BESHA PURSUES HIS CAREER AS A DIPLOMATIST.—AN AGREEABLE TETE–A–TETE DISAGREEABLY INTERRUPTED.—THE STEPS THAT MAHÉGA TOOK TO SUPPORT HIS DECLINING INTERESTS AMONG THE CROWS.

We left Besha engaged in an attempt to liberate the bride of the young Crow chief, by proposing to Reginald and his party an exchange of prisoners.

On arriving at the camp, he was allowed to pass by the sentries, and took his way up the hill to the tent of Prairie–bird. As soon as the object of his errand became known, a council was held, consisting of Reginald Brandon, War–Eagle, Baptiste, Pierre, and Wingenund; and, having heard the proposal made on the part of the Crows they proceeded to deliberate on the course to be pursued.

They could have no hesitation in agreeing to an exchange of prisoners, could that be effected upon equal terms; but the Crows insisted upon the return of Bending–willow, as a preliminary step towards the release of their prisoners, and to this Baptiste and Pierre were most strongly opposed, especially the latter, who had experienced on more than one occasion the proverbial treachery of the Upsaroka tribe.

Reginald was disposed, with the fearless generosity of his nature, to be satisfied with binding them, by the most solemn obligations recognised by their customs, to release their prisoners on the safe return of Bending–willow; but his opinion was overruled by his companions, and the horse–dealer’s mission wore a most unpromising aspect, when he bethought him of delivering the note written by Paul MÜller to Reginald.

The perusal of this effected an immediate alteration in the sentiments of the council, and the restoration of the captive bride was decided upon. She was seated in the outer compartment of Prairie–bird’s tent, when Besha entered, accompanied by Reginald, to inform her of her liberation.

Pierre, who was still suspicious of some treachery, and who had some knowledge of the Crow language, placed his ear at the corner of the aperture, with the intention of discovering any under–plot that might be going forward.

Besha, however, was too crafty to be caught in such a trap, or else he did not intend to make Bending–willow the confidant of his real intentions; so he simply announced to her that she was free to return to her husband’s lodge, and that the white prisoners were to be restored in exchange for her.

Shaking off the sadness by which she had been of late overcome, she sprang to her feet, and her eyes sparkling with grateful joy, she pressed her hand upon Reginald’s breast, then, looking round, she pronounced distinctly the name of “Olitipa.”

On hearing herself thus called, Prairie–bird came forth from her inner tent, and having learnt the intelligence that, by the restoration of her new friend, the liberation of Paul MÜller was to be effected, she embraced the former and presented her with a necklace of coral. Bending–willow returned the embrace with affectionate earnestness, and was then led by Besha from the tent.

As they passed towards the stockade, Pierre, whose suspicions were not yet entirely lulled, and who felt a deep interest in the safety of Ethelston, came up to the horse–dealer, and whispered in his ear, “If the tongues of the Crows or of Besha are forked, if the white prisoners are detained or injured, many widows shall howl in the camp, and the tongues of the wolves shall be red with Upsaroka blood!”

The prairie–guide spoke these words in a tone of deep meaning, and Besha knew that he was not a man likely to utter an idle or empty threat; he answered accordingly, “If Besha lives, the prisoners shall return unhurt before the next sunset,” and, so saying, pursued his unmolested way to the Crow camp.

While they were crossing the valley which separated the two encampments, Reginald, War–Eagle, and Baptiste still lingered near the door of the tent, discussing the events of the day, and expressing their respective opinions as to the probable conduct of the Crows.

“What says Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, addressing the maiden, who had been a not uninterested auditor of the discussion.

“Has not the Crow chief,” she replied, “given a faithful promise that on the return of the bride he would restore my father and his friend unhurt?”

“He has.”

“What, then, is the doubt?”

“The doubt is, whether the word of the Crow can be believed: whether he may not still detain or injure his prisoners.”

Prairie–bird mused for a few seconds, as if debating within herself the possibility of such falsehood; then raising her head, she said in a tone of emphasis, “Fear not: my father and your friend will return to us uninjured.”

“I accept the omen, sweet prophetess!” exclaimed Reginald, cheerfully; “and will believe that their thoughts are honest and straightforward, as you deem them, unless their conduct should prove the contrary; in that event,” he added, turning to War–Eagle, “my Indian brother and I will see what our own heads and hands can do to set free our friends.”

The chief replied not; but the sarcastic smile that played over his dark features, showed how little he shared in Prairie–bird’s opinion of Upsaroka faith.

