Elkswatawa
Date: 2024-09-12T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Tippecanoe; Battle of; Ind.; 1811 -- Fiction

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Title: Elkswatawa
or, The prophet of the west. A tale of the frontier

Author: James Strange French

Dubious author: Timothy Flint

Release date: September 12, 2024 [eBook #74401]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers, 1836

Credits: Ron Swanson

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELKSWATAWA ***

ELKSWATAWA;

OR,

THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

A TALE OF THE FRONTIER.

“A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.”
BRYANT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
NO. 82 CLIFF STREET.

1836.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.]

CONTENTS.

CHAPTERS
Preface | V | XI | XV | XXI
Volume I | VI | XII | XVI | XXII

I

VII

Appendix
to Vol. I

XVII

XXIII

II | VIII | Volume II | XVIII | XXIV

III

IX

XIII

XIX

Appendix
to Vol. II

IV | X | XIV | XX |

TO WILLIAM H. M'FARLAND, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

By inscribing to you these volumes,—in which I have endeavoured to enlarge upon an interesting portion of our National History, and to set forth in a connected view, the main incidents in the lives of two of the most celebrated Aborigines of our continent,—I offer a tribute not less agreeable to myself, than due to your personal worth.

To an accomplished scholar like yourself, this work may appear crude and defective; if so, let the intentions of the writer compensate for the faults of his production. The recollection of the many kind offices received at your hands, and of your amiable and dignified character, renders it a pleasure to dedicate to you this first attempt to describe events, which may hereafter be pourtrayed by an abler pen.

With my best wishes for your prosperity and welfare,

Believe me, Sir,
Yours, truly,
THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

During the intervals of leisure in a profession which has hitherto employed but a small portion of my time, I traced out for my own amusement the following story. It having fallen to my lot to reside for some time in the western part of the Union, and to have visited personally many of the Indian tribes along the frontier, I was naturally led to observe with much attention, their customs and habits of life. The more I saw of their peculiarities and traits of character, the more I found my feelings aroused, and my sympathies enlisted in their behalf; and from the contemplation of what they now are, I was carried back, by a natural train of thought, to reflect upon what they once had been. The names and deeds of those celebrated individuals, who have from time to time, arisen among them, and with a foresight and patriotism worthy of happier results, endeavoured to regain for the red man his original power and possessions, became familiar to me as household words, and I felt myself able to appreciate more justly the talents and policy of those unfortunate champions of Indian liberty, whose conduct and characters, owing to the animosity excited in the minds of the frontier settlers by a series of harassing hostilities, have been generally misrepresented, and painted by the hand of prejudice, in the darkest and most odious colours. One of the effects of the sojourn above referred to, was the entire removal of many unfounded causes of dislike, and false impressions, which had their origin in these and similar sources, and the conviction that were the Indian, like the lion in the fable, to draw the picture himself of the contest which has with but few intermissions, been carried on between the whites and the aborigines, since the period of the earliest settlements, we should behold many startling and indisputable facts, many unprovoked aggressions, and many sins unatoned for on the part of our countrymen, amply sufficient to turn the milk of human kindness into the bitterest gall, and kindle the most unextinguishable hate in the breasts of the most civilized people.

To these many apologetic circumstances, tending to excuse their natural animosity toward the whites, was added in my mind an admiration of those peculiar traits of character which they possess in common with no nation of modern times, but in which they approach nearly the Greeks and Romans in their best estate, before luxury had paved the way for despotism, and licentiousness had fused down all individuality and national differences into one common mass of dulness and depravity. The short, pointed, and antithetical sayings of many an Indian chieftain, partake of the old Laconic character, and the discipline both of mind and body, common among the tribes, is equally severe with that inculcated by the Legislator of Sparta, in her palmiest days. The answer of Tecumseh to Gen. Harrison, when offered a seat by him at the council, will compare with any reply in ancient or modern history; and the apophthegms of King Philip, recorded in the annals of the times, are marked with the same spirit of moral fearlessness and independence.

But the Indian, like his more civilized neighbour, however much he may strive for effect, and put on his best mental attire upon occasions which call for such preparation, has an every day manner, so to term it, or a style of familiar conversation, when not labouring under any particular excitement, which differs but little from that of the rest of the world, and offers a striking contrast to his more exalted moods, when art and passion combine to swell the stream of his eloquence. Indeed, as in the well known lines of Horace:

“Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,”

so the Indian, unless warmed by the expectant gaze of the multitude, or influenced by the most violent passions, confines himself to the more homely and necessary common places of the language. I have travelled among them, hunted with them, conversed with them, and watched them when employed in domestic avocations, and never, as far as my personal experience enabled me to judge, did I hear any expressions more highly wrought or figurative, than such as would be used in ordinary conversation among ourselves. Impressed with this fact, I have accordingly, in many instances, represented the Indians as conversing without much of that mannerism which has by almost common consent, been held to characterise their speech, while at other times, when the place seemed to demand it, I have given the most figurative and antithetical turn to their language; and in so doing, I have rather deferred to the commonly received opinion, than acted in accordance with my own judgment. This course may be contrary to the notions entertained by many; but conceiving it, for the reasons above stated, to be a correct one, I leave my Indians to vary their modes of expression according to the circumstances in which they are placed.

The above remarks will apply with equal propriety to the language of the Kentucky hunter, described in the following pages. He uses slang as a matter of habit, when speaking of certain things, but this does not prevent him from being more choice of his words when the subject requires it. It may be observed, in this connexion, that although a great proportion of our western population may often, partly from fancy and partly from carelessness, interlard their language with strange and far-fetched expressions, they nevertheless can be, and are, when occasion demands it, as select of their phrases, and as simple in their arrangement as any class of persons on our continent. In fact, the many burlesques of western manners, which have given so much amusement to our eastern and transatlantic brethren, were as much of a novelty to the supposed actors in them, upon their first appearance, as to their neighbours in the adjoining states.

The main incidents detailed in this work are strictly historical, and drawn from authentic sources. So great, indeed, is that portion devoted to the narrative of well known events, that the author has his fears, lest by their too frequent occurrence, the purely fictitious part may be weakened, and the whole assume a dry and uninteresting appearance. But when he reflects upon the nature of his materials, and the striking incidents in the history of the Prophet, which make truth appear stranger than the wildest fiction, he is inclined to think that the reader will wish he had curbed his fancy still more, and detailed yet more at length, the actual occurrences of that interesting period. The speeches attributed to Tecumseh and his brother, as well as those of Gen. Harrison, are extracted verbatim from the records of the times, since nothing which the writer could himself compose would approach them in native eloquence and felicity of expression. Much as they must suffer in the translation from the Indian tongue, there still remains sufficient of the sacred fire, the “divinus afflatus,” to show the character of their eloquence, and vindicate for their author the title of Prince of Indian orators as well as of warriors.

Feeling it a duty due myself, to assign the reasons why I had ventured to set forth opinions counter to the generally received impressions of Indian and western character, I have been led to express myself more at length than I intended. With this as my apology, I subscribe myself,

THE AUTHOR.

Jerusalem, Southampton Co. Va.
January 27, 1836.

ELKSWATAWA;

OR,

THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

CHAPTER I.

“And many a gloomy tale tradition yet
Saves from oblivion of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,
To people scenes, where still their names remain.”
SANDS.

The 20th of August, 1794, was the commencement of an era, ever to be remembered in the annals of the West; for it marks the close of those sanguinary battles which had so long desolated our northwestern frontier with all the horrors of savage warfare.

Previous to this date, the Indians, emboldened by repeated successes, and instigated by hireling agents, had swept like a tornado along the whole range of our western settlements, marking their route with the direst destruction. But it was not in predatory excursions alone that their power had been felt; they had been victorious in several regular engagements. Led on by the most noted chieftains of their tribes, they had defeated Generals Harmar and St. Clair, nearly annihilating the army of the latter, and creating so great a sensation throughout the land, that it caused the Father of his country, like Augustus when he heard of the destruction of Varus and his legions, to weep for the men he had trained to arms, and pass a sleepless night, pacing his apartment, and repeating aloud, “St. Clair! St. Clair! restore me my troops!”

This calamity, however, aroused the nation from its apathy; and the appointment of General Wayne to the command of the western army induced the country to anticipate the happiest results. No man was more popular, and no selection could have inspired more confidence. Bold, daring, indefatigable, and skilled in habits of Indian warfare, he was withal so reckless of life, that he received, and ever after bore in the West, the appellation of “Mad Anthony.” We should exceed the limits which we have here assigned ourselves, were we to trace minutely the progress of events from the time of his appointment to the period with which we commence; nearly a year had elapsed, and nothing definite had been accomplished, when, on the 8th of August, 1794, we find him encamped at the confluence of the Au-Glaize and Maumee Rivers, having under his command more than three thousand men, most of whom were regulars. The Indians, comprising the tribes of the Miamies, Pottawatamies, Delawares, Shawanees, Chippewas, Ottawas, and Senecas, amounting in all to about two thousand, were commanded by Little Turtle, chief of the Miamies, and the most noted warrior of his day; Blue Jacket, chief of the Shawanees; and Buckongahelas, chief of the Delawares.

The morning of the 20th found the Indians advantageously posted in the forest of Presque Isle, awaiting the advance of General Wayne. With his army divided into two columns, he moved on to the attack; the action became general about 10 o'clock, and for sometime was maintained with the greatest obstinacy. A movement on the part of the American General to out-flank their right wing, threw them into disorder, and wanting unanimity among themselves, for dissensions had already crept into their ranks, a flight ensued, and victory declared in favour of the Americans. The loss on either side was not great, yet the victory was complete, and attended with more important consequences than any battle which had ever been fought in the “far west.” The Indians were dispersed, and their property destroyed, and being no longer able to contend with any hope of success, many chiefs sent in their submission. Hostilities were now suspended, and in the following year Commissioners were appointed on the part of the United States for the purpose of concluding a general peace.

Greenville, in Ohio, was appointed for the conference, and thither in August, 1795, repaired the Commissioners, together with the chiefs of all the northwestern tribes, accompanied by crowds of red men. Never had a more imposing council been held in the “far west.” Of the Representatives who were present, each one was conspicuous in the tribe to which he belonged, all were famed as warriors, and noted for the part they had acted in the deadly struggle which they had so long, and so hopelessly been waging.

The crowd which had assembled, both of red men and whites, gave it somewhat the appearance of a jubilee, but, on the part of the Indians, it was a sad occasion which had called them together. They had long been contending for wild lands, and still wilder liberty, with a perseverance and determined zeal which won the admiration even of their enemies. There was nothing selfish, or ambitious in their purpose; they fought to retain that which the God of nature had given them, and thousands had fallen and died satisfied, that they fell in defence of their hunting grounds, and in preserving sacred the graves of their fathers. They yielded to the superiority which a civilized has over a savage foe, and they yielded, when their tribes were so thinned of warriors that but few were left to battle in their country's cause.

After so fruitless and protracted a struggle, it might truly be deemed a sad occasion which had called them together, to transfer for ever, those lands, for the possession of which they had so long contended. But they were now forced to sue for peace, and the cession of a large portion of their territory was the sole condition upon which it was to be obtained—the powerful dictating to the powerless—and we may well conceive the reluctance with which they acceded to the demand, when we reflect, that the tract of country then surrendered, now comprises several of the most flourishing states in the Union. The terms, however, after a long and ineffectual opposition, were accepted, and the treaty being ratified, each party pledged itself to preserve the peace concluded. The Indians then expressed themselves contented with its provisions, and the council adjourned. Peace being now restored, all seemed anxious to preserve it, and Indians and whites mingling promiscuously together, forgot at once former differences, in expressions of mutual courtesy and friendship.

With this state of things came a change in the affairs of the West. The instruments of war were exchanged for the implements of agriculture, and crowds of emigrants were found flocking to that lovely region of country, where but a short time before, marched regiments of fearless and intrepid soldiery, or where, in lawless bands, with vengeance dire, there roamed the savage wild. Beautiful and bright was the prospect now, as when a cloud which has for some time shrouded the horizon in gloom, carrying terror and dismay to the breasts of all, spends its force, and suddenly breaking away, leaves the glad sun dancing upon the earth. So was it here. Gloom and darkness had hung over the land—the midnight torch, and merciless scalping-knife were the visions of the past, and the future now shone forth so clear and inviting that it promised to realize even the wildest dreams of the imagination.

Looking through the vista of futurity, it required no seer to foretell, that the Valley of the Mississippi, which, from its physical appearance, may well be regarded as the cradle of our continent, was soon destined to become the chosen home of the exile from every clime, and to contain a population, brave, hardy, and industrious; not one to whom ignoble thoughts were boon companions, but a people elevated in sentiment by the immunities received under a Republican government, and stimulated to acts of noble daring and enterprise, by the reflection, that their fortunes were cast in a land where nature had been more lavish of her bounties, than in any other part of the world—yes, in a region of country, bounded on the north by lakes, in which, so vast is their extent, all the vessels, that in every part of the world now plough the briny deep, might be placed, and still hold their onward course—in a region of country, where rivers run by almost every door, and throughout the whole of which flows one great stream, the grand receptacle of a thousand tributaries—a wonder within itself—the great aorta of our continent, which courses every clime, from the far frozen regions of the North, to warm and sunny lands, “where the orange and citron are fairest of fruit,” and flowers burst into beauty, regardless of the seasons of the year.

Indeed it required no seer to tell, that here, in a few years, cities would spring up as if called into existence by the wand of the magician, that those streams, over which now skimmed the light canoe, would soon be covered with boats, bearing to other markets the surplus produce of a mighty people.—These were the expectations which filled the minds of all, when peace spread her wings over the wilds of the West, and when with them were connected the descriptions of hardy adventurers, who not only pourtrayed it as possessing all the advantages here depicted, but likewise painted its beauties in such glowing colours, that reason was merged in visions of fancy, thousands of our enterprising citizens tore themselves from their comfortable homes in our older states to become settlers of the West.

With the commencement of this onward movement, forests began to disappear, and fields of grain waved in rich luxuriance, where, but a few years before, the Indian hunter pursued his wily game.—As time rolled on, the woodman's axe was often heard in the forest, and every road was thronged with emigrants wending their way to some new and distant home—while the Ohio was dotted with countless small flat-roofed buildings, filled with families, who were floating on to points still more remote.

When the tide of emigration first began to flow, the wigwams of the Indians served as a barrier, and for a time stayed its progress; but, as the flood increased, they were forced to desert their homes, and recede from its influence. Having smoked the pipe of peace with the stranger, they spoke not a word, but with feelings of deep sorrow, left the graves of their fathers, and retiring farther into the forest, selected another spot whereon to fix their cabins. But scarcely were they settled in their new abodes, before the axe of the pioneer again resounded in their ears, and the lodge of a squatter was seen rising in the distance. With the approach of the whites, retreated the game which was the sole support of the Indians, and again they plunged yet deeper into the recesses of the forest, and murmured not.

But when they began to find that one encroachment was but the prelude to another, and that patient endurance availed them nothing, suppressed murmurs were at first heard, then hoarser remonstrances, and finally out they spoke, talked of right and wrong, and denounced the whites as grasping and unjust, till the sparks of vengeance which were to kindle up a flame among the tribes, were then first blown abroad.

But setting aside the encroachments of the whites, there were other causes for their discontent; causes, which deeply agitated them, and stirred up in each one feelings of revenge. The treaty of Greenville, though seemingly just in its provisions, had been wrung from their necessities, and although at its conclusion, all the chiefs expressed themselves satisfied, and an opinion pervaded the country that a firm peace had been established, still there were many of the Indians in whose bosoms hatred against the whites was not extinguished, but continued to glow with a burning desire of vengeance. To them the treaty was but the smothering of a fire to keep it alive, and their sense of unavenged wrongs was like a secret volcano, consuming itself with its own fires, and accumulating the power to burst forth.—The warriors who entertained these feelings belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most warlike on our continent, and had often fought first among the foremost, in many of the numerous conflicts in which their tribe had been engaged.—Those to whom we particularly allude, were present at the treaty of Greenville, and though too young to be allowed a voice in council, left it with disgust, and from that moment to the period of which we are writing, had been constantly brooding over the wrongs of their country. But now, when they viewed the continual encroachments of the whites, and saw, daily, their dominions invaded, and their hunting grounds lessened, they began to awaken to a sense of their danger, to breathe abroad a spirit of revenge, and urge their countrymen on to acts of violence.

To the causes of irritation which we have before enumerated as stimulating them to these measures must be added the breach of the treaty of Greenville, which had been so solemnly ratified, and which on the part of the Indians had been preserved inviolate. One of the stipulations of that humiliating compact, by which they had ceded so vast a territory, provided that all murderers should be surrendered to the party aggrieved, to be punished according to their respective laws or customs. In accordance with this provision, Indians were repeatedly given over to the United States' authorities, tried, convicted, and executed according to the judgment of their courts. But though many Indians had been shot in the most wanton and unprovoked manner by Americans, and a demand for the murderers often made, still they were never given over for punishment, nor was there even an instance in the courts, of a conviction for so atrocious a crime. This was the power of prejudice, and to such an extent was it carried, that the killing of an Indian by an American was scarcely regarded as indictable offence. Can it then be a matter of surprise, that in this state of things, they, with their ardent feelings and simple notions of justice, should be sometimes tempted to take the law into their own hands, and seek by bloody retaliation that redress, denied them by our courts, and the hostility of our people. Is it at all strange that murders were committed which began to increase to an alarming extent, and that the Indians, adopting our own tactics, should have endeavoured to screen the murderers?

But we have still to add for the Indians, another cause of exasperation. Many attempts had been made on the part of the whites, to purchase other portions of their land, from all the tribes assembled in general council. In this they had failed, and yet, several treaties had been concluded, and large districts of land conveyed to the United States, by a single tribe, while the Indians generally regarded it as the common property, only to be alienated by all the tribes collectively. To annul these treaties, repeated applications had been made, but without success. These, with the long and unprovoked aggressions before mentioned, would have stirred up the deadliest hate of the most civilized people; then how could they otherwise than powerfully operate upon savages, marked by ferocity of disposition, and stubborn independence of character.

While this state of feeling was spreading rapidly among the Indians, emigration was in a great measure suspended, and fear was felt by all the border settlers. Nor were their apprehensions groundless, for it often happened that some adventurer, more daring than his companions, suddenly disappeared from his family, and was never again heard of. And scarcely would the excitement consequent upon these things subside, before acts still more alarming in their character were perpetrated, tending to unveil the mystery which hung over the fate of those who were lost; for the hunter would at times discover the mangled body of some emigrant who had been wantonly murdered, and left a prey to the beasts of the forest. When these things were told, terror and dismay filled the breasts of all, mothers pressed sleepless pillows, drew their infants still closer to their bosoms, and saw in troubled slumbers the blaze of their dwellings, while the war whoop of the savage would ring shrill in their ears. Yet it was but a dream.

At this time a great change was observable in the habits of the Indians; they no longer indulged in intoxicating liquors; gewgaws, which before possessed so many attractions in their eyes, were now disregarded; all intercourse with the whites was suddenly broken off, and rumour began to tell of secret councils, and midnight meetings in the depths of the forest. And then were heard dark hints, and enigmatical sayings, implying that they were invulnerable to the bullets of the whites, and were soon to repossess the lands of their fathers. Then came the tidings that a Prophet had arisen, who held daily converse with the Great Spirit, and ruled the tribes with an absolute sway. With this annunciation, the clouds of discontent, which had so long lain scattered in the horizon, began to unite, and settle in darkness over the west. At this period we commence our narrative.

CHAPTER II.

“Then he hears
How the fierce Indian scalped the helpless child,
And bore its shrieking mother to the wild,
Butch'ring the father, hastening to his home,
Who sought his cottage, but to find his tomb.”
BRAINARD.

The 10th of August, 1809! At the mention of that date, how the past sweeps by me, and with it come the yells of the savage, the dying groans of infancy and of age; and by the light of lurid flames, I behold their bleeding bodies, and hear the last gurgling cry of a youth, as he sinks beneath the closing waves. It was a sad night, and fearfully wild is the tale which it tells.

The Ohio, than which no lovelier river flows beneath the sun, was bearing on its surface, a rude boat, containing an emigrant family destined for some point in the “far west.” Carried along by the current, its motion was so gentle, that not a ripple indicated its passage. The hour was midnight, there was no moon, yet the stars emitted a soft light sufficient to show the dim outline of the lofty hills, which skirted the river on either side, serving as landmarks to the adventurer, by which to keep near the middle of the stream. The country was here entirely unsettled, and the dense forests which rose up high into the heavens, threw over the scene a sombre hue, calculated to suggest to an excited imagination a thousand dangers.

Thus situated was the family of John Foreman, consisting of himself, his wife, and several children; among them a sweet girl, who, like an opening flower, was just expanding into beauty, and a son who had already arrived at the age of manhood. Mr. Foreman was a native of lower Virginia, whom misfortunes had reduced to poverty, and who, with a hope of bettering his condition, had torn himself from his friends, to become a settler of the “far off West.” Having embarked at Pittsburg, he had already floated far upon his journey, when the incident occurred upon which depends the interest of the following pages.

The boat having swept a distance hard upon a thousand miles, through a country where the vision was bounded by lofty hills, rising before them in perpetual beauty, had now arrived at a point where the scenery ceases to be beautiful, and at once becomes grand and sublime. This point, the most remarkable on the Ohio River, is known to travellers, by the name of the “Battery Rock,” being a mural precipice of limestone, rising perpendicularly several hundred feet from the river which laves its base, and stretching for some distance along its northern bank. It lies within the state of Illinois, some ten or twelve miles below Shawneetown, and a few miles above the village of Golconda.

The hour, as we have stated, was midnight, and being such as to invite repose, the family were all asleep, save Mr. Foreman and his son Hugh, who were reclining upon the roof^1 of the boat, and directing its course by a long pole, which projected from it, and served the purpose of a rudder. An unbroken silence had for some time reigned, when the following dialogue ensued:

1 See note A.

“Do not bear so much to the left, Hugh; you will get out of the current; see, it sets in to the bank.”

“Yes, father; but the more distant we are from the bank, the safer I feel.”

“Afraid of the Indians, Hugh?”

“No, sir; I cannot say I am afraid.”

“I am pleased to hear you say so, my son; you should not fear, for although they tell so many bloody tales of them, I think we shall have no cause to add another to the number. We have now floated a long distance, been upon the water more than twenty days and nights, and yet no mishap has befallen us; a few days more, and, God willing, we shall reach our place of destination.”

“I wish it were so, father; I have no fears, yet my heart has some strange misgivings. Gay dreamed last night, we were taken captive by the Indians. I have no faith in dreams, and I know not why it is, but I feel sad and gloomy.”

“Hugh, this is not a time to indulge in superstitious fears, when we are about to form a frontier settlement. Such things must be abandoned, or you will become a laughing stock for your companions; moreover, your sister must cease to tell her dreams, since they unman her brother.”

At this speech, Hugh's countenance slightly coloured with indignation, but it quickly passed away, and he said: “Father, I feel your reproaches, yet I have not the spirit to answer them; for a presentiment of danger has come over me, and though vague and indefinite, I feel that there is no opposing it; indistinct and gloomy visions flit across my mind, conveying no definite idea. To ensure our safety, I would this hour willingly meet Tecumseh, single handed, terrible as he is.”

At the name of Tecumseh a shade passed over the face of Mr. Foreman, while he recollected the many daring outrages which were said to have been committed by him; but, quickly dispelling it, he said, “Come, come, my son, let us drop this subject; it is idle to anticipate dangers; bad enough to meet them when they come.”

“Then let it be so. But I wish we had not ventured so far down, it has now been nearly a week, and we have seen no living soul. Father, do not the woods seem to you darker than usual? the hills rise higher here than we have yet seen them; I never saw a scene so wild and lonely—father, father, did you not see a light moving?”

“Where, where, my son?”

“On the top of that lofty bluff to our right. There, there, I see it again.”

This annunciation acted like magic upon Mr. Foreman, who grasped his rifle, and nerving himself to meet whatever danger might present itself, gazed long and searchingly at the place pointed out. Still nothing was visible—the banks wore a dark and gloomy aspect, yet they were as quiet as the unrippled surface on which they were floating—no sign indicated the presence of a human being, no signal told that the wild woods were tenanted. Observing this, he drew a long breath or two, relieving himself from the high state of excitement under which he had been labouring, then turning to his son, said, “Hugh, you must have been mistaken.”

“I see nothing now, father,” was the reply, “but I thought I saw a light glimmer on those cliffs for a moment and then disappear.”

The scene, desolate as it was, was so quiet and lonely that its repose seemed a guarantee for security, and both again sunk into a dreamy reverie. Some time elapsed, when Mr. Foreman complained of being sleepy, and turning to his son, said, “I believe I will turn in, call me when your watch is over, and take care to keep near the middle of the stream.” So saying, he went below, leaving to Hugh the sole management of the boat.

When left alone to himself, Hugh forgot danger in the deep stillness around him, for it was of that nature, which by its sublimity hushes up the harsher feelings, and creates a vague pleasure which cannot be defined, and which we feel most generally, only when we look abroad from the mountain tops, or stand above the roar of dashing torrents. There are moments in life in which we cannot control our thoughts, yes, there are very many, and Hugh began to ponder over scenes from which he had been torn, to dwell upon the bright recollections of boyhood, and to feed his heart with the called up image of one, dear to him above all other things.

But while these things were passing in his mind, and by their power destroying all consciousness of the present, there might have been seen a dark and indistinct object on the surface of the water, stealing onward with the noiseless glide of the serpent, when it draws its doubling form along the dewy grass. No apparent motion, not a ripple of the wave announced its passage; yet it was approaching the boat, near, still nearer. Another moment, and it was along side. Then, like tigers crouching for their prey, a band of Indian warriors sprung forth, while the neighbouring hills re-echoed their savage screams. Then were heard cries for mercy, and shrieks of horror;—then might be seen their dark forms glancing in every part of the boat, while from right to left, with deadly sweep, they plied the greedy tomahawk. A moment more, and the splash of falling bodies was heard, then the bubbling groan of the dying,—and all was quiet. Not a sound broke upon the ear, all nature seemed asleep, and the boat still glided along as smoothly as it did an hour before. Another moment, and there rolled forth a volume of dense smoke, followed by lurid flames, which bursting out, wrapped the boat in a blaze of living light, and showed a mass of mangled bodies in its bottom. How ghastly pale are the countenances of the slain, when seen by that bright light. See how that mangled mother hugs her murdered babe!

At the same moment, in the back ground, yet near at hand, might be seen a light bark canoe, filled with Indian warriors, painted and equipped in warlike dresses, who with bright exulting faces were gazing on the scene before them, their hatchets red with slaughter, their hands clammy with the blood of the slain. And that nothing should be wanting to render the scene impressive in the extreme, stretched in one end of the boat, lay the almost lifeless form of Gay Foreman, the sole survivor of her family, with her hands pinioned; and her mouth gagged to silence her cries, while her head lay near a pile of bleeding scalps which had been torn from her butchered family, and from which, the warm blood was still trickling down into the bottom of the boat.

The Indians remained silent spectators, until the fire began to decline, when by its dying light they plied their paddles, and their light canoe darted off, skimming the waves like a living thing.

The incident above described occupied but a short time; the boat, covered with thin, dry pine boards, having burned to the water's edge, soon sank, and the Indians having left the scene, all was again quiet.

And was an act so daring to be perpetrated, and yet remain secret? no—on the opposite shore, within the state of Kentucky, and far in the forest, were reposing by the embers of a dying fire, two hunters of the “far west.” One was enured to fatigue, had often skirmished with the Indians, and ever surrounded by danger, was as wily as the savage, as daring, and as bold. The other had had less experience, yet they could both look upon death and not grow pale. They were asleep. But habit had rendered them so watchful, that the lightest step would arouse them from the deepest slumber, and scarcely had echo ceased repeating the first war-whoop which rang through the forest, before they stood erect, mute as statues, with rifles ready cocked, gazing deep into the woods. Another moment, and yet no cry—another, and another, and still all was quiet.

“I say, Earth, that cry must have come from some boat on the Ohio; the Indians are murdering some emigrant family.”

“It must be so, Rolfe; where else could it have come from? Gather up our plunder, and let's be moving; there's no more sleep for us.”

“Not an inch, unless it be in search of those Indians,” said Rolfe.

“You must be a blockhead,” answered his companion; “where do you 'spose I am going? If what we suspect be true, I must make a hole through one of 'em—yes, I am obliged to do it. Now did you ever hear of my backing out from a fight, when there was the least chance of getting into it decently?”

“Come, then,” said Rolfe, “haste, haste, we may yet save the life of a fellow-creature. Oh God! will there never be an end to this cold-blooded butchering?”

“No—no end till we use 'em all up—but it's no use to hurry after Ingens; to beat 'em we must fight as they do. Rolfe, you are always too eager—an eel does not move through the water with less noise than we should through the forest, if we wish to do any thing.” So saying, and repressing the ardour of his companion, they began to move silently along to the bank of the river, groping their way as stealthily as the wild tenants of the woods.

“Earth, is it not strange that we hear no more of them?”

“No; they do their work very silently; you will not hear any more of 'em, until they think themselves safe; then, if they have had much luck, they will kick up the very devil. Rolfe, you can fight as well as any body when you see an Ingen, but you know mighty little about their ways.”

“Earth, I am rather a novice at the business you know, and confess I have much to learn; tell me why they whooped only once, and then ceased.”

“As a signal for attack, and in order to frighten,—they ceased, because they fear discovery—but hush, we'll come upon them, may be, 'fore we know it.”

“Earth, come this way, come, come, it is the nearest to the river.”

“Now, Rolfe, there it is again; does a 'coon, when he wishes to avoid the dogs, run a straight course, or take the nearest way to his hollow?—You, I suppose, would like to meet some dozen of 'em on the bank. Now take my advice; I am an older hunter than you are, and if hereafter you should meet an Ingen who knows me, just ask him if ever he fooled Earthquake.”

Then turning off a little from the river, he proceeded a short distance parallel to it, when he began to climb a hill, the top of which having with some difficulty reached, he motioned his companion to be seated; and in silence searched on every side for the spot where the tragedy had been acted. Yet no clue remained—no noise broke upon the ear—there was no light, the burning boat having sunk.

“Well, Earth, what do you think of this?”

“Why, that the Ingens are somewhere under the bank, perhaps in Cave-Inn Rock; the only thing we can do, is to remain here; if they have taken any prisoners, we shall hear them when they set off on their journey.”

“Where is Cave-Inn Rock; I do not think I have ever seen it?”

“It is so dark now that I cannot point it out to you, nor do I exactly know its situation; it is either in the ledge before us, or, if we are opposite the Battery Rocks, I believe it is lower down; but if that cave could speak it would tell many a bloody story.”

“How, for what is it remarkable?”

“Why, for years it has been, and now is, a place of concealment for those red devils from which to make their attacks on emigrant families. The entrance is scarcely larger than a door, although the cave, I am told, runs far into the rocks, and is situated so near to the river, that, if there be a smart rise, you can paddle a canoe into it. So, you see, no place could better suit their purpose.”

“There is a smart rise in the river at this time, and they may have gone into it; now, Earth, if the entrance be no larger than you say, can we not keep them in, and starve them into our own terms?”

“No; that is impossible, the rock rises straight up from the river, and there is no chance to get a foothold, besides there are some stories told of the Shawanees and that cave, which I don't even like to think of. But come, another time we will talk of this, for the present be quiet;” and they mutually sunk into a meditative silence which was first interrupted by a glare of light, accompanied with the wild revelry of savage triumph. Jumping up, they gazed around them on every side, yet nothing could they see; still the revelry continued. Again, and again they searched, but without effect, until Earthquake looking far above him on the opposite bank, beheld the cause, and calling the attention of Rolfe, he merely pointed his finger; not a word was spoken, but in silence they gazed with eyes riveted on the spot.

Nothing could be more striking than the scene before them. Lighted up by the glare of torches, which gave to the surrounding objects a darker hue, stood forth in bold relief a bare ledge of lofty rocks, upon whose summit were seen carousing a band of Indian warriors warm with slaughter, while several hundred feet beneath them, swept along the most beautiful and gentle river in the world.

Although separated by the stream, the fire threw abroad so bright a light, that to the hunters every object was distinctly visible. As the revelry continued, wild with ecstasy, the Indians were seen to pass round the scalps and examine each with many a jest. They then rose, and forming themselves into a line, commenced a war dance, merely following each other with measured steps in a slow trot within a circle, while at the same time they sang a wild melody narrating the events of the evening, which translated might run as follows:—

“Red, red, is my hatchet,
The long knives have gone home;
Red men, yes red men,
The pale face is laid low.
Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.

They come across the big lake,
They say we are friends,
They get strong, they rise up,
They take away our lands.
Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.

And never while sun shines,
Or river runs here,
Will we bury the hatchet,
Till the long knives are gone.
Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.

By the bones of our fathers,
We swear to this oath;
And die at the stake,
Let him who recants.
Chorus—Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.”

While this was acting, Rolfe and Earthquake had remained passive spectators, yet so vivid was the scene, that they had already become perfectly acquainted with the extent of the massacre, for the wild dance, the bleeding scalps, and even the condition of Gay Foreman were but too visible. Still pinioned, and gagged, and bruised by being dragged up the rocks, with her hair dishevelled, and eyes streaming with scalding tears, she lay spectatress of the scene before her, unable to speak or move.

Is there a human bosom callous to the appeals of pity? Yes, even in civilized life we meet them every day, then do not wonder that Gay Foreman, though a child whose every thought was innocence, and whose beauty was as variable, yet striking, as the ever changing hues of our own summer sunsets, should in the breasts of the savages, have awakened no feelings of compassion.

Her agony was so intense, that she was nearly insensible, and it seemed that her sufferings were about to be ended, for one of the Indians, tall, thin, and of gaunt visage, excited above his companions, stepped from the ring and tangled his fingers in her long dark hair. She shuddered, and looked imploringly in his face.

At this sight, Rolfe forgetting himself, distance, and every thing else, threw up his rifle, cocked it, and was in the act of firing, when Earthquake rudely caught his arm, crying, “hold, are you mad?”

The fiend now shone in the face of the savage, the tomahawk was raised, but, ere it fell, another warrior rushed to her rescue, and Gay was preserved, whether for a better or worse fate, will be learned in the sequel.

Having witnessed the escape of the captive from immediate death, Earth observed, “now, Rolfe, had you fired, your ball would never have reached those cliffs, and its report would have been a signal for their flight, and her certain destruction.”

“But, my dear Earth,” said Rolfe, “how could I look on unmoved.”

“My good fellow, the best intentions often produce the worst effects, when acted upon in the heat of zeal. Remember, keep cool if you can, and let your judgment act in the hour of danger.” He then pressed his head with his hands, as if suffering under intensity of thought, and continued “it is not an entirely hopeless case; we must go in pursuit of them; so fair and young a creature must not writhe at the stake.”

“With all my heart,” said Rolfe, “let us go; quick, how?”

“It matters not how, we must go,—poor girl, were I to leave her alone in her present situation”—here he could say no more, for the tears flowed in a stream, down his rugged and weather beaten face. Is was a lovely sight to see a rough hunter of the west, whose appearance indicated him a stranger to feeling, thus overcome by sympathy for the distressed.

Rolfe, who had hitherto looked on his companion simply as a hunter, bold, frank, and daring, when he saw him thus affected, knew not what to think; and was about to inquire the cause of his emotion, when Earthquake requested him to be silent. His grief was of too holy a nature to be disturbed. Oh! what a flood of recollections must have called forth that gush of feeling.

Descending the hill, they pursued their way to the river, still keeping an eye upon the Indians. Earthquake wiping the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his jacket, observed, “my conduct must seem strange to you, Rolfe. I have been in these woods a long time, and I have seen more than I ever tell of—I once had a father, and a mother, and sis”—but the tears again started, and he added, “let us drop it; perhaps another time,” and in silence they threaded the woods until they stood on the river bank.

Earthquake was now himself again, and he said, “come, Rolfe, their frolic is nearly over; see, they are loosing their captive, and will soon be moving. We must intercept them when they come down from the cliffs, and follow on, watching our chance. Will you venture?”

“How, swim it?”

“Yes, we can do nothing else; we can lash together a couple of logs to lay our rifles and clothes on; they will keep dry, and we must swim along, resting upon them. This is the only hope, for we might search for a week, and not find a boat.”

“Then let us go to work; I willingly risk my life in such a cause.”

A short time sufficed to prepare the rude raft, and the hunters having stripped, and placed upon it their rifles and clothes, it was seen gliding noiselessly forward to the opposite bank.

CHAPTER III.

“The western borders were with crimson spread,
The sun descending looked all flaming red;
He thought good manners bound him to invite
The strange youth to be his guest that night.
'Tis true, coarse diet, and a short repast,
He said, were weak inducements to the taste
Of one so nicely bred, and so unused to fast:—
But what plain fare his cabin could afford,
A hearty welcome at a homely board,
Was freely his; and, to supply the rest,
An honest meaning, and an open breast.”
DRYDEN.

Richard Rolfe was a high-toned and chivalrous Virginian, born and reared in Petersburg, a beautiful town lying within the county of Dinwiddie, and stretching along for a mile or more on the southern bank of the river Appomattox. An orphan in early life, he was educated under the guidance of an uncle, and completed a course of studies at William and Mary college, at that time, and, I dare say at the present, the best institution within our country for the sons of Virginia.

The law, as a matter of course, was selected as his future pursuit, for parents thought then, as they do now, that every child who is educated, must be bred to that profession. Scarcely had he commenced this pursuit before his uncle died, leaving him pennyless and alone in the world. Yet, destitute as he seemed, he was of great promise, and his friends, looking far into the future, predicted his advancement to the highest honours of his native state.

There is one requisite, without which, no man in the practice of the law can arrive at any degree of eminence, and this is untiring perseverance. I care not what his talents may be; there is no exception. We sometimes, though rarely, meet with instances which seem to be exceptions, and they indeed are beautifully bright. They dazzle, and we are delighted; yet, like ignes fatui, which charm the beholder, they last not. No—they endure not unto the end, and however brilliant their efforts, they are distanced in the long race of life, by far inferior, yet more laborious competitors.

Yet Rolfe reckoned not on this important, though common-place truth, but endowed with many estimable qualities, commenced his profession, flushed with hope, and sanguine of success. The world said of him that he was good-looking; yet his particular appearance, his mode of dress, the colour of his hair or eyes, with other minutiae generally deemed all-important by novelists, I never knew; so, let them pass; he was of good family, and had received the best education the country could afford. Generous to a fault, ardent in temperament, and glowing with youth, there would at times burst forth feelings and opinions which characterized him as a being of a high order. Yet he was too sensitive, with opinions of principle too refined, for the practical sphere in which he was destined to act; so that he often deemed the world selfish and dishonest, because its views did not coincide with his own; imagined a friend cold and unfeeling, because he was less ardent than himself, and often conceived himself slighted when no offence was intended; with all this, frank in his manner, and ever ready to forgive, he was endowed with many elements of true greatness, but what is a rare occurrence, he possessed them in too great a quantity, for he wanted that power which would enable him to control and regulate them.

Such was Richard Rolfe, when he commenced the practice of the law, and such was he, when fate threw him in the company of a gentle being, who, unwittingly to herself, initiated him into the mysteries of that delicious passion, which, Burns says, “in spite of bookworm philosophy, and acid disappointment, I pronounce to be nature's dearest gift, our greatest blessing here below.” He loved, and what southerner, who has arrived at the age of twenty, has not?

“The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name;
But his was like the lava flood,
That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.”

