IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A MORAL DISQUISITION SOMEWHAT TEDIOUS, A TRUE STORY SOMEWHAT INCREDIBLE, A CONFERENCE THAT ENDS IN PEACE, AND A COUNCIL THAT BETOKENS WAR.

It is not a feature in the character of Indians to do anything by halves; their love and their hate, their patience and impatience, their abstinence and self–indulgence, all are apt to run into extremes. Moderation is essentially a virtue of civilisation; it is the result of forethought, reasoning, and a careful calculation of consequences, whereas the qualities of the Indian are rather the children of impulse, and are less modified by conflicting motives; hence, the lights and shades of character are broader and more distinct; and though it may be perhaps impossible that Indian villany should assume a deeper dye than that which may unfortunately be met with among civilised nations, it is not asserting too much to say, that there are to be found among these savages instances of disinterested, self–devoted heroism, such as are rarely heard of beyond the world of chivalry and romance.

This assertion will be received by many readers with an incredulous smile, and still more will be disposed to believe that it can be true only in reference to such virtues or actions as are the immediate result of a generous impulse; but examples are not wanting to prove the argument to be defensible upon higher grounds. It will readily be admitted, that retributive justice, although consonant to the first principles of reason and natural law, cannot, when deliberately enforced, be considered in the light of a sudden impulse, much less can it be so considered when the party enforcing it is to be himself the sufferer by it; and those who are conversant with the history of the Indian nations can testify that parallel instances to that which follows have frequently occurred among them.

Some years ago, a young married Indian, residing on the western bank of the Mississippi, quarrelled with another of his tribe, and in the heat of passion killed him with a blow of his tomahawk. After a few moments’ reflection, he walked direct to the village, and presenting himself before the wigwam of the murdered man, called together his relations, and addressed them as follows:

“Your relative was my friend; we were together,—some angry words arose between us,—I killed him on the spot. My life is in your hands, and I have come to offer it to you; but the summer hunting–season has now begun. I have a wife and some young children; they have done you no wrong; I wish to go out into the woods to kill a plentiful supply of meat, such as may feed them during the winter; when I have done that, I will return and give myself to you.”

The stern assembly of mourners gave their assent, and the young man retired; for many weeks he toiled indefatigably in the chase, his wife jerked and dried the meat as he daily brought it in, until he saw that the supply was ample for the ensuing winter; he then bid farewell to her and to his little ones, and once more presenting himself before the wigwam of his late friend, he said, “I am come: my squaw has meat for the winter, my life is now yours!” To these words the eldest male relative of the deceased replied, “It is well:” and rising from the ground, executed on the unresisting offender the summary justice of Indian retribution, by cleaving his skull with a tomahawk. Neither the self–devotion of the one, nor the unrelenting severity of the other, excited any peculiar sensation, each having acted according to the strict, though barbarous usage of the tribe.

Amongst a people accustomed to look with stoic composure on scenes such as that just described, War–Eagle had already won a distinguished name, and he supported it on this trying occasion by resigning what was dearer to him than life, and crushing, as under a weight of iron, that passion which had been for years the hope and nourishment of his heart; whether, albeit crushed and smothered, it still lingered there, is a secret which it is neither our wish nor our province to betray, but regarding which the reader may form his own opinion from the subsequent conduct of the chief.

His first step was to seek Reginald Brandon, whom he desired, by a silent signal, to leave the lodge and follow him. Our hero mechanically obeyed, in a painful state of excitement and agitation, feeling that he had been the unconscious means of blasting all the dearest hopes of his Indian friend; and although he had intended no injury, he was sensible that he had done one, such as man can rarely forgive, and can never repair; for even had the romantic generosity of friendship prompted him to resign all pretensions to Prairie–bird, he felt that such a resignation, while he was secure of her affections, would be mere mockery and insult. He knew also how prominent a feature is revenge in the Indian character, and thought it not improbable that he might be now following his conductor to some secluded spot, where their rivalry should be decided by mortal strife, and the survivor return to claim the lovely prize. This last thought, which would, under any other circumstances, have nerved his arm and made his heart exult within him, now overwhelmed him with sadness, for he loved both Wingenund and War–Eagle, they were endeared to him by reciprocal benefits, and he shrunk from a quarrel with the latter as from a fratricide.

