Mrs. Payson sat sewing in her pleasant room at the hotel. Her thoughts were far away from the checkered experiences of the frontier, for her husband–having received by the last mail a new book from an eastern friend–read while she plied her needle. Baby was in his crib in the bed-room adjoining, and Fannie and Helen were whispering in a matronly way in the corner, as with the help of mother’s scissors they fitted their dolls to new dresses. Had you looked in upon the group, you would not realize that they constituted a pioneer missionary’s family; for the hotel building was tasteful and spacious, and if they lived and dressed plainly, and often felt the pinchings of poverty, their appearance betrayed no unhappiness. And then the volume had transported the father and mother to other and brighter scenes than those of the uncultured wilderness. The tone of the reader in its subdued or impassioned modulations attested the interest he felt in the volume, and the heightened color of 188 the wife showed her sympathy with the theme. What a magician is a book! It can cause the poor to forget their poverty, and the wanderer in a distant land to become oblivious of his exile.

“What was that?” exclaimed the missionary and his wife at once, as they sprang to their feet in breathless suspense.

Again the horrible cry broke forth, seeming to come from the room below.

At this moment the fair face of the landlady appeared, and she said,–

“The Indians are below, and are going to sing for us. Won’t you come down and hear them?”

“Rather discordant music,” answered the minister; “but I think we may as well accept your invitation–don’t you, wife?” and taking the children with them, they descended to the dining-room. Ranged round the long table were eight savages, and sitting back against the walls a few boarders,–for most of the household were away. Some of the Indians held tin pans, and on these, as an accompaniment, they beat time with iron instruments, their heavy blows making a deafening din, and their harsh, guttural notes, uttered in unison, made the diabolical uproar. Mr. Payson’s inspection of the performers in this strange concert was anything but satisfactory to him. The manner of the savages was impudent and brutal beyond anything he had yet seen in them, 189 and he fancied that their sneering and malignant grimaces and serpent-like contortions of the body expressed evil and vengeful passions that burned within. On the faces of the whites a startled, anxious look struggled, with an effort to feel at ease, and fear nothing.

“There is something wrong about these Indians,” whispered the minister to a man near him; “they are plotting mischief; their looks and tones are full of ugliness; and I am convinced that if they intend no trouble to-night, they know that some hidden danger threatens us. See how that chief’s eye glares. Observe the murderous leer of the one beside him. Notice how they mock and insult us to our very faces. Now, how awfully jubilant their tones, as if they had us at their mercy. Do you suppose they are secretly armed?” and, rising, he went calmly from Indian to Indian, lifting the blanket of each, to see if a rifle cut short, or some other deadly weapon, was not concealed there. But none was to be found; and at the close of their alarming exhibition, the chief haughtily arose, bowed to the missionary, who was now seated again, and passed out; each of his followers imitating him in the salute as he glided from the room.

“The Indians have taken down their wigwam, and gone away,” said Tom to Mr. Payson, the next day. 190

“I am glad to hear it,” replied the missionary; “they are a dangerous set, and I have been quite anxious lest the settlers should get into a quarrel with them. But what makes you look so depressed? Are any of your folks sick?”

“No,” replied Tom, striving to appear calm. “Father came home last night–”

“Well, that was a pleasant surprise–was it not?” interrupted his kind friend.

“Yes; but–but–he wants us to remove.”

“Remove! Whereto?”

“Near Spirit Lake.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I heard this morning that the Sioux are quite insolent towards the settlers in that vicinity, and threaten an outbreak. I must see your father, and dissuade him from his project;” and the minister proceeded to the cabin occupied by the Joneses.

It was near Spirit Lake that Mr. Jones was wounded by the Indian. This, however, did not deter him from going there again to hunt. Three promising young settlements had sprung up there, side by side, for the beauty, fertility, and cheapness of the land had attracted quite an immigration that way. Mr. Jones had mingled much with the settlers,–for an entirely new country had special charms for him,–and his knowledge of all matters most needful to the pioneer made him a welcome acquaintance. He had become a 191 great favorite with the inhabitants. The Indians were numerous and bold, but entertained a wholesome dread of the squatter’s rifle and personal courage; and the whites, although they did not anticipate serious trouble with the savages, felt so much safer when he was with them, that they offered him a comfortable cabin, and promised other advantages if he would dwell among them. Among the Indians Mr. Jones went by the name of Long Rifle, and they expressed great admiration of his marksmanship. Occasions not unfrequently happened for him to show his superior qualities in that line. For example, the squatter happened in one day at a cabin, and found some half dozen Indians there, who had busied themselves, in the absence of the men, in rummaging the house for plunder, greatly to the terror of the women and children. As Mr. Jones appeared, they seated themselves with Indian gravity, refusing to answer a word, while their faces wore an angry and sullen look. Among these were some famous for their skill with the rifle, and, knowing their passion for target-shooting, he proposed at once a trial of skill. This was eagerly accepted; but the squatter triumphed in the contest, and the Indians went away much impressed with the result.

When Mr. Jones returned to his family, and mentioned his decision to remove, the mother 192 heard his account with a foreboding heart, but made no objection, only saying,–

“We mustn’t take Tom away from his studies.”

To this the father assented, for he really felt grateful to the missionary for the interest he took in his son, and proud of the progress the lad was making in his books.

“Tom,” said he, “has a good chance, and it isn’t in me to discourage him.”

It was, however, more difficult to persuade Tom to remain behind, than for his parents to give him up,–hard as it was for them. He had so long been the staff of his mother, that it seemed like selfish desertion for him to stay with the missionary, while she went farther off on the frontier.

“It is your duty to remain, Tom,” urged the mother. “God has opened the way for you to cultivate your mind, and fit yourself for usefulness; and we shall not be so far away but that you can come to us at any time, if we need you.”

“And are you not afraid to go where there are so many Indians?” asked Tom.

“Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid; and yet I feel strengthened to go. Your father will be useful there. He is fitted to take the lead in case of trouble with the savages; the settlers look up to him, and depend upon him, and I cannot find it in my heart to hold him back; and if he goes, it is best for me to be with him. If you remain 193 behind, we shall have in you a friend to assist us if any trouble should arise. You might be able to do more for us here than if shut up with us by a common danger.”

And so, with many a last farewell by the fond mother, Tom saw them start for their new home.