He loved—the expression seems cold when used to characterize a passion deep, ardent, and intense, as was that of Rolfe—and still she was neither a sylph, nor a fairy, nor an angel, but merely flesh and blood, cast in nature's prettiest mould—“a sweet, sonsie, bonnie lass.” Her eyes were hazel, and she was a gentle, quiet little creature, well calculated to rob you of your peace, without your ever dreaming even for a moment that she intended it. Her hair—a poet would have called it auburn—was rich, and glossy, and fell curling and clustering beautifully down her shoulders, forming a rich drapery for the loveliest face my eyes ever beheld. A face, not brilliant, nor splendid, nor even pretty; no, these are not the epithets which would have characterized it; but it was lovely, and gentleness and purity held dominion there, and cheerfulness often came, and still had it been wanting, she would not have been melancholy.

As I said before, she was a quiet, gentle creature, and seemed unfit for the cold and selfish world in which she was destined to play her part. With these qualities, she was intellectual, without being too much book learned, kind without seeming to intend it, and artless without affectation. Not a dog but read her countenance aright, and would follow her until he obtained his dinner; not a servant, but loved her more than any member of her family.

She was not a showy girl, and yet a stranger would have admired her without knowing why, and though placed in a room graced by beauty and fashion alone, and in the most retired part of it, a place she always sought, he could scarcely have passed without inquiring who she was.

Perhaps the charm lay in her retiring and timid manner. Her entrance into the world was like the mountain daisy, “scarce glinting forth amid the storm,” or it was like the first rose of spring, half blown, which comes out blushing at its own appearance, and nestling for concealment among the leaves which surround it. She was sweet fifteen—the spirit of love—whom to see, was to love, and who could not live without loving; playful as a child, with a disposition warm and confiding; and Rolfe loved her; she was, indeed, “the ocean to the river of his thoughts.” And did she love him? “She never told her love.”

Yet they had often walked together upon the rocky bank, which, on either side, bounds the river at the western extremity of the town, and had during their excursions, inhaled the fragrance of the woodbine, wooing with its petals the summer breeze, and beheld it wreathed in festoons, locking its tendrils one within another, and forming for the little islets a rich drapery. Often had they seen the mysterious love-vine creeping over the tops of the shrubs which rose along their path, or weaving itself among their tender twigs; often had they gathered the golden vine, and from it demanded their future fortunes. They had stood upon the towering rocks, which upon either side curbed the rushing river, and listening to the dashing torrent, had remained, charmed by its music, until the last rays of the setting sun warned them of the hour for departure. These, to young hearts, are dangerous things. Now, did she love him? Really, I know not; yet think you she could do otherwise, often meeting with Rolfe, gifted above his fellow men, and aware how much his happiness depended upon herself? He was poor, and on that account she was required not to love him, and that she might not encourage, she affected reserve. Formality now presided over all their meetings, which were less frequent than when first he knew her; yet Rolfe loved deeply, and would sometimes brook her reserve, and the cold glances of her parents, by repeating his visits. Although no smile of welcome greeted his entrance, a gleam of joy sometimes shone for an instant from the dark eyes of her he loved, and then again, it was yes, sir, and no, sir, to every question; and rigid ceremony prevailed during their meetings. Yet there were moments, when, overcome by the urbanity of his manner, or fascinated by the glowing powers of his conversation, formality made her exit, and sunshine gleamed over the little party. Then sparkled the glad thoughts of youth, then burst forth the untrammelled opinions of his refined nature, bright and dazzling as the gleam of rockets; or, if his thoughts soared from this world into the regions of speculation, they shone forth as beautiful and startling as the forked lightning which sports of a dark night 'mid summer clouds. Or, if he rather chose to tell a tale of tenderness, or of suffering, and thereby touch the chords of the human heart, spell-bound, his hearers followed whither he led, and only ceased to follow when he released them. Although such was his power, and such may have been the impression left, yet it was an equal chance, that at his next visit to the family, he would find them all icy cold.

It may well be conceived that Rolfe's present frame of mind was but ill suited to the study of the law; moreover, he was too restless and impatient to serve that regular apprenticeship through which all must pass who come forward relying for success solely on their own resources; which consists in unceasing attention and apparent devotion to business, when one has nothing to do; which implies incessant labour, without present benefit, for future and contingent good.

Time rolled on, and Rolfe became still poorer; unsuccessful in his profession, and apparently slighted by her he loved, he became gloomy and unhappy. The glow of early life was fast departing; his feelings were withering under the blight of mortification, and the world for him had no joys. To alleviate his sufferings, he courted dissipation, and neglected his studies; became reserved in his manner towards his friends, and consequently conceived them cold and unfeeling; when, being alone in the world, he resolved to leave the scene of his unhappiness, and seek a home in the western wilds.

This resolution was scarcely taken, before he communicated it to many of his companions. They laughed at it as the whim of a man in love, yet he was fixed in his determination, and a few days sufficing to make his little preparations, he set off, having been absent for several weeks, to gaze for the last time, on her he loved. Slowly, and with a full heart, he moved forward, and approaching the house of her father, discovered her in the porch, nursing her flowers, and twining into wreaths the woodbine, which, full blown, hung clustering in rich luxuriance above her. The last rays of the setting sun yet lingered on her form, which was partly concealed by the sweet foliage which surrounded her; and Rolfe thought he had never seen her so beautiful. Then there passed over his mind the reflection that the hues of the dolphin are brightest when it dies, and he added, “she too is loveliest when I leave her;” and, moving on, he was soon at her side. Upon discovering him, she turned, and with great gentleness, though in a slightly upbraiding tone, said, “Oh, Richard! why so long absent? You know not how much I have missed you.”

“A thousand thanks for those kind words,” said Rolfe, pressing her hand affectionately, “tell me truly, have you wished to see me?”

“Certainly,” said she, “for I have been lonely and wanted some body to talk with me.”

“Somebody,” repeated Rolfe, “then you cared not who?”

“No; we have had company enough, and, could numbers interest, I should never be lonely; but it is not every one whose conversation pleases.”

“Come, dearest,” said Rolfe, “you are grave this evening; why so?”

“No,” replied she, “I am not, and if you think so, it is your long absence which has caused it.”

“Pardon me, my love,” said Rolfe, “for though absent, my heart and thoughts have both been with you; not an hour passes but I in thought give half to you, and I would be oftener with you, but that I fear to trust myself.”

“Fear,—what?” said she.

“Why, that I shall love you more than I wish.”

“Then you do not wish to love me?” said she, inquiringly.

“I did not say that,” replied Rolfe, “although I think I should be happier if I had never known you.”

“And would you forget our acquaintance?” said she; “forget that which has been to me the happiest circumstance of my life? Richard, I have never given you cause to be unhappy.”

“My love, I mean not to chide,” said Rolfe, “but you know our attachment is an unfortunate one. Your parents always regard me as an unwelcome visiter.”

“Come, let us walk into the parlour,” said she, “there is no one there;” and in a few moments they were seated on the sofa, when raising her handkerchief, she pressed it to her eyes in silence.

“Come,” said Rolfe, “taking her hand, tell me, why so grave this evening, has any thing farther occurred to make you unhappy?”

“No,” said she, “but you know there are moments in which sadness sometimes steals over us without a cause—it comes like twilight, following the close of a summer day.”

“It is a beautiful comparison, love,” replied Rolfe, “but twilight is always succeeded by night. Do I read aright our fate?” “The present is dark,” said she, sighing, “and we cannot read the future.”

“And is the present dark to thee, love,” said Rolfe, “to thee, embodying within thyself all that is pure and bright, in human nature?”

“Hush, Richard,” said she, “could I be, you would make me vain, for you love me, and therefore think me better than I am. It is that which makes you speak so extravagantly.”

“Never mind that,” said Rolfe—“come, tell me, is there any hope that your parents will consent to our wishes?”

She blushed, and casting her eyes on the floor, was silent.

“So much for being poor,” said Rolfe, as a shade passed over his features, and he pressed his eyes with his hand, as if suffering with thought.

“Come, Richard,” said she, aroused by the attitude he had assumed, “please, don't do so; all may yet be well.”

“Will you marry me without their consent, at some future day?” inquired he.

“No,” said she, “I cannot do that, I should never forgive myself if I did, for they love me, and if they err, it is in doing what they think will advance my happiness.”—

“Then you will not run away with me?”

“No:—and never mention that again unless you wish me to like you less.”

“Then our dreams of happiness are over,” said Rolfe, “and this is our last meeting.”

At this speech, she turned her eyes full upon Rolfe, and gazed searchingly in his face, and when she read in his countenance that his resolution was taken, she became agitated, and said, “please don't say so; why not love me, and visit me as you have always done; I will never love another.”

“My purpose is taken,” he replied, “I shall ever love you dearly as I now do, and, should fortune smile, will at some future day return to claim you as my first, and only love. But in a day or two I shall leave for the west.”

At the mention of that word, a shudder passed over her frame, for in her mind it was associated with many stories of Indian massacre, and she said, “O! something is ever occurring to make me wretched. I had almost as lieve hear of your being tomahawked, as of your going to the west.” When she had made the remark, she turned her eyes on Rolfe, and on meeting his, her countenance was instantly changed, and she eagerly cried, “Oh, pardon me, pardon me, I did not mean it,” then laying her hands caressingly upon his, and looking imploringly in his face, she said, “forgive me that speech; will you, will you forget it? I am ever doing something wrong, though I do not intend it, now promise me, will you forget it?”

“Yes, most certainly,” said Rolfe, who had remained silent, charmed by her mode of atoning for a thoughtless speech. And that speech he had promised to forget. Yet the exaction of that promise had stamped it on his mind never to be effaced. No, never can he forget the slight and girlish form which prayed his forgiveness, never forget that countenance so full of tenderness and regret; no, never forget the thrill which ran over him when her light fingers touched his; never forget how each auburn lock seemed to woo his pardon; never forget how her dark eyes, full of affection, by their every glance expressed her penitence. Thou hast promised to forget, yet often in future years shall that scene rise before thee, whether thou mayest be standing above the roar of some cataract, gazing on some beautiful landscape, beholding the ever varying tints of a golden sunset, or reposing after the fatigues of battle. Yes, often, in the darkest hours of night, whether on the prairie, in the forest, or in a cabin, shall it rise before thee, and in all its loveliness shalt thou hug it to thy soul. Yes, it shall be to thee like an oasis in the desert, like a sail to the wrecked mariner, like hope to the criminal. Yes, time after time in future years shall it rise before thee, as green, as fresh, and as vivid, as though it were but the date of yesterday.

The above scene was little calculated to strengthen Rolfe in his determination, and a continuance of it might effectually have changed his purpose; but a step was heard, and her father, upon entering, found her cold and reserved, and apparently uninterested by the company of Rolfe.

After the common salutations of the day were over, she said, “father, Mr. Rolfe says he is going to move to the West, but I cannot believe it—do you?”

“I think not, my daughter,” was the reply, “for surely no one would venture there, in its present new and unsettled condition.”

“I shall leave in a few days,” said Rolfe. His remark was unnoticed, save by her he loved; she gazed at him for some time with searching eyes; the conversation then took another turn, and soon after he arose, wished them a good evening, and retired. Though struggling to conceal his emotion, his embarrassment was plainly visible, so much so, as to be the subject of remark after his departure.

“Father, I fear Mr. Rolfe is going, he seems so unhappy.”

“I hope not, my daughter, for, with perseverance, he will become an ornament to his profession, and although at present I should not like him as a son-in-law, yet I had rather he would not leave us.”

At the word, “son-in-law,” his daughter's cheeks were suffused with blushes, and running away, she was soon engaged in some household occupation; yet her heart was sad, and often did she detail to her mother Mr. Rolfe's remarks, and wonder if he was going to the West.

Having retired to his lodgings, he threw himself on a bed, where he remained for some time absorbed in thought, when suddenly assuming an energy of character, he arose, strode several times across the room, laughed wildly, and then suddenly curbing himself, his face grew dark as he said, “even she believes it the whim of a boy.” A shudder ran over him, his soul seemed wrung with anguish, and he added, “it is a sad duty to say farewell to friends we love, when we think we shall meet them, O! never.” Then pausing a moment, he continued, “O! poverty! poverty!—how often hast thou been sketched in some humble sphere, as fascinating in the extreme—and lovely art thou in the abstract;—but oh! let him tell who has felt thy gripe, how thy fangs creep into the soul, torturing it, and destroying its powers of action; or how, with thy cold, icy hands, thou freezest up the feelings, making this earth a hell!”

“Educated in a style unsuitable to my fortune; called into a class of society, whose expenses I cannot afford; brought up to a profession, whose profits, for some years at least, will not buy me bread, starvation, with her thin, lean, devouring look, sits gazing at me. My happiness, too, dependent on a girl whose parents slight me because I am poor! O! mine uncle! why did you not give me a profession suitable to my fortune? Had you but made me a mechanic, though never so humble, my thoughts would not have been exalted, and I should have been happy. But to be tacked on to the fag end of a profession, to spend my days lounging about the doors of a county court, wrangling over petty strifes, while my soul sickens with disgust, these, O! most noble profession, are thy duties. But I will away—I will leave my native land, and become a wanderer in the wide world,—yes, my resolution is taken.”

It is easy to conceive the state of mind, and the bitterness of feeling which gave rise to the above soliloquy, and I deem it not exaggerated, under the circumstances just described. Intense suffering often produces delirium, and that of the wildest kind; and while the mind labours under it, no language can be too strong for the expression of feeling.

Early on the following morning, a servant was holding at Rolfe's door a fine horse; a light pair of saddle-bags were thrown over the saddle, and the master appeared equipped for a journey. So easy and dignified was his deportment, so manly his carriage, that you would never have suspected that he was about to leave the home of his fathers. For there was no wavering of purpose, no flow of feeling to announce his departure; calm and unmoved, he was about to place his foot in the stirrup, when his dog Carlo, running and yelping playfully, jumped up against him, and commenced licking his hands, as if asking permission to go. This silent tribute of affection could not be withstood, patting him on the head, Rolfe wept like a child. “No, Carlo, I will not make thee a partaker of my misfortunes, the fate of an exile shall not be thine;” then shaking his weeping servant by the hand, “take this dog,” said he, “when I am gone, to my former friend Lucerne, and tell him to keep him, as a gift from me, and also tell him that, should all the world prove false, Carlo will remain true to his master.” Then spurring his horse he cantered off, threading street after street, until he found himself on the western highway, where we must leave him to pursue his journey.

His departure created quite a sensation, and for a time shed a gloom over the circle of his acquaintances. All his good qualities were called up and enumerated over and over again; his foibles forgotten. He was frank, manly, and generous. Then came speculations as to the cause of his leaving, and all recollected that he was poor, and that his profession yielded him nothing; and then all regretted his departure, and, were he now here, all would have assisted him.

But of all the crowd which entertained for him so many kind feelings, she who felt most, said least. Not a syllable in reference to him she loved was ever uttered; an indifferent spectator would never have imagined that she knew him. Yet to those who knew her, although she appeared gay and cheerful, her gaiety seemed forced. For so silently did she listen when Rolfe's good qualities were mentioned, that her soul seemed to drink in his praises, and her guitar, which once emitted sounds as light and playful as her own buoyant feelings, was now as sad as the heart of its mistress, for when she touched it, so plaintive were its strains, that they seemed to sound the knell of departing joys.

Several months elapsed, and no tidings were heard of Rolfe, when, at the close of a beautiful summer's day, a solitary and jaded traveller might be seen in the wilds of Kentucky, urging his weary horse along a wide path, which led on to the little village of Bowling Green. He was distant from it several miles, and night was shedding abroad her sombre hues, when, approaching him by the same path, walked a hunter of the west. He was strong and athletic in figure, and on his shoulder, supported by his left arm, was carelessly thrown a heavy rifle. A rough hunting shirt, fastened around his middle by a cincture or girth, from which gleamed forth a large and well sharpened Spanish knife, formed his upper garment, while his lower limbs were encased in leggins, which fitted with great neatness and regularity. His beard was the growth of many moons, and served to impart to him a ferocity of aspect, which accorded but little with his character.

But since this encounter, casual as it may seem, was destined to exert a great influence on Rolfe's after life, it is proper that we should detail the circumstances which accompanied it. The meeting between a traveller and a hunter, on the frontiers, has so much in it characteristic of that peculiar class of persons, who, from the time of earliest settlements, have been the pioneers of our western wilderness, that one who has once witnessed, can never forget it. In manner there is so much apparent familiarity, that you are apt to be displeased. But when you reflect that it is the offspring of the kindest feelings, and springs most generally from the purest fountains of the heart, you are gratified; for myself, of all welcomes, give me the hearty shake of a western hunter; for if you measure his good will towards you by the strength of his gripe, he never leaves you dissatisfied on that point.

The hunter wound his way along the path until he came directly up to Rolfe, when he eyed him for a moment from head to foot, and thus addressed him:—“Stranger, give us your hand, I'm glad to see you; don't see a man every day in these parts.”

Rolfe was at first disconcerted, and disposed to recoil from the rude familiarity of the hunter, but there was so much frankness in his manner, that he extended his hand, and thanked him for his kindness.

“You seem a stranger in these capes?” continued the hunter.

“Yes, sir,” replied Rolfe, “but I hope I shall not remain so, inasmuch as I came out with an intention of settling.”

“Give us your hand again for that,” and he grappled it like a vice; “we want men here awful bad; we have seen hard times, but I fear worse are coming. There was a whole family murdered just down here, a few nights ago.”

Rolfe started at the tidings; the scenes in which he seemed destined to act, flitted before him, but suppressing his feelings, he asked, “by whom?” “And who should it be but the Ingens?—I got upon their track right soon, and made a light through one of 'em.”

“Shot him?”

“Yes, look at the bore of that gun,” passing it to him. “Don't you think 'twould make a light through him? And he don't know to this day who it was that did it, but come, it's getting late, where are you going to camp to night?”

“That is more than I can tell,” replied Rolfe, “I did hope to get on as far as Bowling Green.”

“Oh! that will never do! 'tis too far; come, draw in your horns, and take the back track. The trail from here to Bowling Green is a bad one, and I do not think you can follow it; moreover, I have a friend a short mile from here, and what little he has, you are as welcome to as a brother. It is right rough living, but with a hearty welcome, and a good appetite, I should think you might get along, come, you can tell us the news from the old settlements.”

Rolfe, who was fatigued and weary, accepted the stranger's invitation with as much frankness as it was given; and proceeded with him to the cabin of his friend, where he met with much hospitality, and passed the night in telling them of “their kin^1 in the old country,” or else listening to hunting stories, with the more exciting details of frontier warfare. Several days passed, and still Rolfe remained, charmed by the bold daring, the manly frankness, and lofty independence of his companion. Time wore on, they became inseparable, and the accomplished and talented Rolfe became a hunter of the West.

1 See note B.

That he should have become strongly attached to hunting, an occupation so little in unison with his former habits, seems at the first view a strange annunciation, yet such he became, and such, from the nature of his situation, was the pursuit most likely to be followed. Having left home sick at heart, with blighted hopes, and feelings mortified, he arrived in Kentucky at a time when a frontier war was daily apprehended. A hunter's life was the life of a warrior, for he knew not where he might meet an enemy. Rolfe had no plan sketched out for the future, and his sole object was to forget the past.

In this situation, the first person with whom he forms an acquaintance, possesses in an eminent degree some of the nobler virtues of our nature; charms him with tales of border warfare, of lofty daring and bold conception, describes to him as a hunter only can, the high, yet pleasing excitement produced by being alone in the wild woods, where danger is known to be abroad. The effect of these things upon the mind of Rolfe may be conceived, when, rather more than a year after this time, the two hunters who are crossing the Ohio, may be identified with the persons we have been describing.

Rolfe and Earthquake, for so I shall designate the latter, having succeeded in passing the river, hurried on their clothes, and were soon ready for a march. Landing at the base of the limestone cliffs, upon which the Indians were encamped, they lost sight of them, and being unable to ascend the bank at that point, proceeded down the river until a more favourable ascent presented itself. Then seeking the woods, they cautiously crept along until they reached a large tree situated on the edge of a ravine, which commanded a tolerable view of the ledge of rocks, and there they resolved to await the approach of the Indians. They were led to do this chiefly because the tree, being hollow, offered them a hiding place in case it should become necessary.

Scarcely had they taken their position, when a light was seen moving about on the rocks, and soon after, an Indian, bearing aloft a torch, descended, apparently lighting the way to his companions.—Then came another, forcing along, and at the same time assisting, his beautiful and unfortunate captive, and then came the remainder of the gang, each following on in Indian file. Arriving at the base of the rocks, and gathering together, they consulted for a moment as to their route, then starting off, led the way directly towards the hunters.

When this plan was adopted, Rolfe and Earthquake, who had expected them to take a different direction, found themselves so near to the party, that retreat was impossible, and adopting the only alternative which presented itself, they concealed themselves in the cavity of the tree, and there awaited the issue.

As the light shot upwards with a vivid glare, “by heaven, Earth,” said Rolfe, “how the past springs to life at seeing that face; the girl of whom you have heard me so often speak, was very much like her.”

“Hush,” said Earth, “or you will have a tomahawk about you, afore you know it; hush, don't breathe, they are coming.”

The torch which they bore shed abroad a flickering light, showing at one moment every object with distinctness, the next, veiling them in darkness; and their heavy steps as they dragged their feet through the leaves, were heard approaching. The sobs of the captive, with the harsh language of the captors, as they urged her along, caused a shudder to thrill through the frames of the hunters, and Rolfe wrung his hands in agony, saying, “O! Earth! let us try them.”

“Hush,” said Earth, “we are gone if they come to the left of this tree; they come; we are gone! we are gone!”

The Indian who bore the torch was now within a few feet of them—another step, and the light must have shone in the cavity of the tree—another step, and discovery would have been inevitable. His foot was raised, his body advanced, but before the step was taken, the deadly rattle of a snake was heard, proceeding directly from the root of the tree. At the sound of the rattle, Rolfe started and drew up his feet; Earth pinched him into silence, and the Indian, recoiling at the well known sound, jumped back, pronouncing the word “achgook! achgook!” meaning, “snake! snake!” then filing off, he made a circuit to the right. It was a moment of wild and fearful excitement, as the Indians each approached the tree, and filed off. Death seemed already to have encircled the hunters in his icy fetters, yet the last of the band passed on, and all was safe.—“Thank God,” said Earth, “we are still alive.”

“I don't know that,” said Rolfe, shuddering; “where is that snake?”

“There is no snake here.”

“I certainly heard one.”

“No;—don't you recollect my killing a snake yesterday, and cutting off the rattles?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was the snake just now, I made the noise. There are many of the Ingen tribes who will not disturb a rattle-snake; they say it is as harmless as a lamb, for that it never attacks, and even when about to strike in its own defence, always gives warning that you may get out of its way. On this account, they avoid it, and when found, turn from its path. This was all that saved us just now.”

“My thanks to you, Earth, it was a bright thought. Is there not something noble about the rattle snake. I like the motto, ‘don't tread on me.’”

“Come,” said Earth, stepping out of the tree, and peeping round, “there they go, eight in number; see those hindmost how they are loaded with plunder. Rolfe, I fear we can do nothing.”

“But we must do something, Earth; let us follow on and wait a chance.”

“Recollect,” said Earth, “we are in their country, and must be cautious:—we may follow them through the night, for their torch will be of more service to us, than to them; yet, when morning comes, if we have done nothing, we must return.”

“To spread the tidings?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“But, Earth,” said Rolfe, “they profess to be at peace, and surely would not add another crime to the one just committed.”

“Yes, they will do any thing,” said Earth, “never put any trust in one if you can help it.”

“Well, Earth, tell me where do you think they are going?”

“That is more than I can tell,” said Earth, “you know that large numbers are constantly gathering upon the Wabash to see their new made prophet, and these may be hurrying on there, like a parcel of 'coon dogs on a warm trail. But this looks mightily like some of Tecumseh's work.”

“How? What do you mean by Tecumseh's work?”

“Why, I mean I never knowed any one of his band to leave any thing unfinished. I've known 'Cumseh a long time; I knowed him when he was a mere boy, in the old ‘Black Snake's’ time. I have set for him many a night on his paths, and watched for him like I would for a deer at a lick. That was a good while ago, Rolfe, but he used to make his mark then mightily like this one we've seen to night.”

“Whom do you mean by the old ‘Black Snake?’” inquired Rolfe.

“Who? Mad Anthony to be sure; why, Rolfe, you don't know any thing. The Ingens called him the ‘Black Snake,’ because, although they kept a sharp look out, he would crawl upon their lands before they knowed it.”

“Well, where is Tecumseh?” said Rolfe, “tell me that, for I think it probable they are going to his camp.”

“There is no knowing,” said Earth, “I hear he is always moving about in spots;—but what say you, shall we go or not?”

“Go on certainly,” said Rolfe, “we must follow them, at least for a time.”

“Be it so,” said Earth, at the same time following on. “The way I'll use up one or more of them will be quite alarming.”

“Come, Earth, do not follow their example;—let us have no more cold blooded butchery. If there is the least hope of rescuing the prisoner, I will help you to cut them into mincemeat; but to kill only one, when no possible good can result from it, I will not agree.”

“I used to hate this business, Rolfe, as much as you do, but they would make me git used to it. I've got a grudge agin 'em of mighty long standing. I once had a mother.” There was something in the pronunciation of the last word which precluded reply, not another syllable was uttered, but, darting from tree to tree, they began to move on in pursuit of the Indians.

For some time the pursuit was a silent one. The excitement which had been produced on the Indians in the early part of the evening, had died away, and sullenly they were moving forward to their camp. No sound was heard but the stifled sobs of the captive, and the rustling of the leaves as they marched along.

Rolfe had filed off to some distance, in order to get a side view of their movements, while Earthquake followed immediately on their trail. For some time this was the order of pursuit; then the Indians began to move more lazily, and one of their band, tall and rawboned, fatigued with the weight he was carrying, lagged behind, until he was separated by a considerable interval from his companions. Earthquake was not unmindful of this circumstance, nor of another, that he was the same who had tangled his fingers in the hair of the captive; and he was soon creeping after him, as a setter does, when he is winding birds. The torch gave an irregular light, yet by its dim glare, as it shot upward, Rolfe beheld Earthquake, but a few feet behind his intended victim, who stooping forward to support his burden, was lazily drawing himself along. He saw Earthquake cautiously draw from the cincture which confined his hunting shirt a knife, which glittered as the light fell upon it. Shuddering with emotion he turned his head from the scene. Yet a moment and no noise, still another, and all was quiet; turning to see what had happened, he beheld the Indian moving along at his accustomed gait, while Earthquake was no where to be seen. He searched the woods in every direction, yet nothing could he discover; several minutes elapsed, when looking far ahead of the Indian, between him and his gang, yet directly in his path, he saw a head peep round from a large tree, then quickly draw back. The Indian approached, the light seemed for a moment fainter, Rolfe heard the ripping of a knife, and as the light again glanced forth, he beheld Earthquake with the quivering body of the Indian in his arms, easing it gently to the ground to prevent the noise of a fall. The legs contracted, and kicked several times with the spasms of death, and then not a muscle moved. Earthquake withdrawing his knife, wiped it several times on his hunting shirt, examined its edge, and returned it to its sheath; then taking the bundle which the Indian had been carrying, he secreted it at a short distance, and continued the pursuit.

Though the execution of this plan was as quick as its conception, yet Rolfe, without Earthquake's being aware of it, had been a silent looker on. Paralyzed by the scene, he was for a moment at a loss how to act; it had been so cool, so silent, so effectual, and perpetrated withal in a boundless forest, at the dark hour of night. There was no sudden burst of passion, not a muscle had been distorted, but with the same quiet ease that he would have butchered a bear, did he go through the ceremony. Rolfe was lost in thought while considering how he should act, for his soul revolted at what he had seen, and he continued almost mechanically the pursuit, while Earthquake gliding along, bent his steps towards him, and upon coming up, playfully shook the rattle before mentioned. At the sound, Rolfe started from his reverie.

“What!” said Earthquake, “still afraid of the rattle snake?—You know it always gives warning.”

Rolfe turned upon him with eyes plainly showing his dissatisfaction; for the speech, as he thought, was bitterly sarcastic, while Earthquake, believing him ignorant of what he had done, intended nothing by it. The darkness of the hour prevented Earthquake from seeing the change which had come over Rolfe's countenance, and Rolfe was about to go a step farther and vent his detestation of such an act, when Earth calling his attention, pointed to a gathering of the Indians. “See, Rolfe,” said he, “they are consulting as to where they shall halt, for they believe themselves far enough from the settlements now, to rest in safety for a few hours.”

This luckily changed the direction of Rolfe's thoughts, and he asked, “what can be the hour of the night?” “Hard upon day-break,” said Earth, “you see it is darker than it has been, and you know it is always darkest just before the day dawns.” Leaving the hunters to hover about the temporary camp of the Indians, we must bring forward other parts of our story.

CHAPTER IV.

“These are the gardens of the desert,—these
The boundless, unshorn fields, where lingers yet
The beauty of the earth, ere man had sinned,—
The Prairies.”
BRYANT.

On the side of a green sloping hill, along whose base murmured a little rivulet, lay the temporary camp of a roving band of Indian warriors. It was situated within that region of country which now forms the state of Illinois, but over which, at that time, they roamed with all the freedom of undisputed sovereignty. Peace had reigned for many years, and apprehending no danger, they had selected their situation, a regard being had more to comfort than security. Somewhat elevated, it commanded a fine view of the surrounding scenery, and surely eyes never beheld a prospect more beautiful.

In the rear of their camp, and at a short distance, lay a boundless forest, wild, grand, and imposing from the deep stillness which reigned throughout it. There was no undergrowth, the Indians having regularly burned it every spring, and in its place, there sprung up a soft velvet grass, so green and luxuriant, that to the weary it seemed to invite repose; and upon this, far from the wigwams of the red men, fed herds of buffalo, deer, and elk.—Before it lay in all its silent beauty, a prairie, of whose extent the human eye could take no note. While you gazed searching for its boundary, the eye would sweep the greater segment of a circle, still there it lay illimitable; there, spread out before you, it undulated with the heavy swellings of the sea; yet it was not monotonous, for from its bosom arose many little islands as green and fresh as foliage could make them. The whole prairie was covered with grass of luxuriant growth, and adorned with every flower to which the climate gave birth, and when set in motion by the winds as they swept over it, it assumed the appearance of a gently heaving ocean, while the odour from the flowers, borne on the passing breeze, shed abroad so many sweets, that a stranger would have looked upon it as the land of promise.

And if there was a moment in which the prospect was more beautiful than at another, it was when the sun, near the western horizon, seemed pillowed on clouds of fire, or else sinking beneath it, grew large, and round, and red, shedding abroad a softer light, as if sorrowing that even for a time he was compelled to leave a scene so lovely.

Overlooking this, lay the Indian camp. A large buck which swung against a tree, and a buffalo from which several Indians were stripping the hide, indicated that they had just returned from a successful hunt. Yet you soon saw that hunting was not regarded as their sole occupation, for upon glancing round, you beheld stacked up in various piles, rifles, unstrung bows, and all the implements of Indian warfare; while the military dresses of the red men told plainly, that they were holding themselves in readiness for some warlike excursion.

The camp presented many scenes, several of which were strikingly impressive from their contrast. Scattered about in every direction, lay groups of warriors, some sleeping, others telling of battles, or cleaning their arms; while hard by, leaning over a log, might be seen several feathering their arrows, and decorating them with hieroglyphical characters. On the outside of the camp, burned a bright fire, over which several squaws were preparing their morning meal, and still farther without, rose up a bower, formed by the weaving of oaken boughs.—In this were reclining two female Indians, evidently of some distinction, from the manner in which they were treated. They were Netnokwa, and her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa.

Netnokwa was by birth an Ottawa, and notwithstanding her sex, was recognized as chief of her tribe. She possessed great energy of character, blended with ambition; bold, ardent, and indefatigable in her exertions, she had obtained an authority over her tribe which few of the opposite sex could have wielded. Conspicuous for her savage virtues, she also possessed those which would have shed lustre over any character; several times had she in former days led her warriors on to mingle in the exterminating war which then raged on the upper branches of the Wabash, and as often had she been successful. In the defeats of Generals Harmar and St. Clair, her warriors had been conspicuous, and she had also in person led them on to the decisive battle of Presque Isle, which marked its termination. From that time to the present, peace had reigned; but now clouds of war were again gathering, and Netnokwa, incited by the martial recollections of the past, had repaired from her distant home in the north-west to the scene of former conflicts, to learn the truth of flying rumours, gaze upon the far-famed Prophet, and acquaint herself with the situation of the tribes along the frontier.—In this journey she had been accompanied by her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, whom she brought with her to bestow in marriage on a Shawanee, whose growing reputation had already spread far abroad.

Having arrived in his country, she had ascertained the location of his encampment, and had with her daughter come to seek him. Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, or, “the Red Sky of the morning,” which her name implies, was as pretty as a dusky maid can be; beautiful in proportion, timid in appearance, and as easily startled as the fawn; with eyes so expressive, that they seemed to say a thousand things, while her hair, darker than the raven's wing, fell without a curl in rich luxuriance far below her shoulders.—She sate within her bower neatly dressed, and decorated with wild flowers, the snow-white petals of which, interwoven with her hair, wore the appearance of spotless gems.

She was embroidering with her needle a deer-skin slipper, or rather tracing thereon with beads, some fanciful figure, when ever and anon she would let it drop, and gaze upon the deep blue heavens, as if endeavouring to read therein her fate; and then her whole frame would tremble, and in her agitation she would again resume her needle.

“Mother, I fear I shall be left alone.”

“The ‘Red Sky of the morning’ is the fairest maid of the forest; where is the chieftain who dares refuse her?”

“Mother, I have seen chieftains decorate themselves with large and gaudy flowers, when the sweet-briar was opening its buds to the morning.”

“And is Netnokwa nothing? Proud may be the chief who calls me mother. Rest, my daughter, the fawn is troubled at its own image.”

“Mother, I know not the chief. Some Shawanee maiden will enter his wigwam. Your name is great among the red men, but I have seen a warrior strike with his hatchet the old oak tree which shades our wigwam, and it bled. Is not Netnokwa to her tribe, what the oak is to the forest?”

“Then be it,” said the mother, “as the Great Spirit wills it; we must await the hour.”

It is easy for us to conceive the feelings which agitated the breast of the Indian maiden. Young and diffident, she was frightened at the ceremony she was about to go through; and moreover feared a repulse with its attendant mortifications. She had never seen the man to whom, if it pleased his fancy, she was about to be united; nor had even a rumour reached her ears from which she might form any conjecture as to his decision. The hour for the ceremony had not yet been announced, although it was known that it must take place before the close of the day. Leaving Netnokwa and her daughter for a few moments, let us return to the camp.

Directing our attention from that part of it which we have been describing to another, the eye reposed upon a group of warriors, most of whom were earnestly engaged in conversation. There was one, however, of a dark and ferocious countenance, who spoke not, but sate apart, brooding on the visions of his own fancy. He was clothed with power, and not a glance that rested on him, but was quickly averted, as if from some dread object. This mysterious being was the Prophet of the Shawanees.

Next in rank was a character of a different order, whose dress bespoke him chief among his tribe.—His wrists were decorated with gold and silver bands, while rich ornaments of the same metals hung suspended from his neck and ears. Beside him on the grass lay a beaver skin, fancifully gathered up, somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish turban, and from it waved over with much grace, a large plume of white ostrich feathers. His tomahawk was keen and bright, its handle inlaid with silver, and with it his hands were playing for the want of some other amusement; his lower limbs were encased in leggins, on which were traced many grotesque figures, and which fitted him so closely, as to show the beautiful symmetry of his figure.—He was of fine stature, and his face, but for its dusky hue, would have been thought handsome, even by the pale faces. There was nothing dark or lowering in his aspect, but an ease of manner, and a grace which marked him one of nature's nobles. In gazing on him, the surprise was, that one possessing so few of what civilized man deems advantages, should by the power of genius alone, have already connected his name with a system of policy, which could only have originated in the deepest wisdom, and the most profound sagacity; a system, by which nearly all the tribes in the great valley of the Mississippi were made subservient to his purposes, and their power concentred for one great design.

Yet who was there, who had not heard of Tecumseh, the Shawanee warrior, who so often had foiled the whites, and like an eagle stooping from his eyrie, so often struck, and was gone, no one knew whither. Even when a boy in years, he had associated his name with so many tales of frontier massacre, that in the settlements it would blanch the cheek of a maiden, or hush a crying child into silence.

When the war which terminated with the humiliating peace of Greenville, was still raging, Tecumseh was the leader of a roving band which often swept down upon the settlements, and marked its path with the most desolating ravages. Nor, in the long interval of peace which succeeded, did his restless mind continue inactive, but was constantly engaged in meditating schemes of vengeance, and devising plans for concentrating the scattered energies of his countrymen, weakened as they were by petty jealousies, and by divisions among their tribes;—the particulars of which shall be shortly unfolded.

It is said that even when a child he gave marks of the prowess which was to distinguish his riper years. Oft time had he listened to the chiefs of his tribe, while they detailed the proud descent of the Shawanees, and described their once princely dominions, and had wept upon hearing their change of situation attributed to the perfidy and aggression of the whites. Like Hannibal in his infant years, who swore eternal enmity to Rome, Tecumseh vowed that all his energies should be directed to resist the encroachments of the whites; that never would he move from the lands which his tribe now held; but that there, on the graves of his fathers, would he make the last stand for the rights of his countrymen. It seemed as if all the wrongs his race had suffered were glowing in him alone:—he felt them, and had been in part avenged; for in early life, his path was like a tornado sweeping through the forest, plainly visible from the destruction that marked its course; and how faithfully he carried into effect the resolves of his early years, let the sequel tell.

Still, great as he was, Tecumseh was not alone, but was one of three brothers at a birth; and a more remarkable one, the annals of history never recorded. Tecumseh, Elkswatawa, and Kumshaka, were born near Chilicothe, on the banks of the Scioto, in the year 1772. Their father fell in assisting the unfortunate Logan in the battle of Point Pleasant, which was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, in 1774, and for instruction they became entirely dependent upon their mother, who was by birth a Cherokee. She early made them acquainted with all warlike sports; instilled into their minds a deadly enmity against the whites; narrated the sad catastrophe which led to the battle of Kanawha; and breathed into them that spirit of vengeance which had led their father on to the battle in which he fell.

Every thing surrounding them tended to make them warriors of the first class. They belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most warlike, and, at one time, the most powerful on our continent. For fifty years previous to the date of which I am now speaking, they had, with scarcely any intermission, been engaged in hostilities. They had fought every tribe of any note, residing in that extensive district of country which reaches from the Floridas on the south, to the great lakes of the north, among which may be enumerated the Creeks, Choctaws, Cherokees, Yemassees, and Delawares. Leaguing themselves with the French, they had fought as their allies from 1755, to the termination of the war in 1763. Recruiting for a few years, they allied themselves with Logan to revenge upon the people of Virginia the wrongs he had suffered in the murder of his family. Defeated in this attempt, and the war of the Revolution breaking out, they became the steadfast allies of the English, their former foes; remained so throughout the war, and continued up to the treaty of Greenville to wage an unrelenting warfare along our entire frontiers, notwithstanding the peace of '83. They never sued for peace, but time after time, to stay the wave of advancing population, had they swept over the frontier settlements. They alone had preserved unadulterated the Indian spirit of indomitable savagery; forming the forlorn hope of the numerous bands which had been continually driven westward, they had within their own minds marked out the boundary beyond which they would never retreat.

This was the tribe from which descended Tecumseh and his brothers, and where could they have found a better school for the exercise of all warlike propensities? where have found a situation better calculated to arouse them to action, and to make them the distinguished men they afterward became?

Nothing could be more different than the dispositions of the brothers. Tecumseh was noble in appearance, firm in purpose, gifted in speech, daring in design, burning with the love of glory, and reckless of personal aggrandizement. He was frank, open and manly with his friends, kind, just and humane to his enemies. Elkswatawa was tall, too slender to be finely proportioned, with sharp piercing eyes, and a thin, lowering visage. He was dark, crafty and subtle; wavering, nor in a stranger to mercy; and in purpose not less undaring less bold than his brother. Kumshaka had not the qualities of either; he was a good warrior, but wanted that comprehensiveness of mind, and fixedness of purpose, which characterized his brothers. With regard to him it is needless to enter more into detail, for his early death prevented him from playing any conspicuous part. Let us now return to our story.