Meanwhile the Indian strode rapidly forward; neither could Reginald detect the feelings that lurked beneath the dignified and unmoved composure of his countenance.

After walking in silence for some minutes, they reached a small hollow, where a few scattered alder–bushes screened them from the observation of the stragglers round the skirts of the Delaware camp: here the chief suddenly halted, and turning towards Reginald, bent on him the full gaze of his dark and lustrous eyes; the latter observed with surprise that their expression, as well as that of his usually haughty features, was a deep composed melancholy.

At length the Delaware broke the long and painful silence, addressing his companion, after his imperfect notion of English, in the following words:—

“The Great Spirit sent a cloud between Netis and War–Eagle—a very black cloud; the lightning came from it and blinded the eyes of the LenapÉ chief, so that he looked on his brother and thought he saw an enemy. The Bad Spirit whispered in his ear that the tongue of Netis was forked; that the heart of Olitipa was false; that she had listened to a mockingbird, and had mingled for War–Eagle a cup of poison.”

The Delaware paused for a moment; his eye retained its steady but sad expression, his lips were firmly compressed, and not a muscle betrayed the intensity of his feeling; but Reginald appreciated rightly the self–control that had conquered, in so severe a struggle, and grasping his friend’s hand, he said,—

“Noble and generous son of the LenapÉ, the Bad Spirit has no power over a heart like yours! Are we not brothers? Have not the waters of the Muskingum, and the treacherous knife of the Huron, tied our hearts together, so that no fear, no suspicion, no falsehood, can come between them? Netis believed that War–Eagle loved Olitipa only as a sister, or he would rather have given his scalp to MahÉga than have spoken soft words in the maiden’s ear!”

“My brother’s words are true,” replied the Delaware, in the low and musical tone for which his voice was remarkable; “War–Eagle knows it; he has dreamt, and is now awake: Olitipa is his sister—the Great Spirit decrees that no child of an Indian warrior shall call her mother. It is enough.” The countenance of the Delaware assumed a sterner expression as he continued:—

“My brother must be ready; let his rifle be loaded and his eye open, for Tamenund has seen the snow of many winters; the Black Father is good and true, but his hand knows not the tomahawk: the Osage panther will crouch near the tent of Olitipa, and the feet of the Cut–throats[39] will not be far; before the sun goes down War–Eagle will see his brother again.”

Thus saying, and waiting no reply, he returned with hearty strides towards the village. Reginald gazed long and earnestly after the retreating figure of the Indian, forgetting awhile, in admiration of his heroic self–control, the dangers that beset his beloved and his party.

“Could I,” he asked himself, “could I, under the same circumstances, with all the light, and aid, and high motives of Christianity, have shown the forbearance, generosity, and self–command displayed by this noble heathen? Could I have seen all my long–cherished hopes, my warm and passionate love, blasted in a moment, and have so soon, so frankly, and so fully exculpated and forgiven the man to whom I owed my misery? I hope I might have done so, still I am afraid to ask my heart the question!”

Reginald’s cheek glowed under the influence of this self–scrutiny, and he gladly availed himself of the approach of Paul MÜller, to whom he related what had passed, and expressed in the warmest terms his admiration of his Indian brother’s conduct. The good missionary felt inexpressibly relieved at hearing the amicable issue now announced to him, for although he had never been made a confidant of War–Eagle’s feelings towards Olitipa, his own observation had shown him of late that they were not exactly fraternal, and he had viewed with dread a rivalry between the two high–spirited young men, at a crisis when the aid of both might be so necessary to protect his fair pupil from the perils by which she was surrounded.