Meanwhile, Bending–willow returned in safety to her lodge, where Besha presented her, with an air of triumph, to her impatient lord. The other wives and women retired while she related to him her adventures; and from the mingled laughter and caresses with which he listened to her narrative, it is probable that she confessed to him the motive that had induced her to seek the Medicine of the white tent.

As soon as she concluded, he desired one of his young men to lead before the lodge a favourite horse, swift, high–couraged, and strong, from the back of which he had killed, with lance and bow, many a bison cow. Placing the bridle of raw hide in the hands of the horse–dealer, he said, “Besha has brought back the Sweet–scented–willow to its bed, he shall not go away with empty hands. When he rides through the village the warriors shall say that his horse is fit to carry a chief; and if any speak to him bad words, let him tell them to beware, for White–bull calls him brother!”

So saying, the young savage, who had now completely recovered his good humour, half–lifted, half–threw the astonished dealer upon the horse’s back, and turned again into the lodge to renew his caresses to his recovered bride.

“All goes well!” thought Besha within himself, as he rode towards his own quarters, proving, with professional skill, the paces and qualities of his new steed. “All goes well! and this animal will fetch me two hundred dollars in the lower Arkansas country; few such are to be found there. I wonder where this Crow thief found or stole it? If I can manage with fine words to get a few more skins from this tribe, and a few more presents from the white men, I will join the summer return–train from the Black Hills, and make my way back towards the east.”

Indulging in these honest and disinterested meditations, the horse–dealer arrived before his own lodge, where his Indian wife awaited his coming with a savoury mess of bison–meat and marrow; after despatching which he smoked his pipe, without permitting any reflections concerning the prisoners whose cause he had so shamelessly betrayed to disturb his appetite or his present lazy enjoyment.

It was fortunate for them that they had an advocate more honest and zealous in a quarter where they least suspected it. This was Bending–willow; who, after showing to her lover–husband the coral necklace given to her by Prairie–bird, and repeating to him the kind treatment that she had experienced in the tent, entreated him to use his influence for the restoration of the prisoners.

This she was not able to effect, as he stated that they belonged to the great council, who would decide upon their fate, after consulting the Medicine; but she obtained from him a promise that he would in the meantime protect them from all chance injury, as well as from the violence of any personal enemy who might bear them ill–will.

The deliberations of the Indian tribes are, in fact, carried on in a manner more strongly resembling those of civilised nations than is usually believed; that is, a few leading men meet together, and arrange the plan of operations to be pursued, after which they convoke the grand council, by whatever name it may be called, and insensibly lead its members to propose, second, and carry the measures previously agreed upon. Thus it was with the Crows upon the present occasion. The old chief of the band, as soon as he learnt the safe return of Bending–willow, sent for his son the White–bull, whose rank as leader of the braves entitled him to be present at a secret council; two other warriors, of more advanced age and experience, were also admitted; and these four being assembled, they entered upon their deliberations with a freedom of thought and speech such as could not have been consistent with the forms and usages of a public meeting.

It would be tedious to relate in order the various arguments that were adduced by the several speakers in turn; suffice it to say, that the father of White–bull, independent of his claim to authority as chief, happened to be the oldest man and the greatest rogue present; all which concurrent advantages gave a preponderating influence to his advice. The result was, as might have been expected, its adoption by the unanimous consent of his three companions; and, as the aftermovements of the band were regulated by it, a brief sketch of its purport and objects will not be misplaced.

His counsel, stript of Indian imagery and ornament, was that they should for the present detain the prisoners; and in order to avoid the consequences of the violent ebullition of resentment which might be expected on the part of the white men and Delawares, that they should instantly decamp, and marching towards the south and west by the most intricate and difficult passes, make their way to the neighbourhood of the district where MahÉga informed them that he had concealed his goods and stores. These it was their intention, of course, to appropriate, and afterwards to deal with their dangerous and haughty possessor as might be found most expedient. Meanwhile it was certain that the allied band would follow their trail for the recovery of the prisoners; and if they did so, with their baggage and Prairie–bird’s tent, the Crows had little fear of being overtaken, excepting when they chose to halt for the purpose; if, on the contrary, the allied band should divide, the chief knew that from the intimate acquaintance of his warriors with the localities, they would easily find means to attack and overcome the weakened party left in charge of the tent and its wonderful mistress.

The outline of operations being settled, it was further agreed that the prisoners should be entrusted to the care of White–bull, who made himself responsible for their security, and who was to lead the van of the retreat, while Besha was summoned, and ordered to explain to the Osage chief the proposed plan of operations, and that to him was to be assigned the honourable post of defending the rear of the march.