The camp which we have been describing, was that of the Shawanees, and Tecumseh was its chief. Collected around him, his warriors seemed to be discussing some subject of great interest.

“The clouds are gathering,” said Tecumseh—“the red torch must shortly be kindled; the whites will not let us live in peace.”

“No,” said a warrior, “they kill our people and take away our lands; we must fight or starve.”

“Fight,” cried another, “and the whites shall be scattered like leaves by the wind.”

“Know you the number of the pale faces?” inquired the first warrior who had spoken—“they are like grains of sand on the shore of the big Lake:—they are like leaves on the trees.”

“Yes,” said his companion, “but the leaves on the trees sometimes fall.”

“They do”—chimed in Tecumseh. “But when the old leaves fall, new ones come; so is it with the pale faces. This country cannot hold us both, and when we battle again, it must be until they, or we, no longer struggle for dominion.”

“Before the treaty,” said the warrior who last spoke, “the red men went to battle, and the ground was covered with the whites;—will it not be so again?”

“It shall be so:”—said Tecumseh, “but the time has not yet come. When we again gather our warriors, the pale faces shall fly—we shall trample them down—and the wild beasts shall feed upon them. Did not the Great Spirit give these hunting grounds to his red children?”

While thus conversing, they were interrupted by a messenger from Netnokwa, who bore a bundle of presents, and said to Tecumseh, “the Red Sky of the morning wishes to make her appearance.”

“Let the messenger retire, while I hold converse with my warriors,” said Tecumseh; then calling them more closely around him, “Tecumseh would hold a talk with his brothers,” said he. “The pale faces are cleaning their guns and sharpening their knives. They wish to drive us from the hunting grounds of our fathers. Tecumseh never will go;—his thoughts are for his country; he has no time for a wife, and would have his brothers tell him the best way to refuse Netnokwa's daughter.”

“Netnokwa,” said a warrior, “is chief of the Ottawas; you had better tear a cub from a bear in its den, than refuse the offered hand of her daughter.”

“Netnokwa is great;” said Tecumseh. “She is a woman, and I fear her. Her tongue is like a knife. But before another moon we may go to battle. What would Tecumseh do with a wife?”

“Red Sky of the morning hath travelled far;” said a warrior, “her step is like that of the bounding roe; her moccasin leaves no print on the grass; her voice is sweet as the singing of birds. There is nothing like her in the forest. A maiden likes not to be turned away.”

“I have not seen her,” said Tecumseh, “and though she be beautiful as the sun when first he rises up from the prairie, and walks out to make every thing glad, yet, I want not a wife.”

“Shall she be laughed at by the chieftains of her own tribe,” said a warrior, “for having been refused by a Shawanee brave? She is young; her heart will bleed.”

“Tecumseh is sorry,” was the reply, “but he has spoken. The maiden must return to her own lodge.”

“Stay,” said a warrior, whose years entitled him to great respect, “will Tecumseh listen? My eyes have seen many snows, and my ears have drunk in many sounds:—something whispers me put it off.”

“Tecumseh would be glad if he could do so,” was the reply. “If the tomahawk were deep buried, and the pale faces would let it stay there, the daughter of Netnokwa should live in his wigwam. But it cannot be, and it is better to refuse at once, than to delay until the long shadows fall and then refuse. The maiden would dream she was a chieftain's bride. No.”—Then, turning to a warrior, he said, “get ready the presents, let them be rich, and such as should belong to a chieftain's daughter. To-morrow the maiden returns to her own country.”

The preparations were soon made, and “Red Sky of the morning” was seen coming towards Tecumseh's tent, leaning for support on the arm of her mother. As they approached, they were met by Tecumseh, who treated them with great courtesy; nothing indicated his purpose, no marked dislike, or even coldness of manner told that the maiden was to be refused. Never was a girl of the forest more fair, and never did so much delicacy and timidity encircle a dusky form. Shrinking from the ardent gaze of the chieftain, she caused her hair to fall over her face, serving as a veil behind which her virgin modesty retreated, while she awaited his advances. Tecumseh had never seen any thing so beautiful, and for a moment faltered in his determination; yet, with a recollection of the situation of his country, he was himself again, and taking the maiden by the hand he led her towards his tent, that he might accompany his refusal with a sufficient number of presents.

Netnokwa, during this time, calm, dignified, and majestic, had been supporting her daughter, without ever for a moment dreaming, that she was to be refused; and when Tecumseh, taking hold of her hand, led her on to his tent, she observed, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ will be the bride of the greatest brave.”

Tecumseh heard the remark, and felt deeply; for besides the passions of the mother which were now to be aroused, there was the daughter so retiring, modest, and gentle, that he was pained to give a pang to one so good. How sadly would she be mortified, not because she loved him, for until the present moment her eyes had never beheld him, but because of the ridicule which would be cast on her by the chieftains of her own tribe, for having been refused by the Shawanee. Without her consent, her mother had projected this match, in order to secure a strong ally; she was likewise apprised of the growing reputation of the Shawanee chief, and doting upon her daughter, had been anxious to connect her with one, whom fame had already exalted far above his companions.

Tecumseh, accompanied by Netnokwa and her daughter, had now nearly reached his tent; another moment and the costly pile of presents would have told his determination, when suddenly there arose a cry, that a runner was coming. The camp was instantly in motion, and all minor things forgotten in a general desire to hear tidings, whose import none could conjecture. Great was the relief to Tecumseh; it enabled him for a time to postpone the ceremony, and flattered him with the hope, that its purport would compel him to defer it until some more opportune occasion.

“What tidings are these borne on the breeze?” asked Netnokwa, “Shawanee brave, think not now of a maiden, but gather your men, and receive the runner.”

“I will,” said Tecumseh, as he hurried off, “return to thy bower;—I will tell thee the tidings.” A moment passed, the warriors were assembled in council, and the runner introduced. Addressing himself to Tecumseh, he stated that he left a band of Indians assembled on the Wabash, who were so excited against the whites on account of a murder recently committed, that he feared they would make a sudden irruption upon the settlements, and call down the force of the whites before the Indians were ready to oppose them. That being apprised of this, he had stolen away to tell it to the chiefs of the Shawanees, and see what they in their wisdom would do.

At the close of this speech the air resounded with yells of vengeance. When they had died away, and silence was again restored,—“where gather our brothers” said Tecumseh, “and what are their number.”

“They are assembling on the forks of the Wabash,” said the runner, “and warriors are gathering like pigeons at a roost.”

“This must be stopped,” said Tecumseh, “our fathers who have gone to the world of spirits, shall have more white men to wait upon them. But the time has not yet come; a little while longer, and the war whoop shall ring.”

Again the yell of savage delight broke forth; each warrior rose upon his feet, brandished aloft his glittering tomahawk, and made it whistle as rapidly he moved his arm through the air.

“Silence!”—cried a voice which had something in it of an unearthly sound; they were hushed as still as the grave, and the Prophet rose.

“Warriors, listen; it is the chosen of the Great Spirit who speaks to you. We are not ready for battle. When we strike, all the red men must know it. We must move like a great flood over the land. We are now but a small stream. Our brothers on the Wabash must be calm. They must suffer a little longer if they wish to see our rivers run red with the blood of the whites. Tecumseh, hurry away, and tell them the time has not yet come. They must disperse. It is the Prophet of the Great Spirit who commands it.”

He then seated himself, and Tecumseh, making no reply, for the words of the Prophet were by his followers deemed as unchangeable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, the council then adjourned.

“But stay,” said Tecumseh, addressing his warriors, “what will become of Netnokwa and her daughter?”

“We will away to our own country,” said Netnokwa, who, with her daughter, was standing a little apart from the crowd, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ would not detain her chief from duty:—when the sky is clear, the Shawanee brave can find our wigwam.”

“Yes,” said Tecumseh, “if I live, I will find it, but does Netnokwa look for a clear sky? Clouds are thickening; there may be peace between the red men and white, but, I fear, it will only be, when the white man's plough runs over our graves; never before. The pale face, like a lean dog, is always hungry.”

“The red man is strong in battle,” said Netnokwa, “let him go forth; when roused to vengeance who can withstand him; the Great Spirit is with him.”

“We are strong,” said Tecumseh, “and were all united, we could sweep over the settlements like a fire over the prairie. But we are divided, and must not strike till all are one. Then the earth shall tremble under the tramp of our feet, as we march along. We must stop our brothers on the Wabash. The Prophet orders it. I must away. You will return. Some of my warriors must conduct to her lodge ‘Red Sky of the morning.’”

“Let your warriors stay;” said Netnokwa, “the clouds are darkening. The pale faces may come down upon our lands. You may need them. I, and my daughter can thread the forest.”

“But my Ottawa maiden will want for food,” said Tecumseh.

“‘Red Sky of the morning’ is fleeter than the doe,” said Netnokwa, “her arrow never misses it's mark.”

Pleased by this compliment from her mother, she gracefully bent a bow which was near her, “will the Shawanee chieftain bring me that bird?” said the maiden, pointing to one which was sitting on a tree hard by.

“The distance is great; before I approach, it will fly:—” said the warrior.

“No,” said the maiden.

“I may not hit it,” said the warrior.

“I will,” said the maiden.

The warrior became confused, and hesitated.

“Will you bring me the bird?” said the maiden.

Still more confused, he bent his bow, and started forward.

“You need not shoot,” said the maiden, and drawing her bow, she let fly an arrow. The bird dropped beneath the tree; then, awaiting the return of Tecumseh, she said, “thinkest thou the Ottawa maiden will want for food?”

“Thou art the daughter of Netnokwa,” said Tecumseh, gently taking her hand; “when the pale-face is no more, we will together hunt the deer and buffalo far from our wigwam.”

With Tecumseh, this at the time was his determination; for never had he seen a maiden more lovely, or one more worthy than Miskwa to become a warrior's bride. Yet, dark as his forebodings were with regard to his country, he saw not how great and deadly was to be the coming struggle, nor how sad its issue, after having worn out in its defence the energies of his own great spirit, and covered its plains with the bones of his warriors.

But the time having arrived for him to set out, as ordered by the prophet, Netnokwa said, “hast thou heard of Pontiac, Tecumseh? His blood flows in my veins; at his name the settlements would tremble, not one, nor two, but all; his voice in battle was like rolling thunder; his path on the frontiers like the whirlwind's sweep; make him thy light, thy guide, thy north-star.”

“It is well,” replied the warrior; “but let Tecumseh live, and his country shall be respected and at peace, of the red torch of war shall blaze from the big lakes to the far south; and the red men from the setting sun shall hurry on to feast in the wigwams of the pale faces; farewell.”

“May the Great Spirit bless thee,” said Netnokwa. “Tell me, when will the Ottawa maiden see the Shawanee chieftain?”

“When there are no clouds in the horizon,” said Tecumseh, “and the war-whoop ceases to ring through the forest;” then disappearing for a few moments he returned equipped for a journey, and bidding his warriors a hurried farewell, was soon hid with the runner in the recesses of the forest.

CHAPTER V.

“Where is the stony eye that hath not shed
Compassion's heart drops o'er the sweet McCrea?
Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led,
Her heart is sad, her lover far away.”
DRAKE.

The leader of the party which Rolfe and Earth were following, was named Yanatah, who only halted for a few moments, that he might consult with his followers as to where they should rest; when again setting off, they soon emerged from the woods into an open prairie, and seeking a small elevation, which was no other than an ancient mound, they prepared to pass the remainder of the night. The spot which they selected commanded a view for some distance in every direction, and as the grass was too short for concealment, the hunters were obliged to content themselves with lying on the edge of the prairie under cover of the woods.

Each one of the Indians as they left the forest, picked up some wood, and in a few moments they had a large fire blazing, around which they gathered.

“We are not all here,” said Yanatah; “where is Begwa?”

“He had a heavy pack,” said a warrior, “and stays behind; he is tired.”

“Give the pale face a blanket,” continued the chieftain, “and let her sleep; she wants rest; she must travel to the Prophet's camp.”

This was done; but her heart seemed breaking, and death for her had no terrors. From the first moment of her capture until the present, she had been hurried along without time for reflection; and now, at rest, began to doubt whether she was dreaming, or whether her situation was really what it appeared to be; and when consciousness came with its sad reality, she gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears.

Some time elapsed, and yet Begwa had not arrived. His absence occasioned much anxiety, until some one hinted that he had gone off in order to secure to himself the plunder with which he was loaded. There being no other rational way to account for his sudden disappearance, the suggestion was agreed to, and vowing vengeance, they were silent.

After a few moments, Yanatah said, “while we sleep, let two warriors keep watch; I fear the pale faces are on our steps; I doubt if Begwa would have left us for the sake of plunder. Begwa was a good warrior.”

“Begwa,” replied one of the party, “would not have fallen without a struggle. If the pale faces were on our steps we should have heard them.”

“Can you hear an eel,” asked Yanatah, “when it moves through the water? say no more, but let the watch be kept.”

Soon after this, they were all reposing by the fire, save the two warriors on duty, who were perfuming the air with kinny kaneek, and inhaling its odour through the handles of their tomahawks, the heads of which were fashioned into pipes. The captive maiden soon sank into a troubled slumber, for although she slept, her frame was often violently agitated, and there were moments, when her limbs quivered as in the agonies of death; with this exception, the Indian camp was quiet.

The prairie, as we have before observed, was too naked to allow the hunters to approach nearer to the Indian camp, than the outer edge of the woods; and nothing remained for them, but to rest where they were as mere spectators; for although at some distance, they had it entirely within their view.

Having seated themselves with their backs against a tree, whose widely spreading branches kept off the dew, they gathered themselves up and adjusted their garments that they might be as comfortable as possible.

“There is as yet no chance to benefit the captive,” said Rolfe.

“No,” said Earth, “see! those two devils are wide awake; but let them fall asleep if they dare, and we will not have crossed the river for nothing.”

The feelings, like every thing else, require relaxation, and Rolfe and Earthquake forgot in a few minutes the excitement under which they had been labouring.

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “the dews are very heavy, I feel a little chilly.”

“That is, you would like a little back-warmer,” said Earth, “come out like a man, and don't be so mealy-mouthed.”

“I thought it was all gone.”

“No,” said Earth, drawing from his pocket a small, flat, stone tickler, and shaking it, he smiled as he heard it wash up against its sides. “I'll try it first, to convince you 'tan't poison,” and throwing his head back, he emptied a part of its contents into his throat, and smacking his lips, passed the tickler to Rolfe.

Rolfe went through the same ceremony, and as gurgling out, it pronounced the words, good, good, “there's no lie in that,” said Earth, “it speaks the truth every word on it.”

“It's all lie, I believe,” replied Rolfe, “for it has taken the skin from my tongue, why did you not put some water with it?”

“What! wade through water in order to get at the liquor! no, no, Rolfe, never do that when you have any respect for the spirit.”

“Earth,” said Rolfe, changing the subject, “how little do the people in the States know of the life of a Western hunter; here are we sleeping night after night without a bed, often without food, and now lying in an enemy's country, watching a party of Indians four times our number.”

“Not quite four times, I think,” said Earth; and so saying, he looked archly at Rolfe.

“I understand you, Earth; I saw it all, but did not like the deed; there were eight.”

“I could not help it, Rolfe, 'twas so good a chance. Moreover, I thought I might as well put him out of the way, that there would be one less, in case we have to take a brush.”

“I have no objection if any good is to result from it,” said Rolfe, “they are now seven to two, and I don't think we have gained much; I can't say that I liked it.”

“But, Rolfe, tell me, did you not think the operation was performed very neatly?”

“Yes, I must give you credit for that, Earth, it was certainly a very cool murder.”

“Oh! no, no, don't call it a murder, Rolfe, I only killed an Indian; it was over so quick with him, I didn't hurt him; he only said ‘humph!’”

“What did you do with the bundle he was carrying?”

“I hid it, thinking we would examine it on our return.”

“You did well, for from it we may learn the name of the family murdered. Earth, ever since I caught a glimpse of that poor girl's face to night, I have thought of nothing else; she is so much like her I loved, that if I could divine a reason for her father's having emigrated, I should think her the same. But her father was rich and happy; and surely he would never have left a quiet and peaceful home, for the wild woods of the west.”

“God only knows who she may be,” said Earth, “I pity her from the bottom of my soul, for she has suffered a thousand deaths to-night. You know she is a stranger to me, Rolfe, but if there be any such thing as truth, I would, to restore her to her friends, willingly take her place.”

“Poor girl!” said Rolfe, “she will never see her home again; doomed, perhaps, to the torture, or else to fill the office of some Indian squaw.”

“It is hard, hard, Rolfe! yet such is their savage nature; no one escapes. But if they carry her to Tecumseh, and all things be true which they tell of him, she will not suffer. 'Cumseh and I have seen some hard times.”

“What do they say of him?” inquired Rolfe.

“Why, that he respects the treaty, is famed for his humanity, and has never refused to surrender a murderer; moreover, he is the only Ingen whom I have heard of as being perfectly disinterested. He is very different from his brother.”

“And do you know his brother?”

“I have never seen him, but know him to be cruel in the extreme. He is the man who has lately become a Prophet, and you know he has been burning his own people until he is tired of it. Now I think it more than probable that he is at the bottom of this murder.”

“Then God forbid,” said Rolfe, “that she should fall into his hands, her fate will be bad enough without.”

“You may say that,” said Earth.

“But from your statement with regard to Tecumseh, Earth, I should think he was a noble fellow, and if they carry her to him, he will restore her to her friends.”

“Yes, he is as noble as a red skin can be, and that's not much; I don't trust any of 'em. I suspect he is our worst enemy, and every thing that his name implies.”

“What is that?”

“Why, Tecumseh, in the Shawanee tongue, means ‘tiger crouching for his prey.’”

“Look, Earth,” said Rolfe, pointing to the fire, “what are those Indians at?—making baskets?”

“No,” said Earth, “they are twisting those twigs in order to make small hoops to dry their scalps upon. Do you not see between that fellow's legs something that looks like small hoe-cakes? Well, they are scalps stretched upon a hoop and placed there to dry.”

“Tell me, does the maiden see them?” inquired Rolfe.

“No, I think not,” said Earth, “see, she lies covered up, and, I hope, is asleep.”

Much desultory conversation occurred, which whiled away the time till day began to dawn. The hunters were now getting drowsy, and yet the Indians showed no disposition to move. But when the eastern sky began to grow red, and the sun rose up, the Indian camp was in motion, and soon after the red men with their captive were treading their way across a prairie, boundless in extent, and beautiful as the imagination can conceive.

For the hunters to follow on, was now a perilous undertaking. The country was so open, that they could not keep near enough to watch the movements of the Indians, without detection; and the only plan was, to allow them to get out of sight, and to follow on to their trail, hoping for some fortuitous occurrence.

To this plan Earthquake was opposed, and he urged the great risk that must be run without the probability of doing any good. But Rolfe had become so much interested in the fate of the captive, that he begged his companion to continue the pursuit, if only for that day; and if no opportunity should offer for assisting her, that he would then return.

“Were we in the forest,” said Earth, “I would willingly follow for a week, but in an open prairie there is risk and no benefit; however, since you so much desire it, follow on.”

“Earth, you talk of risk; you know war is not declared, and that the Indians still profess peace. Now suppose we show ourselves and demand the maiden, they will perhaps surrender her.”

“I thought of that,” said Earth;—“there is peace, 'tis true; but, Rolfe, you see what sort of a peace 'tis. Were we to show ourselves, instead of getting the maiden, we should have our scalps taken off. They have done this to pay for some murder committed on 'em, and it must lead to war, and sooner than we wish, if we are to remain long on this side of the river; but if they carry her to 'Cumseh's camp, we may venture, and if he be present, perhaps we may succeed.”

“Then,” said Rolfe, “let us follow for a time, and see where they are going.”

“Agreed,” said Earth.

Suffering the Indians to advance for some distance, the hunters crawled up to the fire which they had left, and there remained until the party dwindled down to a few dark spots on the surface of the prairie; when, rising up, they followed fearlessly on their trail.

“How beautiful are these plains,” said Rolfe. “Earth, do you blame the Indians for not surrendering them?”

“No, I cannot say that I do: nor do I blame the whites for endeavouring to take them away.”

“Why? are not the Indians the rightful owners, and have not their fathers owned them time out of mind?”

“Rolfe, it will not do to argue this matter: we have treated the Ingens so badly, that we cannot now live in peace, but are obliged to add insult to injury. You know I've a great many grudges agin 'em, and use them up on all occasions, for I well know they would have killed me long before this, if they had had a good chance.”

“And because you have treated them badly, you think you ought to kill them? Is that your argument?”

“No, I never argue about it; if one comes near me, and he gives me a cause, I'm very apt to kill him. Somehow or other it is bred in me, and I hate them; for you see they are always straggling along the frontiers, and committing murders.”

“Yes, and you see our frontiers are always extending, so that the Indians are compelled either to move or else to be continually at war.”

“The fact is,” said Earth, “I believe I think as most of the whites do, and that is, that these lands are too good for them; they should be cultivated instead of lying waste for them to prowl over.”

“From present appearances,” said Rolfe, “it will be a long time before they are cultivated; the Indians, I think, are preparing for a general war.”

“They are,” said Earth; “and it would still be a hard fight if they were all united; but their dissensions and our enmity, will root them out at last.”

“I have often thought of this,” said Rolfe, “and also of Pontiac, the Ottawa chieftain. He was a great man, and would have been great, even among the whites. Had he lived on the sea-board when this country was first discovered, a settlement would never have been formed by the whites in his day.”

Nothing occurred worthy of note during the progress of the hunters across the prairie. Not being able to mark particularly the movements of the Indians, they merely followed on at a distance. It was now evening, and a dark line was seen on the horizon in the direction the Indians were travelling, which, increasing as they journeyed along, proved to be a forest bounding the prairie.

“They must be near their journey's end,” said Earth. “See the smoke how it hangs over yon wood; it is there they are encamped.”

But before we introduce the predatory party, let us again return to the camp of Tecumseh. That chief having left some few hours before, all was quiet, and his warriors now lay lounging idly about. The sun was fast sinking in the west, the trees were casting their longest shadows, and birds were hurrying by to roost, when from the depths of the prairie came a scalp yell floating on the breeze.—All were silent, for none knew its exact import, and in an instant the camp was again in motion, and then again as still as if no living soul moved in it. Anxiety was visible in every countenance. With heads inclined to the prairie, and listening ears, they might have been mistaken for the finest specimens of sculpture; so breathless, so mute, so intent were they upon catching the wished for sound. Then arose another yell;—still breathless they stood. Then another, and another, until the eighth came passing by, drawn out much longer than the first; when from the camp arose one universal shout, each person having found a tongue; and then were seen bright faces, and happy hearts, and congratulations that eight pale faces had gone to their long homes, and then were bursts of joy, and many ran bounding forward to meet the returning party.

While this was acting, the Prophet sat alone in his tent, for he never mingled with the common herd, lest by so doing they should become too much familiarized with his person. The cause of the scalp yell which agitated the camp was also entirely unknown to him, but a smile played over his countenance when the glad sound first reached his ears, and he rubbed his hands and said, “mischief,—good!”—and after a few moments summoned one of his attendants that he might learn its cause. The messenger having retired, soon ascertained the particulars which we have detailed, and returning, told them to the Prophet, who was evidently pleased at the narration; but a moment's reflection told him, that the affair, if not already known, must be hushed up, and not a trace left which might lead to its discovery. “Eight gone,” said he again, rubbing his hands; “it would bring war quick.” He also recollected that his camp was generally believed by the whites to be a place of rendezvous for all the murderers in the country, and he also knew that it had often served them as a safe place of concealment from the most diligent search. The present affair had been one of greater magnitude than had occurred for a long time, and its publication would lead at once to hostilities, for which he was not yet ripe. To prevent this was the first object, knowing that, were the perpetrators of so great a crime found in his camp, it would call down the unmitigated vengeance of the whites, and involve in one common ruin the innocent with the guilty. Furthermore, it was requisite that he should censure their conduct, lest a further commission of such crimes should render it impossible longer to preserve a show of peace, and yet in doing so, policy required that he should cherish the hatred which they felt against the whites. This was a delicate part to play; but throwing a few skins around him, and assuming rather a more mysterious appearance than usual, he adjusted himself in a seat, and ordered before him the party who had just arrived from the Ohio. He was now nearly in the plenitude of his power, and his words were law and none dared to disobey them.

When Yanatah and his party were informed of the Prophet's commands, clouds of fear passed over them, for they knew that they had acted counter to his expressed orders, and committed an act which might involve their tribe in war, and lead to its total extirpation. Hurried away by revenge, these thoughts had not before suggested themselves; but now that they were about to stand in the dread presence of the Prophet, they all swept past, and they saw before them only the ruin into which their rashness had plunged them, and trembled, not with personal fear, but at that intangible something, which gave character to the Prophet, and rendered him the dreaded object of their hopes as well as fears. With downcast countenances, and in dogged silence, they moved forward to his tent, and making humble obeisance stood uncovered before him. He seemed not to regard their entrance, but remained for a time muttering with his lips, and rolling his eyes towards heaven, as if repeating some prayer, then turning on them a savage gaze, he looked as though he would have looked them through. When his scrutiny was over, he said, “why the scalp yell, Yanatah? Has the Great Spirit sent red war upon our lands, or does the Prophet, his agent, preach peace unto the tribes?”

Yanatah cast his eyes upon the ground, and was silent. “Speak,” said the Prophet, “whence these cries of murder in the air? Who dares lift the tomahawk? Shall battle rage, and I not know it; I, the chosen of the Great Spirit? Speak!”

Yanatah paused for an instant, then nerving himself for the effort, looked the Prophet in his mighty face, and spoke: “Chosen of the Great Spirit, listen! A brother, dear to my heart, was slain by the whites. I sought their wigwams, and demanded his murderer. They gave me promises. I went again; they laughed me to scorn. His blood cried for vengeance, and I sought it.” He was then silent, and the Prophet's visage assumed rather a gentler aspect, and he said: “Thou hast done wrong, Yanatah; the hatchet is buried; the Prophet of the Great Spirit will tell the red men when to strike;” then, pausing for a moment, he continued: “Did no pale face escape?”

“Not one,” answered Yanatah, “darkness was over the land; yet a captive lives, and is here, a slave for my mother, who weeps for her son.”

“It is well,” said the Prophet; then pausing again, and rolling his eyes toward heaven, and muttering with his lips that those before him might see he held converse with the Great Spirit, he continued with renewed energy, “Yanatah, take thy band and away, far, far from our camp. Blood red are thy steps, and the whites follow on, like hounds on the track. Be seen no more, till a runner from the Prophet calls thee to battle. Away!—”

At this speech, surprise sat upon the countenances of Yanatah and his band. The Prophet had told them that they were pursued; though merely a random assertion, the truth of which he feared, and uttered only to serve his own purpose. They believed it, and were unable to account for the manner in which he had received his information; in silence they gazed at each other for a moment, when Yanatah, desirous to know what was to become of the prisoner, pronounced the words “the captive?” in an inquiring tone, for he durst not directly ask the question. “Remains with me,” said the Prophet sternly. “Let her be brought before me. Away. An hour hence, Yanatah must be without our camp.”

There was no reply, and bowing humbly, they left his presence.

In the great excitement of the moment, the prisoner had been in a measure forgotten, and when she first arrested public attention, “Red Sky of the morning” was seen leaning over her, arranging her dress, and doing many little offices of kindness. So resigned was she, so worn with fatigue and suffering, that even the savages, upon beholding her, manifested some slight feelings of sympathy, and the desire which many cherished when she first entered the camp, of seeing her brought to the stake, passed away.

When the order was given that she should be brought before the Prophet to be disposed of by him, Miskwa, who felt assured that, as he had always inculcated peace, he would not adjudge her to death, started to his tent to entreat him to give her the prisoner for a slave. But upon approaching near enough to catch a glimpse of his dark and lowering countenance, she abandoned the idea, and returning, sought her mother and begged her to prefer the request.

No one in the camp possessed more power than Netnokwa, and no one in the camp in making a request, was more likely to succeed. Yet she saw at a glance the difficulty in which the Prophet was placed. He could not order the captive to death; it would not be in accordance with the doctrines he now preached. He could not send her to the settlements; she would tell her story, and excite the whites to immediate war; all trace of the massacre must be concealed, and she knew not that under these circumstances the Prophet would be willing to trust the prisoner out of his own immediate sight. With a knowledge of these things, she accompanied the maiden and stood with her alone in the presence of the Prophet. The captive now, weeping bitterly, neither looked up nor spoke; the world for her had no joys; her life was in the past. She sobbed as if her heart would burst; yet the Prophet regarded her not, but in his own tongue carried on a hurried dialogue with Netnokwa. Not knowing the object of her visit, aware of the influence she wielded, and also of her connexion with Tecumseh, he began to explain to her the difficulty in which he was situated, the necessity there was for concealment, and his fears that the captive would be searched for by the whites; founding them on the sudden disappearance of Begwa, a thing almost inexplicable on any other supposition than that the whites were now on their steps. Saying this, he paid a compliment to the wisdom and experience of Netnokwa, and asked her what was best to be done. She stated the wishes of her daughter, and added, that should the captive be given to her, they would set out with the first light of day, and in the distant regions to which they were journeying there would be no probability of her being discovered. At this piece of intelligence, a feeling of pleasure was manifest in the countenance of the Prophet, and again turning to Netnokwa, he hinted the ease with which the maiden, when far away, might meet with a secret death. Netnokwa seemed not to understand, and suppressed her feelings, whatever they were. The death of the captive the Prophet could have required of Yanatah, and his request would willingly have been complied with; but he feared that the act, if intrusted to him, would be viewed as a license for the commission of any other crime his passions might suggest.

Being foiled in the attempt he had made to make Netnokwa connive at the death of the prisoner, he yielded her up without annexing thereto any condition; for it saved him the trouble of devising some other mode to get rid of her, and he was also satisfied that, provided Netnokwa and her daughter set out sufficiently early, it was the best plan that could possibly be adopted.

Netnokwa having now succeeded in her request, took the hand of the weeping girl, and was leaving the Prophet, when, in an authoritative manner, he again urged her to set out early, and on no account to leave any clue by which the maiden might be traced. Bowing, she departed, and returned with the captive to her bower, and, though in common with most of the Indians, she felt a fear of the Prophet, yet her opinions of his character had been materially changed by the interview.

With the first gray light of morning, Netnokwa and Miskwa rose and began to prepare to set out upon their journey. Waking a warrior, Netnokwa ordered him to bring their horses, and she began to get ready her bundles, while Miskwa was sent to arouse the captive, to whom she had extended all the little comforts of which she was possessed, and whom she now found overpowered by fatigue, and sleeping away as sweetly as innocence could do. But the hour having arrived at which they were to set out, she bent close over her, and hesitated, as if fearing to break a slumber so soft and quiet; when after a moment, she said in her own beautiful language, “Great Spirit! can a pale face who looks as she does, delight in hunting us as dogs, taking away our lands, and driving us far from the graves of our fathers? it cannot be.” Then, recollecting how lonely and unprotected was her situation, she was still more softened in her manner, and laying her hands gently on the captive, she continued, “Sweet Flower, arise, arise, we must be moving.” Her mother, who saw how much her feelings were interested, stood apart in silence waiting for her; when the maiden awoke she gazed about her with a vacant stare, and rubbed her eyes and looked again, and when the recollection of her situation crossed her mind, she called upon her father and mother, and began to weep.

Miskwa was now all tenderness, and throwing her arms around the maiden, she spoke as though each word was understood, saying, “Sweet Flower, weep not, I will love thee, I will take care of thee, thou shalt dwell with me.” Even Netnokwa was affected by the scene, but she was anxious to be off, for the rosy light of morn was now just peering forth, and she ordered her horses to her tent. Miskwa expressed a wish that “Sweet Flower,” for so she continued to call the maiden, should ride with her; in accordance with it, both were mounted on one horse, while Netnokwa on another leading the way, plunged at once into the forest.

She had continued her journey for nearly an hour, when, counter to the expectations of the Prophet, and also to the intention with which she sat out, she resolved not to proceed directly to her place of destination, but first to visit some friends on the Wabash, whom she had not seen for many years; where her wish was to stay only a few weeks, and then proceed on her journey. In adopting this resolution, she saw the difficulty she would have in carrying along the captive, and that she would increase the probability of her being discovered. But then the point to which she was bound was far from the borders, and she trusted to her own wisdom for the power of concealing the captive. This incident, though seemingly trifling within itself, was a matter of much moment, since it was unknown to the Prophet, and his chief object in giving the captive to Netnokwa, was, that in her being carried at once to a distant region, she might the more effectually be concealed.

CHAPTER VI.

——“But now he kneels,
And, like a scout when listening to the tramp
Of horse or foot, lays his experienced ear
Close to the ground, then rises and explores,
Then kneels again, and, his short rifle gun
Against his cheek, waits patiently.”
ROGERS.

The hunters, whom we left pursuing the Indians, remained so far behind as to lose sight of them in the open prairie, and following on until appearances indicated their near approach to the camp, took it for granted that thither they were bound. They were afraid to enter along with a party so much excited, lest they, to conceal all traces of their crime, should also put them to death, and crouching down in the grass, resolved not to venture nearer, until darkness should allow them to approach it in safety.

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “how is this thing likely to end?”

“Rather squally,” said Earth; “most probably with the loss of our hair.”

“You don't think so; they surely will not dare do it, they must know it will lead to war.”

“You did not think they would dare do what they did on the Ohio.”

“No, I did not; if I had heard it, as I hear other rumors of families disappearing and never being heard of, I should have regarded it as an idle story.”

“Now the truth is,” said Earth, “they'll dare do any thing. They'll give you one hand in friendship, while with the other, they put a knife between your ribs. We are in a ticklish situation, Rolfe, and I'm not so sure we shan't be used up.”

“How? what?”—said Rolfe, quickly.

“Why, these devils must conceal this thing; you see they've been hurrying along, that they might keep dark; now, were we to go up and demand the girl, and tell 'em of the murder, we should be butchered or roasted before you could take a chew of red-streak. They would'nt wish prettier fun, and instead of lying upon this soft grass, we should be dancing round a pole, with a parcel of lightwood splinters in us.”

“Earth, this is rather too serious a mater to joke about; but, if what you say of Tecumseh be true, he will not suffer it.”

“I told you,” said Earth, “what people say, not what I know of 'Cumseh; for myself, I have no confidence in any of 'em, I never knowed one that could be trusted; its just as natural for them to lie, and do every thing that is bad, as 'tis for a gourd to have a bitter taste.”

“Then it may be as bad in the morning,” said Rolfe, “as it is now.”

“No, they'll have time to cool a little,” said Earth, “but I'll slip round after a while, as soon as I think it safe to do so, and see what I can make of 'em.”

“Well, be cautious, Earth, for I should hate for them to get hold of you.”

“You let an ‘old coon’ alone,” said Earth, “for I reckon that perhaps, I should hate it a little worser than you.”

“Earth, I'll tell you a notion that strikes me.”

“What is it?”

“Why, that this party has not gone to the camp.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because, if Tecumseh is there, they would be afraid to go, for people generally say that he sticks to the treaty, and discountenances these things; and what every body says, you know, is right apt to have some truth in it. Another reason. If the Prophet is there, they would not go, because he preaches peace, and you know what a disturbance we have already had, about his refusing to give up a murderer.”

“There is something in what you say, Rolfe, but these Ingens are sly dogs; they are mighty tricky. If they are not here, where could they have gone?”

“They may have avoided the camp,” said Rolfe, “and have gone up the Wabash, where they are always assembling, or else have turned off, and gone to the west.”

“We'll see presently,” said Earth, and stretching themselves out they awaited the approach of night.

Several hours had now passed, when Earth rousing himself from a troubled sleep, left Rolfe, and proceeded cautiously to reconnoitre the camp. Cutting an armful of long prairie grass, and wrapping it about his body, so as to conceal, in some measure, the outlines of his person, he approached fearlessly until the fires of the Indians showed their exact position; when, crouching down, he gently stretched himself out, and began to pull his body slowly along. Feeling before him, he carefully removed every stick or reed which, if broken, would make the least noise, and crawling cautiously, continued his perilous task. Stopping every moment, he listened with suspended breath, to discover if his approach was heard, and proceeded in this way until he reached the southern edge of the encampment, where, by drawing his head down beneath his shoulders, and by a proper arrangement of the grass, a species of tact only known to a genuine hunter, he almost imperceptibly rose up, and appeared darkly shadowed forth as an old stump. At a few yards, and just before him were reposing a group of Indians half dosing, and whiffing in silence, their fumes of smoke to the midnight air. Earth gazed upon them for a short time and soon saw that from them, nothing was to be learned. Then, although not even the gentle waving of the grass disturbed the scene, he disappeared as though he had sunk into the ground.

Then escaping to some distance, he rose, and forming an extensive circuit, began in the same cautious manner to approach the camp on its northern boundary, where was situated the bower of Netnokwa. Having arrived as near as he wished, he stretched himself out and lay, to all appearance, a log upon the ground. Here, that old dame was croning a low ditty; Earth listened with the utmost attention, and endeavoured to catch some of her words, hoping by their import to find out who she was, when suddenly rising up, she left her bower, and as chance would have it, directed her steps towards him. At her approach, Earth involuntary pressed himself closer to the ground, but as Netnokwa had come out to learn the hour of the night, she saw him not. Stopping for a moment, within a few feet of him, she gazed at the stars, read the hour, plain as on the face of a dial, and returned. Soon after this, Earth slipped away, and proceeded with equal caution toward a cabin or hut, which he saw rising up in another direction on the outer border of the camp. Upon coming near this, he personated the body of a blasted tree; stooping low enough to avoid the dark shadows of the forest, you might have seen the outline of its bare limbs in relief on the horizon. These he had picked up as he moved along, and with the addition of the prairie grass which surrounded him, his figure was so much changed as to be scarcely distinguishable. The hut which he had now approached was that of the Prophet, who was chaunting in a wild melody, though in a low and suppressed voice, songs of vengeance.

Here Earth remained a short time, and as bending forward, he listened more eagerly, to catch the Prophet's words; the motion of the tree which he personated was the same as if there had swept over it a gentle breeze. A few moments passed and he disappeared.

There was now a rustling of the prairie grass, and Earthquake, gliding along, seated himself near Rolfe.

“What tidings, Earth?” said Rolfe, in a hurried tone.

“No news of the captive,” said Earth, “and moreover, the camp is quiet.”

“Whose camp is it?”

“The Prophet's.”

“How do you know?”

“From the humbug which hangs over his tent,” said Earth, “and a noise that I heard, which I suppose he intended for a prayer, but it sounded to my ears, very much like the whining of my old bitch Jupiter.”

“What do you mean by humbug over his tent, Earth?”

“Why, I could'nt make it out exactly, but it seemed to me that there were rags and skins strung together in curious shapes, hanging all about it.”

“Did none see you?”

“No, not one; there was an old squaw who came out star gazing; she mistook me for a log, and had like to have stumbled over me, but all went well.”

“And you did not see the captive,” continued Rolfe.

“No; and every thing seems so quiet, that I begin to doubt if these devils from the river went there. If they had, they would have been talking that thing over one half the night, and showing their scalps the other half.”

“Then, if they have not,” said Rolfe, “the Prophet will aid us in our search, and even lend assistance to rescue the maiden.”

“It will be to his interest to do so,” said Earth, “and if he gives us any real help, it may serve to cover over that ugly trick of his, in refusing to give up that fellow who killed the storekeeper. But, Rolfe, I don't believe in Ingens strong as I do in the Bible. I hate 'em; Ingens and 'possums are very deceitful.”

“Is there no danger, however, in entering the camp in the morning, Earth?”