Meanwhile the machinations of MahÉga, which had been conducted with his accustomed secrecy and cunning, were almost ripe for execution; several runners had interchanged communication between him and the Dahcotah chief, the latter of whom was delighted at the prospect, thus unexpectedly offered, of taking vengeance on his ancient and hated LenapÉ foes. A secret council of the Osages had been held, at which a treaty with the Sioux and a rupture with the Delawares were discussed, and almost unanimously carried, MahÉga appearing rather to have coincided in the general determination than to have caused it by his influence and intrigues. The result of this council was, that the Osage village immediately struck their lodges, the horses were driven in, skins, poultry, provisions, and all their utensils were packed upon them, and in a few hours the whole body moved in a north–easterly direction towards the upper fork of the river Konzas.

While they were departing, the Delaware council was summoned by a crier; Reginald and Baptiste were also invited to attend, the former in compliment to his station in the tribe as adopted brother of War–Eagle; the latter being recognised as a warrior of tried courage and experience. The Chiefs and Braves having seated themselves in a semicircle, the centre of which was occupied by Tamenund, the Great Medicine pipe was first passed round in silence, and with the accustomed solemnities, after which Tamenund arose, and in a voice feeble from age, but distinctly audible, proceeded to explain to the assembly the affairs respecting which they had met to consult: while he was speaking, one of the Indians appointed to guard the entrance of the council lodge, came in and announced a messenger from the Osage encampment. Tamenund paused, and desired the messenger to be introduced.

All eyes were bent sternly on the envoy, who advanced with a haughty and dignified step into the centre of the lodge, where he stood still, and resting on a long lance which he held in his right hand, awaited, according to Indian custom, a signal from the council–chief to deliver his errand. His dress, and the paint by which his body was adorned, had evidently been prepared with every attention to the niceties of Indian diplomacy, some portions of it being significant of peace or alliance, and others of hostile preparation; his right side was painted red, with streaks of black; on his left arm he wore a round shield of buffalo–hide, a quiver of arrows hung at his back, a tomahawk and knife were in his girdle, and in his left hand he carried a large string of wampum[40], adorned with sundry ribbons and thongs of party–coloured deer–skin.

The Delawares recognised in the messenger a young kinsman of MahÉga, one who had already distinguished himself by several feats of daring gallantry, and had been lately enrolled among the braves of his nation: he had hitherto been upon the most friendly terms with the LenapÉ, was familiar with their language, and had volunteered on more than one occasion to follow War–Eagle on the war–path; but the lines of paint and his accoutrements were now, as has before been observed, so carefully selected, that their practised eyes were unable to decide whether peace or war was the object of his mission; neither was any inference to be drawn from his countenance or bearing, for after the first cold salutation on entering, he leaned on his lance in an attitude of haughty indifference. Under these circumstances he was not invited to sit, neither was the pipe handed to him, but Tamenund briefly addressed him as follows:

“The messenger of the Osage may speak. The ears of the LenapÉ are open.”

“Flying–arrow,” replied the young man, in a modest and quiet tone, “knows that many winters have passed over the head of the LenapÉ chief; he is sorry to speak hard words to Tamenund.”

“Let the young warrior speak freely; Tamenund knows that he is the mouth of the Osage council,” was the grave reply.

“The Washashe say that the LenapÉ have walked in a crooked path. The council have assembled; and the words delivered to Flying–arrow are these: The Washashe allowed the LenapÉ to kill meat on their hunting–ground, they smoked the pipe together, and gave each other the wampum–belt of peace; but the LenapÉ hearts are white, though their skin is red; their tongues are smooth with telling many lies: they have brought the pale–faces here to aid them in driving the Washashe from the hunting–fields of their fathers! Is it not true?” continued the fearless envoy, in a louder strain; “they have done all they can to throw dirt upon the lodges of those whom they call brothers. When MahÉga offered to take the daughter of Tamenund as his wife, what was said to him? Does not the pale–face who crept upon him and defiled his medicine, still sit and smoke at the LenapÉ fire? MahÉga says, let Tamenund give him Olitipa for a wife, and the pale–face, called Netis, as a prisoner, and let him send back the other white men to the Great River; then MahÉga will believe that the hearts of the LenapÉ are true to the friendship pledged on this belt.”

Thus saying, he shook the wampum before the assembled Delawares with an air of proud defiance. A brief pause followed this daring speech; the heart of War–Eagle boiled within him, but a scornful smile sat upon his haughty countenance, as he waited composedly for the reply of his father, who seemed engaged in deep and serious meditation.