In consequence of all these preliminary arrangements, a formal council was summoned, at which they were proposed and agreed upon, with the sanction of the Medicine, and a treaty was entered into with MahÉga, by which he bound himself with his companions to fight faithfully for the Crows, and to make over to them one half of his goods concealed in the cÂche, on condition that they should do every thing in their power to recover for him the Great Medicine of the tent, and his baggage now in the hands of the Delawares.

These arrangements and agreements were no sooner completed than they were carried into execution with a speed, order, and noiseless silence peculiar to these roving tribes, whose fate is so often dependent upon the secrecy and celerity of their movements.

While these things were going forward in the Crow camp, Reginald sat by the side of Prairie–bird under the small cedar–tree in front of her tent. Being still somewhat stiff from the wounds and bruises received in the late attack, he gladly availed himself of that pretext for enjoying a few hours of repose in the society of his beloved, while he left the chief care of the defence of the camp to Baptiste and War–Eagle.

His eye wandered occasionally across the valley below, and scanned with an anxious look the opposite hill upon which the dusky figures of the Crows were seen moving to and fro between the lodges and bushes, until it returned to rest upon the lovely countenance of his companion: that countenance, which was now lighted up by the parting rays of the declining sun, beamed with emotions too deep for utterance.

Her love for Reginald was not like the love so often found in the artificial world of society, a mere preference, engendered, perhaps, by fancy, and nurtured by habit, accident, or mere congeniality of tastes; but a single absorbing passion, the intensity of which she trembled to acknowledge even to herself. All the poetry, the enthusiasm, the yearnings of womanly feeling in her nature were gathered into a focus, and nothing but her strong and abiding sense of religion prevented that love from being idolatry.

As her eye fell upon the recent scar upon his forehead, and the sling in which his left arm was enveloped, she remembered that twice already had his blood been shed in her defence—twice had her life been saved at the risk of his own. Tears of delicious gratitude, tears sweeter than any smiles that ever dimpled the cheek of joy began to flow, and half averting her face from her lover, she turned it thoughtfully towards the western horizon.

The orb of the sun had just disappeared behind the rugged and far–distant mountain range, whose towering and snow–clad peaks stood out in clear relief from the deep masses of cloud whose wavy edges still reflected his golden light. A mellowed haze wrapped as in a saffron mantle the nearer hills, whose irregular forms, some rocky and precipitous, others undulating and covered with dense forests of pine and cedar, formed the foreground of the magnificent evening landscape. A single star glimmered palely in the twilight heaven, a forerunner of the thousand glorious lights about to emerge from its unfathomed vault. To look up from nature to nature’s God was the habitual process of Prairie–bird’s mind, a habit resulting partly from the fatherly instructions of the missionary, but chiefly from her constant study of the Scripture amid scenes calculated to impress its lessons most deeply upon her.

Such a scene was that now before her; and as the deepening shadows fell upon mountain, forest, and vale, a holier calm stole over the current of her thoughts, and imparted to her eloquent features an expression in which the sweet consciousness of reciprocated earthly affection was blended with adoring gratitude to Him whose everlasting name is Love.

The earnest and affectionate gaze of Reginald was still riveted upon her countenance, when a gentle sigh fell upon his watchful ear. Taking her hand within his own, he whispered, “Is Prairie–bird sad?—Does any sorrow disturb her peace?”

Dropping to the earth those humid eyes so late upraised to heaven, she replied, in a hesitating voice, “Not sad, dear Reginald, but ... afraid.”

“Afraid! dearest; and of what? Nay, blush not, but tell me your cause of fear.”

“Afraid of too much happiness, of too much love. I tremble, and doubt whether my thoughts are such as God approves.”

“Be not rash nor unjust in self–condemnation,” said Reginald, in a chiding tone, while secretly delighted by a confession which his heart interpreted aright; “think you that the Creator who implanted these affections within us, and who has pronounced repeated sanctions and blessings upon the bond of wedded love; think you, dearest, that He can be offended at your love for one to whom you have plighted your troth, and who, albeit in many respects unworthy of such a treasure, has at least the merit of repaying it an hundredfold!”

“Unworthy!” repeated Prairie–bird, in a tone of reproachful tenderness,—other words trembled upon her lips, but the instinct of maidenly reserve checked their utterance, and she was silent.

“Nay, if you like not the word, it shall be unsaid,” whispered Reginald, gently pressing the hand which he held within his own; “and my whole future life shall be a constant endeavour to make it untrue. Let me, however, guess at the secret cause of your fear, and of the sigh that escaped you,—you were thinking of your dear fatherly instructor, and were afraid that he would not return?”