“No; none, I reckon; we will try it all events:—come now, hush, Rolfe, let's go to sleep.”

“I can't help thinking of that girl,” said Rolfe, “some how or other she seems to haunt me. I keep fancying I have seen her before.”

“Seen her, indeed,” said Earth, “where did you see her?”

“It seems to me,” answered Rolfe, “that she is like a girl I used to know in Petersburg. But then,” said he, pausing, “her father was rich and happy.”

“And because you left him rich and happy,” said Earth, “you think she must have floated down the Ohio in a flat boat.”

“No, it is that which perplexes me,” said Rolfe.

“Well, it ought to bother you,” said Earth, “now I feel for that gal just as much as you do, and if she can be found, I mean to find her and take care of her. I don't care who she is. I expect she is some poor girl whose daddy couldn't live in the old states, and thought he would float out here and squat in a cane brake. You know corn is mighty scarce there on light land. But nothing will satisfy you, Rolfe, but you must make her the real grit, one you used to love; and with plenty of money, make her float all about here, looking for you, I suppose. Come, let's go to sleep.”

Rolfe, who felt the force of Earth's ridicule, was silent, and a few moments found them slumbering quietly.

Morning was far advanced, when the hunters leaving their cover proceeded fearlessly to the camp. They had nearly reached it, and were not yet discovered; but as soon as observed, there was passing to and fro with quickened pace, and several Indians entered the tent of the Prophet.

“See, Rolfe,” said Earth, “there is the tent of their mighty Prophet, that back hut which rises up, covered with skins.”

“I see it,” said Rolfe, and they walked into the camp.

The Indians were either sitting or lounging about, and paying no particular attention to their entrance, maintained the most perfect silence. Earth dropped the butt of his rifle on the ground, and leaning on its band coolly surveyed the group before him; but they spoke not, and believing that they were waiting for him to speak, he addressed in the Shawanee tongue the oldest before him, and demanded to be led into the presence of the Prophet. The Indian addressed, seemed not to comprehend the question, but upon Earth's repeating it, he said “umph!” and spoke in an under tone to a companion near him, who instantly rose, disappeared for a short time, and returning, motioned the hunters to follow. They obeyed in silence, and accompanying the messenger, soon stood in the presence of the Prophet. He was sitting on a buffalo skin, which served as a floor for his tent, which was unfurnished, if furniture consists in the comforts of life. A bowl of dry peas, which, from his appearance, formed his only sustenance, for his countenance was lean and haggard, together with several little bags well stuffed and closely tied, were all that at first view met the sight. But upon closer observation, a wicker basket of tolerable size was seen peeping forth from a bundle of skins which had evidently been placed there to conceal it, and in this no doubt was contained the medicine bag with which he worked his incantations. His person was wrapped in a blanket, and muffled up as closely as though it had been the dead of winter, for his sacred person was not to be gazed at by vulgar eyes. Still one might judge that an amulet was worn on his neck, from seeing the tooth of an alligator in the claws of an eagle. Eyeing the hunters for a time, he turned to address them, while they, disturbed by a slightly rustling noise, found to their surprise, that they were surrounded by a numerous band of Indian warriors, armed with rifles, tomahawks, and war clubs.

“Stand it like a man,” whispered Earth to Rolfe, “there must be no back out now.” And as he said so, the Prophet began.

“We are glad to see our brothers, the long rifles, in the camp of the red men. It tells us there is peace in the land; we always preach peace. Why come our brothers? are they hungry, let them speak, they shall have food.” He was silent, and Earth addressing him in his own language, said, “I speak to the prophet, and grieve to tell him that bad men are abroad. Many years ago we buried the tomahawk, but the Ingens have dug it up. They have burned a big canoe, and the river is red with the blood of the pale faces, and their spirits cry for vengeance. They sprung upon them like panthers upon deer. They gave them no notice, they killed all but one, a young woman; she is left alone and they dragged her to this camp; we followed on her tracks, and come to demand her and carry her back. The Prophet is great, he preaches peace, he is more wise than the red men, and tells them what is good for them. He will have the bad Ingens tried, and send them to the whites, and he will give up the maiden to the long rifles who wait for her, and make strong again the bands of peace. The hunter has spoken.”

Earth had no sooner commenced his reply, than the Prophet started wildly, as if receiving the most unexpected tidings, and increasing surprise continued to gather in his countenance, until Earth's remarks were finished, when answering quickly, he said, “My voice is almost silent, and my eyes are turned to tears with what our brother, the long rifle, tells me. The Great Spirit bids me preach peace to the red men; and I beg them in his name not to go to war. But there are bad red men, as there are bad white men. They will not take our advice. The Prophet must say, our brother, the long rifle, speaks false, when he says that bad men are in our camp. The Indians who did wrong, would be afraid of the Prophet, and they would not bring the young woman here. They know we would tie them, and send them to the settlements, as we have always done, and would send along the young woman too. We wish our brothers, the whites, would always follow our example. If an Indian kill a white man, we give him up; he is hung. If a white man kill an Indian we never hear of him.”

So soon as the prophet ceased, Earth turned to Rolfe, and repeated to him what had been said. Deep and inexpressible disappointment settled over his features; but after a moment, he said, “Earth, does he not know where it is probable they have gone, and can he not tell the tribe to which they belong?”

“I will see,” said Earth, and turning to the Prophet, he said, “Father, thou art great in wisdom, and the Manito tells thee the secrets of the world. Wilt thou make glad our hearts, by showing us the path along which the bad Ingens have travelled? The long rifle will thank thee, and say, the Prophet is the friend of white men.”

Pleased by these remarks, the Prophet with more gentleness in his manner than he had before manifested, said, “We are sorry our brother said that bad Indians were in our camp. It made our heart heavy to hear it. We have nothing to do with bad men. We are very sorry for what has happened, we are grieved for the young woman, and would show her to our brothers if we could. Our eyes are opened by what our brother has told us, and we will tell him what we think. It was last evening that the Prophet was alone in his tent, praying to the Great Spirit to tell him what to do, that he might make his red children happy, when afar off he saw red men crossing the prairie. He thought they were hunting, and was surprised that they did not come to see him. The Prophet thinks they were the bad men, and they feared to come.”

“The Prophet is good, he will show their path to the hunters,” said Earth.

“The long rifle,” answered the Prophet, “follows the game in the woods. He can find the tracks of the bad men. A runner from the Wabash came yesterday to see the Prophet. He said that bad red men were gathering together, and that the pale faces were trembling. We like not these things, and sent our brother Tecumseh to make them hunt the deer far away from the border. The Prophet thinks the bad men have gone there.”

“The Prophet is good,” said Earth, “he is the friend of the long rifles;” then turning to Rolfe, he told him of all he had learned.

“Then let us leave,” said Rolfe, “I shall breathe more freely, and we can resolve what to do, when we get out of sight of these grim and statue-like faces.” Earth then turning to the Prophet, said, “The long rifles wish peace to the Prophet, and will return to their wigwams.”

“They will go,” he replied, “after they have broken our bread, and smoked with us the pipe of peace.” He then motioned his hand, and with its wave the warriors disappeared, and a few moments after, an Indian girl approached with a rude breakfast, though composed of the choicest game of the prairie; and the hunters having partaken of it, since to have refused would have been regarded as an insult, smoked with the Prophet, and bidding him adieu, received many kind wishes. They were then conducted without his tent, and left to shape their course as inclination might suggest.

Having gotten clear of his camp, Rolfe said, “well, Earth, come, tell us what is best to be done.”

“Why, make tracks for the settlements as fast as we can.”

“And leave the poor girl to her fate?”

“Yes; what else can we do? If what the Prophet says be true, they have carried her up the Wabash, and I don't know that we could find her. Moreover, the Ingens are constantly skirmishing in that quarter, and they might jirk it into us.” “I think there's a storm brewing, and have my doubts if this Prophet don't know more of this thing than he has told us. So I think we had better return, and tell all we know, and the governor can then do about it as he chooses.”

“We will of course tell,” said Rolfe, “and unless these Indians are given up, I have no doubt it will lead to war, but I do not believe that the Prophet knows any thing about them or the captive, other than what he has told us. If he had, he would not have made us smoke and eat with him.”

“Come along, Rolfe,” said Earth, “when you live in these woods as long as I have, you wont believe every thing an Ingen tells you. You'll find out, as I said before, that they are mighty like 'possums;” and bending their way they began to tramp back in the direction they had come.

The sun was fast sinking below the horizon when leaving the path they were travelling, they turned off into the tall grass of the prairie, and using the same precautions as though they were followed by a warlike party, passed the night. With the light of morn they again resumed their journey.

The day had now several hours advanced, when in passing through the forest and amusing themselves with idle dialogue, their attention was arrested by an unusual number of carrion birds.

“Ah!” said Earth, “I wish every red devil was in the same fix. I suppose you know, Rolfe, why those birds are collected?”

“Yes,” answered he, “I well recollect, it reminds me again of that poor girl. I wish I could forget her.”

“Well,” said Earth, “I will go and bring the pack he was carrying; who knows but from it we may learn who she is.”

“Well, do,” said Rolfe, eagerly, “I had forgotten it, but now I am all anxiety to see it, come, make haste, Earth, I will walk on, you get it, and overtake me.”

“Very well,” said Earth, who leaving him, soon found the secreted bundle, and bore it along to his friend. Seeking the first spot which presented an agreeable shade and a seat, they stopped and proceeded at once to examine its contents. It was made up chiefly of blankets and articles of clothing, among which were some belonging to a female wardrobe, which were carefully drawn out, and laid aside. Rolfe's anxiety increased as he inspected each article, for they served to confirm somewhat the vague suspicion his mind had already adopted. The search continued, yet his fears were not diminished, nor was his suspicion much strengthened, when drawing out a cambric handkerchief, he saw traced on it, in his own hand writing, the words, “R. Rolfe.” Had a ball entered his heart, the pang would not have been greater than upon the recognition of those words. He grew pale and almost livid, and said, in a scarcely articulate voice, “Earth, it is she, we exchanged handkerchiefs the day I left her;” and with an agonized face, he gazed fixedly on the words “R. Rolfe.” Not a tear came to his relief. Earth kindly endeavoured to console him, by combating his suspicions with such reasons as his mind suggested, and then examined again every article of the bundle. There was not one but would as well have belonged to any other person. The handkerchief, however, had already carried conviction to Rolfe's mind. But with Earth's arguments against the probability that one rich and happy as Rolfe represented the lady of his love, should have emigrated, hope began to dawn in the shape of uncertainty. “Yes,” cried Rolfe, “I left her rich and contented, surrounded with all the comforts of civilized life, and aware of the unsettled state of the west. Her father even ridiculed the idea of my emigrating.”

“Then, rest sure, there is some mistake, it cannot be her,” said Earth, and the thought that the captive maiden was not his first and only love took possession of his mind. But it was only for a moment, for when he recollected the face and figure of her, of whom he had only caught a passing glance; and then when he gazed upon the wardrobe spread out before him, and saw the handkerchief with his own name, which he himself had traced, and believed, from the manner in which it had come into her possession, that she would never have parted with it, conviction forced itself upon him and his only relief was tears.

Then sprung up her light form before him, then crowded thick upon his memory associations of former days, and he saw her only in those moments in which she had been kind to him, or else when touching her guitar, with so much feeling and tenderness in her countenance, so much naiveté in her manner, that all those graces which give power to females, seemed to settle upon her without any effort of her own. And when these recollections swept over his mind, and then, when her present situation with all its startling horrors followed on, his heart grew deadly sick, and nature seemed almost to yield to the struggle. It was like the whirlwind which lasts for a moment, but during that moment, threatens to annihilate every thing which opposes its progress. So was it with Rolfe, the storm of passion and grief had vented itself, threatening for a time to unthrone reason, yet it had passed, and he now remained comparatively calm and unmoved, and was again capable of action. To an uninterested spectator this scene would have afforded some amusement. For Earthquake could not exactly comprehend the cause of Rolfe's grief, yet sympathized so deeply, that when he beheld the struggles of his friend, and saw tears burst forth; involuntarily they rushed from his own eyes like a spring flood. A few moments and they ceased to flow; yet another struggle from Rolfe, a flow of feeling, and Earthquake's floodgates were again opened.

“Come, Rolfe,” said he, blubbering, “no more of this, let us be moving, for my eyes leak like a cracked gourd, but the way I'll pay some of 'em for this, will be a caution for the future.”

“Where do you propose going, Earth?”

“Any where you please.”

“Shall we return to the camp, and follow on after the maiden?”

“No, I think we can fall on some better plan.”

“Then give it to us.”

“The only hope I see,” said Earth, “of finding the maiden, is to go up the Wabash, and learn where the gathering is, of which the Prophet spoke. The party he said were probably going there, and I think so too. If we can hear any thing of them, we will get some help and rescue her. This is the best plan that I know of, and if you say so, we will go along at once.”

“Thank you, Earth,” said Rolfe, “I will trust every thing to you, you know best what to do. But think you they will kill her?”

“No,” answered Earth, “if they intended to kill her, why didn't they do it at the river? it would have saved them a good deal of trouble. No, they will give her to some old squaw, who will perhaps take her in the place of a child she has lost.”

“Then, Earth, let's go, for I am almost dead to know something more about her.”

“Agreed,” said he, “but I think you are scaring yourself before you are hurt. I don't believe it's the same gal you think it is. But it makes no difference, Rolfe, who she is, if we can help her, we ought to do it; and I am determined to go on.”

“Earth, the more I think of it, the more sure am I, that she is the same, for in no other way can I account for finding my handkerchief.”

“Well, now there are forty ways in which I can account for it,” said Earth, “she might have lost it, or some other gal might have stole it, or some servant might have wiped it up, or she might have give it away, or,”—

“Stop, Earth,” said Rolfe, shaking his head sorrowfully, “I don't believe she would have done that.”

“Then come along,” replied Earth, “we shall see,” and a few moments after they were already on their march, bending their course North-east.

The following morning the air was mild and soft, and the sun shining out, sparkled in the dew drops. The hunters felt its cheering influence; their spirits became buoyant as the dewy grass which rebounded from beneath their footsteps, and they continued their journey amusing themselves with border stories. They had not ceased to feel for the maiden, nor were they at all unmindful of the errand upon which they were going, but, as it often happens, the mind, when long and painfully depressed, breaks through the thraldom which confines it, and assumes suddenly a degree of cheerfulness sometimes mistaken for levity, and which, when contrasted with its previous melancholy, seems an enigma in its character. I do not know that this idea is clearly expressed, nor do I know how to account for the fact, yet often have I seen persons suffering under intense grief, without any apparent cause become wild with joy.

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “we might just as well laugh as cry; 'twill do as much good.”

“That is very true, Earth, but at what shall we laugh?”

“Oh! I don't know; you spin us a yarn.”

“No! Earth, you are the man for yarns; give us one of your hunting stories.”

“A 'coon hunt?”

“Yes.”

“No, I won't give you a 'coon hunt. I'll give you a bear fight.”

“Well, give us a bear fight.”

“I know so many, I hardly know which one to tell. Did I ever tell you how near a panther was using me up.”

“No, give us that.”

“Then you shall hear it. It happened while I was living down by the big swamp. I was sitting in my cabin one night alone, thinking of a heap of things, and not thinking of much neither, when a notion struck me, that I should like some 'possum and hominy for supper. Well, I wa'nt hungry much, but the coals,—they were these large oak coals, you know; they looked so hot and clean that I thought it was a pity to let them burn out, as they were so nice for roasting. So I gits up. Says I, if there's a 'possum in these capes I'll have him, and calling along my old bitch Jupiter, I started out.”

“But,” said Rolfe, “Jupiter is of the masculine gender.”

“Do what!” said Earth.

“Jupiter,” said Rolfe, “must be the name of a dog, and not of a bitch.”

“Well, now I wan't speaking as to that; but if I don't know the name of my dog, who does? I tell you she was named Jupiter, and if you dont want to hear the story, I'll drop it.”

“Oh! by no means, Earth, go on.”

“Well, as I was saying, I called up old Jupiter and started;—the thing seemed to know directly I got out, what it was I wanted, for the way that she began to poke her nose in among the bushes was to the 'possum family quite curious. You see I had left my gun and took 'long with me an axe, and old Jupe seeing that, would no more have noticed a bear or a deer, than she would have done a horse. Well, I had'nt been out long before she opened. The trail was right warm, and she streaked it: I could'nt see her, but she fairly whistled as she came by me, and the first thing I know'd, she treed, from a mile and a half to two miles off. I started to go to her, but I soon found out from the vig'rous manner in which she barked, that it was no 'possum, but an old 'coon; and as old Jupe was never known to leave a tree, I concluded to go back.”

“Well,” said Rolfe, laughing; “that is the way the panther used you up, is it?”

“Now, Rolfe, that's no way to interrupt a man; if you want to hear the story, you must let me tell it in my own way.”

“I beg pardon, Earth, I did not at the moment recollect, that a hunter must tell all the particulars of a story, or he will tell none of them.”

“Well, that is a fact; if there are three or four out after a bear, and they kill him, when they get around a fire, they must all tell how it happened; each in his own way.”

“Well, as I was saying, I concluded to go back, and started off. It was some distance to my cabin, and after getting on a piece, the night was so very moony and pleasant, that I thought I had just as well sleep out; and, upon looking around, I discovered a piece of oak bark, about seven or eight feet long, which came off a large tree, and which, if shut up at each end, would make something like a trough, and, if turned oven, would make a safe cover, so I wheeled it over and crawled under.”

“Why did you take such precaution?”

“Because the panthers were mighty bad, and if you were out by yourself, and did not have a fire, they would crawl over you to a certainty. Did I never tell you how one lit upon me while I was stooping down drinking out of my spring. You know where my spring is?”

“Yes, I know where your spring is; but go on with your first story.”

“Oh, yes; where did I leave off? Old Jupe had treed”——

“No, you told that,” said Rolfe, “you had just crawled under a trough.”

“Ah! I recollect; but, Rolfe, I wish you would'nt call it a trough, for I told you plainly that it was a piece of bark,—oak bark too,—seven or eight feet long;—came off a right smart tree.”

“I am all attention, Earth.”

“Well, I had crawled under,—every thing was very quiet,—there was no noise, except every now and then Old Jupe would give a short yelp, as if she was tired waiting; and I had fallen into a sort of doze, when I was waked up by something scratching at the bark; my waking up made some noise, and it went off a little distance, and then I could hear a low restless whine, and hear it moving its tail. I knew by the noise, 'twas a panther. Said I, there will be tough work to night, and just as I said so to myself, the thing lit all in a heap, right over my breast, on the bark; the bark creened up a little, but I soon gathered it down and gave a whoop; the panther squalled, and cut dirt, and which was the worst scared, I never knowed. Well, I hugged the bark down agin, and thought all was quiet, and was getting into another doze, when what should I hear, but that same low whine, and with the whine came the panther, right upon the top of the bark agin. I pulled it down, and whooped like thunder, and the panther went off a little way, and screamed. I heard another one answer it, and, shortly after, I could hear them both walking round me. I now whooped agin and agin, and made a big noise; but they did'nt mind me, and if they did, it was only for a few moments; and then they would come back and scratch around the bark. All I could do was to keep them from turning it over, and hard work it was. I never slept a wink more that night; but worked hard until day, when they went away, and I got out;—and wa'nt I mad? Yes, I was swelled up like one of these high land moccasins. I do believe I could have poisoned any thing by biting it. Old Jupe was still at the tree, and I made right for her; and did'nt I make that old 'coon pay for all I suffered that night.”

“Well, now, Rolfe, give us a story, you have heard mine.”

“Thank you, Earth, I can't tell stories; but I would have let that 'coon off.”

Thus whiling away their time, they journeyed along through a country as beautiful and wild as boundless forests and extensive prairies could make it, and to all appearance untenanted, save by deer and buffalo, together with the hungry howling tenants of the waste. Avoiding the high bluffs and rivers, where the Indian villages were most likely to be situated, they travelled through the wildest portion of the country, and continued their journey in safety, governing their direction by the sun when it shone, and at other times by the moss, which indicated to them the north, as plainly as it could have been marked out by the magnet.

For subsistence, they had many wild fruits, and choice of all the game the country afforded. Herds of deer and buffalo, would browze along before them, seemingly fearless of the hunters, in the universal stillness of the scene around them. Yet when the sharp crack of the rifle was heard, and some selected victim fell prostrate to the earth, the remainder, both deer and buffalo, looking about them, and snorting wildly, bounded forward until they were lost to the view. Game was so abundant, that they rarely shot it, except at meal times, when a hasty fire was kindled, and a repast served up from the yet reeking carcass.

In a march through a country so wild and unsettled, there must have occurred many incidents sufficiently striking to impart an interest to our narrative; the sleeping out, night after night, in an enemy's country, surrounded only by wild beasts, or the still wilder savages; their long journey, and the loneliness of their situation, all conspired to create sensations, which are never felt under other circumstances.

On an evening, after a long day's march, the hunters selected a spot, whereon to pass the night, and while Earthquake prepared a fire, Rolfe was sent out to get a supper from a few buffalo which were seen feeding at no great distance. Moving along cautiously, he was enabled to approach sufficiently near, and having selected as his victim one which was separated from the herd, he fired; the ball entered, yet the animal seemed to regard it not, and Rolfe proceeded to load again. But no sooner, in order to do so, did he stand out from the tree behind which he was concealed, than the buffalo made at him; for security, he again retreated behind it, and the bark flew off, as the enraged animal dashing by, grazed its side. Turning as quickly as possible, it again bounded towards him, and for some minutes, the struggle was kept up with the most determined spirit, Rolfe only saving himself from destruction by means of the tree. The animal, after many fruitless attempts, became tired, and Rolfe seizing the opportunity, retreated to some distance, from which, still within rifle shot, he kept up a regular fire. The buffalo received it with great sullenness, only twitching his muscles as the balls plumped him, or else shaking them from his matted forehead, as he would have done a buzzing fly.

Earthquake attracted by the constant firing, had set out in search of Rolfe, whom he found posted at a safe distance from the buffalo, and each eyeing the other, with the most marked ferocity. He had shot until he began to think his rifle had lost all virtue; and upon Earth's coming up, detailed to him the narrow escape he had made, and also his inability to bring him down.

“I am surprised at you,” said Earth, “you have thrown away balls enough to kill half a dozen Ingens, and I had much rather go without any supper, than that you should have made so great a waste.”

“Waste or not,” said Rolfe, “I have never had a harder battle than I have had with that buffalo, and if it takes every ball I have, I will not leave here until he drops.”

“Then pass me your rifle, for I am tired waiting, and if we have not a steak soon broiling on the coals, from any part of him that you please, my name is not Earthquake.”

Rolfe did as desired, and Earthquake, having thrown up the rifle, before its report was heard, the buffalo had sunk upon the ground, and already lay quivering in the agonies of death.

“Earth, where did you shoot him?”

“In the heart, to be sure.”

“Well, if in the buffalo, that lies in the same place that it does in other animals, I have shot into it half a dozen times.”

“Ah! there is where you have missed it, the heart of a buffalo lies at least six inches lower than it does in any other animal;—you should have shot it just under the fore legs. Now mind this, Rolfe, and it will save you many a ball, which you can stick into an Ingen to much greater advantage.”

Having stripped up the hide, and cut therefrom as much as they wanted; they repaired to their fire, where they supped, and slept away the night.

CHAPTER VII.

“Why art thou thus in beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower!
When the sound of song hath never passed,
From human hearth or bower?

I pity thee for thy wasted bloom,
For thy glory's fleeting hour,
For the desert place, thy living tomb,
O lonely, loneliest flower!”
MRS. HEMANS.

Nearly a month had passed away, and the hunters might be seen on the lands of the Wabash, where they searched every avenue for information, which promised the least hope. Telling their story to the border settlers, they readily obtained assistance, and ranged the country for miles in every direction, yet nothing could they learn tending either to allay their fears, or remove their suspicions. The greatest excitement prevailed in consequence of several murders having been committed a short time before, by either party, and nothing was heard but threats of vengeance. To quiet this disturbance, and keep the Indians from breaking out, Tecumseh had been sent, and in accordance with that deep policy which enabled him so long to conceal his intentions, he had succeeded in persuading them to accompany him, and had gone, no one knew whither. With the departure of this party, went from the hunters all hope of finding the maiden. They would have gone to the residence of the Prophet, which was still higher up on the Wabash, but they had left him encamped with a roving band afar off in the prairies; and thither he in his wisdom had gone, to avoid the storm of excitement raging immediately on the frontier, which he himself had raised, and which, by means of his brother, he was now endeavouring to quell.

The hunters possessing now no clue whatever by which they could hope to find the maiden; and the unsettled state of the frontier rendering it dangerous as well as unpleasant to remain longer where they were, determined to return at once to Kentucky. The suspicion of Rolfe, that the lost maiden was she whom he had known in former days; and she whom alone he had ever loved, preyed upon his mind, until, what was before doubt, now almost became certainty. Earth did all in his power to cheer him, but his exertions produced scarcely any effect; worn with fatigue, and disappointed in the hope which had so long sustained him, that of finding her he loved, he became gloomy, and spent his time, brooding over visions of the past. This state of mind brought on a burning fever, and Earth, with a hope of recruiting him, rested on the bank of a streamlet which murmuring along, wound its way through the forest, and finally contributed its quota to the waters of the Wabash.

The intense anguish which Rolfe suffered, added to the fever, produced delirium, and while labouring under its effects, he gave vent to the smothered feelings of his bosom. Earth watched over him, not with the care of a friend, but with affection deep as that of a mother, bathed his heated temples, supplied all his wants, and still held out the hope of recovering her, who was the cause of all his sufferings. It was the second day, and Earth was still watching over his friend, when, approaching him from the direction in which his own journey lay, walked with hurried steps, one whose garb proclaimed him a border settler. He approached the hunters, and after the first civilities were over, addressing himself to Earth, said, in an audible whisper, “I've got him,” and turning, as he said so, peeped over his shoulder.

“Who?” said Earth.

“An Ingen,” was the brief reply, in a still lower whisper, and he looked back again.

“What do you keep looking back for,” said Earth, “afraid of a dead Ingen?”—

“No,” whispered the stranger, “I'm in a hurry, good morning;” and he hurried away.

“There, Earth,” said Rolfe, who had been roused by his presence, “you see the cause of the hostilities of the Indians; that fellow, most probably without the least cause, has shot one whom he caught out hunting.”

“Then, there's a devil less;” said Earth, “But I don't believe I would have cared much if the Ingen had killed him, for he is good for nothing; you see he is scared now.”

Soothing Rolfe, Earth gradually drew him into conversation, and finding that his fever was leaving him, obtained his consent to recommence their journey on the following day. Making short stages, his health began to improve, and they wound their way along the banks of the rivulet on which they had rested. The close of evening found them at a point, where the lands sinking, became flat, and the little stream, unconfined by its banks, spread over their surface, and lingering, coursed slowly away in many rills, which parted but to meet again at a place not far remote. The marshy ground over which the hunters would have to travel in pursuing the direct line of their journey, was, with Rolfe, as he was just recovering, an objection to proceeding farther; and he proposed to Earth to stay where they were until morning should enable them to compass the difficulty. Earth readily consented, and selecting a dry and agreeable spot, they seated themselves, and after a few moments, unloosing his wallet, he emptied out the remains of his breakfast, which served them for supper.

Night had advanced an hour or two, and the hunters were still awake, when a flickering flame shooting up, threw abroad its glare, and often changed its position. It was soon observed, and at once gave rise to excitement and to speculation.

“What can it be,” said Earth, “is it a spirit?”

He had scarcely spoken when another light began to dance in the air, then a third, and a fourth, flitting about, and changing position with the rapidity of thought.

“A four handed reel, by the powers above! Rolfe, Rolfe, it is all over,” and Earth, crouching upon the ground, sank overpowered with fear.

“What dost thou fear,” said Rolfe?

“Those spirits,” said Earth. “Hush, Rolfe; hush, or let us fly.”

“Nonsense,” said Rolfe, “they are merely ‘ignes fatui.’”

“Fat what, Rolfe?”

“Fat nothing;—they are what are termed grave lights, or jacks with their lanterns, produced in some measure by the decomposition of the dead animal matter.”

“No,” Rolfe, “it cannot be, see how they cross over, and leap up, and dart across, and then fly away;—they must be troubled spirits.”

“Earth, you are mistaken; I have seen them often before, and I assure you I have given the correct solution.”

“Now, Rolfe, tell me, is it true? You know I can face the living, but I cannot bear to meet the dead.”

“It is, I assure you. Have you never, while hunting, seen a jack-a-lantern?”

“A jack-a-lantern! yes, often; although I don't even like them much.”

“Well, these are the same.”

“Oh, no.”

“Indeed they are.”

“Well, now, Rolfe, if you have any respect for me, hereafter call things by their proper names; if you had said they were jack-a-lanterns, I would have known at once what they were; but you said something about knees fat, and I took it for granted at once that they were spirits; although I might have known, if I had thought, that jack-a-lanterns were greasy.”

Rolfe, amused at the idea of their being greasy, laughed outright, asking, “In the name of heaven, Earth, how did you find out they possessed that property?”

“Because I once caught one,” said Earth, “and laid it out upon an old stump, as cold as a wedge.”

Still more amused by this conceit, Rolfe replied, “you are the first man I ever heard of, Earth, who could catch one. Do tell us all about it, and rise up; I believe you are still frightened.”

“No, I am not now;” then rising up, he said, “Rolfe, give me your hand,” and Earthquake seizing it, drew it across his forehead. Rolfe again burst into a fit of laughter; for the perspiration stood in large cold drops.

Even Earth was now amused at the groundlessness of his fears, and together they proceeded to inspect more narrowly the moving lights.

“Suppose I put them out,” said Earth?

“Well, do,” said Rolfe.

“Then, hold my gun,” said Earth, and he passed it to him, and began to make preparation for stripping.

Rolfe was convulsed with laughter, and Earthquake had already taken off his hunting accoutrements, before he was able to inquire into the nature of the attack he proposed to make on them. Having at length found a tongue, “Earth,” said he, “do tell us how you mean to proceed.”

“I know two ways to catch 'em,” said Earth. “Now suppose you let me tell you how I laid out that one we were talking about.”

“Do, I should like of all things to hear it.”

“Well, one night, in the early part of the spring before we met, I was going through a part of that green swamp you have heard me speak of, when I seed a jack-a-lantern just ahead of me, dodging about in the swamp. So it turned out to be, but what sort of an animal it was, at that time I had not the least idea. I trapesed on after it, wondering what it was, and expecting every minute to catch it, for pretty near a mile and a half, when I found myself just about as near it as when I started. 'Twas a thing that old Jupe was afraid of, for she kept gitting between my legs and tripping me up, until I was so mad that I took a stick and beat her up into a big lump.”

“Earth, what sort of a time had you?”

“Hush, Rolfe, I did'nt want to say any thing about that, for the meanest thing I ever did was to follow a jack-a-lantern through a cane-brake. You may guess what sort of a place it was, when I tell you I was obliged to give over hunting, and lay by for two days, to darn my breeches. It bothered me mightily; and I was sticking fast, up to my hips in mud, wondering what the devil it could be, when a notion struck me, that it must be a jack-a-lantern. All at once, I recollected how they used to tell me to ketch 'em; so I got out, and followed on a bit farther, and, thinking I should like to see what it was made of, I determined to put the thing out. Well, I stopped,—the jack-a-lantern kept dancing before me,—I took off my jacket,—the jack-a-lantern got scared, and looked sorry,—I turned the inside towards him,—he grew fainter,—I began to pull the sleeves through, and by the time the whole jacket was wrong side out, he settled down and went out upon an old stump. Well, now you may laugh, but it is every word true.”

Rolfe was scarcely able to speak:—“how do you know,” said he, “that it did not merely go out for a little time, and then fly away to another place as these are now doing.”

“What! that jack-a-lantern fly away,—the one that I put out;—I tell you, it has never troubled any body from that day to this; if it has, I don't know when a thing is dead.”

“What proof have you of it?”

“Why, I saw it the next morning, laid out as I told you before, as cold as a wedge.”

“Then, do tell us all about it, Earth.”

“Well, when the thing fell upon the stump, as I knowed it would, when I took off my jacket,—for turning a jacket wrong side out never fails to kill 'em,—I look my hatchet and marked the place, that I might find it the next morning. So, soon after breakfast, I walked down there, merely that I might satisfy myself; and I had hardly got to the stump, before I seed the jack-a-lantern lying upon it, as I said before, cold as a wedge.”

“How was it shaped,” said Rolfe, “and what was its appearance?”

“I don't exactly know how it was shaped,” said Earth, “but it looked all in a heap, as if you had emptied your two hands full of jelly upon the top of the stump.”

Rolfe had been convulsed with laughter throughout Earth's narrative, and now sunk down overpowered at the finale.

“Earth,” said he, “you are mistaken; what you saw was merely the gum which had exuded from the stump.”

“Gum!”—said Earth, with a contemptuous sneer, “you must think I am a damn——” then stopping, and looking in another direction, “look there, Rolfe,—look, look.”

He obeyed, and beheld a torch, borne by a human being.

“Can'st thou move?” said Earth.

“I can,” said Rolfe.

“Then nerve yourself for a contest, if necessary, and let us see who venture here at this hour of the night. Who knows but this may furnish some clue to the lost maiden.”

The above sentence infused strength into Rolfe; for it brought hope, and excitement, and but little time elapsed before he announced to his friend, that he was ready; and, moving forward, they began at once to reconnoitre the ground.

“There may be danger here,” said Rolfe, “we must be cautious, or we shall be offered as a sacrifice to the spirits of those who have been lately murdered.”

Then crouching down, they remained for some time silent, gazing at the light.

“It is borne by a woman,” said Earth; “an Ingen woman.”

“It is,” said Rolfe, “and she is alone.”

“I think so, for as yet I can see no one with her.”

“There may be,” said Earth, “but what can they have come for,—what can they be arter? Rolfe, I tell you what, I feel right ticklish.”

“Hush, Earth, the torch is approaching; let us conceal ourselves, that we may examine more closely.”

“Agreed.”

“See, she stoops, and searches;—what can it be for?”

“I know not. Let us approach, and obtain her history.”

And leaving their cover, they soon stood before an Indian woman, who, at the moment of their approach, was stooping down, and examining an indentation, apparently made by a human foot. Having scrutinized it for a time, she shook her head, gathered up her torch, and moved on.

“Come, speak to her, Earth,” said Rolfe, “and find out what she is after.”

Whereupon, addressing her in the language common among the Indians residing near the frontiers, and which was a compound of the languages of several tribes, Earth said: “Our mother seeks for something lost,—does she mark the steps of the pale face, to find out the path to his wigwam, or does she seek for a red man, whose blood is crying from the ground.”

At this speech she turned whence the voice came, and gazed on the hunters, without discovering the least emotion or even surprise, and seeing the mark of another foot-print, she approached, caused the light to fall on it, closely examined its proportions, and again moved on.

“The white man's heart is sorry,” said Earth, “he will help our mother.—Will she tell him for what she searches?”

Raising herself, and gazing for a moment on the speaker, she said, with a faultering voice, “I call, and he comes not; the vine has lost the tree which supported it.”

There was something so touching in her manner that even Earthquake was affected, and turning to Rolfe, he interpreted her words.

“Earth, she is the mother of that Indian whom that fellow killed.”

“Yes,” said Earth, “I'll lay any thing she is;” and the only feeling of sorrow which ever crossed his breast for the death of an Indian, then passed over it. The hunters remained for some moments silent, not knowing what to do, while the old woman continued her sad yet holy purpose.

“Come, Earth,” said Rolfe, “speak to her again; speak gently, and try and make her tell you her story, for there is something about her which very much affects me.” And following on, Earth again sought to draw her into conversation.

“Has thy husband gone to the settlements, and returned not,” continued he, “or dost thou seek in a son, the hope of thy evening hours?”

“He is gone,” said the mother, “he is gone. The tree was just beginning to cast its shade, the fountain would soon have become a running stream; but, alas! it is now dry. He is gone, he is gone, I call, and he comes not.”

There was something beautiful and touching in the mother's grief, and there was something startling, yet thrilling in her occupation. Alone, and in the dark hour of night, searching the forest that she might again behold the face of the dead. Her affection was so pure and deep, that even the hunters felt awed by the holy feeling which influenced her, and forgetting their own situations, sank for a time into silence, overcome by the emotions of the moment. Never was there a scene more striking, never was there one better calculated to make an impression lasting as memory itself.

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “how often have I thought of a battle-field, the scene of glory and of triumphs. While the contest rages, and victory having hovered doubtful of the issue, at last perches on some favoured standard, Oh! what a moment of thrilling interest, of wild delight. Yet view the same field, the day after the battle, how sad the contrast! When the loud thunders of war have given place to deep silence; when the unburied dead still sleep upon the surface, and the helpless dying are seen writhing on the cold ground. So is it here; the border settler who caused the distress we see, was proud of his victory, and perhaps, at this moment, is telling its details; yet, think you, he could look upon the scene before us, and feel happy, in what he deems his hard won laurels?”

“I think not,” said Earth, “I have never seen a sadder sight.”

“And, yet,” said Rolfe, “it is to gaze on a scene like this, that we peril our lives, and our fortunes. I have never felt satisfied, Earth, of the justice of the war we have waged, and perhaps ere a month passes may wage again; and there are moments, when I cannot but think, Heaven will pay us off with a just retribution at last.”

“I know not how it will be,” said Earth, “when I am in open warfare with them, I am clean without conscience, and I haint got much no how, where an Ingen is. Rolfe, I'll tell you some of these days how they sarved me. But in old mad Anthony's time, that was long before you ever heard of an Ingen, we use to use 'em up till I was right sick and tired of the business; and then, when I was so very tired, I use to think it wrong. But what are the opinions of Heaven upon the subject, I don't know, for the Ingens have done some shocking deeds?”

“Nor do I,” said Rolfe, “but we were the aggressors, we have forced them into hostilities, and the time will come, I fear, when they will live only in story.”

“And do you seriously think, Rolfe, that Heaven will hold us accountable for merely killing Ingens?”

“Perhaps not us, Earth, but when we shall sleep with our fathers, and our little republic become the first power upon earth, their fate may then rise up in judgment against it.”

“How; what is to happen?” said Earth, then stopping abruptly, “hush,—hush,—what noise is that?” and the next moment there galloped by a gang of wolves, frightened from their anticipated prey by the torch of the Indian mother, and having fled but a short distance within the forest, their dismal howls broke upon the stillness of night.

“See,” said Rolfe, “those howling beasts have been feeding upon the dead, or else, perhaps, watching for the death of the dying; let us again seek the mother and aid her in her search; her son may yet live.”

“With all my heart,” said Earth, “for we cannot sleep while she continues it.”

“Earth, is it not strange, that, entertaining so much hatred for the whites, and knowing that if her son be dead, a white man must have killed him, she did not vent either abuses or curses upon us.”

“Yes, it is;—if she had, I should have felt less sorry than I do, and can only account for her conduct, by her whole soul being taken up with the object of her search.”

“Is she not unusually devoted for an Indian mother? I always thought their feelings were less ardent than ours.”

“That is a mistake;—the way they are brought up causes them to suppress their feelings, and to seem indifferent towards each other. Yet, there is no race under heaven who will suffer more privations for their children than will the Ingens.”

Thus conversing, they again sought the mother, sympathized with her, and assisted in the search; and Earth, drawing her into conversation, learned the following particulars of her history:—

She resided several miles within the forest, and was seeking a son, her only child, who, a day or two before, had left her wigwam in search of game. Circumstances had induced her to believe that he had been murdered by the whites, and to confirm or remove her suspicions was now her object. Owing to the deadly enmity which existed between the two races, she feared to venture far from her wigwam during the day, and had prosecuted her search chiefly at night. One entire night she had passed in this way, and she had now commenced the second in the same fruitless manner.