Reginald had, of course, been unable to follow the envoy’s discourse, but his quick ear had detected his own name; and a fierce look, which accompanied its pronunciation, told him that he was personally interested in the object of the Osage’s message. Having gathered from Baptiste, in a whisper, the nature of MahÉga’s charge and demand, a flush of indignation coloured his brow, but the examples of self–command that he had so lately seen, and that he still witnessed in the iron features by which he was surrounded, taught him to place a like restraint upon his own feelings, and to await the reply of the aged chief.

The latter, fixing his eye sternly upon the envoy, thus addressed him: “MahÉga has filled the young brave’s mouth with lies. The hearts of the LenapÉ are true as the guiding–star.[41] They are faithful to their friends, they fear no enemies. Tamenund will not give Olitipa to MahÉga, nor his adopted son to be the Washashe’s prisoner. Tamenund is old, but he is not blind, MahÉga wishes to become a friend of the Dahcotahs. It is well; he will find among them hearts as bad and tongues as forked as his own! I have spoken.”

A deep murmur of approbation followed the aged chief’s brief but energetic harangue, and as soon as it was concluded, the fearless messenger drew a sharp knife from his girdle, and severing the wampum–belt, he cast the two halves on the ground, saying, “It is well! thus is the league between the Washashe and the LenapÉ divided.”

Baptiste, to whom Reginald had again addressed a few words in a whisper, now rose, and having requested permission of Tamenund, said to the Osage messenger, “Netis desires you to tell MahÉga that he is a liar,—brave enough to frighten women, but nothing more. If he is a warrior, let him come to–morrow at sunrise to the open prairie, north of the camp; the friends of both shall stand back three arrow–flights apart; Netis will meet him with a rifle and a hunting–knife; Olitipa will not be there to save his life again!”

Another murmur of approbation went round the assembly, many of whom had already heard of the rough treatment that the gigantic Osage had received at Reginald’s hands, but hearing it now confirmed by the lips of a tried warrior, like Grande–HÂche, they looked with increased respect and esteem on the adopted brother of War–Eagle.

“Flying–arrow will tell MahÉga,” was the brief reply; and the messenger glancing his eye haughtily around the circle, left the lodge and returned to the encampment of his tribe. After his departure the council continued their deliberations for some time, and had not yet concluded them when a distant and repeated shouting attracted their attention, and a Delaware youth, of about fifteen years of age, rushed into the lodge, breathless, and bleeding from a wound inflicted by an arrow, which had pierced his shoulder. A few hurried sentences explained to the chiefs the news of which he was the bearer. It appeared that he had been tending, in a bottom not far distant, a herd of horses, chiefly belonging to Tamenund, War–Eagle, and the party of white men, when a band of mounted Sioux came sweeping down the valley at full speed; two or three young Delawares, who formed the out–picquet on that side, had been taken completely by surprise, and paid with their lives the penalty of their carelessness.

The wounded youth who brought the intelligence had only escaped by his extreme swiftness of foot, and by the unwillingness of the enemy to approach too near the camp. Thus had the Dahcotahs succeeded in carrying off, by a bold stroke, upwards of one hundred of the best horses from the Delaware village; and Reginald soon learnt, to his inexpressible annoyance and regret, that Nekimi was among the number of the captives. A hurried consultation followed, in which War–Eagle, throwing off the modest reserve that he had practised during the council, assumed his place as leader of the LenapÉ braves, of whom he selected forty of the most active and daring, to accompany him on the difficult and dangerous expedition that was to be instantly undertaken for the recovery of the stolen horses.

Reginald and Baptiste eagerly volunteered, and were instantly accepted by War–Eagle; but it was not without some persuasion on the part of the guide, that the chief allowed Monsieur Perrot to be of the party; that faithful valet insisted, however, so obstinately upon his right to attend his master, that, on Baptiste enjoining that he should implicitly obey orders, he was permitted to form one of the selected band.