“Indeed my thoughts were not of him at the moment,” she replied, with earnest simplicity; “nor am I afraid on his account.”

“Why, is he not yet in the hands of an enemy whose cruelty and treachery are proverbial? What if the Crow chief should, in spite of his solemn promise, refuse to give up his prisoners?”

“It cannot be,” she replied gravely; “God will not permit such falsehood.”

“You speak,” said Reginald, “like one who has studied chiefly your own heart, and the precious book now lying at your side; but even there you may have read that the Almighty sometimes permits falsehood and wickedness to triumph upon earth.”

“It is too true,” replied Prairie–bird; “yet I feel a strong assurance that our friends will return to us in safety. I cannot tell whence it comes—whether from a dream sent in the watches of the night, or the secret whispers of some mysterious and unseen counsellor, but it brings hope, rest, and comfort to my heart.”

“God forbid,” said Reginald passionately, “that I should say any thing likely to banish such sweet guests from so sweet a home. But if the Crow chief should be guilty of this treacherous act of falsehood, I will endeavour to inflict upon him a vengeance so signal as shall deter him and his tribe from any future repetition of the crime.”

“It is lawful,” replied the maiden, “to recover our friends by force or device, if they are detained by treachery; but remember, dear Reginald, that vengeance belongs not to our erring and fallen race; if the Upsaroka should sin as you expect, defeat, if you can, his evil schemes, but leave his punishment to the Great Avenger, who can make his latter days loathsome as those of Gehazi, or his death sudden and fearful as that of Ananias and his guilty spouse.”

Reginald coloured deeply, for his conscience reminded him that on a late occasion he had used, in a discussion with War–Eagle, the same argument as that now applied with so much force to himself, and he felt ashamed of having forgotten, in the excitement of his own passions, a truth which he had laboured strongly to impress upon another.

“Thanks, dearest monitress,” he replied, “for recalling me to my better self; would that you were always by my side to control my impatience and reprove the hastiness of my temper. Nay, I trust ere long that you will be always at my side; your father and instructor will return, and will unite us in those holy bands not to be severed by man. You will then leave the prairie and the tent, and come with me to a home where a second father and a loving sister claim a share in your affection.”

“It shall be so,” replied Prairie–bird, in a low and earnest voice; “read my answer in the language of one who, like myself, was humble and friendless, but who, trusting in her God, found in a strange land a husband and a home.”

“Nay, read it to me,” said Reginald, anticipating her selection; “however beautiful the words may be, your voice will make them fall more sweetly on my ear.”

Prairie–bird opened the book, but she looked not on the page, for the words were treasured in her heart; and she repeated, in a voice faltering from deep emotion, “Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”

As she concluded these words, she looked up to the face of her betrothed with eyes beaming with truth and affection. The strong man was overcome; he could only utter a deep Amen. The consciousness that the trustful, guileless being now at his side had surrendered to his keeping the ark of her earthly happiness, mingled an awful responsibility with the more tender feelings that possessed his inmost soul; he felt what has been so truly described by a poet out of fashion and out of date,—that

“The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Locked up in woman’s love.”

Then did he record a secret and solemn vow that he would guard his precious treasure with a miser’s care; the stars began more brightly to twinkle in the sky, the watch–fires emitted through the deepening gloom a clearer ray; and as the head of Prairie–bird lightly rested upon her lover’s shoulders, they gave themselves up to the delicious reveries suggested by the hour, the scene, and hearts overcharged with bliss.

The happy pair were suddenly aroused from their waking dream by the sharp crack of a rifle, the flash of which Reginald distinctly saw through the bushes on the side of the hill below them; a bullet whizzed close to his head, and a half–suppressed cry broke from Prairie–bird.

“Speak, love, speak!” he exclaimed, in frantic alarm; “speak but one word to tell me you are not hurt!”

“I am not hurt,” she replied; “God be praised that you are also unharmed! Nay, dearest, do not break from me.” Here the report of fire–arms was again heard, mingled with the shouts and tumult of a sudden fray. “Our friends are on their guard! you are still weak from your late wound! Oh, Reginald, stay! I entreat—I implore!”

But he heard her not; the din of arms and the foul attempt at murder, directed, as he believed, against the life of his betrothed, had awakened the tempest within him; the wounded arm was released from its sling, and with drawn cutlass in his right hand, he rushed down the steep slope of the hill with the reckless speed of a madman. We will now proceed to explain the cause of this sudden interruption of their tÊte–À–tÊte.

