How Kumshakah Figured in the Light of the Setting Sun.

The red man foremost, the black man hindmost, and the white man between, silently, swiftly they wended their way through the mazes, green and brown, of the autumn-painted forest. "What manner of man is this," the young Kentuckian could not but say to himself, "at whose voice the fierce, unruly warriors of the wilderness stay their barbarous hands, from before the glance of whose eye their doughtiest champions quail, and under whose hand the captive goes forth again into life and freedom?"

Having with his war-cry eased his heart in a measure of the surplus joy and triumph he felt at their deliverance, Big Black Burl could now content himself to go for a mile or more without speaking a word. He failed not, however, to steal from time to time a prying glance at their deliverer from over his master's shoulder. At the first glance nothing in particular struck his mind, excepting that he thought the red stranger was a wondrously handsome and gallant-looking man for an Indian. At the second glance a fancy began to steal into his thoughts that at some time of his life he had had a dream in which he had seen such a form and face as that he now had before his eyes. At the third glance it began to dawn upon him that he had not only dreamed of seeing but really had seen that man before. At last, having fairly succeeded in cornering a dodging, skipping sprite of a recollection which he had been chasing about in his memory for the last ten minutes, Mish-mugwa, in open-eyed amazement, brought himself along-side Shekee-thepatee, to whose ear bending down he exclaimed in a big whisper, "Kumshy!"

Reynolds started. A vague something of the sort had been flitting before his mind ever since the stranger's sudden appearance at the dismal scene in the dingle. During the many years that had come and gone since that eventful first of June, he and Burl had often talked of the good and brave young Indian warrior who had shown himself so gentle and true a friend to the forlorn little captive in his hour of peril and need. In brightest remembrance had they held him ever since, coupling every mention of his name with some expression of gratitude or admiration, or with the mutual remembrance of some pleasant incident of his sojourn among them. Yes, though changed from the bright-eyed, graceful youth they had known him, they felt in their hearts that their deliverer could be none other than their old friend Kumshakah. But who was Kumshakah?

Without opening his lips to speak a word, or turning his head to glance behind him, silently, swiftly glided the Indian on before them, straight against the setting sun. At length, late in the day, after traversing the forest for some miles, they came to the head of a quiet little dell which, scooped out smoothly from among the hills, descended without a curve to the valley of the Thames. Here the chieftain halted, and pointing before him, his bright eyes turned now full and clear upon them, said in English, "Your friends."

Looking in the direction pointed out, and running their eyes down a long vista made through the trees of the dell by a brook on its way to the main stream, our hunters spied the American army where, at the distance of a mile, it had halted to encamp for the night. The tents, already pitched and all agleam in the low light of the sun, were scattered picturesquely about among the trees at the bottom of the dell, which then expanding like the flaring mouth of a bugle opened into the wider valley of the Thames. Setting the butt of his rifle on the ground and resting his hand upon the muzzle, the young Kentuckian now addressed the chieftain, not only speaking to him in his own language, but adopting the poetical and figurative style of expression peculiar to his people:

"This day many hands strong and cruel opened the doors of death to push us burning through; but one hand stronger than them all shut the doors and drew us back into the paths of the living. He has led us forth in safety from the midst of our deadly foes, and now bids us return in peace to our own people. We are glad; we are thankful. Who our deliverer is we know; our eyes, our ears, our hearts have told us already. Who should it be but Kumshakah, the savior of the boy Shekee-thepatee, the friend of the Big Black Brave, Mish-mugwa?"

"Your eyes and your ears and your hearts have told you untruly," replied the chief. "Nor yet have they wholly deceived you. I am not Kumshakah, but Kumshakah's twin brother. More than twenty times has spring made green the forest since Kumshakah started out on his first war-path. But they who went with him returned without him, saying, 'Kumshakah has fallen in the land of the Dark and Bloody Ground under the hand of the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head.' Then went I out into the forest, wandering in lonely places, and mourning my much-loved brother. But before another moon had turned her face full and broad upon the earth, Kumshakah returned, and there was a light in his eye brighter than that of the warrior's triumph. The story he told us you know; what we felt in our hearts you can guess. Who Mish-mugwa was I knew full well. I had seen him in battle; had heard his war-cry. Afterward I saw him from where I lay in ambush, his life at my mercy, but I lifted not my hand against him, for he was the friend of my brother, and they had smoked the peace-pipe together."

"Then, where is Kumshakah," inquired Reynolds, "since our deliverer be not he whom we loved as a brother?"