In less than half an hour, from the receipt of the above disastrous intelligence, the party left the camp well armed and equipped, each man carrying three pounds of dried buffalo meat; and Baptiste secured twice that quantity to his sturdy person, thinking it probable that Reginald’s endurance of hunger might not prove proportionate to his active qualities. The latter had, indeed, forgotten the meat altogether, for he passed the last few minutes of his stay within the camp, in bidding farewell to Prairie–bird, and in assuring her that he would not be long absent, but trusted soon to return with his favourite Nekimi. At his departure, Reginald left the strictest orders with Bearskin (who remained in charge of his party) to keep a faithful watch over the safety of Prairie–bird, and to follow the injunctions that he might receive from Tamenund and Paul MÜller.

The small band, who, at the instigation of MahÉga, had stolen the Delaware horses, were chosen warriors, well mounted, thoroughly trained to the predatory warfare in which they were now engaged, and ready, either to defend their prize against an equal force, or to baffle the pursuit of a superior one. As War–Eagle had lost many of his best horses, he resolved to follow the enemy’s trail on foot, but he desired two or three of his most active and enterprising followers, whose horses had not been stolen, to hover on the rear of the retreating party, to watch their motions, and bring back any intelligence that might aid him in the pursuit.

The select band of Delawares moved swiftly forward under the guidance of their young leader; close upon his steps followed Reginald, burning with impatience to recover his favourite steed; next to him came Baptiste, then Perrot, and the remainder of the LenapÉ warriors.

The prairie–grass trodden down by the hoofs of the galloping and affrighted steeds driven from their pasture, afforded a trail that could be traced without difficulty, and the trampled banks of several slow and lazy streams, which they passed in their course, marked the headlong course taken by their fugitive steeds and their fierce drivers.

We will leave the pursuers for a time, and follow the movements of MahÉga, who was now acting in concert with the Sioux, and who contrived by his superior address to direct their plans, as completely as if he had been himself the chief of their tribe. Having accompanied the Osage village, fourteen or fifteen miles on their route to the northward, he ordered a halt by the side of a stream, in a valley adjacent to the encampment of their new allies, the two bands forming a body so superior in number to the Delawares, that they had no cause to fear an attack, especially as they learnt from their scouts that War–Eagle and his followers had gone in an opposite direction in pursuit of the horse–stealing party.

The evening was dark, and favoured the execution of a plot which MahÉga had formed, and in furtherance of which all his preceding measures had been taken. As soon as the sun had set, he selected one hundred of the bravest and most experienced warriors in his tribe, whom he armed only with bow and arrows, knife, and tomahawk; strictly forbidding the use of any fire–arms; for he well knew that the latter were far from being effective weapons in the hands of his followers, especially in such an expedition as that in which he was engaged. Swiftly and silently they moved under their leader’s guidance, who, directing his course towards the south–east, brought them, after a few hours’ march, to the line of wood skirting the great Prairie. Aware that the warriors remaining in the Delaware encampment would be prepared against any surprise from the quarter in which the Sioux were posted, his present object was to make his attack from the opposite side, in order to effect which, undiscovered, the greatest skill and rapidity were necessary.

It was on occasions such as these that the qualities of the Osage chief were most conspicuously exhibited; with light and noiseless step, he led his party through the depths of the forest, and during a swift march of many hours not a word was spoken; now and then he paused as a startled deer rustled through the thicket, and once or twice, when a stray moonbeam, forcing its way through the foliage, silvered the bark of the sycamore, he cast his eye upwards, as if to learn from the leaves the direction of the wind, or to scan the heaven in search of one of those stars, which the imperfect, but sagacious astronomy of the Indians teaches them to recognise as guides.

Leave we them to pursue their dark and circuitous path and let us transport the reader to the interior of the Delaware encampment, where (as it may be remembered) Bearskin was left in command of that portion of the white men who had not accompanied their leader in pursuit of the Sioux.

Paul MÜller sat late at night in the tent of the Prairie–bird; on the rude table lay the Bible from which he had been reading, and explaining some difficulties that had perplexed her strong, yet inquiring mind; afterwards they had turned the conversation to the scenes which had occurred within the last few days, and which were calculated to inspire serious anticipations of coming evil. Prairie–bird made no effort to conceal from her affectionate instructor how entirely her heart was given to Reginald; she knew his bold and fearless disposition; she knew too the wily cunning of the powerful tribe against whom his expedition was undertaken, and more than one heavy sigh escaped her when she thought of the risks that he must incur.