It has been already mentioned that Besha had been charged with explaining to MahÉga the arrangements and plans adopted at the Upsaroka council. No sooner had he done so, than the Osage chief, finding that the evacuation of the camp was to take place during the night, resolved upon striking, before they withdrew from the neighbourhood, one blow at the foes who had defeated and baffled him.

Too cunning to be deceived by the Crows, or to be misled by the flattery of Besha, he knew that as he had now no more presents to offer, his only chance of retaining any authority or influence with them was by such deeds of daring as should compel them to look up to him as a war–leader. This feeling, stimulated by his thirst for revenge, led him without hesitation to attempt a feat which, if successful, must render him the terror not less of his allies than of his foes.

As soon as the horse–dealer had left him, he summoned his few remaining followers, and informed them that they must prepare to march during the ensuing night; he told them, also, that he was about to set forth himself on the war–path alone, and all that he required of them was to conceal themselves among the bushes fronting towards the enemy’s camp, so as to cover his retreat in case of his being pursued from that quarter, and that he intended to return, if possible, on a horse.

The men listened with silent attention to their leader’s orders, and retired without making either comment or reply. MahÉga then stripped himself of every ornament that could attract attention, and threw off his hunting–shirt and leggins, thrusting a brace of small pistols and a long knife into his waist–belt; and with no other covering than a light pair of mocassins on his feet, he stole out of the camp at a point which was not visible from the enemy’s quarters.

Availing himself of every ravine and undulation of ground, he made a swift circuit in the distant prairie, and approached the Delaware camp on the north–eastern side, where, as has been before mentioned, it was protected by a precipitous cliff. He had observed a narrow valley in this direction, not more than half a mile from the base of the rock, to which the white men drove their horses for pasture; and as a view of it was commanded from the height, they were only guarded by a single man, who drove them back in the evening to the camp. The man who happened to be on duty there was a hunter belonging to the band brought out by Pierre, a brave and somewhat reckless fellow, who had been inured to all the hardships and risks of a mountain trapper’s life.

The crafty Osage, having succeeded in obtaining the important advantage of seeing his opponent before he could be himself perceived, directed his movements accordingly. He might, perhaps, have succeeded in creeping near enough to shoot him, and have gained the shelter of his own camp before he could be overtaken; but such was not his purpose. He had determined that the bullet now in his rifle should lodge in the heart of Reginald or War–Eagle, and no other life could satisfy his revenge.

Not more than a hundred paces from the spot where the unconscious sentry sat, with his face towards the Upsaroka camp, the valley made a bend, becoming at the same place narrower and steeper in its banks; thither did MahÉga stealthily creep, and on reaching it found that he was not within sight of his enemy.

After waiting some time, during which he carefully noted every brush and hillock that might be made subservient to his projected plan, he saw feeding towards him a steady old pack–horse, whose scarred back and sides showed that he had carried many a weary burthen over mountain and prairie. The Osage remarked, also, that the animal had a long laryette of hide round its neck. As soon as he felt assured that it had passed the bend, and could no longer be seen by the man on guard, he caught the end of the laryette, and led his unresisting quadruped prisoner to a spot further up the valley, where some thick bushes offered him the means of concealing himself. Here he twisted the laryette firmly round the fore–leg of the horse, and ensconcing himself behind the largest of the bushes, patiently awaited the result.

As the shades of evening drew on, the hunter rose to collect and drive his horses to the camp. Having gathered those in the lower part of the valley, he afterwards came in search of those that had strayed beyond the bend. When his eye fell upon the old pack–horse cropping the long grass, and occasionally the younger shoots of the adjacent bushes, he muttered to himself, “The old fool hasn’t sense to know summer from winter: there he stands, gnawing the twigs off the bushes, when he might be eating the best grass in the bottom.”

As soon as he reached the animal whom he thus apostrophised, he laid down his rifle, in order to free the entangled leg from the laryette. While stooping for this purpose, a slight rustling of leaves caught his ear; and ere he could look round, the fierce Osage sprang upon him with the bound of a tiger. The unfortunate man strove to catch up his rifle, but the foot of the giant was upon it, a grasp of iron was upon his throat, and ere he could utter a sound, or raise a hand, the knife of the savage was buried in his heart.

Having thus far succeeded in his plan, MahÉga dressed himself from head to foot in the clothes of his victim, taking possession at the same time of his knife and pistols, having first deliberately scalped him,—and placed the scalp in his own belt, below the ill–fated hunter’s shirt. When thus accoutred and attired, the Osage grinned with satisfaction, and proceeded to the next and more dangerous portion of his enterprise.