Earth, with a view of consoling her, said, “Mother, thy son may think the long knives seek his death; he is swift of foot as the deer on the prairie; the deer, to avoid the dogs, flies.”

“Stop,” said the mother, “tell me not he fled:—could I believe that he, in whom my blood flows, would flee from a pale face, I would seek him, but it would be, to bury my knife in his heart. Oloompa fled!” and she burst into a flood of tears;—“No, no, my son, thou didst not know how to flee. Thy blood lies clotted on this cold ground. Leave me, leave me,” she continued, “my son would rise from the dead, didst thou tell him he would flee from a pale face.”

Rolfe and Earthquake perceiving her distress, and appreciating her feelings, again endeavoured to soothe and console her.

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “talk to her; try, and persuade her to quit, she can do no good by remaining here.”

“I wish she would,” answered Earth, “for I am tired of it;” and again approaching her, he said, “Mother, thou hadst better give over thy search, and return to thy wigwam.”

“And wherefore shall I do that?” she replied; “Is it that my lodge shall tell of past joys no more to be enjoyed. Is it that I may listen to the voice of the lost, in every whispering breeze that passes? or is it to watch and see pass away the last tint from a drooping flower?”

“Thou hast spoken of a drooping flower, lives she still in thy wigwam, mother?”

“The sun gilds the morning and we are here,” said the mother, “evening comes, and we are gone.” And forgetting the question of Earth, she cried, “Oloompa!—Oloompa!—why wilt thou not answer me, my son?”

“Is the drooping flower thou spokest of a plant of the prairie,” said Earth, “or grew it far off on the lands of the white men?”

“It may have come from the clouds;” said the mother:—“I sat in my wigwam, and cried for Oloompa, a vision appeared, and a maiden remained.”

“And is she a pale face? mother, tell, we too seek the lost.”

“Yes; as pale as the moon-beams which sleep on the snow.”

“And lives she still?”

“The sun gilds the morning, and we are here,” said the mother, “evening comes, and we are gone.”

Earth, turning to Rolfe, quickly communicated the information obtained, and a vague impression was made on the minds of both that the maiden alluded to was she whom they sought. Rolfe was all anxiety, and repeated question after question in rapid succession for Earth to ask the mother, but he himself was now deeply interested, and addressing himself to her, continued; “Mother, if thou knowest any thing of the maiden, tell us, and make our hearts glad. She is dear to us; we seek to protect her. She had friends, they were many, they were happy, but the red men came among them, and she alone is left. Make glad our aching hearts, and accept our blessings.”

“And what shall I tell thee?” said the mother. Then forgetting the hunters, again she cried, “Oloompa! Oloompa! Oh! answer thy mother,” and she continued searching the forest.

Rolfe was now excited to the highest degree, and continued begging Earth to elicit quickly some particulars which would either dispel or confirm their suspicions.

“Let me alone, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I'm doing all I can; don't be in sich a swivet; if the gal is there, we'll git her;” then turning to the mother, he said, “Remains the maiden thou didst mention in thy wigwam still? If she does, mother! wilt thou tell us her condition?”

“Hast thou seen a deer,” said the mother, “when after a long chase it escapes the dogs? It is fatigued,—it pants,—it lies down and sleeps,—so does the maiden.”

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “the old woman says the gal is there, and that she is tired and asleep.”

“Then, oh! Earth, ask her if she is very beautiful, if her hair is light, and if she is very timid,—come, quick!”

Earth put the questions desired, and the mother replied: “Hast thou gathered the loveliest flower which blossoms on the prairies,—cast it away, and a short time after seen it again? It is still beautiful, but withered,—the maiden reminds me of that. Knowest thou the golden colour of the sands on the Wabash? The same is the colour of the hair of the pale face. Hast thou caught a bird, and felt it tremble, and its little heart beat, when thy fingers pressed it? It is timid,—even so is the maiden.”

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I have asked the old woman.”

“Oh! tell me what she says, Earth?”

“She says, the gal is like a flower, that her hair is like yaller sand, and that she trimbles like you were to squeeze a bird in your hand.”

“She is the same!” cried Rolfe.

Believing that he recognized her even in Earth's unpoetical description, tears of joy gushed from his eyes, and falling upon his knees, he poured out in fervent prayer, a thousand thanks to the God of heaven, for having so conducted his footsteps as to create a full hope of finding her who was the object of his search. Earth and the mother listened to it, as to the voice of inspiration. It was beautiful as an act of devotion, and, regarding the time and circumstances, nothing could be more impressive.

While Rolfe was speaking, Earth several times drew his sleeve across his eyes; but scarcely, however, had the last words of the prayer died away, and silence again resumed her reign, when a voice as if of anguish seemed to rise up from the ground. It was startling, and a feeling of horror thrilled through the frames of the hunters. But it touched a kindred chord in the ear of the Indian mother; and, moving forward, again she cried, “Oloompa!” and a voice answered, “Mother, art thou here?” Then burst forth a woman's shriek, and a shriek so loud, that the feeding beasts fled, galloping away,—owls flapped their wings, and hooted,—and the startling scream seemed to leap from tree to tree, as it entered the depths of the forest.—There was silence, and the Indian mother lay bending over the sinking frame of her son.

“Heard you that scream, Earth?”

“Do you see that Ingen, just behind you, Rolfe?”

“Where?” said Rolfe, starting, and at the same moment throwing up his gun, he looked about him.

“I don't see him now,” said Earth, “but I thought I saw one when that woman screamed.”

“You are mistaken, Earth, it was mere fancy.”

“Nancy who, Rolfe? I wish we were well clear of her; if I was, I'd bind myself to quit chawing tobacco; that is, except a piece of red streak, now and then, if ever she laid eyes on me agin:—I don't like her any how.”

The entire misconception of Rolfe's speech, by Earth, caused a smile, sad as the moment was; but he suppressed it, having no time for explanation.

“Come, Earth, we must assist the mother.”

“I don't wish to do it, Rolfe; for since she screamed, I have my doubts.”

“Then you must lay them aside, Earth, for you know the maiden whom we seek is at her lodge; moreover, humanity requires that we should render all assistance in our power.”

This remark brought Earth quickly to his duty, and approaching the mother, he began to make a light, and tenderly to inquire into the situation of her son. He proved to be an Indian youth, who had been shot down two days before, as was expected, by the border settler, and who with the constancy of a hero, had suffered until the present time, without either nourishment or assistance. The call of his mother, had for a moment aroused him; but the first flow of excitement having subsided, he again sunk into a stupor, and life seemed fast ebbing away.

The mother was still bending over her son, and moistening his cheeks with the tears of affection,—when, “Rolfe,” said Earth, “do you make a large fire, and assist her, while I run to the stream we left, and bring some water.” It was soon done, and Rolfe returned with his hunting cup filled, moistened the lips of the Indian boy, and gave him drink; and with it, came returning animation, and with returning animation, came hope; and with hope, came cheerfulness to the heart of the mother.

Raising the boy, they discovered that both legs had been shot through, and yet no murmur escaped him. Even Earth, touched by his fortitude, now became more gentle and attentive, and lent his assistance to make him comfortable. A few moments sufficed to determine, that the only hope of recovery lay in his being carried to his mother's lodge, where he might receive such attentions as were absolutely necessary. Although this proposition was made in a spirit of humanity, still the hunters had another inducement, namely, the desire of proceeding at once to the lodge of the mother, for the purpose of finding the maiden. It was agreed to, and Earth at once began to prepare a litter. Every moment now seemed to give renewed strength to the Indian boy, and he was soon able to converse a little. As Earth trimmed the sticks for the litter near the fire, the light fell on his features, and the boy observing this, asked, “Mother, is not that a pale face?”

“It is, my son, but he is kind to the red men.”

She had scarcely spoken, before her son stretched out his arm, as if to strike. It fell feebly, and only gave intimation of what he would do, if he had the power. He then said in the Shawanee tongue, “go away.”

“Do you see that, Rolfe?” said Earth, “that fellow is all pluck; 'tis a pity he is a red skin. I am sorry for him, and I will try and set him up, if it is only to have a fair crack at him some future day, when he gets well.” Then turning to the boy, he said, “when Earth shoots you, my good fellow, he will not leave you to lie suffering for two days; he won't be so barbarous.”

The boy turned his eyes towards Earth, but said nothing. Rolfe, who understood Earth's character, who knew how much kindness and gentleness there was under his rough exterior, gave in to his humour, and said, “you have a queer way of giving consolation, Earth.”

“Did you not hear the mother say I was kind to the red men? you know I am, Rolfe. I never let 'em suffer long, I do the thing genteely. Now, I should like to meet this lad when he gets well, just to show him how much difference there is between being killed, that is, as I would kill him, and that is genteely, and being mangled up and left to die for two days.”

“I don't imagine, Earth, he feels much curiosity on the subject; if he gets over this, he will no doubt be satisfied.”

“Get over it, indeed!—surely he will, the Ingens know the use of so many yerbs, that, with them, I believe they can make a leg, much more cure one that is only shot; they are proper nice hands with yerbs, I tell you.”

While thus conversing, Earth was diligently at work, preparing the litter for the removal of the boy; and having finished it, the hunters approached, and with as much tenderness as if they had been about to remove a brother, lent their assistance. The boy, though evidently very weak, still manifested some displeasure against Earth, and having discovered that Rolfe was likewise a pale face, he grew still more agitated. The mother said many soothing things, and endeavoured to appease him;—the boy spoke not, but pointed to his mangled limbs. The mother then requested the hunters to assist her in placing her son upon the litter; they did so, and though every possible kindness was used, their acts were as wormwood to the Indian boy.

Every thing being now prepared, and the party ready to set out upon their journey, the mother took up one end of the litter, while Earth held the other, and with Rolfe carrying a torch, and leading the way, which the mother pointed out, they moved forward. Repeatedly, however, had Earth to check the ardour of his companion, and cause him to walk more slowly. The excitement, under which he had been labouring for several hours, had imparted strength to his weakened frame, and the hope of soon seeing her, who, for so long a time, had been the theme of so many waking dreams, urged him on;—“Yes,” he communed with himself, “but a few hours more, and I shall embrace her, who has been the guiding star of my earlier days; her, whose recovery is to me the goal of all my earthly hopes.” And then, when he reflected upon the surprise he would create, the pleasure it would give him to restore her to her friends, he grew wild with joy, and could scarcely restrain himself. And then the fate of her family would pass before him, the loss of her friends, and her desolate condition, and seeing her wretched, dejected, and heart-broken, he was plunged in the deepest sorrow. Then these thoughts would fade away, and there would rush by the first moment of recognition, with its wild delight, its joy, its heavenly bliss;—and then would follow on the thought, that she must at once be restored to her friends in Virginia, that his lot was cast in a different land, and then, that she might have forgotten him, and that some one more fortunate might possess her affections. Then again he grew sad. Thus alternating between different passions, he gave full play to the suggestions of his fancy.

While these thoughts occupied the mind of Rolfe, Earth and the mother had been slowly wending their way along with the litter, having stopped several times from fatigue. Rolfe attended them closely, but with them he seemed to have no communion of feeling; his thoughts were of other things, and he heeded not the conversation which was passing between Earth and the Indian mother.

“Rolfe, heard you that story?”

Rolfe was silent.

“Rolfe!”

He started from his reverie:—“What will you have, Earth?”

“Why, I have been talking to you for several minutes, and you hav'nt heard a word.”

“Indeed, Earth, my thoughts have been pretty constantly in the wigwam of the mother.”

“Your thoughts had better rest elsewhere, for from what I have gleaned from the mother, I now have a doubt, if the maiden lives, and if she does, she may not be the same we seek.”

This was perfectly startling to Rolfe, for the suggestion had not before entered his brain.

“How! what! what is the matter,” cried he;—and he made Earth again detail every circumstance of the conversation he had held with the mother.

Here were two additional sources of trouble, and harrowing were they to the soul of Rolfe. But his spirit was a sanguine one, and the examination only served more fully to confirm him in his opinion.

“Yes!” he cried, “she is the same, and she still lives!”

“I wish it may prove so,” said Earth.

Day had now dawned, the Indian boy was gently sleeping, and Earth and his mother were bearing him slowly along, when she announced that her wigwam was at hand. Rolfe, buoyed with hope, eagerly moved forward. A few moments passed, and a small cabin was seen in the forest. Rolfe darted forward,—“it is not mine,” said the mother. He stopped, dispirited, and dejected. A few moments more elapsed, and another appeared,—“it is mine,” said the mother. Again Rolfe bounded forward, reached the cabin, and entered.

Earth and the Indian mother also hurried on, and having reached her lodge, they gently deposited the litter,—the mother, that she might make preparations for the reception of her son,—and Earth, that he might gaze on her who was the object of his search. Having entered her wigwam, what a startling vision met his sight! Stretched on a rude frame, over which were spread a few skins, lay a female figure, but partly covered, and over it, with eyes fixed in horror, bent Rolfe. The figure was youthful and delicate, and her hair, which was damp and cold, having fallen somewhat over her face, veiled her features; but she was pulseless, lifeless; and the cold dews of death had already settled upon her! and yet, no word escaped Rolfe. Still he gazed in the fixedness of horror. Earth, equally incapable of acting, likewise remained a silent spectator, until the mother entering, approached, and removing the hair from the face of the maiden, saw that her eyes were set, and glazed, and cried, “she is gone, she sleeps, and will wake no more.”

At this annunciation, Earth turned away, with tears streaming down his face, while Rolfe, as if waked into life, bent nearer, gazed more intently, and cried, “it is not she.”

The best tidings could not have given Earth more comfort; he approached, and waited with fearful anxiety, a farther examination of her features.—“No,” said Rolfe, “it is not she whom we seek;” and turning away, he also found relief in tears.

Earth seemed happy that things were no worse, and but little time was now allowed for sympathy with the dead; for the mother approached, and told Earth, that the frame on which the maiden lay, she wished to spread with skins, for her son, and added, “to the ‘Drooping Flower’ it is now a matter of little moment, whether she lies high or low.” So thought Earth, for wrapping the delicate figure in the skins which partly covered it, he placed it on the floor, in a corner of the cabin, saying, “mother, let it remain here, until we shall determine what to do with it.”

“While I prepare a bed, wilt thou make a fire?” said the mother. It was soon done, and Earth and the mother, bearing along the Indian boy, placed him on the rude couch prepared for his reception. While these little arrangements were making, Rolfe, overpowered by disappointment, and the rush of feelings which crowded upon his mind, had left the lodge, and afterward Earth having joined him, they withdrew to a short distance.

“Earth, what thinkest thou of the scene we have just witnessed?”

“Indeed, I know not what to think. I am glad, however, she was not the maiden we seek.”

“I scarcely know whether I am or not,” said Rolfe, “if she had been the same, her sufferings would now have been ended, and I should have performed the last sad office she could have required from man. As it is, I shall no more see her, and if she has not already writhed at the stake, pain and suffering, and a broken heart will be her fate.”

“It is sad,” said Earth, “think of it as you will; all hope for the present is gone, and when we leave here, my advice is that we make for the settlements, and by mingling with men, try and forget the past.”

“It is well to do so; but, Earth, did you ever know so many sad events to occur in so short a time? The scene last night, I shall never forget.—Yet, what can be more startling than the one this morning?”

“I have witnessed many sad scenes, Rolfe, and so must every one who lives as long as I have in these woods. I have seen the suffering of years packed into a few short minutes, and yet I must confess, nothing has ever come over me with more icy coldness than the fate of that gal.”

“She is young and beautiful,” said Rolfe, “and, oh! the intense anguish she must have suffered! Did you see how her feet were torn, and bruised by travel? and it seemed to me, that in addition to her other sufferings, she died of hunger. But who is she? and where did she come from?”

“Even the mother can't tell that,” said Earth. “She has been taken captive by the Ingens, and made her escape, or else wandering off from some emigrant family, was lost.”

“Then she is gone,” said Rolfe, “and there is no possible clue by which we can trace her history; and I was about to say, she died, and there was no friend to see her buried; but, though strangers to her, Earth, we are friends in misfortune, and her last sad rites shall be performed by us, as brothers would do it over an affectionate sister.”

Earth's eyes filled with tears,—he spoke not.

“Come, we must perform the last duty,” said Rolfe, “let us select a spot for her grave.”

“I hate,” said Earth, “to leave one so young alone in a wilderness, and among strangers;—even her little spirit will be afraid to go abroad, lest it should meet a red skin.”

“Her spirit, I hope, is in heaven,” said Rolfe, “and though I regret the duty we are now to perform, still, since it must be done, let us begin.”

The preparations were soon made, and the hunters returned to the wigwam, explained to the mother the course they were about to pursue, and demanded the body of the maiden. She gave it up, but was dissatisfied that the burial was to be a silent one, and, in her kindness, suggested the propriety of hiring some Indians to come and weep over the dead.

Earth explained to her, that to hire persons to mourn, was not customary with the whites; “and her spirit will not rest easy,” continued he, “if the Ingens sit howling and yelling over her grave.”

These reasons seemed to satisfy the mother, and she left the hunters to wait upon her son.

The spot, as I before mentioned, having been selected, a grave was dug, and the hunters leaving the mother, bore along, shrouded in skins, the last remains of the stranger maiden. She was, no one knows who;—she came, no one knows whence, and now rests in a strange land.

Yes, on a little knoll, which rose hard by, and which receives the full beams of the morning sun, broken only by the wild vines which creep over it, sleep the last remains of the stranger maiden!—No tell-tale stone is reared where she rests; yet she lives in story, and many a dusky maid has sung her fate in the following lines:

Indian maidens, come and weep
O'er this lowly mound;
Let your grief within be deep,—
Whoop not, howl not, for the sleep
Of the pale face is not sound.
No mother watched her parting hour,
No sister cheered the “Drooping Flower.”

Know ye whence the rippling stream,
Whence the wintry blast,
Whence the mad storm-spirit's scream,
Whence the vivid lightning's beam,
Or whither it has past?—
Thus was the maiden to us borne,
Thus from us has her spirit gone.

For as she droop'd, and ere she fell,
She said her spirit did not love
With her below on earth to dwell,
And oft times has been heard to tell,
That it would soar above.
It claim'd no home on earth below—
It would not stay—it long'd to go.

Great Spirit! lend thy gracious ear,
Tho' not for dusky maid we pray,
Let thy protecting care be here,
Let the pale face know no fear,—
Guide her spirit on its way.
Far beyond the Eagle's flight,
To the realms that know no night.

Indian maidens, weave the vine,
Weave the sweetest blooms among;
Plant the rose and eglantine,
And a shady bower we'll twine;
While each morn shall hear our song:—
Blow softly breezes,—gently wave
The wild flowers o'er the stranger's grave.

CHAPTER VIII.

“With various converse thus they whiled the way,
Till lengthening shadows marked the closing day.”
PARNELL.

Rolfe and Earthquake deeply sympathized with the Indian mother, and remained with her several days for the purpose of supplying her and her son with food. As their stay was prolonged, each day the aversion of the Indian boy to the hunters, seemed gradually wearing away, and the mother was sensibly moved by their kindness. She expressed great gratitude, was even assiduous in her attentions, and pressed upon them again and again the rude hospitality of her wigwam. Upon conversing with her, Earthquake ascertained that her name was Pukkwana, and that of her son, Oloompa; and observing that she seemed kind in her feelings, he narrated to her the story of the captive maiden.

Her feelings were much enlisted in favour of the hunters by the recital, and she spoke harshly of the Indians who had committed so great a crime. Earth then dwelt upon the anxiety of Rolfe, and begged her, if she could suggest any plan which would probably enable them to find the maiden, to do so, and accept their blessings.

Pukkwana, in answer, said, she could suggest nothing, but again renewed her professions of gratitude, and stated, that as soon as her son should recover, they would cheerfully use all their exertions to discover the fate of the maiden, and if she lived, forward intelligence of the fact to the hunters at their own residence. Earth hearing this, repeated it to Rolfe, who was delighted at having interested Pukkwana in the search, and he begged Earth to try and obtain the same promise from her son, and at the same time to press upon them both his conviction that only through their endeavours was there a hope of obtaining any information. Earth made the request as desired, and the Indian boy readily complied. They were grateful for the kindness of the hunters, and promised not only to extend their search through their own, but also through the neighbouring tribes. The difficulty of conveying the information in the event that the captive was found, was then adverted to. But Pukkwana stated that with not more speed, would the eagle wing its way to its nest, than, if successful, should the tidings be borne to Rolfe. With this the hunters were satisfied, and began to make preparations for their journey.

“Stay, Earth,” said Rolfe, “suppose they were to find her, and some how or other I have great hopes they will, how would she know who it is that seeks her.”

“The boy and the old woman both know your name, and also, where you live,” said Earth, “they will tell her.”

“But suppose I write a line, Earth, it will not take long, and in case it ever reaches her, will explain every thing.”

“Very well, then, do so.”

In a moment Rolfe trimmed into a pen a quill which was lying on the ground, and gathering an oak ball, which grew near at hand, traced on the back of an old letter, the following lines:—

“With what emotions, my love, I now write, you can never know. Am I right in the supposition that your family lately left Petersburg for the west, and that you are now alone and a captive among the Indians? Oh! distracting thought!—how the bare suspicion of it maddens me. And yet, if it be true, know that I witnessed the scene on the Ohio, and have been in constant search of you since. Recollections of the past, connected only with you, are still the most pleasing reminiscences of my life; and oh! if so sad a calamity as that which I dare not mention has befallen you, name it to the bearer of this, who will tell it to me, and I will fly on the wings of love, to soothe, console, and restore you to your friends. I am now residing at Bowling Green, in Kentucky, and should these lines ever meet your eyes, believe me, dearest, I remain, what I have ever been, your most affectionate friend.

“R. ROLFE.”

Then folding them up carefully, he requested Earth to give them to Pukkwana, and enjoin it upon her, that they were to be given to the maiden, in the event of her being found. Firm relations of friendship were now established between Rolfe and the two Indians, and even Earth seemed to forget in his conduct toward them, the deep bitterness of feeling he entertained for their race. Requiring a renewal of the promise, on the part of Pukkwana, the hunters made many kind wishes for the welfare of herself and son, and again resumed their journey.

“Well, Earth,” said Rolfe, “as they proceeded along, the scene we have witnessed here has been a sad one.”

“You may say that,” replied Earth;—“it is to me like a dream. But it is now over, and I say, let us return, and trust to Providence; it is idle to attempt any thing more. If we should hereafter hear any tidings of her, we can then act according to circumstances.”

“God only knows what will or can happen,” said Rolfe. “I fear my fate is sealed. The loss of her for whom alone I lived, will embitter the remainder of my days. Poor girl, how sad must be her fate.”

Earth's eyes filled with tears:—“Come, Rolfe,” said he, “no more of this, let us go home and go to work.”

“I have no spirit for exertion, Earth; my hopes are blighted: the future is to me a dark and dreary waste, and through it I care not what my path may be.”

“Ah! Rolfe,” said Earth, “now you go too far. In the first place, you don't know whether she is the same girl, and you had better write to Petersburg, and learn that; and if she is, pity her, and talk of her as much as you please; but don't talk of giving up; no body ever made any thing by that. If you give up, you have got to live afterward, and one had better go to work, and be respected, than to poke about, and do nothing. But your country needs your services:—man! go, mingle in her councils, and make Earthquake proud of his adopted brother. Though times are rather squally, I hardly think there will be a war, and if there was, you are not overly clever with a gun; and you don't think right about killing Ingens no how; but, perhaps in a legislature or a court-house, you might make the wool fly.”

“I dare say your advice is good, Earth, and we will talk of this matter another time; but it is hard to surrender the cherished hope of years. Earth, were you ever in love?”

“Ah! Rolfe, there you are too hard for me, I hardly know what to say about that.”

“Surely,” said Rolfe, “you must know whether you were ever in love or not.”

“No, I don't,” said Earth;—“I have sometimes felt queer.”

“How? what do you mean by queer?”

“Why, don't you know what I mean by queer?”

“No,” said Rolfe; “how should I know.”

“Well, I mean that sometimes, when I have seen some of our Kentuck' gals, I've felt right funny;—felt as if somebody was drawing a briar over me. Now, if you call that love, I have been in love.”

“Well, I think you have,” said Rolfe, “and that you have felt one of its strongest symptoms. Do you know any body that you would marry?”

“No, not a living soul; nor, for the matter of that, a dead one either. I marry! what for? To be always toating a wife through the woods, or across the swamps, to keep some damn'd red skin from taking her hair off? Wouldn't she see rough times? Fool who?—She'd be all sorts of a gal who catches me.”

Rolfe could not resist laughing, and observed:—“You have queer ideas of wedlock, Earth.”

“Oh! I don't know,” said Earth, “a wife is a queer thing; and getting one is like taking a varment out of a hollow;—you don't know until you have got it into your hand, what sort of a thing it is.”

“That may be the case sometimes, Earth; but how delightful it must be to have for a companion, a lovely woman, whose every thought is virtuous and innocent; and then to have that woman so devoted to you, that her only pleasure consists in doing those things which make you happy.”

“That may be very fine, Rolfe; but I know that there ain't sich a gal in these parts, and I don't believe sich a thing ever happens.”

“Yes, Earth, it happens, when persons of congenial minds and dispositions are united, before they reach that scheming period of life in which interest sways all their actions.”

“Oh! now, Rolfe, you are talking too pretty for me; I don't know what it all means. I can only say this, that if I was to marry, I would pick a wife as I would a horse, and be governed altogether by looks.”

“And then, Earth, you might have just cause to think of wedlock as you do now.”

“Oh! I don't know; its well enough in its way. I shall never marry; I don't like your small gals no how you can fix it, and if I was to choose one for myself,—and you know I wouldn't let any body choose for me,—I should have a mighty heavy team; for, besides going for good looks, I should like a very large wife.”

“Then your taste is fortunate, Earth, and you will be the less apt to be plagued by rivals.—They are troublesome things.”

“I don't care what my taste is,” said Earth, “I will never have a rival; for, if I was to see a lady and love her, and any body else was loving her before me, I would back out. But if I was to see her first, and take notice of her, I should regard her just as I would a 'coon which I had treed:—I suppose you know, Rolfe, what I would do with a man if he was to trouble a 'coon which old Jupe had treed?”

“I think I can imagine, Earth; but come, let us be serious, and talk of something else.”

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I never saw a good reason for a man being serious when he could be cheerful.—Now, if you want to be serious, I'll tell you a story:—I'll tell you one that made me serious once for a whole day.”

“Then give it to us,” said Rolfe.

“Very well,” said Earth, “be all attention, and you shall hear it.”

“I am,” said Rolfe.

“Well,” began Earth, “I was living, when it happened, upon that piece of land I bought of the 'squire, and a hard bargain it was,—I think he gouged me in that trade; but that's neither here nor there;—as I said before, I was living on it. I had been hard at work, for several weeks, killing a parcel of trees, and trying to get ready a small clearing for my next year's crop, when I thought I would step over to one of my neighbours, swap a lie or two, and hear what was going on. He lived about ten miles off, by the near way, but much further to go round by the swamp. So, taking the near path, I went over one evening, and, what I hardly ever did before, I forgot to take my gun along. I found the old fellow at home, and as soon as I got seated, I went hard to work and talked him full. After a while he got a chance, and come at me, and he made up for lost time;—he talked me all over and about in spots, until I was tired. Then he was just getting under way, so I turned in and the next morning, rising up very early, I started back.”

“Well, I think it ought to have made you serious,” said Rolfe.

Earth was a little confused at Rolfe's remark, but replied:—“Come, Rolfe, don't judge a man so hard,—you won't hear me through,—I was just greasing a little before starting out.”

“Go on, then, Earth.”

“Well, as I said, I had started back, and had got along some two or three miles;—the sun was rather better than an hour high, and every thing was right still, when I saw 'long the path, where a great big bear had turned over a log,”——

“How did you know that a large bear turned it over?” said Rolfe.

“Because,” said Earth, “the log was a large one, and it was rolled over and over, to some distance—a small bear could hardly have moved it, and then you know he would only have slipped it one side.”

“Earth, what do they turn them over for?”

“Rolfe, you ax too many questions. They turn them over to get the bugs and insects which are generally under them.”

“Then go on, Earth.”

“Well, when I saw the signs, I felt mighty bad;—I had no gun—old Jupe wan't with me, and I never had been known to pass a bear in that way, without taking any notice at all of him; so, I considered:—my knife was in my belt, sharp as I could wish it:—I took it out and drew the edge across my thumb; I felt satisfied that it would stand me good service, and I started off, determining in my own mind that I would at least take a look at him; and, if I couldn't do any thing, that then I would go home. Keeping a sharp look out, I got upon his tracks, and followed on; I kept seeing where he had been feeding, and after going along for nearly a mile, in a thick place, just ahead of me, I come upon him. He didn't notice me at first; so I stood and looked at him, and raised up my arms and took sight off my finger, just as if I had a gun. I could have blowed him to pieces. But 'twant nothing;—Oh! I did hate it.”—Saying so, Earth took off his hat, and rubbed his hair. “He was a peeler; it fairly made my mouth water to look at him. But there was no use in staying there: so I began to talk to him, and treating me with the utmost disgust, he buckled off, and began to let himself out, link at a time. I wan't much pleased at his conduct, and I knowed, if he would only keep out of the swamp, that I could run him to the girth; so I started after him:—he saw me coming, and the way that he and I did curl it for about half an hour, was curious. I tell you what, we made every thing clear the track as we moved along.

“We were going up a hill, and I was gaining upon him right fast, when all at once I saw him jump up, as if over something, and then change his direction; and then sich a rattling I never did hear. I thought there were at least forty snakes all up in a lump. So I forgot the bear, and stopped to look at 'em; and as long as I had been in the woods, I had never seen any thing like it before. As I stopped, they separated, and I saw that there were only two,—that they were the real rattles, taking a regular fight. A fight, Rolfe, you know I always see, if there is any chance; so I jest planted myself, determining to look on, and see that they had fair play. Both of 'em were larger than the biggest part of my arm, and as near as I could guess, about six feet long. When they first separated, they crawled off in different directions a few yards, and then stopping, began to lick themselves, just as if they were a couple of dogs. While they were doing this, they would occasionally raise their heads, and look about 'em for a time, and then begin licking agin. They were so long at this, that I began to think that they were not the real genuine pluck, but that they were getting tired of it, and wanted to crawl off. However, I begged their pardons for thinking so hard of 'em, for after resting a while, just long enough to cool out a little, one of 'em roared; he made a noise like an ox at a distance, and I tell you what, I trimbled all over. I then noticed them agin, and saw that they were very nearly the same size,—that one was of a dark, dingy brown colour, while the other was a bright yaller, covered with dark spots. It was the yaller looking one that first roared; and as soon as he finished, he raised his head about a foot and a half high, curved his neck like a horse, and then bringing his tail over his back, jest as if he had been nicked, he began to wave it horizontally. There was a string of rattles to it, about as long as my hand, and he shook 'em occasionally. It made the chills creep over me to look at him, he seemed to do it so boldly, and I thought he merely did it, to have some music to go to war with.

“Well, when the yaller one roared, it was just like putting a shovel of hot coals on the old brown;—he fairly squalled. He was so mad, that in an instant he raised his body nearly half as high as he was long, and began to peep about him, at the same time, raising his tail up about six inches, and rattling as if he would shake every bone out of his skin. He was proper mad, I tell you, and trimbled like he had an ague.

“But he wan't satisfied with merely squalling and rattling; for he quit that, and opening his mouth about wide enough for me to get my fist in, began to stretch his head out, and draw it back; and then sich hissing, Rolfe, you never did hear. The yaller one stood his ground like a man:—there didn't seem to be any back out about him, and when the old brown began to hiss, he opened his mouth until I thought he would swallow himself, and the way he did blow was nothing to nobody. I thought there was a small hurricane coming up. Well, now their dander was so high, they couldn't stand it any longer:—so at it they went. They glided off,—their heads and tails were both up;—there wan't more than about three feet of their bodies on the ground;—and they began to encircle each other like a couple of chickens. They had now quit hissing and squalling, and only rattled once in a while, looking each other straight in the face all the time. Every time they went round, I saw that they were getting closer and closer, and they looked to me just like two fellows of the true spunk, who had stripped and were eyeing each other, before taking a round. They were going at it so seriously, it naturally made my hair rise up. They were by themselves,—there was no other snake present, to cry hurra for one, or well done for the other, a thing you know which helps mightily sometimes;—but they were going to try it, rough, roar, and tumble for life.

“Well, now I was jest as much interested as if I had come across a couple of men who were going to take a brush. I clean forgot the bear, and if the snakes had fought till sunset, I meant to see 'em out, and give 'em all the fair play that I knew how. I left them, you know, circling round:—they went round, I think, as much as three times, when the first thing I knowed, they were both in a knot, and sich squeezing and swelling, and rattling, and creeping through one another, I never seed before in all my born days. They would lock their bodies together, and twist 'em just like the working of a worm into a screw, and all the time their mouths were so wide open, that I thought each one was trying to swallow the other.

“Rolfe, I don't care what people say, I won't believe that snakes have bones in 'em, for you couldn't have tied a thread into more knots than I saw them get into that day. They may be filled with small gristles.”

“Go on with your story, Earth,” said Rolfe.

“Well, I left 'em kinked up,—they were tangled for nearly half an hour;—and what do you suppose I was doing, then?”

“Ah! God knows,” said Rolfe, “it is more than I can tell.”

“Why, jest looking at 'em, and straining and twisting every joint almost out of place, following them in their motions. I did this without knowing it, and I never should have found it out, if I hadn't begun to feel sore all over.

“Well, to go back to the snakes:—I now saw that the old brown had ketched a double on the bright yaller, and was spinning his neck out, to about the size of my thumb. His body now began to unkink, his tongue come out several inches, and soon after, poor fellow, the old brown had laid him out, straight as a fishhook. However, it had been a fair fight, and a hard one, and after it was over, the old brown blowed jest like he had ris up from a pond of water, where he had been under longer than he wanted to, and crawling off to some distance, stretched out, and began to lick himself.

“Well, I was right sorry, and I looked on for some time, and hardly knowed what to do; but I saw 'twas all over, so, drawing my knife, I walked up to the bright yaller, and lifting up his tail, fetched a wipe, and took off his rattles.—I thought they belonged to me, for seeing fair play. But to my surprise, as I did so, I felt his tail slip through my fingers, and saw that the poor fellow had come to, and was moving off. But, Rolfe, in cutting them off, I made 'em rattle, and sich another squall as the old brown did set up,”——Here Earth whistled. “He hadn't been mad before:—he now doubled himself up in a hoop, and made after me. I streaked it; the faster I run, the more noise I made, and looking behind, I saw him rolling on; every time he turned over his eyes come up like two coals of fire in a dark night. He gained upon me, so I dropped the rattles, and as I did so, he settled down upon 'em, and spun round jest like he was a top. I thought it was a good time to get clear, so I slipped off, and continued my way home.”

“And that's what made you serious,” said Rolfe.

“No, it ta'int,” said Earth, “it might have made me serious; but since you think so lightly of it, I should like to know what would make you serious.”

“You mistake me, Earth, I do not, it is a good story, and I merely asked for information, come, go on.”

“Well,” said Earth, “since I see you believe in what I told you, and know how to appreciate the snakes, I will.”

“After I left the old brown spinning round, as I was saying, I took the nearest direction, and started off for home; I had walked along, I suppose, that is, as near as I can come at it, about two miles, when here 'twas agin.”

“What?” said Rolfe.

“Why the same bear that I had gin sich a race in the morning. He was setting up in a tree eating acorns.”

“How do you know 'twas the same?” inquired Rolfe.

“Do you know your horse?” said Earth.

“Yes.”

“Well, then I know my bear. And as I was saying, he was setting up in a tree; I looked at him for a while, and then he looked at me. He knowed I hadn't a gun, for he went up a little higher, and getting out upon a limb began to eat as if I want there. 'Twas a mighty trying thing to me, to see him do so, for 'twas conduct I wa'nt at all used to; so I scratched my head a while, and begun to think, and a notion struck me.”

“What was it?” said Rolfe.

“Why, I saw in the first place, that he was a tre-mend-ous fellow; and that the limb he was on was so far from any other, that he couldn't jump off it, without coming down upon the ground; and if he did that, he was so heavy, I was pretty sure he would break some of his joints. So I drawed my knife once or twice across my shoe, and started up; every thing went well, the higher I got up, the further out he went upon the limb; his head was from me, and the limb was so small I knowed he couldn't turn round. So I crawled right at once to where it branched off from the tree, and drawing my knife, I determined if he left that limb he should jump off. He now began to think how ticklish he was situated, and he was mightily scared; he trimbled all over, and kept squatting as if he would jump, but he couldn't git his courage up; he then tried to turn round, and would have come at me head foremost, but the limb was so small he couldn't, and he squatted down and cried like a child. He thought he could make me forgive him, but tw'ant nothing. I began to shake, and he slipped, but he caught and swung with his body under the limb; he made a mighty pitiful cry, and scrambled up agin. He knew it wouldn't do to stay so far out, that I would shake him off, so he began to back right to where I was, thinking he could back by me. I was laying on the limb, and he run upon me so fast, that he like to have knocked me off, he pressed agin me mighty hard, and I hadn't fair play, but I got at my knife, and making over hand licks I popped it into him every time. I hadn't a good purchase, and he stood it so long, that I began to think there was no point to my knife. But after a while the metal told, and he backed out, and crawled towards the end of the limb agin. I kept seeing him turn his head towards his rump, and I knew then I had been into him. But I had done no good, for there he seemed resolved to stay, I hollowed and shook, and did every thing I could, but he would'nt budge an inch. So I resolved to crawl after him, knowing that if I could only git one more lick, he would be sure to jump off. It was a mighty ticklish business, but I stretched out, and began to pull myself along, I felt the limb bend, but I saw if I could only get one foot further, I could reach him. So I drawed myself up, and stretched out:—I heard a mighty crash,—and the first thing I knowed I waked up about sunset, jist as if I had ris from a sound sleep. I did'nt know where I was, until I looked about and saw the limb which had been broke off; then it all come upon me like a dream. The bear was gone, I saw the print where he fell, and that was all he left me, so I made tracks for home, determining that I would'nt get into another scrape that day. Now, Rolfe, that's the time when I was serious, when I was lying under that tree.”

Thus amusing themselves, they continued their journey, to perform which, we must leave them, while we bring forward other parts of our story.

CHAPTER IX.

“But winter has yet brighter scenes, he boasts
Splendours beyond what gorgeous summer knows,
Or autumn, with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light.”
BRYANT.

Netnokwa, whom we left journeying to the lands of the Wabash, visited the friends whom she was seeking, remained there sometime, and then with her daughter and captive proceeded up far into the regions of the North-west. Several months had elapsed, and the maiden, of whom no tidings had been heard since her capture, might be seen standing in the door of a bark hut, situated on the borders of Rainy Lake, and gazing anxiously out as if expecting the arrival of some one. She was closely muffled up in firs, and with increasing anxiety in her countenance, would ever and anon step forth, and search in every direction the dreary waste. Yet she remained out but a moment, for the snow was falling fast, the earth was already covered to some depth, and the winds as they hurried eddying past, drifted it up in heaps. Forced in by the pitiless storm, she again resumed her situation at the door.

A few months, what changes they sometimes produce! Yes, only a few months had passed, and how changed in appearance was the captive! The joyous expression of countenance which marked her happier days had fled; gone was the beauty which mantled her cheeks, and in its stead, there was melancholy stamped in every feature of her pale and delicate face. Still she was beautiful, or perhaps I should say interesting rather than beautiful. The fire of her dark eyes was undimmed, and when in her anxiety, she moved them restlessly about, they served to light up her pale and settled features, as beautifully as the moon does a fleecy cloud when it passes over its face.

Night was now fast setting in, and still the storm abated not, but rather appeared to drive on with more fury; dreary in the extreme, would have been the prospect even to an old hunter, then doubly so must it have been to our heroine; still she uttered no lament, ventured no accusation against the authors of her misfortune, but continued to search with the eyes of affection, the waste before her.