The good missionary employed every possible argument to allay her fears, but none so effectively as that which referred to the protection of that Being who had been from childhood her hope, her trust, and her shield, and, bidding her good night, he had the pleasure of seeing her agitated spirit resume its usual composure. He then wrapped his cloak round his shoulders, and went out to see what provision Bearskin had made for the security of the camp, during the absence of Reginald, War–Eagle, and their party. The rough old boatman was smoking his pipe over the embers of a fire in front of the lodge where he slept; beside him lay, half–asleep, the gigantic Mike Smith; and the other white men were within the lodge, each having his rifle within reach, and his knife and pistols in his belt. Bearskin returned the greeting of the missionary with blunt civility, and informed him that he had been to the lodge of Tamenund, where it had been agreed to throw forward an outpost of a dozen light, active, young Indians, half a mile beyond the camp, in the direction of the Sioux: runners had also been sent round to desire the warriors to be ready, and all the usual precautions taken, such as are observed by Indians in the neighbourhood of a dangerous enemy.

Satisfied with these arrangements, Paul MÜller returned to his tent, and throwing himself on the pile of buffalo skins that formed his bed, was soon fast asleep. He knew not how long he had slept, when he was aroused by a cry such as none who has once heard it can mistake or forget. Scarcely had that shrill and savage whoop pierced the dull silence of the night, when every creature within the encampment sprang to their feet; the braves and warriors, seizing their weapons, rushed to the quarter whence the cry proceeded, while the women and children, crowding round the aged and defenceless men, waited in suspense the result of the sudden and fierce attack. The noise and the tumult came from the northern quarter, that most remote from the lodges of Tamenund and Prairie–bird. Sixty of the chosen Osage warriors had fallen upon the small outpost placed to give the alarm, and, driving them easily before them and killing some, entered the camp almost simultaneously with the survivors. This band was led by that daring young warrior before introduced to the reader under the name of Flying–arrow, who now burned with desire to render his name in the war annals of his tribe famous as that of his kinsman MahÉga. Nor were the Delaware warriors slow to meet the invaders, with a courage equal to their own; the conflict was fierce and confused, for the moon was no longer up, and the pale stars were contending, in a cloudy sky, with the dim grey hue that precedes the dawn of day, so that the dusky figures of the combatants were scarcely visible, and by their voices alone could they distinguish friends from foes.

At the first alarm, Bearskin, with his habitual coolness, ordered Mike Smith, with three of his men, to retire into the rear, to assist in protecting the lodge of Tamenund and the tent of Prairie–bird, while he led the remainder to check the advance of the Osages from the northward. For some time the latter seemed to be gaining ground, but the Delawares, still superior in number and hastening to the spot, aided by Bearskin and his followers, recovered their lost advantage, and the combat raged with renewed fury.

At this crisis MahÉga, who had succeeded in gaining, unperceived, the valley to the southward of the Delaware camp, fell upon their rear with his reserve of forty men; overthrowing all who opposed him, he forced his way towards the white tent, which the advancing light of dawn rendered now easily distinguishable from the dark–coloured lodges around it; shouting his battle–cry with a voice like a trumpet, he rushed onward, caring not, apparently, for scalps or trophies, but determined on securing the prize for which he had already broken his faith, and imbrued his hands in the blood of allies who had done him no injury. A gallant band of Delawares surrounded their aged chief, whose trembling hand now grasped a tomahawk that had for twenty years reposed idly in his belt. Prairie–bird had sprung from her couch, and already joined in the brief, but earnest prayer, which Paul MÜller breathed at her side; he recognised the Osage war–cry, and divining the chief object of their terrible leader, he whispered solemnly to her,—

“My dear child, if I am soon taken from you, keep, nevertheless, your trust in God. I see that knife still in your girdle; I know what you have once dared; if it be the will of Heaven, you must be prepared patiently to endure pain, sorrow, confinement, or oppression; remember, it is only as the last resource against dishonour, that you may have recourse to it.”