His first step was to select and secure the best horse from those pasturing in the valley, which he bridled with the laryette already mentioned; and having slung the hunter’s rifle over his shoulder, he mounted his newly–acquired steed, and began leisurely to drive the others towards the Delaware camp. As soon as he emerged from the valley he came in sight of the enemy’s sentries and outposts; but the well–known wolf–skin cap and elk–skin shirt attracted no particular attention, and he rode deliberately forward until he reached a huge pine–tree, the shade of whose branches was rendered yet more dark by the deepening gloom of evening. Here he fastened his horse; and leaving the others to find their way as they best might, he struck boldly into the thicket that fringed the base of the hill.

Conscious that he was now in the midst of enemies, and that his life must depend upon his own skill and address, he crept forward up the steep ascent, now stopping to listen for the sound of a footfall, now straining his eyes through the dusky shade in search of some light or object by which to direct his course. Knowing every inch of the ground, he was, soon able to distinguish the angle of the stockade, and at no great distance above it the white tent, partially lighted up by a fire, round which were seated Monsieur Perrot, Pierre, and several others.

As night drew on, and the surrounding scenery became involved in deeper gloom, the watch–fire emitted a stronger light, by which MahÉga caught, at length, a view of Reginald seated by the side of Prairie–bird. All the stormy passions in his breast, jealousy, hatred, and revenge, were kindled at the sight; and as soon as he thought the muzzle of his rifle truly aimed at his rival’s heart, he fired. Fortunate was it for Reginald, that the light cast by the fire was flickering and uncertain, or that hour had been his last.

The savage, without waiting to see the result of his shot, which had alarmed the hunters and the Delawares patrolling near the spot, rushed down the hill towards the tree where he had left his horse. Twice was his path crossed by an enemy; the first he felled with a blow on the head from the discharged rifle; and the second, which was no less a person than honest Baptiste himself, he narrowly missed, in firing a pistol in his face at so near a distance that, although unhurt by the ball, his cheek was singed by the powder.

Completely taken by surprise, the guide fired into the bushes after the retreating figure of his unknown foe, and then dashed forward in pursuit; but the darkness favoured the escape of the Osage, who never paused nor turned again until he reached the spot where he had fastened the horse; then vaulting on its back, he shouted his insulting war–cry, in a voice that might be heard above all the mingled sounds of pursuit, struck his heel into the flank of the captured steed, and, unscathed by any of the bullets that whistled after him, reached the Crow camp in safety.

The Osage warriors looked with some surprise upon their chief in his unusual attire, but he briefly returned their greeting, and proceeded without delay to the lodge of the Upsaroka chief. A fire was burning there, by the light of which he recognised the old man seated in the midst, with his son White–Bull on his right, and Besha at some distance on his left. MahÉga had by this time thrown off the garments of the slain hunter, which were slung across the horse. Leading the latter forward, until the light of the fire fell upon it and upon himself, he stood a moment in an attitude of haughty and silent expectation. White–Bull and his father raised their eyes in surprise at the sudden appearance of their guest, and in involuntary admiration of his herculean figure, the fine proportions of which were seen to advantage by the ruddy glare of the blazing logs.

“Let Besha tell my brother he is welcome,” said the old chief, cautiously; “and let him inquire whence he comes, and what he has to say.”

“MahÉga is come,” replied the proud Osage, “from a visit to the pale–faces and the LenapÉ women. His hands are not empty; the shirt, the leggins, the belt, the head–dress, and the horse of a white hunter he has brought as a present to the Upsaroka chief. If White–Bull will receive the Medicine–weapon[78], the heart of MahÉga will be glad.”

White–Bull and his father accepted the offered presents with every demonstration of satisfaction. The latter, again addressing Besha, desired him thus to speak:

“MahÉga forgets that all his goods are in the hands of his enemies—does he keep nothing for himself?”

The Osage made no reply, but, drawing the recent scalp from his belt, and pointing to it, the knife still red with human blood, he smiled scornfully, and strode through the camp back to his own lodge. His purpose was effected; he had succeeded in his daring exploit, and, although uncertain of the result of the shot fired at Reginald, he had regained some of his influence over the Upsaroka chief and his intractable son. MahÉga pondered over these things in his lodge, as he mechanically attached the scalp of his last–killed foe to a thong, on which were already fastened many similar trophies of his former prowess.

His musings were soon disturbed by the voice of Besha, who entered the lodge, bearing a sack of considerable dimensions, which he deposited upon the ground. “MahÉga is a great warrior,” said he, greeting the Osage with something of the reluctant courtesy which a terrier shows to a mastiff: “his name will be heard far among the tribes of the Upsaroka nation. The Great Chief wishes to make his Washashee brother a present: three horses stand without the lodge to carry the followers of MahÉga on the path of the bison, or of the LenapÉ.”