Netnokwa had not yet reached her place of destination, and being prevented from journeying farther by the intense cold of the weather, had here stopped to wait for a more auspicious season. Her conduct to the captive maiden had been marked in its kindness, and the attention of Miskwa might be regarded as sisterly, so freely, and with so much apparent pleasure did she seem to bestow it. They treated her not as a prisoner, they required no offices of drudgery from her, but supplied all her wants, and endeavoured to make her as comfortable as possible. This disposition on their part to please, sprung up from the meek and unoffending manner of the captive, from the gentleness and timidity which encircled her, and from the uncomplaining silence with which she bore her misfortunes. She was an object of sorrow, and Netnokwa and Miskwa pitied her, and regretted that she had not been permitted to escape to the settlements, and would at that time have restored her to her friends but for the dread fear of calling down upon their head the wrath of the Prophet. Another reason was, that both Netnokwa and Miskwa from their intercourse with the traders in selling their peltries, had learned the meaning of a few English words, which enabled them to comprehend the wants of the captive, and to make themselves acquainted with many of the sad particulars of her story, which, savage as the Indians may generally be deemed, only served to awaken in their breasts feelings of the deepest sympathy.

As I have no fancy for broken dialects, I shall in the further developement of this story, give a free translation to such conversations as may occur between the captive and the two Indians who have her in charge, and if in this I err, my apology must be, that it is done with a hope, that on that account they may prove more interesting to the reader.

As the life of one who depends on the casualties of the chase for support is frequently one of great hardship and suffering, we must not imagine an exemption in the case of Netnokwa and Miskwa, accustomed as they were to the woods, and skilled as was the latter in the use of her bow. No, far from it.

But to return to the captive, situated as we have described her. She was alone. No living thing was at that time an inmate of her lodge, and even if there had been, there were no means of sustaining life. The last particle of food had been eaten hours before, and nothing now remained but a few dried skins. About the centre of the cabin were the embers of a dying fire, which she now proceeded to rebuild. While engaged in this duty, there entered a light, graceful figure, clad in rich skins, which fitted closely, and imparted to their wearer somewhat the appearance of an Indian boy. A small rifle hung at his back, yet a single glance at the delicate formation of his features proclaimed him of a different sex. Gazing around but for an instant, “where is my mother, Sweet Flower?” she said.

“I have not seen her since the morning,” replied the maiden, and a partial gleam of joy shone for an instant on her wasted countenance, upon the entrance of her friend.

“The storm hurries on, the snow is drifting fast in heaps, and mother's blood courses slowly through her veins; I will go seek her.”

“Oh! do not, Miskwa, do not leave me,” cried the maiden, “you can render no service this dark night, and will most probably be lost in the snows. Oh! you know not how anxiously I have watched for you. Now will you leave me? Let us raise a large fire; Netnokwa is wise in her knowledge of the woods, and will be here presently.”

Yielding to the persuasion of the captive, Miskwa laid aside her cap and rifle, and seated herself near the fire. Her dress consisted of a kirtle or short frock, of English manufacture, fitting closely to her chest, and extending down to her knees. Her feet were encased in moccasins beautifully embroidered; the embroidery, the work of her own hands, and tightly laced they displayed the proportions of a foot and ankle which many a fairer face would envy. Her hair was simply parted in front, and drawn behind her ears, it floated loosely over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and withal, she was sprightly, and playful, and seemingly unconscious of her situation.

“Did you kill any game to day, Miskwa?” inquired the captive.

“No,” said Miskwa, “not a foot print have I seen to day. The game is wise, and the falling snow has driven it to its cover.”

“And did you walk far, Miskwa?”

“My path was long. I told thee I saw no foot-print. I mistake; I followed a moose until the falling snow effaced its steps.”

“This is a hard life you lead,” said the captive, “you had better carry me to the settlements. I have friends, and you and your mother shall live with me. Several times, even since I have been with you, have we been near starving, and if this snow storm continues, it will end all our sufferings.”

“Never fear,” said Miskwa. “The red people are children of the Great Spirit, and he will provide for them. The wild woods shall be our home, and I will take care of ‘Sweet Flower.’ I will love her and give her food.”

The captive needed no assurance of this, as far as it lay in the power of Miskwa; for she had already received from her the most devoted marks of affection, and if she now felt a doubt, it was because the figure before her was so slight and delicate that it seemed rather to need assistance than to be capable of affording it to others. Yet, delicate as Miskwa seemed, few were able to undergo more fatigue. In the chase she was not excelled. No one let fly a more unerring arrow, no one shot with a rifle closer to the mark, nor was the bounding roe of the forest more fleet. She owed her acquirements entirely to her mother, who, as before stated, was one of the most remarkable women of her age, and as much noted for her acquaintance with every species of skill which belonged to her race, as she was conspicuous for the clemency and humanity which adorned her character. She was likewise superstitious in a great degree, so much so, that she mingled it with all her acts, and it served to impart a mysterious colouring to her character which only tended to increase her power.

However, the night wore on apace, and still the storm continued. Even Miskwa's apprehensions for her mother began to increase, and she, with the captive, sallied out to examine the state of the weather, and see if any thing would offer itself as the means of relief. But all hope of rendering any assistance was cut off; the night grew darker, and the driving storm indicated that it would be madness to venture.

“Let us return,” said Miskwa, “I will pray to the Great Spirit:—he will preserve me and my mother.”

“With all my heart,” said the captive, “and I too will unite in prayer.”

Having entered the lodge, they had scarcely thrown themselves on their knees, before a noise was heard at the door, and at the same moment, Netnokwa entered, as calm and composed as though her journey had been but an every day occurrence. Shaking the snow from her clothes, she disencumbered herself of some of her garments, drew near the fire, and lit her pipe.

“My children hunger, and have no food,” said she.

“None,” said Miskwa;—“no game has crossed my path to-day:—it heard the storm in the whistling wind, and went to its hiding place.”

“And was Miskwa wise?”

“Miskwa searched for food for her mother; the path was far from her lodge, yet she returned, and reached it before the night grew dark.”

“Thou wer't more wise than thy mother, Miskwa. Her blood is now like a sluggish stream; it creeps slowly. The howling storm spent its force upon the old oak, and racked it to its roots. Had Netnokwa remained out an hour longer, she would not now want food; her spirit would be in the happy hunting grounds with her warriors who have gone before her. What would have become of her children?”

Miskwa renewed the fire, and drawing closer to her mother;—“Miskwa always begs her mother that her path may not be far from her wigwam,—She has seen many years, and should rest. Her daughter will supply her with food.”

“We hunger now,—when morning comes, will it bring forth food?” inquired Netnokwa.

“It will,” said Miskwa;—“the Great Spirit will take care of his children. When morning comes, if Miskwa can find no game, she will break the ice, and catch the dory.”

“Thou art good, my daughter. The Great Spirit will take care of his children who love him. Let us pray to him, and ask him to give us food in the morning. The pale face cannot live so long as we can without food.”

“Be it as the Great Spirit wills,” said the captive, “but I had rather do without it than that you should go out such weather as this to seek it.”

“He that does not seek, shall never find,” said Netnokwa; “the Great Spirit will not help those who do not help themselves.”

She then knelt, and prayed.

Some time was spent in prayer by Netnokwa, and then spreading their pukkwi, and kindling up the fire, they lay around it, and nestling up close to each other, slept away the night.

What a contrast had a few short months exhibited in the fortunes of the captive;—one too so young, so beautiful, and so innocent that one would have deemed her well calculated to disarm even fate of its ire.—Yes, but a few short months had elapsed since she was in the possession of parents, of friends, and the comforts of life. They have passed, and she is an orphan, dwelling in the wilderness, and suffering with want. Yet it was not hunger, nor bodily suffering which caused her melancholy, but the loneliness of her situation, and the gloom which hung over the future, brought up and educated as she had been, and yet doomed to wear out her days in an Indian wigwam.

For some time she slept not, but thought of the past. She was sad, and as the storm hurried howling around her little dwelling, she clung closer to Miskwa, and felt a sympathy, in the driving blast, whose notes touched a chord in unison with her own feelings, and even made her more sad;—yet it was the joy of sorrow! for she contrasted the present with the past, and her mind separating the sweet from the bitter, dwelt only on the brighter recollections of her earlier days.

At last, day came, and with it came want, and knawing hunger, and the prospect of starving to death; but with all this, never did a more beautiful morn greet the children of Adam. The atmosphere was pure and cloudless, and the reflection of the sun from the wide unbroken waste of snow which lay before them, created a light as bright as though it were reflected from so much burnished silver. The inmates of the lodge having ventured out, were warmed into buoyancy of spirits by its genial rays, and bright gleams of happiness for a moment passed before them, upon beholding the dazzling splendour of the scene. Even Netnokwa's swarthy features were moved, and the flow of earlier feelings seemed struggling with the infirmities of age; but they soon departed, and her present situation, with its sad circumstances, was all she saw; calling her children to her, for she was pleased to regard the captive in that light, she said:—

“My children, Netnokwa prayed last night to the Great Spirit. When you slept, he came in a dream to me, and said: ‘Netnokwa, you shall feast to-morrow, and plenty shall be in your wigwam.’ And a vision passed before me, and in it I saw a stream, which found its way to the lake now before me, and near its source, I saw a slaughtered bear. Will Miskwa bring this meat to her mother?”

“Yes, and thank thee too,” said Miskwa;—and filled with life and animation, she entered the hut, wrapped herself in furs, and seizing her rifle, was equipped for the chase. Walking to the door, she discharged it, saying, “Mother, the bear will be lucky which escapes me to-day,” and then commenced reloading it.

“Thou art right, Miskwa,” said her mother;—“thy gun should not fail thee when thou art hungry.”

“Say when my mother is hungry,” said Miskwa, “and ‘Sweet Flower’ drooping in our wigwam.”

Having rammed down the powder, she thrust her little hand into her pockets, and drawing forth several balls, held them out to the captive, “Wilt thou by choosing, give good luck to the red maiden, ‘Sweet Flower?’” said she.

Her companion complied, and thought these words, though she spoke them not, “good as thou art pretty, Miskwa, may my fortune never betide thee.” Miskwa being now ready, tripped out, as graceful and pretty a figure as eyes ever beheld, and though not fashionably, she was beautifully dressed. Closely muffling her neck was turned a rich fur, as pure in whiteness as the fresh fallen snow, and which formed a beautiful contrast with the jet black glossy hair which fell far below it. Her cap was formed of the richest beaver, and that so tastefully fashioned, that a maiden alone could have made it. She was a sweet creature, and many a lassie who can boast the refinements of civilization was far less interesting than the maid of the forest.

The captive went to the door, to see her labour her way through the snow; but away she ran, like the bounding roe of the forest, and as playful, and as happy, as though she were only running for pastime. With so much cheerfulness did she hurry on to fulfil a dream. Yet there was a holier purpose, it was to relieve the sufferings of a mother and a friend.

Now, if the nature of her errand seems incompatible with the gentleness of her sex, and the delicate formation of her frame, I pray you, gentle reader, be not startled, for we are the creatures of habit, and Miskwa had been trained to exercises of this kind from her infancy; and if any fears should arise in your bosom as to the result of the conflict, let me endeavour to allay them, as Miskwa did her own, by saying, “one who shot so well, need fear no danger.” And if, still unsatisfied, you should wonder that Miskwa, with so much alacrity, would in such a season venture forth, merely to fulfil a dream, let me say, that she lived surrounded by superstition, and that her mother's dream was to her, pretty much what an authenticated statement would be to one in civilized life; and furthermore, that Netnokwa, though she had detailed a dream, always endeavoured to produce ordinary events by supernatural means, and consequently, what she had detailed as a dream, was but knowledge gained by previous labour.

The captive having watched until Miskwa was lost to her view, entered the lodge, and with much anxiety in her manner, said, “Mother, will no harm come to Miskwa?”

“The Great Spirit will take care of his good children,” said Netnokwa, “Miskwa is a good child.”

“But will not the beast she is gone to seek, harm her?” said the captive.

“It will not bite so much as hunger,” said Netnokwa. “Miskwa is prudent; fear not, daughter.”

I know not why, but at the close of this speech, the captive sat down and wept, while Netnokwa prepared to enlarge the fire. A few hours passed, and Miskwa returned successful from the chase, having found a bear in such a place as the one described. Plenty was now in their wigwam, and game soon after becoming abundant, they remained until the melting of the snow enabled them to proceed on their journey to Red River, which flows into Lake Winnipeek, whither they were now bound, and where, at the period of our narrative, Netnokwa resided.1

1 See note C.

CHAPTER X.

“Regions of beauty there the rovers found;
The flowery hills with emerald woods were crowned;
Spread o'er the vast savannas, buffalo herds
Ranged without master; and the bright winged birds
Made gay the sunshine as they glanced along,
Or turned the air to music with their song.”
MONTGOMERY.

To preserve unity, and also to explain some portions of our story, which may seem to wear a mysterious colouring, the thread of our narrative requires that we should again return to the brothers, Tecumseh and Elkswatawa. As will be recollected, at the treaty of Greenville, in '95, they were too young to be allowed a voice in council; for, among the aborigines, wisdom and age are regarded as almost synonymous terms, and no exploit, however daring, nor reputation, however well earned, is ever regarded as a sufficient equivalent for the want of years. Previous to that date, however, Tecumseh, as the leader of a roving band, had, in the estimation of his countrymen, won for himself the reputation of a great warrior; and when, although it was stern necessity which forced them, he saw the chieftains of his own and other tribes, about to surrender all for which they had so long contended, he would not witness the humiliating compact, but beckoning to his brother, they left the council, that they might avoid the hated face of the white men, and plunging deeper into the forest, rove where yet they could be wild and free.

Satisfied that, under existing circumstances, they could do nothing which would materially benefit their tribe, or tend in any way to effect a restoration of their lands, they passed several years wandering far in the wilderness, and were rarely known to mingle with their countrymen. But when the tidings that a firm peace had been established were spread throughout the country, and the uninterrupted quiet of a few years proclaimed those tidings true, swarms of emigrants were seen hurrying on to the west. With their arrival, encroachments were commenced on the lands of the Indians, and with these encroachments, again appeared Tecumseh and his brother. They ranged the frontier from north to south, and viewed in silence the ravages which the great influx of strangers was making upon their lands. They then returned from south to north, that they might more fully acquaint themselves with the power and resources of the whites; but when they returned, they found that their former footsteps had been effaced by the rapidly swelling flood; and they made for themselves a new path, farther in the forest, upon lands which were as yet untouched by the inundation. And often did they pause, and in silence contemplate the tide which was sweeping along, and which they saw they had no means of opposing; and their bosoms heaved, and they wept, when looking a few years into the future, they saw the fate of the red men.

But when the brothers beheld these things, although no star of hope shone to illumine their path, they resolved to make an effort to free their country; to unite the tribes in one desperate struggle, and at least die nobly in its defence. History assigns the summer of 1806, as the period at which Elkswatawa and Tecumseh, who had resided apart for some time, met by appointment, to discuss matters of grave import. And since their meeting at that time exerts a serious influence on the story we are telling, or rather since the incidents arising therefrom, told almost without colouring, are to form the chief subject of the following pages, we must be pardoned for going somewhat minutely into detail.

To give vent to their feelings, and arrange their plans, was the object of their present meeting. The morning was beautiful, and the place selected by the brothers, far from their wigwams, was wild and picturesque, and as quiet as it could be, surrounded by breathing nature. The gravity of the speakers, indicated that indeed no common-place theme was to be discussed, and the spot selected for their conference, seemed chosen that its associations, if necessary, might stimulate them in the execution of the plans they were about to adopt. An Indian mound, beneath which might have slept a thousand warriors, was the chosen spot; rising up some forty or fifty feet above the plain, which lay spread out before them, it presented a beautiful landscape of prairie and forest,—the former dotted with many wild herds, browsing on its pasturage; and the whole scene untenanted by human beings, save alone the two above mentioned lords of the forest. Reclining an its top, and gazing upon the deep blue heavens, they were for some time silent, showing by that silence, the deep interest they felt in a subject, for the discussion of which they had now met.

At last, Tecumseh rising up, said:—“Brother, I have sought this meeting that we might hold a talk. I have visions of the future. Our people must wake up, or the plough of the pale face will upturn the hunting fields of the red men.”

“When, obeying thy call, I left my wigwam,” said Elkswatawa, “I knew not thy purpose. I knew not there was a red man who would dare speak of the wrongs of his country. But thou art of my mind, brother.” Then pausing:—“Where are the fields over which in boyhood we hunted? Gone. Where rest the bones of our fathers? They whiten the fields of the stranger: they make grow the corn of the pale face.”

“Yes,” replied Tecumseh, “far, far, from the home of his children. But they are crying unto his sons for vengeance; I hear their voice in the running streams, I hear it borne on the winds as they sweep along.”

“Then we will dig up the tomahawk,” said Elkswatawa. “Onward be our battle cry, and the red torch shall blaze until no red man is left to kindle it, or until no wigwam remains to shelter a pale face.”

“Thou speakest well,” said Tecumseh, “we must brighten our tomahawks, and the war whoop must ring. The pale faces like a mighty river are sweeping over our lands. We must make a dam to resist them, or we shall have not a hole to hide in, not a lap of earth whereon to lay our heads. They are always hungry. If you give them land to day, they want more to-morrow. They are never satisfied, but will drive us away into the big Salt Lake.” Then, pausing for a moment, he burst forth with renewed energy. “No; it shall never be. Sooner shall our streams run red with the blood of the dying, our plains grow white with the bones of the slain. Shall the children of the sun be wronged, and not seek vengeance? Yes, brother. But it shall be when the mountains fall, and rivers cease to flow.”

“Shall the red men be like the beasts of the forest,” said Elkswatawa, “and seek for holes to hide in? No; let us sharpen our knives and feather our arrows, and in coming years the red men shall ask, ‘lives there a pale face?’”

Tecumseh, wrapped in gloom, turned to Elkswatawa, and his face betrayed that some unwelcome thought lingered in his mind.

“Knowest thou, Elkswatawa,” said he, “the numbers of the pale faces? Countless are they as the leaves of the forest.”

“I know not,” replied Elkswatawa. “Hast thou counted the tribes of the red men? Call on the north, the south, and the setting sun; bid them pour forth their dusky warriors, and a cloud would arise so dark, the sun would be hid; cause it to roll on to the homes of the white men, and burst over their wigwam. Hast thou seen a whirlwind when it sweeps through the forest? It lasts but a moment, and 'tis gone; the leaves are stripped from the trees and scattered to the winds. Thou sayest the white men are like the leaves of the forest.”

“Thy words are sweeter to my ears than the running of waters,” said Tecumseh. “War shall rage, but not yet. When again we kindle the torch, and grasp the tomahawk, every red man who lives shall cry out for vengeance. The Great Spirit wishes it. What makes the power of the ‘Father of waters?’ The rills which flow from the mountain tops, and hurry to meet him, through a thousand valleys.”

Elkswatawa grasped the hand of his brother. “The vision is bright,” said he. “It was the same to Pontiac, and the settlements trembled at the gathering of his warriors. He was great among the tribes. So shall be Tecumseh. The mind of Elkswatawa has long been troubled. He has slept upon the graves of the red men, and their spirits have sung to him in the winds of the night. They cried for vengeance, and said they were not happy in their hunting grounds.”

“They shall have it,” said Tecumseh, “and the pale faces, like snow drifts, shall be gathered in heaps upon the plains.”

“Then we agree,” said Elkswatawa. “The red men must be united. They must be all tied strongly together. They must think alike, and one spirit must lead them on to battle.”

“We must become one people,” said Tecumseh; “without it, there is no hope. But here lies a log in our path; it is this; dissensions exist among the red men. Not only is one tribe arrayed against another, but even members of the same tribe against each other. There are fathers who would raise the tomahawk against their children, and there are children who would drink the blood of their fathers. Can'st thou reconcile these differences, and unite all by one common tie?”

“I can.”

“How?”

“Are we not all children of the Great Spirit?”

“We are.”

“Then,” said Elkswatawa, “the Great Spirit must unite us, and one common wrong incite us to action. A messenger from the Manito must go among the red men, and preach the word. It must tie them together, until a wrong done one, is felt by the whole; until one mind, is the mind of all. Then let the war club be raised. Hast thou seen the torrent when it rushes from the mountains? or the wild horse of the prairie when he flies along with his countless troop?”

“Yes,” cried Tecumseh, animated by the glowing vision, “the music of coming feet seems already floating in the air. Like the heavy tread of a herd of buffalos, I hear them tramping across the plains. Yes, let the red men come on, and every leaf of the forest shall be stirred as they move along, and the war whoop shall ring, and the red torch blaze. Then the Indian warrior shall cry out ‘where is the pale face?’ and there shall be none left to answer. They shall sleep, and wake no more.”

“It shall be so,” said Elkswatawa, “but time and toil and labour must be borne with. We must work and not tire. Nothing must drive us from our purpose. Like a steady stream we must continue our course. Our ears must not hear what people say of us. Though they laugh at us, our passions must go to sleep. Still the red men must be aroused. To the strong, we must give honey. Over the weak, we must hold the tomahawk. And to what all this is to lead to, for a time, must be buried deep in the ground. No one must know it.”

“Then to our purpose;” said Tecumseh, “you have thought upon this subject; give me your plans.”

“Superstition must do our work,” said Elkswatawa, “and by it we must master them. We must excite their fears. We must seem to work miracles. We must see into the future, and the red men must be troubled until they say, ‘behold the agents of the Great Spirit!’ When we have done this, we lead them as we please.”

“Then a Prophet must arise.”

“Even so.”

“Where shall we find a Prophet?” said Tecumseh. “Shall I turn Prophet?”

“No, brother; you are wise above most of the red men in the gift of speech. Your words flow sweet as honey from the hive. But you cannot dissemble. I can. I am the Prophet, you are my convert, and as such, must paint to them what they were before the stranger came among them, and make their misfortunes a judgment from the Great Spirit on account of their dissensions and evil deeds. Tell them how they may wipe it away; but above all, talk to them of the glory of their fathers; tell them that their spirits are unhappy in their hunting grounds; talk to them of days that are gone; when the children of the sun were masters of the world; then change the scene, and dwell upon their present condition. Preach to them peace, aye, peace; yet make them dream of war and of vengeance, and cry for their lands which have been taken away. This must you do, and you must have no home; let your wanderings be from the big lakes to the setting sun, from where the ‘Father of waters’ takes its rise, even unto the far south; wherever an Indian fire burns, there must be heard the voice of Tecumseh.”

“And thou art the Prophet.”

“I am. This very night shall the Great Spirit hold a talk with me, and to-morrow will I tell it to the red men. Then will I be troubled, and fast, and sleep in the forest; and the Great Spirit shall again appear to me, and again will I preach, and again, and again, until anxiety shall appear in every face, and wandering about each one shall ask, ‘what is the matter?’ Thou thyself must wonder and disbelieve; let time intervene, then be convinced; commence thy wanderings, and support as thou knowest how my doctrines. For our tribe alone, at first will we labour; having gained a mastery over that, and bound it to us by fetters which none but the wise know how to forge, then will we commence the campaign.”

“Hast thou studied thy character?” inquired Tecumseh. “The power of a Prophet is great when established, loud in its voice as the rolling thunder, fatal in its decrees, as the forked lightning; yet, in its origin, 'tis but the gush of a fountain, or the twig of a tree.”

“I have. Philip and Pontiac endeavoured to do what we intend; they failed, yet the earth trembled under their operations. I have studied their histories. Many Prophets have arisen in days past and been for a time all powerful. I have considered their plans, I have learned their tricks, their deceptions, their practices; gathering something from all I will perfect my character, and form my medicine bag, and with it will I trouble the red men, and they shall know no quiet until the same spirit animates every wandering tribe.”

“And to-morrow thou beginnest?”

“To night I have a vision, to-morrow I tell it.”

“Shall our purpose be known to a living soul?”

“No;” said Elkswatawa, “not yet; bury it deep, deep in the ground.”

“Then,” said Tecumseh, “let a moon pass away, and we will again meet;” and rising, they sought their respective wigwams.

How inadequate sometimes are circumstances to their results? Is there one of us whose life has not been influenced by a circumstance deemed at the time trivial in its nature, or is there one of us who cannot trace many of the most material events in our own lives to circumstances apparently so trifling, that at the time of their happening, we would not have changed them, if we could, by a wish. Not only have individuals felt the force of the above remark, but even empires. It is said, with how much truth I know not, that Buonaparte, when leaving the military school at Brienne, applied for employment in the Turkish army, and contemplated entering into the service of the Grand Seignor. If it be true, what a source for speculation! What a multitude of events hung suspended upon that application! How many lives were numbered upon its refusal? What if the blood which Napoleon caused to flow, had at that moment rushed by in a torrent? What a startling vision for the Mussulman, could he have seen in the future, that his employment of Napoleon would change his destiny, and reserve for a different fate the countless thousands whom his mad ambition sacrificed? What a source of speculation in the conduct of the Pasha! was he an instrument in the hands of high Heaven, settling the fate of the thousands whose destiny depended thereon, or was his refusal but the result of blind chance?

It is but comparing small things with great, to advert to the meeting of the Indian brothers in connexion with the alleged application of Napoleon. Though less in its consequences, it was not to some extent, less fatal in its results; and served to produce events darker than which none are to be found on the page of history.

How sad were the effects of that conversation! How many, while it was going on, were in the possession of health and happiness, who afterward, on account of it were made to writhe at the stake; and how many, both red men and white, did it hurry on to an untimely grave!

The consequences are remarkable, because the character was assumed by one aware of its weakness, not by a fanatic believing what he preached, and led on by a bigoted zeal; but by one who knew that it must be founded in deception, and supported by trick, cunning, and treachery. Aware of this, it will be a source of interest to trace the petty devices which were used by the new made Prophet, in order to enable him to obtain a mastery over the uncultivated minds of the aborigines; and it will be the more interesting, when we reflect, that he so far succeeded, as to establish for himself a power, which not only spread terror and dismay along our frontiers, but which enabled him to order to the stake those of his own race who opposed his schemes, even though they were the chiefs of their tribes.

CHAPTER XI.

“'Tis said thou holdest converse with the things
Which are forbidden to the search of man;
And that with evil and unheavenly spirits
Thou communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's.”
BYRON.

In accordance with the resolution adopted by the brothers, as mentioned in our last chapter, Elkswatawa suddenly appeared as a Prophet among the Shawanees. Meek and humble in his manner, he was not characterized by the frivolities of dress, which, among the Indians, always distinguished those who have attempted to play similar parts, nor was there indeed any thing about his apparel at all calculated to render him conspicuous. A blanket thrown loosely over his shoulders, formed his upper garment, and when removed, disclosed a frock or kirtle, of blue cotton cloth, closely fitting his person, and extending down nearly to his knees. From his ears were suspended large silver medals. These were the only ornaments worn by him. His countenance was unpainted, and, although it was the invariable custom of his countrymen never to move without the implements of war, or those of the chase, yet he had neither, but went forth apparently as incapable of doing mischief as when first he came into the world.

His appearance as Prophet for a time produced no excitement, and he was regarded only as one of the many impostors who often sprung up among the various tribes, and assumed the character either for the purpose of gratifying private feelings of revenge, or else for the sake of personal aggrandisement. But not at all discouraged by the manner in which he was received, he kept steadily in view the object for which he had set out. Regardless of the reproaches and taunting speeches which often met his ears, he pursued the even tenor of his way, content to tell to every circle, however small, that he was the chosen agent of the Great Spirit, sent to warn the red men of their evil deeds, and beg them to do better. An example of all that was patient and meek, he was found wandering from village to village, preaching as long as he had a hearer, and satisfied when his task was finished;—he then seemed to have performed his duty, and again continued his journey, apparently careless whether his words were heeded or not. He asked nothing at the hands of any one, and refused to accept when any thing was offered. Conduct so singular in an Indian, gave rise to conversation, then to surprise, and finally to excitement. His words were now eagerly listened to, but to what they tended, or what was their ultimate object, no human being could foresee. He was enigmatical in his expressions, and to all his followers, seemed shrouded in mystery. He had been playing his part for about two months, when leaving the scene of action for a time, he was again seen in secret conference with Tecumseh. They were now less gloomy than when first they met, and a gleam of satisfaction already shone in their countenances.

“Welcome, brother,” said Tecumseh. “Have the winds of night sung to you the words of the Great Spirit, and have you put them into the ears of the red men?”

“Yes,” said Elkswatawa; “night after night I slept in the woods, and dreamed as no one ever dreamed before.—Seeking the red men, I begged them to listen:—they passed me by;—they heard me not. I then told the words of the Great Spirit to the trees,—to the streams. I sung them to the winds, as they moved along. The red men wondered:—I left them, and they followed me to listen.”

“And what say they?” inquired Tecumseh.

“Their hearts are troubled,” said Elkswatawa; “their ears have heard, but their eyes cannot see; they are in the dark.”

“Then our dreams of vengeance shall yet be realized,” said Tecumseh. “The white man shall tremble when the red men are one people. But to make them so, keep thy words wound up; let nobody see their meaning. When the Prophet is great, then he will tell his wishes.”

“The Prophet is wise,” said Elkswatawa. “He is a clear spring to his brother, but he is midnight to every body else. He has already troubled the red men, and the words of the Great Spirit shall ring in their ears until they know no quiet. They shall say, ‘Elkswatawa is the true Prophet, and we will do what he tells us.’ The time shall come when this is to be;—I see it in the future. And when it does come, I say, Tecumseh, the plains shall be covered with warriors, as far as the eye can reach. Their tomahawks shall glitter in the sun, and with you to lead them, they shall pass like a swelling flood over the homes of the pale faces.”

“Oh! brother,” cried Tecumseh, “it is good,—it makes my heart glad. Let it come true, and the lightning's flash shall be dark to the fires which light our path, and the rolling thunder shall not be heard, when the war-whoop rings of countless thousands. But, brother, it will take a long time. We must work hard, and many must help us. Ah! the white man little dreams of the storm which is gathering.”

“No, nor must he dream,” said Elkswatawa; “the tomahawk must lie hid, and the white man must think we will never dig it up. We must preach peace to the Indians, get power over them, and make the white man say, ‘the Prophet is good; he calms the troubled waters.’ But we want help; we must have converts, and they must go and talk to the far tribes.”

“I am already thy convert,” said Tecumseh.

“And what did the red men do,” asked Elkswatawa, “when Tecumseh said that there was no crook in the words of the Prophet.”

“They were surprised,” answered Tecumseh.—“It was like a blow they did not expect; they looked at each other, and waited for some one to speak.—I left them.”

“Thou didst well,” said Elkswatawa:—“at first be indifferent whether they believe or not. Let it satisfy thee that thou believest; but when once we have power, who is there that will then dare doubt? The Prophet has only preached to small numbers. He must have a large crowd;—he must tell them all together, what the Great Spirit will do for them, if they follow his words.—And listen, Tecumseh, fear must seize upon their hearts, and we must make them believe.”

“Yes,” said Tecumseh;—“the words of the Prophet must move their hearts, as the wind stirs the leaves on the trees. Tell them who they are;—tell them that the stranger came among us, and begged for bread,—we gave it; he asked for a wigwam,—we made him one; he wanted lands,—we told him to take them. Was he satisfied? Tell them to ask the bones of their fathers! Or, point to a son, whose father's blood was spilled by the whites! Ask, where does he sleep? Tell him the white man's house is built over his grave! And thus speak, if you wish to stir them to the bottom. It would be well that they should fear. Let the place of meeting alarm them. Canst thou do it?”

Elkswatawa was for a moment silent; he pressed his hands to his head, then suddenly smiling as if a happy thought had struck him, replied, “I have it; hast thou forgotten the Ween-bah-sho-ke-kah?”

“What, the haunted cavern?” said Tecumseh.

“The same,” replied Elkswatawa. “Fear will seize upon their hearts as soon they enter it. It will suit our purpose.”

“It will,” said Tecumseh, animated by the thought; “you visit it, and prepare for the coming assembly. I will spread far and wide the tidings that the Prophet of the Great Spirit will hold a talk with the red men in the haunted cavern.”

“Then do so,” said Elkswatawa, “name the time of meeting the twentieth day from this. The Indians are troubled and they will come, though they fear. Terror shall seize upon their hearts, for none as yet have penetrated its recesses, and they shall say, ‘Elkswatawa is the true Prophet.’”

“I augur well,” said Tecumseh, “the cave alone will fill them with fear; Elkswatawa knows how to make them tremble.”

“Trust me,” said Elkswatawa, “even Tecumseh himself shall tremble. Hast thou ventured far into the Ween-bah-sho-ke-kah?”

“No; never to its end,” said Tecumseh.

“Then thou dost not know how well it suits. A word more. When we meet, Prophets must be made. Let them travel to the farthest tribes. Think of those best suited, and name them to me. I will clothe them with the prophetic spirit, and they shall wander forth believing what they preach. Say, that Prophets will be made, and more will come to the cavern. Now, farewell, play well your part, Tecumseh, and trust to Elkswatawa for his.” They then separated.

The brothers having adjourned, Elkswatawa again commenced his wanderings; the words of the Great Spirit were told to every person in whom he could find a hearer, and he now for the first time, began to affect singularity. He mingled in none of their amusements, he was reserved and mysterious in his manner, and when not preaching, would wander about and commune only with his own thoughts. He was rarely if ever seen to eat, and when he did, the most frugal fare formed his diet. He would never sleep in a wigwam, but as night came on, wrapping a blanket about his shoulders, would retire far into the forest, and appear again only with the rising sun.

His doctrines had already with the Indians become a theme of general conversation, and given rise to speculations as undefined as they were general. His opinions were seized upon with avidity, and propagated with impassioned zeal; and that they were to produce any other effect, than merely to better the condition of the Indians, no human being could foresee. Nothing could be more humble than his mode of address, nothing more pacific than the measures he recommended. He inculcated reform in the manner and habits of the Indians, begged them not to imitate the examples of the whites, but to live as their fathers did before the stranger came among them; entreated them no more to go to war with each other, but to live united as a band of brothers; to give up the use of ardent spirits, to which mainly their misfortunes might be attributed, and to stop at the same time, all intercourse with the whites. He urged them never to lie, to steal, or to quarrel with each other; and having pressed upon them the necessity of refraining from these things, he then depicted in glowing terms, their once proud and happy condition, when their lands lay spread out so far around them, that no one knew their boundary; when their plains were covered with deer and buffalo, and their streams were filled with the otter and beaver, when peace and plenty were abroad in the land; and when gathering under their own shady trees, without a care for the morrow, they would teach their children to dance on the green, to throw the tomahawk, or draw the bow. He contrasted this with their present situation, and attributed the change to their doing those things which he now commanded them not to do; then declared to them, that he was the agent of the Great Spirit, who had revealed to him his will, and sent him to warn them of their evil deeds, to unite them as a band of brothers, and reinstate them in their former happy possessions.

These doctrines had been reiterated for some time by the Prophet, principally to individuals of his own tribe, and to the few, who having heard of the Prophet, came from a distance to look upon the agent of the Great Spirit. But as yet he had addressed individuals only, or small groups whom accident had brought together; he had never spoken to a large crowd. Thus was he situated when, apparently without any design of his own, messengers were found going in every direction, to noise abroad his existence as a Prophet, and invite the red men to hear him preach and expound the doctrines of the Great Spirit. Rumour, no one knew whence it came, already attributed to him miracles without number, and sketched his appearance in such singular characters, that anxiety now sat on every face, and all were on tiptoe with curiosity to see him; so that when the time and place were appointed for a general exposition of his doctrines, and when also it was told that he was about to parcel out among some of his immediate followers portions of the holy and prophetic spirit which animated himself, crowds of persons, with agitated and restless countenances, were seen hurrying on in every direction to the “Haunted Cavern.”

This cave, which was then well known as the “Haunted Cavern,” and now equally well known by a different appellation, lies within the bosom of a range of hills, situated within the limits of the State of Indiana. On the evening preceding the day on which the Prophet was to preach, might be seen near their southern extremity, and at the base of a hill, which, shooting up several hundred feet, stretched away until it was lost to the view, hundreds of red men, with their wives and children, gathered in groups, in the beautiful grove which lay spread out far around them. They were engaged in various discussions, and, altogether, manifested more excitement and animation than ever before was known to pervade an Indian camp. Within this hill, was the “Haunted Cavern,” the place of rendezvous. Roving bands were still occasionally coming up, although the night was now somewhat advanced; and morning was to witness an exposition of the doctrines of the Shawanee Prophet.

The night wore on;—large vessels were simmering over the Indian fires, containing the suppers of the late gathered crowd, and a more quiet aspect seemed settling over the camp, when the blast of a horn rang through the forest. Its echo died away, a breathless silence reigned, and a voice breaking upon the stillness of the scene, was heard proclaiming, “the Prophet's throne is in the bosom of the hill;—when morning comes, let the red men seek it, and hear his words:—it is the Prophet's will.”

The voice was hushed:—a low murmuring sound, like the suppressed whispers of a multitude, was heard for a time to pervade the camp;—silence then resumed her sway, and nought more was heard until morning came. At the very first dawn, a dusky line of Indians might be seen in single file, ascending the hill, a distance of about two hundred feet, to a point, where were posted two warriors, gaudily painted, and armed with heavy war-clubs. Here halting but for a moment, they disappeared, by descending through a high arched door-way, far down into the hill up which they had been climbing. The procession lasted for about an hour;—the last of its members had just entered the hill, when the horn again sounded, and the warriors who had been standing guard, leaving their post, followed on, bringing up the rear of the crowd which had entered. It was morning, yet it availed not;—the light of day had never penetrated the dark recess of that cavern;—no lost sunbeam had ever struggled through a nearly closed fissure, to make glad with its presence that dim abode;—yet there it had existed for ages, wrapt in its own gloomy obscurity, and untenanted, save by nature, which had converted it into a chemical laboratory, and there silently and incessantly, time out of mind, had been engaged for its own wise purposes, in excavating spacious caverns,—forming an infinite variety of stalactites,—creating wreaths and festoons, by the process of crystallization,—erecting pillars, fluted and adorned with the most beautiful incrustations,—and embellishing every part of the immense area with the richest frost-work. Descending through the fissure which conducts you into the hill, you tread a gallery varying in its elevation and width for a mile and a half, and throughout its whole extent, decorated with crystallizations, cast in every shape, and of every hue. You are then introduced into a suit of spacious halls, arched over some thirty or forty feet above you, and supported by huge fluted columns of satin spar. How tame and common are the most splendid palaces, with all their decorations of art, when compared with these secret dwelling places of nature. How tasteless are the most exquisite specimens of architecture, when compared with the rude gothic grandeur of these huge subterranean abodes.

Within the largest hall, arose the throne of the Prophet. This consisted of a scaffold, elevated some few feet, and covered over with skins;—from which also hung a rich drapery of the same material, reaching to the floor, and effectually concealing every operation which was going on within. From this throne, was the prophet to make his appearance,—here promulgate the wishes of the Great Spirit,—here tell of the numerous times he had condescended to visit him,—here divide among his chosen followers portions of his own holy nature.

Gathering close together, in small circles, in various parts of the hall, the Indians sat;—anxiety was strongly marked in their countenances,—many gazed wildly about, and some trembled, as though they were suffering with fear. A single taper burned in that dark abode, serving only to indicate the situation of the Prophet's throne, and leaving shadowy and undefined, the spacious hall in which they were assembled. Silence reigned, only interrupted by a suppressed sigh, or a single whisper, when an owl was heard to complain to the bare walls. It ceased, and Tecumseh rising, lighted a match, and set fire to several large piles of wood, which had been prepared for the purpose. The fire rapidly caught, and as its flames burst forth, a scene presented itself, of which language can convey no adequate idea. A thousand suns would not have created a more dazzling light than did those fires, when reflected and refracted at every possible angle, from the myriads of crystals which studded the walls. They gave life to that which was before gloomy and obscure,—presented a scene as brilliant as though every crystal were a diamond, and called into play imaginations which required but little exertion to form and fashion into perfect models of huge and uncouth animals, the many wild assemblages of spar and stalactites which hung above them.