The maiden replied not, but a glance from her dark eye assured him that he was understood, and would be obeyed; many emotions contended in her bosom, but, for the moment, reverence and attachment to her affectionate instructor prevailed over all others, and, dropping on her knees before him, she covered his hand with kisses, saying,

“Dear Father, if we must be separated, bless, bless your grateful child.”

The worthy missionary, albeit accustomed to resign himself entirely to the will of Heaven, could scarcely command himself sufficiently to utter aloud the blessing that he implored upon her head; but the shouts and cries of the combatants were every moment approaching nearer, and seizing his staff, he went to the aperture in front of the lodge, in order to ascertain how the tide of conflict was turning.

The first object that met his view was the aged Tamenund, who had fallen in his hurried endeavour to rush to the combat, but was now partly supported and partly detained by his wailing wives and daughters, while the tomahawk that had dropped from his nerveless arm lay upon the ground beside him. As soon as he saw Paul MÜller, he called him, and said, in a low voice,

“The breath of Tamenund is going; he has lived long enough; the voices of his fathers are calling to him from the far hunting–fields; he will go, and pray the Great Spirit to give the scalps of these snake–tongued Washashe to the knife of War–Eagle.” After a moment’s pause, the old man continued: “I know that the heart of the Black Father is good to the LenapÉ; he has been a friend of many days to the lodge of Tamenund; he must be a father to Olitipa; she is a sweet–scented flower; the Great Spirit has given rain and sunshine to nourish its growth, and its roots are deep in Tamenund’s heart; the Black Father will not allow it to be trodden under the feet of MahÉga.” While saying these words he drew from under his blanket a small leathern bag, the neck of which was carefully closed with ligaments of deer sinew that had been dipped in wax, or some similarly adhesive substance. “This,” he added, “is the medicine–bag of Olitipa; the Black Father must keep it when Tamenund is gone, and, while it is safe, the steps of the Bad Spirit will not draw near her.”

The missionary took the bag and concealed it immediately under his vest, but, before he had time to reply to his aged friend, a terrific cry announced that the Osages had succeeded in breaking through the Delaware ranks, and a fearful scene of confusion, plunder, and massacre ensued; the faithful missionary hastened to the side of his trembling pupil, resolved to die in defending her from injury, while the air was rent by the shouts of the victors, and the yells and shrieks of those suffering under their relentless fury.

Mike Smith and his men plied their weapons with determined courage and resolution, and several of the Osages paid with their lives the forfeit of their daring attack; still the survivors pressed forward, bearing back the white men by force of numbers, and allowing not a moment for the reloading of the fire–arms. The voice of MahÉga rose high above the surrounding din, and all seemed to shrink from the terrible weapon which he wielded as if it had been a light cane or small–sword; it was a short bludgeon, headed with a solid ball of iron, from which protruded several sharp iron spikes, already red with human blood. Mike Smith came boldly forward to meet him, holding in his left hand a discharged horse–pistol, and in his right a heavy cutlass, with which last he made a furious cut at the advancing Osage. The wary chief neither received nor parried it, but, springing lightly aside, seized the same moment for driving his heavy mace full on the unguarded forehead of his opponent, and the unfortunate woodsman dropped like an ox felled at the shambles; the fierce Indian, leaping forward, passed his knife twice through the prostrate body, and tearing off the scalp, waved the bloody trophy over his head.

Disheartened by the fall of their brave and powerful companion, the remaining white men offered but a feeble resistance, and the Osage chief rushed onwards to the spot where only some wounded Delawares and a few devoted and half–armed youths were gathered around the aged Tamenund, determined to die at his side. It is not necessary to pursue the sickening details of the narrative.

The old man received his death–blow with a composed dignity worthy of his race, and his faithful followers met their fate with equal heroism, neither expecting nor receiving mercy.