The eye of the chief brightened with fierce pleasure at this announcement, as two of his few remaining men were unhorsed; and he satisfied himself, by going to the door of the lodge, that the horses now presented to him were good and fit for service.

“That is not all,” continued the horse–dealer; “White–Bull knows that the Medicine–weapon cannot live without food, he has sent me to offer this bag to MahÉga.”

As he spoke, Besha opened the sack, and exposed to the view of the Osage powder and lead sufficient for fifty or sixty shots, and half–a–dozen pair of strong mocassins, such as are made by the Crow women for their lords.

“The hand of the Upsaroka is open,” said MahÉga; “tell him that his gifts shall not fall upon the ground; the lead shall be buried in the hearts of his enemies.”

Besha, having given to the chief a few brief explanations of the hour and the arrangements fixed for the night–march, withdrew, and left him to communicate with his followers.

We must now return to Reginald Brandon, whom we left engaged in the disagreeable and perilous task of pursuing an unseen enemy down the slope of a steep hill in the dark. His was not, however, a foot or a heart likely to fail him in such an emergency, and, reckless alike of obstacles or of the difficulties in his path, he continued his rapid descent, and soon found himself among the glades and bushes whence the firing had aroused his attention. Advancing with his drawn cutlass still in his hand, he stumbled over something which he found to be the prostrate form of a man, and in whom he recognised by his dress one of his own party. Finding that he could extract from him nothing but broken and muttered sentences, about “the devil” and “the darkness,” he hastened on until he reached a spot where he heard several voices in earnest conversation; these he found to be War–Eagle, Wingenund, and Baptiste; and he soon gathered from the latter all that he had to tell, which was, that, having suddenly heard the crack of a rifle in the camp, and then seen a man rushing through the bushes in descending the hill, he had thrown himself in the way of the stranger, who, after nearly blinding him by the discharge of a pistol in his face, had darted past him into the thicket below. “I fired after him,” continued the honest guide, “both pistol and rifle, but I scarcely think I hit him, for on reaching the edge of the timber, I could just distinguish a horseman crossing the prairie at full speed to the Crow camp; ’tis a bad business, but I fear there is worse yet behind.”

“How mean you?” inquired Reginald.

“Why, I fear some foul play in our own camp; the fellow who shot the pistol at me was one of our party.”

“Impossible!” said Reginald; “I will not believe it.”

“Neither would I, if I could help it,” replied the guide; “but, dark as it was, I could plainly see the fur–cap and elk–shirt upon him; whoever it was, he joined MahÉga on the prairie, for the Washashee shouted his cursed war–whoop aloud to insult us.”

Wingenund here whispered a few words to War–Eagle, who replied, “Right, my young brother, let us visit the posts and the fires, we shall soon see who is missing.”

While the chief, with the aid of Pierre and Baptiste, undertook this task, Reginald returned, accompanied by Wingenund, to the spot where he had stumbled over the wounded man. They found him seated in the same place, but his senses had returned, and with the exception of the severe bruises on the head, they were glad to learn that he was uninjured. He could give no account of what had passed further than that already given by Baptiste. He had been prostrated and stunned by a heavy blow from some one descending the hill with great rapidity; he also stated his impression that he had distinguished the dress of a white hunter.

The result of the investigation may of course be anticipated; the unfortunate owner of the wolf–skin cap was suspected of having plotted with MahÉga, and (after aiding him in an attempt to murder Reginald) of having gone off with one of the best horses to the Crow camp. Such was the conjecture of some, and if there were others who guessed more nearly at the truth, their opinions were for the present reserved; it being, however, impossible to make further inquiry until daylight, the different parties retired to their respective quarters, and Reginald again sought the tent to give to Prairie–bird an account of what had passed, and to assure her of his safe return. At the first sound of his voice she came forth, and listened with breathless attention to his brief narration. The watch–fire had been fed with fresh fuel, and its light falling upon her countenance, enabled her lover to see the intense anxiety which it expressed; a handkerchief, hastily folded like a turban, covered her head, and a dark Mexican mantle was thrown over her shoulders; her hand trembled in his, and a slight shudder passed through her frame as he mentioned the name of MahÉga.

“Nay, dearest,” said Reginald, “I shall grieve, indeed, if the name of that hateful savage hath power so to move and disturb your peace. Fear him not: believe me, we shall yet defeat all his attempts, whether of hidden fraud or open force.”