While the Indians, wild with astonishment, were gazing on the scene which had just burst forth, a low rumbling noise was heard,—the skins, which hung from the throne, were pushed aside, and a very singular figure made its appearance. An involuntary start was the effect of their first beholding it. It was, however, a man, and a tool of the Prophet. He was clad in one or more bearskins, selected on account of their being very black, and thrown over him so loosely as to enable him to assume any attitude or shape, whether it was that of the animal he personated, or of a man, which he less resembled. His face was enclosed in a bear's head, which seemed grinning with all its native ferocity, and exhibiting its long, white, keen tusks; while its eyes were somewhat enlarged, and surrounded by a deep red fiery belt, creating a savage horror. Where the animal's tail should have been, protruded one of enormous bulk, terminating in a large black snake, which had been so well stuffed and preserved, that as this object whisked about, the snake had all the appearance of life. This man had been chosen, and thus equipped by Elkswatawa, for the purpose of guarding his sacred person, together with several other small articles, which he denominated portions of the flesh of the Great Spirit, and which he stated, were given him that his chosen followers might touch them, and thereby imbibe the prophetic spirit. Having made his appearance, he circled the throne several times on the outer edge of the scaffolding, howled, and disappeared.

A warrior, then, a chosen friend of the Prophet, stepped from the crowd, and began howling a dismal song, in a low grumbling voice, and at the same time to move in a slow trot around the throne. The multitude now rose, and joining in the song, followed on in the dance until they had circled it three times, when the Prophet rose, and stood erect upon the highest pinnacle of his throne. The song was now more loud and animated,—the multitude moved with greater activity, and nothing could be more impressive than the reverberation of their voices afar off, in the hollow windings of that huge cavern.

At a given signal, all was hushed, and the Prophet stood erect, with his bare arms stretched towards heaven. His attitude was one of prayer, and his countenance was singularly expressive. His hair, simply parted over his forehead, was drawn tightly back, and fastened; falling thence unconfined, in straight lines, far below his shoulders, and serving from its deep black, to impart to his face a redder tinge than it was wont to wear. His dress was plain, and he wore no ornaments save the rings which were ever suspended from his ears;—but as he moved his arms about, a couchant tiger, beautifully tattooed, and representing the totem of his tribe, was seen to move with every action of his muscles. The humility of manner which marked his first announcement as a Prophet, had now left him, and with a calm and composed look, he gazed for several minutes around him, when he thus spoke:—

“Brothers,” begun the Prophet in a soft, low tone of voice, which gradually increased, until like the rushing noise of a swollen torrent, it was heard forcing its way through every winding of that spacious cavern. “Listen. It is the voice of the Great Spirit who speaks to you in the words of his Prophet. He lives in the winds, he rides on the tree tops, he walks on the rivers, he stands on the mountains. From all he has cried unto me and said, ‘Elkswatawa, go and talk to the red men.’ Tell them of their evil deeds, warn them of their danger and beg them to do better. Elkswatawa was sleeping in his wigwam, when the spirit first came. It said ‘Elkswatawa, awake, awake, go unto the red men and preach the word.’ It told me that the red men had evil ways, that their sufferings were very great, that their hunting grounds were going away far from them, and soon they would have no homes to rest in, no game whereon to feed. It told me that the bones of your fathers were now lying upturned on the fields of the stranger, who once came to you hungry and you gave him food! who came to you naked, and you clothed him in skins—and saying this,” continued Elkswatawa, “the heart of the Great Spirit was sorry, and he said, ‘I made these hunting grounds for my red children, but on account of their evil deeds the white man has taken them away.’”

And here the animal which was concealed within gnashed his tusks and ran howling around the stage on which the throne was erected.

“But,” resumed the Prophet, “while the Great Spirit was sorry for his red children, he told me how to relieve their sufferings, and make them happy as they were before the white man came from beyond the wide waters,—make them happy as our fathers were, when nobody could say ‘this belongs to me, that belongs to you;’ but when the fruits which grew belonged to him who gathered them, and the red man built his wigwam wherever he wished it.

“Brothers, listen! give me your ears while I put his words into them. He is sorry for his red children, and wants to see them happy. He says they must not lie, they must not steal, they must not go to war with each other, nor with the white man—that the white man was bad to his red brothers, and that they ought to go away and leave him—that they ought not to trade with him, nor associate with him, nor follow his example, but above all not to drink his whiskey—that it was poisonous to the red man, and made him give away his lands—that what was good for the white man was not good for the red—that they were two people, and ought to live each after their own ways. The Spirit told me to talk to you, to tie you together, until you were all like brothers—to tell you that though you had different tongues, yet you were one people—to tell you that what was good for one was good for another, that you should think alike, and feel alike, until a wrong done one was felt by all.

“Brothers, listen! I have now spoken to you the words of the Great Spirit; I ask you are they good? Does he ask of you a sacrifice? No. He promises all you wish. Obey his words as the Prophet has spoken, and your lands shall be given back to you, so vast, that the sun shall never go down upon them—and they shall be covered with deer and buffalo and elk, as many in number as the leaves on the trees. The tomahawk shall be buried, and peace like a large bird shall spread his wings over the land—the white men shall go over the waters, and the red men shall again be masters of the country. But, disobey him, continue in your evil ways, and the Great Spirit will sweep you away, and your hunting grounds will be given to the pale face.

“The Prophet has finished, you have heard the words of the Great Spirit, and they stand as firm as the sun in the Heavens.”

He then ceased speaking, and was silent:—the multitude seemed struck with awe and astonishment at the exposition of his doctrines; they were so plain, they were so easily followed, they required no sacrifice, yet promised so much. Each looked at the other and whispered, until the Prophet again rose; then all were silent, when in substance he stated “that in obedience to the will of the Great Spirit, he would now empower some of his chosen servants to aid him in preaching the word, that setting out in different directions, they might spread far and wide the words of the Great Spirit, turn the red men from their evil deeds and give them peace and plenty.”

He then called over a list of the chosen, about a dozen in number, each one being conspicuous in the circle to which he belonged. They approached the throne, and fell prostrate before the Prophet. After a few moments he ordered them to rise, detailed to them the course that each must pursue, the doctrines they must preach, the holy errand upon which they were about to set out, and the great good which was to result from their labours. He adverted to the many privileges to which they were entitled as agents of the Great Spirit, and dwelt upon the evil consequences to which those would be exposed who treated them amiss. Having given a detail of their various duties, enjoined upon them the mode of life they were to follow, and the habits they were to adopt; he ordered them to approach nearer, that they might touch the flesh of the Great Spirit in token of their acceptance of the holy mission. They obeyed, and foremost among the applicants for holy orders now stood Tecumseh. They having approached sufficiently near, the Prophet stepped from his throne, seized a broach which had been lying at his feet, and began to wind up the thread which had been drawn off. At this moment several of the immediate followers of the Prophet, were seen to slip unobserved from the crowd and disappear in the cavern, each one carrying a coal of fire. The Prophet continued winding the broach and seemed as if searching for the end of the thread. A few moments sufficed to show that it had found its way among the skins where the singular figure before described was now reposing, yet the Prophet continued to wind, and as the thread came more slowly and was pulled with some difficulty, the animal within, for so I must designate it, became noisy and restless, making the cavern re-echo with the most hideous yells, and contorting and twisting himself into various shapes, and lashing the staging with that part of his body which terminated in a snake. A moment more and out it burst, screaming and yelling, and rolling around the throne, with eyes like coals of living fire—at the same time was drawn out the end of the string, and to it was attached a motley mass of mouldy beans, lizards tongues, and birds' livers. At their appearance the Prophet trembled from head to foot, and knelt in the humblest attitude of prayer, while at the same time, the most vivid coruscations of lightning were seen to burst forth from various parts of the cavern, accompanied by a dull heavy sound, so violent as to bring from the walls a shower of small crystals, broken loose by the violence of the concussion. With a tremulous hand, and scarcely articulate voice, the Prophet seized the string, and bade his chosen band touch the flesh of the Great Spirit.

“This was given me,” said he, “that you might touch it, and thereby receive the Holy Spirit:—take it and draw it through your hands, and you are Prophets, and the bond of union is irrevocable between you and the Great Spirit.” Then passing it to them, each one did as he desired.

While they were doing this, the sides of the vast cavern looked like burnished silver, so thickly were the walls studded with crystals, and so incessant was the lightning's flash. Every object was now visible;—the dull heavy sound was still heard reverberating in the windings of the cavern;—the animal still howled and rolled itself, as if in an agony of suffering; and the crystals fell like falling snow,—when the Prophet said, “Quick, quick, the flesh of the Great Spirit must not longer be exposed, or some misfortune will befall us,” and clutching it from the disciple who had last drawn it through his hands, he placed it, with the broach, beneath the skins. The animal ceased howling, and returned to its cover,—the lightning, with its accompanying dull noise, died away,—the crystals ceased falling, and all was silence.

The converts were now ordered to kneel, and the Prophet having again commanded them to wander far and wide, and preach the word;—and having in a brief manner recapitulated his doctrines, and given them his parting benediction, they, with the crowd, were dismissed.

He then descended from his throne; began to mingle familiarly with all,—to narrate his dreams,—to sketch visions of future happiness,—and dwell upon the necessity of obeying his injunctions.

The newly made Prophets pursued the same plan, and for some time there was a general interchange of opinions, when the crowd, well satisfied with the exposition they had seen, left the cave and returned to their wigwams.

CHAPTER XII.

“Flaming piles, where'er he turned,
Cast a grim and dreadful light;
Like funereal lamps they burned
In the sepulchre of night.”
MONTGOMERY.

Some time had now elapsed since the exposition at the Haunted Cavern, and the disciples of Elkswatawa were still zealously engaged in disseminating his doctrines far and wide. Many converts were made, although a warm opposition had been organized, by some of the chiefs of the neighbouring tribes, who did not hesitate to denounce him as an impostor,—to declare that his prophecies would prove false,—and who exerted all their influence to destroy the ascendency which he was fast attaining.

That Elkswatawa, who pretended to hold intercourse with the Great Spirit, and only do his bidding, should in so short a time acquire a more than ordinary ascendency over uncultivated minds, is not much to be wondered at, when we reflect upon the peculiar situation of the persons upon whom he operated. When we reflect that superstition was with them a part of their education, and that they were suffering under wrongs both real and imaginary, which created much excitement, and rendered them eager for any change, however wild, which promised to better their condition. When, also, we advert to the fact that his doctrines at first were propagated with much gentleness, and required the performance of duties which all were satisfied would conduce to their general good, and which, several years after their first propagation, had wrought so remarkable a change, as to create wonder and astonishment both among the red men and white. By Elkswatawa alone were the habits and manners of the Indians entirely changed, and good order and sobriety made to prevail where but a few years before, disorder, riots, and drunkenness were an every day occurrence. This fact alone, that he, chiefly by his own exertions, had established a new organization of society, and that upon principles of morality in direct opposition to long established customs, is a proof of the vast power he was enabled to wield. And the conception of the plan by the brothers which was to give them so great a mastery over all the wandering tribes;—their commencing with the propagation of doctrines to which no one could object, and the deep policy which enabled them to conceal their designs for so long a time, evince much wisdom and profound sagacity.

Having gained an ascendency by mild measures, it was now necessary that he should move a step farther, in order to develope more fully his plans, and increase the influence he had already obtained. A radical change as we have already observed, had been introduced among the Indians, tending to better their condition; and so gentle had been the means, and so unobjectionable the doctrines taught, that the suspicions of the whites had not as yet been aroused. It is true, that the traders, who were in the habit of selling spirit to the Indians, and thereby amassing large sums of money, had often made complaints, and stated that the intentions of the Prophet were hostile; but his doctrines conflicted directly with their interests, and consequently, their communications were disregarded. Moreover, up to this time, no single act had been committed, calculated to create the least suspicion; so far from it, the Prophet, on account of the favourable changes he had introduced, had won the regard of most of the whites along the frontier, and was looked upon by them in the most favourable light. It would have been well for him and better still for the red men, had he stopped here. But this would not have been in accordance with the plan which he had formed with his brother, and which they had prosecuted with so much untiring zeal and perseverance. So that Elkswatawa now, in order to ascertain the amount of his influence, began in the name of the Great Spirit to require sacrifices on the part of his followers.

The first edict he issued, simply required that the fire in an Indian lodge should never be permitted to go out under penalty of the declared displeasure of the Great Spirit. Secondly, he ordered that no Indian should suffer a dog to live, together with many other things, too tedious to mention. To these which I have specified, ridiculous as it may seem, it is stated that the most implicit obedience was paid by all who ranked themselves as his followers. These sacrifices were, however, of different kinds, and in themselves, but of little moment, and were required merely that he might see whether or not obedience would be paid to his orders.

This having been done, other changes were daily introduced, all tending to increase the influence which he already wielded. Latterly he had begun to dwell more on the necessity of a perfect union among the tribes; indeed, it was now chiefly the burden of his song, and at his request was urged with much zeal by all his agents, although they themselves were ignorant of his ultimate intentions. Having now for some time endeavoured to obtain a mastery over all the tribes, and finding that the chief obstacle to the success of his plans was to be found in the opposition of some neighbouring chiefs, he determined at once to consult his brother as to the propriety of getting rid of them; and with this view sought him immediately upon his return from a wandering expedition.

“Thy moccasins are worn with travel, brother,” said Elkswatawa, “thy path has led thee to far tribes; what say they of the Shawanee Prophet?”

“I bring great joy,” said Tecumseh, “I have poured out words like a rushing river, and the hearts of the red men are bleeding. I have preached to them peace, but they dream of war; and were Tecumseh to say, ‘come on,’ they would follow, though they know not whither.”

“My heart is glad,” said Elkswatawa. “But some of the red men grieve me, they have placed logs in our path. We must remove them.”

“How?—what has happened?”—said Tecumseh.

“The chiefs of the Delawares and Wyandots have said,” replied Elkswatawa, “that the words of the Prophet have no truth in them; that he deceives the red men, and cannot do what he promises.”

“Ha!” said Tecumseh, “I warned you of this. You have placed the Shawanees above the Delawares and Wyandots. It was wrong. But the Prophet has spoken. His words must always seem straight, they must never be changed.”

“No, brother; and he who says the Prophet speaks false, must die, or the work we have begun will never be finished.”

“It would be well:—if they lie in our path, they must be taken away. But how can this be?—they have friends, and are powerful.”

“I have sworn in my heart, they shall die,” said Elkswatawa, “I have the means. Knowest thou the virtue of witchcraft?” His sides shook with a low chuckling laugh, and he continued, “Our enemies are witches, let them die as such, the Great Spirit orders it.”

“Witchcraft among the red men is like a large fire,” said Tecumseh, “when once you kindle it; but how will you start it?”

“There are many red men,” replied Elkswatawa, “who say, Elkswatawa is the true Prophet. Wherever I go, they follow. Whatever I order, they do;—so far, good. When I preach again, I will attribute the misfortune of the red men to witches or evil spirits, and the Great Spirit shall order the red men to remove them from among them. At first, evil spirits shall enter the bodies of those whom nobody cares for; they shall die, and the Prophet will say the Great Spirit is glad. Then they shall enter the bodies of those whom many hate, they shall die, and the Great Spirit shall say he is pleased. Then will I pray and be absent many nights, and the Great Spirit shall say to me that the chiefs, our enemies, are witches. I will tell it to the red men; they are excited, and once having tasted blood, will readily believe. I will attribute to them the loss of our lands, I will show the working of the evil spirit in all their actions. I will call them the friends of the white men and show their names to the treaties. Will not this do, Tecumseh?”—

“Thy wits are sharp,” replied Tecumseh. “But, brother, thou speakest of the stake, as you would order a fire for a morning meal. I would have your heart sorry at what you propose. The red men, not white, are those whose deaths you seek; remember, we have often given them our hands, we have smoked in their wigwams, and we have hunted the deer and buffalo with them far out on the prairies. If our plans require it, let your heart be sad.”

“Ha! brother,” cried the Prophet, “art thou white livered? Dost thou talk of freeing thy country, when like a woman, thou dost sicken at thought of the stake? If thou canst not open the veins of a sleeping child, and lap its blood like a thirsty dog, I pray thee leave me; I will kindle the torch of war, and lead our warriors on, until not a tomahawk is left, which is not rusted red with the blood of the whites.”

“And thou dost call me white livered, Elkswatawa,” said Tecumseh, his frame dilating, and his eyes glowing with indignation, “thou hast said so;—now did not the same current flow in our veins, and were we not travelling the same path to the same place, and to reach it requires that we should travel as friends, my tomahawk should drink thy blood, base slanderer as thou art. What! because when the sky is clear, I cannot dabble in the blood of the aged, nor derive pleasure from the scalping of children, thou shouldst brand me as a coward—thou! Elkswatawa! Thou art my brother, I must stop,—yet recollect this, when the battle rages, if thou, Elkswatawa, wilt follow Tecumseh in the fight, thy name shall be associated in future years with all that is noble and daring in Indian warfare.” And saying this he began to walk hurriedly to and fro.

While Tecumseh was delivering the above, the Prophet stood cowering beneath his fierce glance, and appalled by the storm of passion he had raised; at length he answered:

“Thy anger is strong, Tecumseh; it is a mighty wind, but Elkswatawa is a blasted tree; the wind passes by, and harms him not. Elkswatawa did not wish to touch the heart of his brother. When his brother is angry, he wants it to be with the pale faces and not with him. We have started upon a journey, and we have travelled a long way. We now find our path stopped up. Shall we turn back, or shall we clear it out, and go on? Elkswatawa says go on, clear it out; burn the red men who stop it up, and our path will then be open to our journey's end. Let us do this, brother, and then when they speak of the Prophet, they shall fear and tremble, and when he orders they will obey.”

“Then be it so,” said Tecumseh, “I like it not, but, since our plans require it, let it be done.”

“Tecumseh is dark to his brother, he cannot see through him. He wishes to make the red men one people, and yet his heart is sorry, when a few must be burned for the good of the many. Tecumseh's heart does not pant for the blood of an enemy. Elkswatawa's heart is glad when an enemy dies, be he white or red. He would drink up his blood as the summer earth does the rain. Tecumseh likes not human blood, and the stake is dreadful in his eyes.”

“Thou sayest the shedding of human blood is painful to me; thou knowest me not, Elkswatawa; let it flow when the battle rages, and let its source be the bleeding bodies of the white men. It might then rush along like a mountain torrent gurgling and leaping over its rocky bed, and in it I could bathe, or could stretch myself along its brink, and sleep by its murmuring sound. But enough; let us each to his post, and do his duty, you to practice witchcraft, and I to wander and preach to the red men;”—then turning off, he left the Prophet to his own meditations.

But a short time had elapsed since the above conference, when witchcraft became a subject of general discussion among the red men, and the Prophet having detailed his plans and wishes to some of his immediate converts and followers, was soon after favoured with a revelation of the will of the Great Spirit, which pointed out the evil effects of witches, and attributed to them all the misfortunes of the red men. This revelation was immediately detailed to his assembled followers, who lost no time in seeking for the supposed witches, the authors of all their misfortunes. The first act in the drama, consisted in the execution of several persons of little note. By some of his emissaries a charge of witchcraft was brought against several old women who were known to have an undue quantity of roots in their wigwams, and against whom a suspicion of witchcraft had before been hinted. Witnesses were ready to prove all that was required, the stakes were prepared, and they suffered death protesting before Heaven their innocence, to the last moment. These trials, which were mere mockeries, for the victims were always doomed to death when they were marked out, generally took place in the presence of large crowds of assembled spectators, served to create excitement, and at the same time whet the native ferocity of the savages. These exhibitions were followed by continual preachings, and revelations of the Great Spirit, through the Prophet, in which he was pleased to express his satisfaction at the executions which had already taken place.

The state of ferment and excitement had now arrived at the highest pitch, and the red men having tasted of blood, like blood hounds thirsted for more. Other persons of little note who were obnoxious to the Prophet on account of having derided his doctrines, or to his followers on account of personal differences, soon experienced the same fate. Stakes were prepared in many of the neighbouring tribes, and the awful and deadly denunciations of the Prophet against all who were even supposed to be touched with witchcraft, gave to his followers unlimited power over all whom they chose to accuse. Witnesses to prove whatever the Prophet wished, were at his call, and in the executions which had as yet taken place, it had so happened, that all had been satisfied with the proof which had been adduced. The possession of crooked pins, rusted nails, or roots were always fatal to the possessor, and no difficulty was found in clandestinely placing them about the persons of the accused. This is all literally true, and the few who may be sceptical on the subject, I would refer to a history of scenes somewhat similar, in New-England, where the actors were civilized and enlightened. Here the actors were entirely uneducated, addicted to superstition, and consequently formed of materials more fit to be operated on.

The Prophet and his band were still going on with their work of destruction, many victims, although none of them were chiefs, had already suffered, and still the Great Spirit, through the Prophet, enjoined them to prosecute the work they had begun, until no evil spirit should lurk among the red men, and that then they would have future days of untold happiness. He had now operated upon the band who were with him, until a wish was law, and his emissaries had also acquired much influence among the neighbouring tribes; when at the close of an evening during the scenes we have described, he was observed to retire alone into the forest at a distance from his camp, where apparently in great trouble, he passed the night in prayer, and in howling songs of vengeance; but against whom, no one knew, for they dared not intrude upon the secrecy of his devotions. At the camp, his followers were in the highest possible state of excitement, for they knew that some matter of great interest occupied the Prophet, although what it was, no one could tell, nor could they know until he should be pleased to reveal to them the source of his sufferings. All believed that he was holding communion with the Great Spirit, and waited with anxious solicitude the coming of morn, when they believed that he would reveal to them the nature of the intercourse he had held, together with the wishes of the Great Spirit. The entire night was one of anxiety and care, dark and undefined visions troubled the red men, serving in a great measure to banish sleep, and if for a moment some one, overpowered by fatigue, sank to rest, he was startled by the restless howling of the Prophet, and arose more feverish and excited than when he lay down.

But morning came, the voice of the Prophet was silent, and yet he appeared not. The sun rose, and a lovelier sun never shed his lustre over the wild woods—the birds sung praises to the God of day from the neighbouring tree tops, and the dew was fast disappearing, when the Prophet was seen with hurried steps striding along towards his encampment. A wild shout burst forth, and many of his band ran eagerly forward to meet him, and conducted him to his tent. His features were thin and haggard, and his appearance was that of much suffering; but he refused to take any rest or refreshment, and having called together his followers, the first words that fell from his lips were, “Teteboxti, Billy Patterson, and Leather-lips must die!” A short but deep silence followed, and a cloud passed over the features of the red men, for the two first mentioned were chiefs of the Delawares; the latter a chief of the Wyandots, and all were persons high in favor among their respective tribes. They had always supported unexceptionable characters, and each possessed the influence which always attaches to a long and well-spent life. The Prophet continued: “The evil spirit dwells in them, their knives are sharp, and they would draw them against their brothers. They are the friends of the white men,—they have sold our lands to the pale faces—see their names to the treaties—and they are now trying to take from us the few hunting grounds we have. Should they live, the red men will have no homes to rest in. I prayed last night, as you know, to the Great Spirit, and begged him to say to his Prophet what should be good for his red children, and a voice cried, saying ‘let no witch live.’ And I slept, and had a vision, and in it I saw Teteboxti, Billy Patterson and Leather-lips gathering herbs, both deadly and poisonous, and on their persons they had many crooked pins, and ugly nails, with which they were about to exercise their infernal rights to the great injury of the red men. They are witches, prepare the stakes and let them suffer.”

The Prophet had no sooner finished speaking, than there burst forth a wild and savage yell, with cries of “lead us on, lead us on!” and placing himself at the head of his gang, they all ran away howling in search of the doomed. Like an unkennelled pack, fresh for the chase they coursed away through the woods, bending their way to the Delaware tribe—scouring the country for those they sought, and spreading terror and desolation, wherever they swept along.

Several days passed, and it was evening when the Prophet was seen in the Delaware country, seated on a small grass plat, which had been swept and prepared for some purpose and surrounded by many Indians, some of whom were Delawares. They were all more grave and taciturn than usual; and upon examining more minutely into the preparations which had been made for the assembled crowd, their silence was easily accounted for. Hard by them, and at a distance of about twenty feet from each other might be seen two freshly cut poles which had been trimmed, and inserted deep into the earth. Around them for several feet, the ground had been swept, and over them were thrown several little bunches of twisted mulberry strings. A quantity of light wood and dried sticks had been gathered, and lay near at hand, while also at a short distance, smoked a small fire, which seemed to have been kept alive merely to answer the purposes of a match.

It was now near the close of evening, when, afar off, was heard a confused noise, which seemed to approach and gradually increase, until one could identify it, as an Indian hymn of joy, proceeding from a mixed multitude of persons, hurrying on to the present encampment of the Prophet. In the rear of the approaching band, were collected a number of boys and women, with long switches, who seemed to be urging something forward. It was Teteboxti and Billy Patterson, pinioned, whom they were forcing along to the Prophet's camp. Having arrived, there burst forth a simultaneous shout of savage joy, and then for a time was wild revelry and mirth, and confusion and disorder, and all cast taunts and reproaches upon the accused.

The Prophet afterward having formed a ring, called them to order, and in the centre stood those who were already doomed to death. Then came on the mockery of a trial;—it lasted for a moment;—it was over, and the victims were ordered to the stake. Among some of the red men there now seemed a little wavering of purpose, and but for the excitement under which they were labouring, they must have relented, when they saw dragged to the stake two of their own citizens, worn with years, and covered with honours. Teteboxti had ever supported the most exemplary life; he was even famed for his wisdom and his many virtues, and the breath of suspicion had never as yet been blown against him. In the language of one who described the scenes of that day, “his head had been bleached by more than eighty winters,” and he now stood at the stake, trembling with age, and leaning on his staff for support, while they prepared to fasten the strings around him. Compassion now for a moment appeared to gleam forth, for the Prophet advancing to Teteboxti, told him if he would deliver up his medicine bag, and confess himself a witch, his life should be spared. The strength of the old man's mind had departed, and age had imbued him with the weakness of a child. He consented, and designated a spot where he said his medicine bag was concealed. He was released, and the crowd led him to the place he had mentioned;—yet his little bag, which in the eyes of the Indians, was all powerful, for it was filled, as they supposed, with roots and crooked pins, and such other substances as were necessary for a witch to work his incantations with, was no where to be found. The old man was frightened, and gasped for breath, and named another place. They led him there, and searched, yet nothing could they find. He still named another place, and begged them to lead him thither, but it was apparent that procrastination was his only object, and they dragged him away to the stake, with tears flowing in a stream down his face as they urged him along. He was bound, and the fire kindled,—a light current of air which swept along, fanned the fire into a flame, and at the same time parting the white hair of Teteboxti, caused it to float off in the wind. At this moment, a young warrior, who was near, moved by compassion, sank his tomahawk into his head:—he fell, quivering upon the ground, and as the yet warm reeking weapon was returned to its sheath, a shudder passed over the features of Elkswatawa.

While this was acting, Billy Patterson remained pinioned to a stake, a silent spectator, at the distance of only a few feet. So calm and unmoved was he, that no one would have supposed him interested in the events which were occurring. But now the crowd gathered around him, and the Prophet stepping forth, made the same propositions to him which he had made to Teteboxti. Many begged him to accept them, and give up his medicine bag;—his life had been irreproachable and useful, and they wished it spared. He had served his apprenticeship as a gunsmith among the whites, where also he had imbibed the doctrines of Christianity, and to the Prophet's proposition, he replied:—“I am a Christian, and have no connexion with the devil;—you have intimidated one poor old man, but you cannot frighten me,—proceed, and you shall see how a Christian and a warrior can die.”

His speech irritated the crowd:—they abused him as a witch, and drawing nearer to him, sat fire to the pile. The fire, at first, burnt slowly, but soon after increasing, it rolled upwards, in a sheet of dense red flame. You might now hear his skin crack and parch, and yet he uttered no murmur or complaint; but, opening a small hymn book, began to sing and pray, with a loud voice. The Indians who surrounded him, danced about with savage glee,—made jocose speeches when his muscles twitched, from the action of the fire, and taunted and reviled him. Yet he quailed not, but sung and prayed, as though he were freed from all bodily suffering. The fire still increased, and a judgment from heaven seemed suddenly to have passed over his persecutors, so silent at once became that noisy rabble. Not a sound was now heard, but the cracking of the fire, or the dropping of blood, as trickling from some fresh wound, it fell upon a burning coal, causing a frying or hissing sound. All gazed in wonder, and each one sorrowed for the part he had borne, when he beheld the firmness of the dying man. His chest still heaved, but he triumphed over nature, for no sound indicated the anguish he suffered. A few moments more elapsed and a skeleton lay doubled up at the foot of the stake, the bones of the right hand, clutching with a strong gripe, a small black smoking substance,—it was the hymn book; and the spirit of Billy Patterson had returned to its God.

For some few moments there was silence, and contrition seemed to have entered their hearts. But the Prophet discovering it, called them together and harangued them. He finished speaking, contrition disappeared, and all were joyous; not only joyous, but happy, and inclined to mirth and festivity. Feasting and dancing were at once resorted to, and they indulged in all the unrestrained freedom of wild revelry:—surrounding alternately the body of Teteboxti, and the skeleton of Billy Patterson, they performed various dances, and sung hymns of joy, and ever and anon they laughed until their sides shook, at the different positions in which they placed the body and the skeleton, at one moment twining its arms around the body, at another causing it to sit erect at a short distance, and look as if it was gazing on the body of Teteboxti from sightless sockets.

The night was now wearing away, the middle watch was at hand, and the Prophet prepared to close the scene. His followers were ripe for any act, so he called them together, and harked them on in pursuit of Leather-lips. The camp was soon cleared, their baggage slung, and with the Prophet all were off in pursuit, leaving their present camp unoccupied save by the unburied body of Teteboxti, which remained sitting in an upright position, and the skeleton of Billy Patterson, which was left hanging upon the fork of a tree.

It was early the next morning when the crowd was seen coursing their way through a small field, to a cabin where resided Leather-lips, whose Indian appellation was Shateyaronrah. He was surrounded by his family, and several friends were also casually present, among whom were two white men. Leather-lips was at this time aged sixty-three, and had always supported the most exemplary life. He had often mingled in battle, and had won for himself the reputation of a brave man. But unfortunately for himself his signature was attached to the famous treaty of Greenville, and he had ever manifested a partiality for the Americans as opposed to the English. Notwithstanding this, he was conspicuous among the red men far and wide, and wielded great influence.

When Elkswatawa assumed to himself the character of a Prophet, and announced that he was commissioned by the Most High to preach the word to the red men, to change their condition, increase their possessions, and make them sole masters of the land, Leather-lips denounced him as an impostor, and urged the Indians not to place full credence in his promises. He had been silently watching the character of the Prophet while he was struggling for power, and spared no endeavour to thwart his views. He was acquainted with the executions which had already taken place on account of pretended witchcraft, and when he heard the shouts of the band which was hurrying on, and saw their numbers, he knew but too well, the pack which was unkennelled against him. But hark! they are rushing on, and first among the foremost, comes his brother. They arrive, they seize, and prepare to bind him.

“No,” cries he, “let me be free, I know your purpose, and am ready to obey.”

“Haste then;” cried Elkswatawa, “witch, we thirst for blood.”

“Witch!” repeated Leather-lips, and he looked him in the face, and entered his wigwam. Then returning to the door he addressed the crowd, and begged them to spare his life. His entreaty was answered with scorn, and they cried for blood. All hope was now gone, and he re-entered his wigwam, to prepare for his fate, while his executioners commenced digging his grave at the sill of his door. Having dressed himself in his best war clothes, and partaken of a hasty meal of venison, he came out from his cabin calm and dignified, and knelt upon the brink of his grave. His executioners then stepped forward, one of whom was his own brother, and kneeling before him, prayed to the Great Spirit in his behalf. The Indians were all silent, and the prayers being over, they withdrew to a short distance, and seated themselves on the ground. Leather-lips then bent over his grave, rested his face upon his hands and his hands upon his knees. The executioners stepped forward, performed their duty, and the body of Leather-lips rolled into its grave. The Indians then huddled around it, and Elkswatawa calling the attention of the two whites, pointed to the body. “See,” said he, as the chest still heaved, “see how hard he dies; he is a witch, he is a witch.” All were satisfied, and they shovelled the fresh earth over the dying Leather-lips, and left to his last sleep, one who, an hour before, was cultivating his little field.

APPENDIX.

NOTE A.—Page 25.

“Roof of the boat.” This seems an awkward expression, yet there is no other word which will convey the idea. The flat boats of the west are in shape parallelograms; they have but a single story, and closely boarded over, form a flat roof upon which in good weather emigrants lounge or walk about for exercise.

NOTE B.—Page 56.

I have often been amused when travelling through the west, at the inquiries which would be made upon finding out that I was a Virginian, by persons who had emigrated years before from the same state. It seemed to them a matter of course that I must know their relations; and I have been asked after Aunt Polly, Jenny, and other members of a family of which I knew no more than if they lived in the moon. This was frequently the case in Arkansas, but lest it should seem to show a degree of ignorance unequalled by any other people, and perhaps afford nuts to crack for foreigners, I must tell an anecdote by way of set off. In the winter of '34, I started in a coach well filled from Manchester for Nottingham; the passengers were all genteel, well dressed men, and one seemed affable and talkative above his companions; he gave me much local information, and discovering that I was an American from some remark I made, the following dialogue ensued.

“You are not an American?” said he.

“Indeed I am.”

“Well, you talk just as we do.”

I told him, I thought nothing was more natural, inasmuch as we were descended from the English.

“Well, now will you tell me one thing I have long wanted to know?” continued the stranger.

“Certainly, if it be proper, and I can;”—said I.

“Well, do the blacks in your country run wild?”

I could not avoid laughing, and after composing myself, explained to him their situation, and the nature of the services performed by them; he expressed himself satisfied on that point, and after a silence of a few minutes, observed, “I have a friend in America, I reckon you have seen him.”

I told him I really did not know, and asked him to what part he had gone; he said he could'nt tell, but added “I can tell you, how you may know him if ever you should see him?”

“How?” said I.

“He limps a little,” said he, “and his right foot cocks up.”

“Very well,” said I, “when I meet with him, I will give him your respects.” “And” added the stranger, “I will tell you another way you may know him, he is mighty fond of swapping horses.” I could now hold in no longer, but laughed outright, and told him that the United States were many times as large as England. He believed I was quizzing him, and turned away in disgust. And these were the directions given by a well dressed Englishman, to enable me to find his friend in America. Happily for the confirmation of the above anecdote, there now lives in this state, a highly respectable and esteemed gentleman who heard the whole of it.

NOTE C.—Page 191.

Netnokwa, who, as we have stated, was at one time regarded as chief of the Ottawas, married an Ojibbeway and emigrated with him to the Red River country. He soon after their removal falling in battle, she continued to reside with his relatives.

See Tanner's narrative.

END OF VOL. I.

ELKSWATAWA;

OR,

THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

A TALE OF THE FRONTIER.

“A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.”
BRYANT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
NO. 82 CLIFF STREET.

1836.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.]

WILLIAM H. COLYER, Printer,
No. 104 Beekman-street.

ELKSWATAWA;

OR,

THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

CHAPTER XIII.

“His was the strength the weak that sways,
The glance the servile herd obeys,
The brow of majesty, where thought
And care their deepest lines had wrought.”
YAMOYDEN.

The circumstances which we have detailed in the last chapter, sad as they may be, are culled unvarnished from the page of history; and were that wanting, I believe there are witnesses living who can attest their truth. They have been brought forward to prove the power of the Prophet. How great must have been his influence, when he could make a brother become the executioner of a brother, and order to the stake, certain that his orders would be executed, the most influential chiefs of his own or the neighbouring tribes, men, who had worn out the prime of their lives in fighting the battles of their country, and whose lips were then regarded as fountains of wisdom and experience. And yet this in many instances did Elkswatawa do, and so dread was the influence attached to his name, that even those who differed with him in opinion were afraid to express their sentiments; and unrestrained, he continued, by the power of witchcraft, to remove all whom he even suspected of being hostile to his plans. When we reflect that he was originally an humble individual, not even entitled to the rank of a chieftain, and that he should by the assumption of a character generally deemed of low repute, and the weakness of which he was well aware of, have pursued such a course of petty devices, trickery, and cunning as to have established for himself among the tribes so vast a power, we cannot but wonder at the design, as well as at the mind which enabled him to conceive and execute it. And yet the deep policy and prudence which he exhibited for years, in concealing from the red men as well as the white his chief object, namely, the union of all the tribes as a warlike measure, is a matter of still more surprise. But absolute as his power may seem, it was exercised only through the agency of the band which accompanied him. This generally amounted to several hundred, they were restless spirits, and many of them spoke different languages, and yet, so implicit was the obedience which they paid to Elkswatawa, that even though calm, he could at a moment's bidding, lash them into fury and set them raging like howling beasts, or when excited, by the wave of his hand, hush them into silence deep as that of the grave.

But while he was thus occupied in removing all who were hostile to him; his emissaries were at work, preaching his doctrines to distant tribes, and endeavouring to unite them all in one great bond of union. His conduct now became a subject of discussion among the whites, and many believed that his ultimate intentions were hostile, although, as yet, against them, not an unfriendly act had been committed. And there were many who regarded him as the agent of the English, and believed that in exciting the Indians, he was only acting in accordance with orders received from the Canadian posts. The burning of the Delaware chiefs, however, created so much excitement throughout the frontiers that General Harrison, Governor of Indiana Territory, within the borders of which, many of the scenes described had taken place, was induced, through a spirit of humanity, to interfere with a hope of preventing a farther sacrifice of victims through the machinations of the Prophet. And in accordance with this view, he sent a messenger to the Delawares, where most of these occurrences had taken place, with the following speech, which we insert for the purpose of making more explicit the Prophet's answer, which follows.

“My Children,

“My heart is filled with grief, and my eyes are dissolved in tears, at the news which has reached me. You have been celebrated for your wisdom above all the tribes of red people who inhabit this great island. Your fame as warriors has extended to the remotest nations; and the wisdom of your chiefs has gained for you the appellation of grand-fathers from all the neighbouring tribes. From what cause, then, does it proceed, that you have departed from the wise councils of your fathers, and covered yourselves with guilt?—My children, tread back the steps you have taken, and endeavour to regain the straight road which you have abandoned. The dark, crooked, and thorny one which you are now pursuing will certainly lead to endless wo and misery. But who is this pretended Prophet who dares to speak in the name of the Great Creator? Is he more wise or virtuous than you are yourselves, that he should be selected to convey to you the orders of your God? Demand of him some proofs at least of his being the messenger of the Deity. If God has really employed him, he has doubtless authorised him to perform some miracles, that he may be known and received as a prophet. If he is really a prophet, ask of him to cause the sun to stand still, the moon to alter its course, the rivers to cease to flow, or the dead to rise from their graves. If he does these things, you may then believe that he has been sent from God. He tells you that the Great Spirit commands you to punish with death those who deal in magic, and that he is authorised to point them out. Wretched delusion! Is, then, the Master of life obliged to employ mortal man to punish those who offend Him? Has he not the thunder and all the powers of nature at his command? and could he not sweep away from the earth a whole nation with one motion of his arm? My children! do not believe that the good and great Creator of mankind has directed you to destroy your own flesh; and do not doubt but that, if you pursue this abominable wickedness, his vengeance will overtake and crush you.

