go wid you all yo' days. Come an' see us ag'in—Miss Jemimy an' Mishy-muggy an' Sheky-depatty; Mishy-muggy's me, you know, an' Sheky-depatty's Bushie. Come an' see us all ag'in. Good-by."

Then going up to Bushie, Kumshakah shook him, likewise, by the hand; the dear little fellow, without saying a word, gazing up wistfully into the young Indian's face, his blue eyes brimming over with tears. But when he saw his red friend going at last, then did the affectionate Shekee-thepatee lift up his voice and weep aloud.

"Come back, Kumshakah!" he cried; "come back, and live with us, and never leave us, Kumshakah!"

The young Indian wheeled about and returned, took the chubby hand again in his, and with tender gravity shook it gently, very gently. As he did so, a mistiness came over his bright, wild eyes, which, when he had turned again to go, must—if ever Indian warrior weeps—have gathered into a tear. With wistful eyes, Burl and Bushie followed the swiftly receding form of their red friend, who never turned to look at them till he had gained the crest of a distant hill to the north. Here he faced about and remained for many moments gazing back at them; his graceful figure, his wild dress, and his rifle in sharp relief against a patch of blue sky, gleaming through an opening in the forest beyond. In final farewell Burl waved his cap. Kumshakah answered with a wide wave of the hand; then, turning, quickly vanished behind the hill, to be seen no more. With sorrowful hearts, Burl and Bushie turned likewise, and retraced their steps to Fort Reynolds.

From that day forward, never again did Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa, lay the bloody hand on the scalp-lock of a fallen foe.