“There is no room, dear Reginald, for thoughts of fear for the future in my heart, ’tis already full, too full, of gratitude for the past; you are again by my side, safe and unhurt. Yet, methinks, I am sadly changed of late! A short time since, the report of the rifle, the arrow’s hissing path, brought no terror to my ear, and now I tremble when I hear them! Will you not regret having chosen a coward for your bride?”

“Perhaps I may,” said Reginald, “when the thirsty summer–grass regrets being moistened by the dew of heaven; when the watchful mother regrets that she has borne the infant by whose cradle she is seated; when the miser regrets having discovered an unsuspected treasure; and the weary traveller regrets having found a fresh spring amid the burning sands of the desert, then may I perhaps regret having chosen Prairie–bird to be to my thirsting heart its summer–dew, its firstling, its treasure, its fountain of exhaustless joy and love!”

Although it was not the first time that she had received the assurance of his affection, her ear drank it in with delight: the repetitions of love have for his votaries perpetual freshness and variety.

“How silver–sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night!”

So says one of the fairest creations of the great interpreter of human passion; yet it is only to each other that these voices do so sweetly sound; to others, less interested, their parlance is apt to seem dull and monotonous. Neither would a dinner of honey, or guava jelly alone, be more nauseous and disappointing to the appetite of a hungry man than a volume filled with love–letters, or love–speeches, to one in search of literary food. Duly impressed with this truth, we will spare any further detail of the conversation that passed between Reginald and his betrothed, and will content ourselves with relating that after more than one “Good night!” such as only lovers know, Prairie–bird retired into her tent, with her thoughts so absorbed in one object, that she was scarcely conscious of the affectionate attentions of her faithful Lita, or of the watchful care of young Wingenund, who took his accustomed station at the entrance to the outer division of his sister’s canvasss dwelling.

An hour before the dawn the wakeful youth arose and looked abroad. The pale and expiring fires of the opposite camp were still distinctly visible; but his practised ear missed the usual sounds of Indian life—the hum of men, the cries of children, and the barking of curs. Having learnt the use of Reginald’s spy–glass, he took it down from the peg on which it was suspended, and examined the opposite hill. As the light of day gradually advanced, and objects became more easily distinguishable, his suspicions became confirmed, and he resolved no longer to delay communicating them to War–Eagle. He found the chief seated at the door of his lodge, in an attitude which he at first mistook for slumber, but it proved to be one of deep meditation; for, on the youth’s approach, he looked up, and said, in the gentle tone in which he always addressed his beloved brother,

“Wingenund is a foot before the sun; have his ears or eyes been open during the night?”

“They have,” said the youth gravely; “and the words that he brings to his brother are not good.”

“The Wolf–cap hunter is gone to the Upsaroka camp; that is bad news: is there any worse?”

“Wingenund knows nothing of the Wolf–cap hunter; but the Upsaroka camp is like the village of the LenapÉ, on the prairies of the east; there remains in it neither man, nor woman, nor child!”

War–Eagle sprang upon his feet, and hastily desiring Wingenund to summon Reginald, Baptiste, and Pierre to council, he descended the hill to the spot where his horses were fastened, and throwing himself upon the back of the swiftest, he galloped at full speed towards the opposite camp. As he approached it, he began to suspect that its apparent desertion might be only a manoeuvre to draw his party into an ambush, wherefore he wheeled his horse, and made a circuit round the base of the hill, at such a distance as to be secure from the arrow or ball of any marksman hidden among the bushes. As he gained a spot whence the expanse of prairie was open to his view towards the south–west, he saw a body of horsemen retreating rapidly in that direction; they were already several miles from the camp, and he rightly conjectured them to be the rear–guard of the retiring enemy.

The main body had marched early in the night, and only a score of the best mounted had been left, to walk up and down by the fires, to talk aloud, and thus to prevent any suspicion of their movements from entering the Delaware camp.

Vexed and disappointed, the chief returned to his party, which he found in confusion and dismay, from their having just discovered the body of the unfortunate Wolf–cap hunter, one of his companions having visited the valley before mentioned, in search of the missing horse and laryette!

The mystery was now cleared up, and the truth flashed upon them that MahÉga, dressed in the clothes of their slain comrade, had actually come within their posts, and, after a deliberate attempt to shoot Reginald, had singed the beard of Baptiste, knocked down another of their party, stolen one of their best horses, and escaped in triumph to his camp!

It may well be imagined how such a complication of injury and insult aggravated the hatred which they already entertained towards the Osage. Yet were there many among the rough and hardy men present, who could not prevent feeling a secret admiration of his daring and successful exploit.