"Twenty times has autumn made yellow the forest," replied the chieftain, "since the Great Spirit called and Kumshakah answered and went his way. And before the going down of another sun the Great Spirit shall call again, when Kumshakah's brother shall answer and go his way likewise." Then, with a look of grateful interest, the chief inquired: "But tell me, is the mother of Shekee-thepatee still alive? or have the swift years borne her to the dwelling of Wahcoudah?"

"She is still alive," was the reply; "and with pleasant days has Wahcoudah blessed her since that morning when she bid him depart in peace whose goodness had restored to her the only child of her love, the chief joy of her heart. When we return and tell her that we have seen the brother of Kumshakah, and that, like Kumshakah, he is the protector of the helpless, the deliverer of the captive, the tidings will fill her with thankfulness and gladness. Then shall she say, 'But who is Kumshakah's brother, that mighty man whom the bold red warriors of the wilderness hold in such respect and awe, and at whose bidding they speed them to obey?' What shall our answer be—will the brother of Kumshakah tell us?"

"Since you loved my brother," rejoined the chief, "and it had pleased you had I been he, then call me Kumshakah, for what I have done I have done in his name and with his heart, and the time is close at hand when it will matter but little by what name I am known." The Indian said this with a melancholy smile. Then, with the light of the setting sun now thrown about him broad and strong, he thus proceeded with his answer: "Then may you tell your people that Kumshakah is dust, and truly. For though we part as friends to-day, to-morrow we meet as foes; and my heart is telling me that the might of the Shemanols shall prevail, that the blood-red banner of the English Manakee shall be laid in the dust, and that the ambushed army of the red man shall be broken and scattered. Then farewell to Kumshakah! When the battle is ended, search for him on the bloody war-plain, and you shall find him where he lies among the slain. If, then, you would know more of the fallen warrior, ask the sun that shines who Kumshakah is, and he shall answer: 'A shadow on the ground;' ask the winds that blow, and they shall answer: 'An echo in the woods;' ask the rains that fall, and they shall answer: 'The dust that feeds the oak and the willow.' If you would know who Kumshakah was, ask his people, who weep that he is fallen, and they shall answer: 'One who loved us, and for our sake laid down his life;' ask his foes, who rejoice that he is fallen, and they shall answer: 'One who hated us, and warred against us to the death.' And should the children of the days hereafter rise and ask their sires who Kumshakah was, then shall the tongue of tradition make answer: 'One who lived and died, endeavored and failed.' If such, then, be his story, why should more than this be known of Kumshakah? Let him sleep. Wahcoudah's will be done.

"White man, let us look another way."

Then, with the weird light of prophecy in his eye, imparting to its wonted brightness a mystical dimness, the Indian chief thus ended:

"White man, listen! Up from the opening east, where the birds of morning are singing, the rising sun is leading your people over the earth to riches, to power, and to glory Down into the closing west, where the birds of evening are silent, the setting sun is leading my people—whither, who shall say? But to become extinct, and be numbered with the things forgotten. But who shall say that the same Great Spirit who dwells in the rising sun, bidding his white children go forth and toil upon the earth, dwells not also in the setting sun, bidding his red children come and rest in the happy hunting-grounds? It is even so, and it is well. Let Wahcoudah rule. Rule, great Wahcoudah!"

Here paused the Indian for a moment, his eagle-eye unflinchingly bent on the setting sun. "Yes, it is even so, and it is well," he repeated. "Let great Wahcoudah's will be done. White brother, farewell! and you, my black brother, both farewell!"

In silence each took, in his turn, the proffered hand, Reynolds too profoundly moved at the Indian's words to speak, and Burl, overawed at his manner and appearance, which, while he was speaking, had risen into the solemn and sublime. Without another word, he was gone. They followed him with their eyes as swiftly, duskily he went gliding away through the glimmering shades of evening. As he reached the brink of the hill on which they stood, a parting beam from the setting sun—sent streaming, broad and bright and red, through a vista in the forest—poured round him for an instant a flood of melancholy glory. A moment more, and the Indian chief had vanished—plunged in the twilight depths of the valley beyond.

That night, as the young Kentuckian lay sleeping in his tent, still through his dreams he saw that face—a face it was to leave an image on the eye. And still through his dreams he heard that voice—a voice it was to leave an echo in the ear. The face reflecting ever the light of the setting sun; the voice repeating ever, "Rule, great Wahcoudah!"