The victory was now complete, and both the scattered Delawares and the remaining white men fled for shelter and safety to the nearest points in the dense line of forest; few, if any, would have reached it, had not the war–pipe of MahÉga called his warriors around him. None dared to disobey the signal, and in a few minutes they stood before him in front of the tent within which the faithful missionary still cheered and supported his beloved pupil. The fierce Osage, counting over his followers, found that fifteen were killed or mortally wounded: but the loss on the part of their opponents was much heavier, without reckoning upwards of a score prisoners, whose hands and legs were tightly fastened with bands of withy and elm–bark.

MahÉga, putting his head into the aperture of the tent, ordered Paul MÜller to come forth.

“Resistance is unavailing,” whispered the missionary to the weeping girl; “it will be harder with thee if I obey not this cruel man. Practise now, dear child, the lessons that we have so often read together, and leave the issue to Him who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in Him.”

So saying, he kissed her forehead, and gently disengaging himself from the hand that still clung to his garment, he went forth from the tent, and stood before MahÉga.

That wily chief was well aware that both the missionary and his fair pupil had many warm friends among his own tribe; there was in fact scarcely a family among them that had not experienced from one, or both, some act of charity or kindness; he had resolved therefore to treat them without severity, and while he assured himself of the person of Olitipa, to send her instructor to some distant spot, where neither his advice nor his reproofs were to be feared; with this determination he addressed him briefly, as follows:—

“The Black Father will travel with my young men towards the east; he is no longer wanted here; he may seek the lodges of the LenapÉ squaws beyond the Great River; he may advise them to remain where they are, to dig and grow corn, and not to come near the hunting fields of the Washashe. My young men will travel three days with him; they may meet strangers,—if he is silent, his life is safe; if he speaks, their tomahawk drinks his blood; when they have left him, his tongue and his feet are free. I have spoken.”

MahÉga added a few words in a lower tone to the young warrior who was to execute his orders, and who, with two others, now stood by his prisoner; there was a lowering frown on the brow of the chief, and a deep meaning in his tone, showing plainly that there would be danger in disobeying the letter of those commands.

Paul MÜller, advancing a few steps, addressed the chief in the Delaware tongue, with which he knew him to be familiar. “MahÉga is a great chief, and the Black Father is weak, and must obey him; before he goes he will speak some words which the chief must lock up in his heart. He loves Olitipa; he wishes to make her his wife; it may be, after a season, that she may look kindly upon him; but she is not like other maidens, she is under the care of the Great Spirit. MahÉga is strong, but her medicine is stronger. She can hide the moon behind a cloud, and gather the fire of the sun as the daughters of the Washashe gather the river–waters in a vessel; let the chief remember the Black Father’s last words. If MahÉga protects Olitipa and what belongs to her in the tent, it may be better for him when the Great Spirit is angry; if he offers her harm or insult, he will die like a dog, and wolves will pick his bones.”

The missionary delivered this warning with a dignity and solemnity so earnest, that the eye of the fierce but superstitious savage quailed before him; and pleased to mark the effect of his words, Paul MÜller turned and left the spot, muttering in his own tongue to himself, “God will doubtless forgive my endeavour to protect, through this artifice, a forlorn and friendless maiden, left in the hands of a man so cruel and unscrupulous.”

In a few minutes the good missionary had completed the slight preparation requisite for his journey, and, accompanied by his Indian escort, left the ruined and despoiled village with a heavy heart.

As soon as MahÉga was somewhat recovered from the startling effect of Paul MÜller’s parting address, he made his dispositions for the further movements of his band with his usual rapidity and decision; he was well aware that his position was now one of great peril, that in a short time War–Eagle and his party would be informed of all that had passed, and would seek a bloody revenge; he knew also that some of the fugitive Whites or Delawares might speedily arm a body of the inhabitants of the frontier against him, and that he would be altogether unable to maintain himself in the region that he now occupied.

Under these circumstances he made up his own mind as to the course that he would pursue; and having first given all the necessary orders for the burial of the Osage dead and the care of the wounded, as well as for the security of the prisoners, he called together the heads of his party, and having laid before them his plans, asked their advice with a tone and manner probably resembling that with which, a few years later, Napoleon was in the habit of asking the counsel of his generals and captains; a tone indicating that his course being already determined, nothing was expected of them but compliance.