“The above is addressed to you in the name of the ‘Seventeen Fires.’ I now speak to you from myself, as a friend who wishes nothing more sincerely than to see you prosperous and happy. Clear your eyes, I beseech you, from the mist which surrounds them. No longer be imposed upon by the acts of an impostor. Drive him from your town, and let peace and harmony once more prevail among you. Let your poor old men and women sleep in quietness, and banish from their minds the dreadful idea of being burnt alive by their own friends and countrymen. I charge you to stop your bloody career; and if you value the friendship of your great father, the President, if you wish to preserve the good opinion of the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ let me hear, by the return of the bearer, that you have determined to follow my advice.”1

1 See note A.

To this speech, which served in a great measure to arrest the mad fury of Elkswatawa and his followers, the Prophet, who happened to be present at the time of its reception, delivered to the messenger who brought it in the presence of the assembled Indians, the following speech, which he requested him to write down, and hand over to Gen. Harrison. It will be seen from this that the governor had sometime previously charged the Prophet with being influenced by the English, an opinion which was current long before hostilities actually commenced. The speech of the governor which we have before given was directed to the Delawares, and the Prophet, being a Shawanee, was not called upon to answer it, but having been strongly denounced he thought proper to do so; and one cannot but be amused at the canting professions which were contained in his answer. It runs thus:

“Father,—I am very sorry that you listen to the advice of bad birds. You have impeached me with having correspondence with the British; and with calling and sending for the Indians from the most distant parts of the country, ‘to listen to a fool that speaks not the words of the Great Spirit, but the words of the devil.’ Father, those impeachments I deny, and say they are not true. I never had a word with the British, and I never sent for any Indians. They came here themselves, to listen and hear the words of the Great Spirit.

“Father,—I wish you would not listen any more to the voice of bad birds; and you may rest assured, that it is the least of our idea to make disturbance, and we will rather try to stop any such proceedings than encourage them.”

This note or speech, sent at such a time, will give some idea of the policy pursued by the Prophet; and while he strenuously denied all interference on the part of the British, it is notorious that at this very time, they were endeavouring to excite the Indians against the United States. And, at the very moment that the Prophet was sending his speech to the Governor, his emissaries were travelling far and wide for the same purpose.

While this was the state of feeling between the parties, murders were frequently committed on the Indians, and the treaty of Greenville violated, by not handing over the murderers to justice. This was the more galling, because on their part, that stipulation of the treaty had been preserved inviolate. With Elkswatawa and his followers, this disregard of the treaty, was a powerful theme. All the irritating circumstances therewith connected, were collected, and often detailed for the purpose of creating in the breasts of the Indians the most unextinguishable hatred against the whites. Yet, although these things caused much excitement, and were calculated to awaken suspicions, still the Prophet's declarations were all peaceful; no overt act of hostility could be proved against him; and as an explanation of his motives for continual preachings, and for sending far and wide his disciples, as he termed them, he stated that he wished, in imitation of the United States, to form a union of all the tribes, for their own mutual benefit and advantage. Up to the present time, Tecumseh had been playing a subordinate part, although he was the master spirit, and indeed the life and soul of the enterprise. He had kept entirely aloof from the whites, during the peace which had reigned since the treaty of Greenville, and wandering among distant tribes, had been preparing them for the great struggle in which they were destined to act.

We have already seen that he was opposed to the summary process of removing his opponents, which had been suggested by his brother, the Prophet; and now, upon the remonstrance of Gov. Harrison, and also fearing the odium which would attach to their cause, should more victims be sacrificed, and their shallow devices discovered, he began to persuade his brother to desist from his persecutions on account of witchcraft, and to declare publicly, that all the witches were exterminated, and the Great Spirit appeased; and that then they would adopt some other plan for the removing of those who were endeavouring to thwart their views. The Prophet acquiesced. A revelation from the Great Spirit was soon received, which said that all the witches were exterminated, and he satisfied with his red children; and, soon after, the two brothers were engaged heart and hand, in exciting jealousies among the various tribes, toward their respective chiefs, and in persuading them to take all authority into their own hands. This plan was pursued with success:—all the chiefs who were opposed to the Prophet were dethroned, and the affairs of their tribes managed by the warriors. Dark and midnight meetings were now continually held; multitudes were flocking from a distance to see the Prophet, and hear him preach; and so much excitement prevailed, that constant information of every proceeding was furnished to Gen. Harrison, at his request, by persons employed for that purpose.

Information from sources, somewhat vague and questionable, was now often received by the whites, indicating a hostile intention on the part of the Indians. But the Prophet's band, or those who regularly remained with him, were not sufficient in numbers to create much alarm, and for a time, no active steps were taken. The great gatherings to hear the words of the Prophet were now generally attended with petty aggressions on the lands of the whites, and so many accounts were brought in of a hostile disposition on the part of the Indians, that the Governor began to organize and discipline the militia of his territory. Circumstances had also transpired which indicated an unfriendly feeling on the part of the British, and it now became manifest that English agents had been tampering with the Indians, and endeavouring to excite them against the United States.

About this time, also, the Prophet determined to remove his head-quarters from their present position, near Fort Wayne, to the upper branches of the Wabash. To this movement, there was strong opposition, both from the red men and white, yet he succeeded. The Miamies and Delawares, who claimed the land where he purposed to locate himself, with a hope of defeating this measure, sent a deputation to the Prophet, remonstrating with him for so doing. But he refused to see them, and sent in his place his brother, Tecumseh. He met them, and gave them such a reception that the deputation returned with fear and trembling.

Elkswatawa's power was now at its height; yet he still had enemies, men who would not have hesitated to seize and assassinate him, but for the mystery which surrounded his character. Fearing for his personal safety, he had from the commencement denounced the most awful punishment against any one, who should dare to molest the “Prophet of the Most High.” And on this account, so much was he feared even by those who hated him, that his person was by all regarded as sacred. Having removed to the upper branches of the Wabash, he settled at a place which he called Tippecanoe, and began at once to build a town. He also now began to mingle warlike with religious exercises, and after preaching, it was customary for him to make his warriors to draw the bow, throw the tomahawk, or wield the war club.

Notwithstanding these preparations, he was not yet ready to strike the blow he had so long been meditating. The necessity of full preparation had been urged by Tecumseh, who was the soul of all the proceedings, and who was to give the signal and lead them on, the foremost in the fight. Although the ascendency of the Prophet was so great, yet it was chiefly in the tribes around him, that his power was felt. This was but a part of his plan. To ensure the cordial co-operation of all the distant and wandering tribes was likewise his object, and to effect this was Tecumseh now incessantly labouring.

The mingling of warlike exercises with religious duties, and the continual assembling of large crowds around the Prophet, partially disclosed his intentions, and also served to awaken the whites to a sense of their danger.

In consequence of the information which had been regularly forwarded to Washington, orders were received from the general government, in pursuance of an act of Congress previously passed, requiring the different states and territories to organize, arm, and equip their respective quotas of one hundred thousand men, and hold them in readiness to march at a moment's warning. The Prophet was apprized of these preparations, his plans were as yet unfinished, and all his energies were directed, to lull the suspicions which his conduct had created. As a first step he resolved to visit the Governor in person, and sent him a runner, with a message to that effect, also stating, that his views and intentions had been misrepresented, and soon after made his appearance, accompanied only by his own immediate followers. He was received with courtesy, and remained several days, during which, in explanation of his views, he delivered to the Governor the following speech:

“Father, it is three years since I first began with that system of religion which I now practise. The white people and some of the Indians were against me; but I had no other intention but to introduce among the Indians those good principles of religion which the white people profess. I was spoken badly of by the white people, who reproached me with misleading the Indians; but I defy them to say that I did any thing amiss.

“I heard when I settled on the Wabash that my father, the Governor, had declared that all the land between Vincennes and Fort Wayne, was the property of the ‘Seventeen Fires.’ I also heard that you wanted to know, my father, whether I was man or God.

“The Great Spirit told me to tell the Indians, that he had made them, and made the world—that he had placed them on it to do good and not evil. I told all the red skins, that the way they were in was not good, and that they ought to abandon it—that we ought to consider ourselves as one man, but we ought to live agreeable to our customs, the red people after their mode, and the white people after theirs; and that they must always follow the directions of the Great Spirit, and we must listen to him, as it was he that made us.

“Determine to listen to nothing that is bad. Do not take up the tomahawk, should it be offered by the British or the Long Knives. Do not meddle with any thing that does not belong to us, but let us mind our own business and cultivate the ground, that our women and our children may have enough to live on. I now inform you that it is our intention to live in peace with our Father and his people for ever.

“My Father, I have informed you what we mean to do, and I call the Great Spirit to witness the truth of my declaration. The religion which I have established for the last three years, has been attended to by the different tribes of Indians in this part of the world. Those Indians were once different people; they are now but one; they are all determined to practise what I have communicated to them, and that has come immediately from the Great Spirit through me.

“Brother, I speak to you as a warrior. You are one. But let us lay aside this character, and attend to the care of our children that they may live in peace and comfort. We desire that you will join us for the preservation of both red and white people. Formerly, when we lived in ignorance, we were foolish; but now, since we listen to the voice of the Great Spirit, we are happy.

“I have listened to what you have said to us. You have promised to assist us. I now request you in behalf of all the red people, to use your exertions to prevent the sale of liquor to us. We are all well pleased to hear you say that you will endeavour to promote our happiness. We give you every assurance that we will follow the dictates of the Great Spirit.

“We are all well pleased with the attentions you have shown us; also the good intentions of our Father the President.”

There was so much apparent frankness in this speech, that it won in a great measure the confidence of the Governor. The Prophet continued his visit for more than two weeks;—frequently addressed his followers, dwelling solely on the evils of war, and the bad effects of ardent spirits, and persuading them to live in peace and friendship with all mankind. The Governor was astonished at the perfect ease with which he governed his followers, and was convinced that they acted on principle, from not being able to make them drink spirit, which he tried to do by way of experiment.—Elkswatawa denied all connexion with the British, and by his manner and address, succeeded in deceiving the Governor, and even caused him to believe that his intentions had been misrepresented. He went farther,—he satisfied the Governor that the influence he had gained was beneficial to humanity, and having created the impression he desired, returned with his followers to Tippecanoe.

We have now given a sketch of the great plan of union, which was projected by the brothers, and traced the character of Elkswatawa, from his first appearance as a Prophet, to the period at which he was introduced in his temporary camp, on the prairie. His power was then as great as we have painted it, and had been obtained by the means we have stated. He was then professing peace, though doing all in his power to bring about war. And now having brought up the history of the Prophet to the period of which we are writing, we will proceed with our narrative.

CHAPTER XIV.

“A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face;
It fled, and deeper paleness took its place;
Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last,
Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast.”
DRAKE.

A year and more had now passed, since the disaster on the Ohio, and the captive maiden had already gone through more adventures than fall to the lot of most heroines, or than even it is my intention to describe. And, with the lapse of time, came changes,—changes that we must all feel.—The girlish form which we last beheld indicated that time had added to it strength, and filled out its beautiful proportions, and the maiden was now as pretty as woman can be. Grief had left its traces, but even they were beautiful.

Reader, hast thou ever, in summer, watched a coming storm? Hast thou seen a cloud overcast the heavens, spreading abroad darkness and gloom?—The storm bursts,—the big drops come dancing to the earth, and the sky is cleared! How brightly then shines the sun! how the rain drops glitter in its beams! Beautiful as the rain drops are the traces of grief. Tears are to grief, what rain is to the parched earth. Oh! how beautiful are the remains of affection! Such were now the traces which time had left on the captive maiden. There are the cold and heartless, who, in the language of the world, would merely have said that she had broken,—how I hate the word in that sense,—and who would have thought her less beautiful than in girlhood she promised to be. With the world, it may be that she was. But to many, she would have been far dearer than in happier days; though less brilliant, there was something more touching in her melancholy,—something better calculated to sink deep into the heart, and call into play the finer feelings of our nature. The recollection of her family was now like a distant view, shadowy and undefined, and she rarely recurred to the sad evening of her misfortunes; but if she did, and would but for an instant dwell thereon, it was like applying the telescope to distant objects. The scene arose before her in all its startling horror, and she gave vent to her grief in a gush of tears.

But these scenes, as I have stated above, now occurred but rarely:—time had added its soothing power, and the captive now in her musings, began to turn her thoughts to still earlier days. The heart is more susceptible in misfortune, and loves then also to brood over moments which once were happy; probably because there is relief in indulging in anticipations or recollections which drive away heavier thoughts. So that now there were moments when she pondered over her heart's earliest joys, and dwelt with delight on the recollection of him who first, by his kind and gentle manner, won her affections, taught her to extract music from the gushing of fountains, and pleasure from the inspection of a flower, or the sight of a landscape.

This may not be intelligible to all my readers, for there are some persons who know nothing of the sympathies of the human heart. But is there one who has not felt his increased capability for enjoyment, when the heart is first warmed into life,—when the springs of affection first begin to flow. It is then that, stripped of sensuality, our thoughts seem purified. It is then, that even nature, seen through the first springings of pure affection, is lovelier than it is ever seen afterward, and we can then feel that we live. But delightful as those feelings are, like dew drops on flowers, they are beautiful, but last not;—no, an entrance into the world, is to them what frost is to the flowers. Yes, they wither and die, even while the functions of life are green on the tree. Feeling is to life, what malmsey is to wine. Yes, all that is beautiful and bright in life, dies while we are on the threshold. The loss of early feelings is beautifully described by Byron in the lines beginning

“There's not a joy the world can give,
Like that it takes away,
When the flow of early thought declines
In feeling's dull decay.”

There is a sad truth in the lines here alluded to, which all who have read them, must have often felt.

Gentle reader, hast thou ever watched and wept over the loss of thy early feelings; hast thou seen them fast ebbing away, and felt thyself growing old, while thou wert yet young in years. I have, and like a mother over a dying child, like a lover over the sinking pulse of his mistress, I have watched and wept as they left me.

Reader, I have called thee gentle above, and I feel a sympathy for thee, though thou art unknown, for thou wilt see my wayward thoughts, and recollect that while tracing them, I held communion with thee. Yes, even at this moment, speculations float across my mind, as to the characters of the persons who may read them, and as to the impressions which my wayward fancies may produce. They may be glanced over, think I, by some early associate, and remind him perhaps of some long forgotten friend. But reader, whoever thou art, and whatever may be the cast of thy opinions, I sincerely hope, if thou wishest it, that the perusal of them may have the same effect upon thee, which the mere exertion of tracing them out has had upon me. It has served to rob life for a time of the tedium and weariness which often sits heavily upon me.

It would be tedious were we to trace minutely the movements of Netnokwa and her party, from the time that she left Rainy Lake, until her arrival among her own tribe—suffice it, that they all encountered more dangers and difficulties than belong to ordinary adventures, and after a long and toilsome journey arrived there safe. A longer acquaintance with the captive maiden only served to increase their affections, and they now strictly regarded her as a member of their family. No act of kindness on their part was wanting, and so devoted was Miskwa in her attentions, that she won the heart of the captive, whom she also cheered by giving a promise both for herself and mother, that as soon as the dread influence which the Prophet exercised over the tribes, should in some measure subside, or any other circumstance render it practicable, that they would restore her to the settlements. This promise rendered her cheerful at moments, and caused her to entertain for Miskwa the kindest possible feelings, nor was she otherwise than fond of Netnokwa; but Miskwa was of her own age, and though of a different complexion, still in her she found a kindred spirit. Thrown constantly in her company, they soon became inseparable companions, divided all their duties, and enjoyed together all their little amusements; and such was the power of culture and of mind, that Miskwa insensibly adopted many of the habits of the captive, and satisfied that in doing so she was improved, even attempted to learn her language. But grateful as was the captive, her heart was sad, her sources of amusement were only transient gleams of joy, flitting by like fleeting clouds—her thoughts were afar off—and when she recollected that it was the Prophet's influence which detained her from that land which she so much wished again to see—she began to inquire who he was, and what were his doctrines. The information received, only served to convince her of the futility of his pretensions; and when she heard a list of the victims which his doctrine of witchcraft had consigned to the stake, she no longer hesitated, but spoke of him as a bad man, and endeavoured to convince Netnokwa and Miskwa, that he was not even entitled to their good opinion. She spoke of the Great Spirit as the author of all goodness and mercy; it was the light in which Miskwa and her mother regarded him, and then asked them how, thinking as they did of him, they could believe that he would authorize the acts of the Prophet. Many conversations on this subject had taken place, and though always urged by the captive with the utmost timidity, and though Netnokwa and her daughter at first shrunk from them as from something fearful, yet their frequency, and the confident manner in which the captive, the more she spoke of it, now asserted, that his assumed character was a mere delusion, tended at least to familiarize them with the subject, and also caused the first dawnings of doubt.

It was a lovely evening, when two maidens were seen standing near the door of a neat little cottage situated on the banks of one of those many nameless tributaries which add their quota to the upper Red river. Many wild vines crept over and around it, and the sweetest flowers of the prairie and forest, tastefully arranged, bloomed in the richest luxuriance. It was not like an Indian wigwam, for taste, and refinement and cultivation, seemed blended in every thing therewith connected; and the wonder was, that so beautiful a spot, could be found so far from the white settlements, and embosomed in so vast and trackless a wilderness. Many hundred miles would scarcely have brought its inmates to the farthest advanced posts of civilization, and yet at that distance they now dwelt, and formed and fashioned for amusement their little Paradise with its garden of Eden which they themselves had created. One would have wondered and admired; and it was woman's delicate hands which had wrought it all.

Hast thou never observed that an accomplished and virtuous female seems, by her mere presence, to impart a charm to every thing around her, and add a beauty to every thing she touches. I mean not however to include the dispensers of fashion, or the mere creatures of art, for accomplished as they may be, there is always a frivolity of manner about them, which places them lower in the scale of excellence, and tends in a great measure to destroy their power; but I mean woman, lovely, beautiful and fascinating as she is, when her time is devoted to the improvement of her mind, and the cultivation of her heart. As pure in excellence as the snow in whiteness, was the captive maiden, for her intercourse with the world had never been sufficiently great to deform her either by fashion or by art, and the loss of her family had created in her breast no resentment against the authors of her misfortune, but had tended rather to soften her feelings towards the whole human race. This resulted partly from the destitute condition in which she found herself, and also from the resignation with which she submitted to the will of Providence.

As Miskwa, with the captive, stood before the door, the latter was gazing pensively in the direction of her far home, and as thoughts of the past rose before her, she sighed, and a shade of darker melancholy than was wont to rest upon her features, passed over her face. At that moment, Miskwa called her attention, and with a bow and quiver in her hand, proposed that they should walk. The sun's rays were mellowing the prospect, and the air was bland and mild. First turning to salute their flowers, they gathered some, and twining them into wreaths, decorated their brows. They then started on their walk, and Miskwa, with the mirth of a happy heart, ran bounding forward. As they continued it, thoughts which were sad passed from the mind of the captive maiden, and she too was apparently happy. They had proceeded in their rambles a mile or two, when their attention was suddenly aroused, by a stranger coming towards them. He was a son of the forest, yet there was something singular in his address, and peculiar in his manner. They knew not what to think, and as he approached, Miskwa bent her bow, and adjusted a keen pointed arrow. Yet he seemed not to notice it, but coming nearer, beckoned them to follow, and started off, leading the way to their own cabin. Miskwa spoke to him, but he refused to answer, and continued indicating to them signs that they must accompany him to their lodge. His eyes were cast upon the ground,—his countenance was grave in the extreme,—there was an air of mystery about him, and when he moved forward, Miskwa not being able to explain who or what he was, and feeling a vague fear, why or wherefore she knew not, spoke to her friend, and advised her to follow; and in silence they accompanied the stranger, who, to their great surprise, pursued the most direct path to their lodge. Having arrived there, he seemed not to regard Netnokwa, who was sitting just without the door, but uninvited, entered her lodge, and seating himself, began to smoke. Netnokwa at the same time, entering, made of him many inquiries; yet he paid not the least attention to her, but continued smoking.—Then calling in Miskwa and the maiden, they seated themselves to await his pleasure. None could divine the cause of his errand, and on account of it fear was felt by Netnokwa and her family. After a deep silence of half an hour, he stated that his name was Kenah, and that he had come with a message from the Shawanee Prophet. Then, after a few moments farther silence, he said:—“Henceforth, the fire must never be suffered to go out in your lodge. Summer and winter, day and night,—in the calm or in the storm,—you must remember that the life in your body, and the fire in your lodge, are the same, and of the same date. If you suffer your fire to be extinguished, at that moment your life will be at its end. You must not suffer a dog to live. The Prophet himself is coming to shake hands with you; but I have come before, that you may know what is the will of the Great Spirit, communicated to us by him; and to inform you that the preservation of your life for a single moment, depends on your entire obedience. From this time forward, we are neither to steal, to lie, or to go against our enemies. While we yield an entire obedience to these commands of the Great Spirit, the Sioux, even if they come to our country, will not be able to see us; we shall be protected and made happy.”1

1 See note B.

When the speech was finished, the countenances of Miskwa and Netnokwa seemed troubled, and the captive, not being able to comprehend all he had said, asked Miskwa for an explanation. Kenah hearing this, and himself speaking English imperfectly, began in the same mysterious manner, to repeat to her what he had before said. To his surprise, his remarks, instead of inspiring her with the same dread which they had Netnokwa and her daughter, only served to excite her laughter, and turning to Miskwa, she began to ridicule his opinions, and then to ask Netnokwa if she thought the Great Spirit wanted her to kill her dogs, which aided in supplying them with food? and why he should care whether the fire went out in their lodge or not?

When Kenah saw this, clouds of anger passed over his brow, and he began to tell how many times the Great Spirit had visited the Prophet, and what he had ordered him to do for his red children. But as he talked of it, they became familiarized to his person, and a discussion of the subject only served to exhibit the folly and cruelty of his doctrines. The eyes of Netnokwa and her daughter had been before opened by the opinions of the captive, and the fear of which his words would but for that have inspired, was now with Miskwa, rather a subject of merriment, and she with the captive, began to persuade Netnokwa not to kill her dogs, nor to regard what Kenah had said.

Kenah, seeing that nothing could be effected, was filled with rage, and internally vowing vengeance against the captive, to whom mainly he attributed his want of success, and likewise against Miskwa, who seemed so much under her influence, he sank to sleep. Rising with the first light of day, he left the cottage before its inmates had risen, and proceeded on his journey, leaving them ignorant of his intentions. His behaviour and sudden disappearance, were for some days, with them a subject of wonder and conversation, but with the lapse of time they were forgotten, and with them even the remembrance of his visit was effaced from their minds.

CHAPTER XV.

“They love their land because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why—
A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none,
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die.”
HALLECK.

Rolfe and Earthquake, whom we left journeying homeward, proceeded on, according to the resolution they had formed, far into the settled portions of Indiana Territory, intending to communicate at once to the Governor the disaster which had occurred on the Ohio, and obtain his influence in having the murderers brought to justice and recovering, if possible, the maiden who was still a prisoner. Upon telling their story to many persons, they found that the Indians were generally believed to entertain hostile designs against the United States, that the chiefs had refused to exert any authority, in surrendering up murderers to justice, and that many aggressions had been committed by them; the consequence of all which was, that the governor of the territory was arming the militia, and its citizens were clamorous for offensive operations. They regarded the Prophet as the author of all their present difficulties, as well as of the threatened ruin which seemed to impend over them, and had united in petitions to the Executive, praying for the dispersion of the Prophet's band. His head quarters were now established at Tippecanoe, and his camp was considered a place of rendezvous, from which lawless parties would set out, commit depredations on the settlements and again return to it for concealment.

This state of things convinced Rolfe and Earth, that, as they did not even know where the prisoner was, no good could result from their application, and both entertaining doubts as to the identity of her they sought, they resolved to return to Kentucky, change their mode of life, and carve out their fortunes, by mingling with men. This resolution was carried into effect, and Rolfe soon after arriving at home, proclaimed his willingness to attend to all business which should be committed to him as an attorney, obtained an office, and in a few months was justly entitled to the appellation of a hard student.

One among the first things, however, which he did after his arrival, was to write to a friend in Petersburgh, stating his suspicions relative to her he loved, and begging that, as far as lay in his power, he would either confirm or remove them. As the answer received is the best explanation we can give, we shall here insert it.

“Truly glad am I, my dear Richard, to see that you once more recognize me as your friend. For such I have ever been, as many others are, and your taking up a different impression was not owing to me, or to their conduct, but to your own over sensitiveness. However, let us remember only the brightest spots in the past, and ‘look forward with hopes for the morrow.’ But I am saying nothing of that which most interests you. The bare suspicion is horrible; it cannot be true;—there could have been no motive whatever for his emigrating—but as from the tone of your letter I should judge that you had heard nothing from this place since you left, I will state to you such changes as have occurred. Your departure was unexpected to many, and I mean not to compliment you, when I say that no one could have left, whose absence would have been more deeply regretted by his friends. I did not see her for several weeks after your departure, and then her countenance bore delicate traces of grief; they would not have been perceptible to a stranger, but to me, who had known her long, they were plainly legible. She was calm, and I ventured to inquire if she had heard from you; her eyes filled with tears, she was silent, and after a moment changed the conversation. Her father has been very much censured for his opposition by the few to whom the circumstances are known.

“I think about six months elapsed, when he began to speculate largely, and soon after that time removed with his family to Baltimore, that he might have a wider theatre for action; and I suppose you will pardon the rhapsody, when I say that with his removal, went the brightest star which ever shed its influence over our goodly town. But, by the by, as you are a lover that is not pretty enough. As a friend of mine would say, every thing was quite opaque when she left us,—or, as I with more gallantry would say, for we have still many bright constellations of beauty, her departure was like the gloom which follows the bursting of the rocket.

“Now let me say, I think I can remove your fears, for these pretty things are called up by my having seen her some three months since in Baltimore. I was at her house, she was cheerful, and not a member of her family spoke of moving; so, my dear fellow, all your alarm was unnecessary farther than sympathy with a fellow creature had its claims. Come, quit hunting, and attend to your profession, and you may yet realize your early hopes. We lay in some of our goods in Baltimore, and I shall reserve to myself the pleasure of telling her in person, the wild fancy which entered your brain; it will serve to amuse, and yet she cannot fail deeply to appreciate your conduct.

“Now that we have began a correspondence, let me hope that you will continue it—and do, if you please, tell me more of your friend Earthquake, for he is perfectly an original, and although at first, his name prejudiced me against him, yet I think I could love such a man.

“Believe me, ever yours.”

The above letter served to remove all Rolfe's suspicions, and made him happy; since besides destroying the many painful apprehensions in which he had indulged relative to her he loved, it also served to convince him that he was still esteemed by his friends, and added a fresh impulse to the resolution he had formed to devote his time entirely to his profession. Seeking his friend Earthquake, he lost no time in communicating to him the happy tidings. He was almost as much delighted at them as Rolfe himself, and urging him to prosecute the resolution he had formed, he stated, that he was tired of the woods, and intended to run for the office of sheriff, which was to be filled in a neighbouring county at their next court. Rolfe suggested to him that he did not think he was sufficiently well acquainted with accounts. Earth admitted that he was not as smart at figures as some people he had seen, but said he knew as much as Bob Black, who was the only candidate he had heard spoken of, and added, “Rolfe, if I don't know how to make out a big account agin a poor fellow, why it don't matter much; and if one is able to pay, and wont, why 'taint worth while to be so particular, I will lick him until he settles up, so I think I can make the eends meet.”

“Very well then,” said Rolfe, “take a chance, and, if elected, try and qualify yourself for the office.”

“Well, now,” said Earth, “you have hit the nail right on the head, for that is just what I mean to do, and if I don't hull out Bob Black, I'm a heap worse than I look for.”

Time wore on:—court day arrived, and Bob Black and Earthquake were the only candidates. Near a large square log building, called the court-house, and which had been built for that purpose, until a better one could supply its place, a crowd had gathered, and appearances indicated that no very ordinary event was about to occur; for the multitude swaggered about with an important air, and each one felt larger than on ordinary occasions. Moreover, they seemed excited, not by artificial stimulus, but by the importance of some coming event. That the hour which custom had set apart as the time when they should begin to drink had not arrived, if you are a shrewd observer, you would have seen at a glance; for many of the crowd would change a heavy quid from the left to the right side, and cocking up their eyes at the sun, gaze for a moment to see the hour, then shake their heads and cast them down as if disappointed; and then, if you had been present, you would have heard inquiries of this sort:—“Who toats the silver time of day in his pocket?” and perhaps an answer to this effect:—“Lawyer Rolfe; he's a gentleman all over, and a nation fine man.” Then if you would keep a sharp look out, you might have seen several pressing forward towards Rolfe, who stood in earnest conversation just before a small tippling shop, and to the remark, “you toat the silver time of day, 'Squire, tell us the hour,” have heard Rolfe reply, “twelve, by every good watch, for you know time flies faster on election than on other days;” and then turning to the barkeeper, say, “give us a gallon of your best.” At that call, the tobacco fell in large wads upon the ground, and a pleasing smile played over their countenances.

Yes, it was both an election and court day.—Rolfe was to make his first appearance at the Kentucky bar, and our old friend Earth was to run for the sheriffalty. The space which was marked out as the court-yard, was merely a clearing in the forest, from which the trees had been lately removed, and which still presented an unseemly appearance, from the many stumps which were yet left standing. In this place, the multitude had collected, and it was as marked in its aspect as the spot it occupied. There were present persons of all ages, of all sizes, and of all shapes; and they were clad in garments as dissimilar as themselves. They were habited in hunting shirts, or wrapped in blankets, or wore buckskin breeches, which fitted them tightly, and on their heads they had hats or caps of every shape, and in the latter were exhibited the skins of almost every animal indigenous to our country. Besides these I have particularized, there were also present many well dressed, foppishly dressed, and genteel looking men, who were in fact no better than those we have described, for all were frank, honest, and hospitable; and throughout this multitude were poking about, wherever an opening in the crowd would permit it, women and children, as dissimilar in appearance as the men we have already characterized, and from it, the noise of a thousand jarring voices broke upon the ear. On the outside of the court-yard, and in every direction, fastened to every tree or limb which would swing a bridle, was seen a mule, a jackass, or a horse. They were in every condition, from Don Quixote's Rosinante to that of an Englishman's best hunter. On some there were saddles and bridles. Others had no saddles, but meal bags or blankets were made to serve the same purpose, and with them grape vines or twisted hickory withes, were used as bridles. They amused themselves in various ways,—the mules and jackasses by braying,—most of the horses by whickering, whenever any stranger came up,—and the whole by kicking occasionally, with the exception of a few, to whom years had given great gravity of character, and they seemed to derive much enjoyment by scraping, with their teeth, the bark from the trees.

Of the men who were present, at least three-fourths brought rifles, and soon began to amuse themselves by shooting for what they significantly denominated a quart. The remainder, gathered in groups, were either talking politics or discussing the claims of the respective candidates, with the exception of those who were in the Court-House, the Court being in session.

So much for the general appearance. Now let us enter some of these groups, and see if we cannot make ourselves familiarly acquainted with at least one of the actors. A tree is blazed,—a small black spot, made with moistened powder, is seen in its centre, and at a distance of about fifty yards, a crowd, composed chiefly of hunters, with now and then a woman or a child, have already collected. The candidates for the sheriffalty are also among the number.

“What shall we shoot for?” asked a hunter, as stepping out he toed the mark.

“Why, a quart to be sure,” was the reply.

Then throwing up his piece, crack went his rifle, and the crowd running to the target, cried, “not so coarse,—he grazed the black.”

“Coarse as rough bricks,” said a hunter, “he'll pay for the quart.”

“Clear away for the candidates!” was now the cry. “Bob, step forward, and show your metal.” Bob did as desired, and blazed away. The crowd again ran forward, and cried, “hurrah! for Bob Black,—he is into the black, but upon the outer edge.”

“That's not so bad,” said Bob.

“Bad as green gourds,” said our old friend Earth, “if it was a varmunt, and you could only see his eye.—Clear the track, I'm coming, with my head and tail both up.” Then stepping forward, he took his position:—a moment more, and crack went his rifle. The crowd again ran forward, and cried,—“into the centre. Hurrah for Earth,—he's a caution, I tell you.”

“I knowed it,” said Earth, “she never lies if I point her straight;” then turning to his opponent, Bob Black, “don't you think you would make a beautiful sheriff,—can't shoot nearer than the outside of a black. Bob, I'd change my name if I couldn't always stick by it.”

At this moment, some one cried out, “'Squire Rolfe is going to speak in the Court-House,” and away they hastened, to hear his maiden speech. The Court-House, as before stated, was merely an unfloored log building. Upon a plank, a little elevated, and placed against the side fronting the door, the magistrates were sitting; and just before them, seated on a bench, were ranged the lawyers. Rolfe was to make his maiden speech. He had been employed by a man who was very badly beaten, to bring an action of assault and battery, with a hope of recovering damages enough to compensate him in some measure, for the injury inflicted.—This was the case now to be tried. The jury having been sworn, the witnesses examined, and all the other formalities gone through, Rolfe rose. “Now tear away,” said Earth, who was at his elbow, “as if you didn't care for nobody.”

Rolfe smiled at Earth's remark, and proceeded in a dignified and lucid manner to open his case, and bring forward to the notice of the jury, those points in the evidence which he thought would justly entitle his client to heavy damages, and upon which he intended to rest his claim. Having done so, in as brief a manner as practicable, and not seeing what possible ground his adversary could occupy, for the law and evidence were both against him, he was seated, and the opposing counsel, who was a genuine son of the west, and whom Rolfe had not before observed, rose in reply:

“Gentlemen of the Jury—The tremendous occasion which has called us together is one of the very darkest peril to my client.

“The poet has beautifully said, ‘loud roars the dreadful thunder.’ But, gentlemen, to be squeezed inside of a gaol, is not the thing that it is cracked up to be. The lightning's flash may blaze entirely athwart the heavens; but, gentlemen, to lie upon a dirt floor, and drink cold water, is an awful catastrophe. The poet has said, gentlemen, ‘all that glitters is not gold,’ and I ask you, if when this man came at my client like a roaring lion, and would have used him up in two minutes, if he was wrong just to take his eyes into his hands, and squeeze 'em for a short time. Gentlemen, I know there is not one of you so lost to feeling,—so lost to every thing that an honourable man owes himself,—but instead of letting them go, after squeezing them a short time, but would have put them into his breeches pocket, and have walked off, and let the fellow go about his business. Yes, gentlemen of the jury, I see it in you, there is not one of you but would have jumped upon him, and have galloped him around this Court-House a half a dozen times.—A good for nothing scoundrel, to pretend to come at my client in such a vig'rous manner. But, gentlemen of the jury, the poet has mighty prettily said, ‘the day of retribution is at hand,’—and, gentlemen, the counsel who is opposed to me, will try very hard to convince you that this is a sublime wound,—that my client ought to pay a tall, a very tall price for it; but the grapes are sour—they hang mighty high, I see it in your eyes. Gentlemen, you know all about the way in which a knife can be made to dig into one, when a man is in earnest.—Now, I ask you, if this is a sublime wound? Do you think my client was in earnest when he struck him? You all have seen it. It is not more than three inches long, and about two inches deep, and he has pretended to bring such a case as that into this Court-House. The time of the Court, gentlemen, ought not to be taken up with such trifling matters, and I beg your pardon for having detained you as long as I have. Gentlemen, I know your verdict,—I know what it will be,—I am satisfied;—I will close these few remarks, with a quotation—a very, very apt quotation to this case:—‘A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod.’—Yes, mark me, gentlemen:—

‘A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod’

But—

‘An honest man's the noblest work of God.’”

It is needless to say any thing more about the case;—Rolfe could not contend with such an opponent, and was consequently beaten. His defeat, however, was more strongly characterized by Earth. The case having been decided, Earth left the Court-House, to electioneer with the crowd for the office he desired. Upon going out, some one who had not as yet heard the decision, cried out, “Well, Earth, how did the 'squire come out?”

“The fellow hulled him as clean as wheat,” said Earth, “he fairly tore the wool off; but Rolfe is a larning;—he did better the last time than he did the first. He don't rare and pitch enough;—I must talk to him, and I think I can make him come to it, artur a while.”

Earth having again entered the crowd, began to electioneer for the office he so much desired.—“Come, boys,” said he, addressing himself to all around him, including many whose locks were frosted over with age, “let's go and take a little, for I am as dry as a horse.” Away they went, and having drank, some one of the group was reminded of a good anecdote, which he told, and at which being in good humour, they all heartily laughed. When the merriment had somewhat subsided, “Come, Earth,” said an old hunter, “a sheriff ought always to be able to tell a good story, that he may amuse a fellow when he is making him shell out,—let us see what you can do in that way.”

“Time enough,” said Earth, “when I am elected; but at present, I must knock about, to see if I cannot pick up a vote or two.”

“The best way to pick up votes, Earth,” replied an acquaintance, “is to tell a good story.”

“Very well then, Jack,” said Earth, addressing the last speaker, “make a ring and give me fair play, and I will tell one, and whether it be good or bad, I leave you all to judge. It shall be the truth, that is, it shall be something which has happened to me at some time of my life, and if after telling it, you don't vote for me, if I don't lick you, I will agree never to take another 'coon hunt.”

“Then whack away,” said Jack.

“Well, well, well, well, once upon a time,” began Earth.

“And what happened then,” asked one of the group.

“Why, so many things have happened to me,” said Earth, “since I've been rooting about in these woods, that I hardly know what to tell, or which will interest most.”

“Then tell us of the time that you floated down the Ohio.”

“Well, well,” said Earth, bursting out in a loud laugh, “I will tell that, for I had almost clean forgot it; but I was in a predicament, wan't I?”

“Tell us the story and we shall then be able to judge,” said an old hunter, who, standing near, was leaning on his rifle; “do begin, Earth, and make no more preparation; you take as long to git under way as a man does who breaks a yoke of young steers, or greases a pair of cart wheels, before he sets out upon his journey.”

“Then I'm off, old man,” said Earth, “but I must take a running start, and begin agin.”

“Well, well, well, well—once upon a time I had taken my old bitch Jupiter, that you have often heard me tell of;—old Jupe was a nice thing,—I had taken her 'long, and gone off upon a bear hunt, had been absent two or three weeks, and had wandered very far from home. I was a venturesome lad in those days, and never better satisfied than when alone in the wild woods. I had worked my way down into the fork formed by the emptying of the Cumberland into the Ohio river, and I had worried the bears right badly. I had had rare sport. Old Jupe was in a good humour, and she and I was mighty loving, for she had fou't some fights which I never can forgit, and which made me love her like a new flint, and she loved me as if I was a bacon bone, for I had helped her out of some of her difficulties, when it would have been a gone case if I had'nt been present;—I say difficulties, for I never did see a dog so tired as she was. I do believe during some of these fights that I am now talking about, I saw the bears hug her, until they stretched her out into a long string. Yes, I have seen 'em squeeze her, until she wan't larger than my arm, and at least nine or ten feet long;—you might have wound her up into a ball, just as you would have done a hank of yarn,—”

“Then they must have killed her, Earth,” said one of the group.

“You know nothing about it,” said Earth, “don't interrupt me; but I am good for your vote;” then turning to the crowd, “ain't it so, gentlemen, don't he forfeit it for stopping me?”

“Certainly,” was the reply.—

“Then I have already made two votes,” said Earth.

All now cried, “go on Earth, go on with your story.”

“Well,” said Earth, “he stopped me something about the bears killing Jupe;—now old Jupe wan't of that breed of dogs at all, for when she was stretched out in a string, or even tangled up in a knot, I would shoot the bear, draw her off one side, throw a little cold water over her, leave her, and go to butchering. In an hour, and sometimes it would take longer, she would begin to come together like a jointed snake, and presently, she would fetch a yelp, and come streaking it to me, shaped as she ought to be, showing her teeth, and looking as fresh as if she was a new made dog. And then wan't she vig'rous? Yes, who says she wan't? You might have hung a cross-cut saw to a swinging limb, and she would have chawed upon it the balance of the day,—or have thrown her a bear's head, and she would'nt touch the meat, but draw all the teeth out merely for spite. But there was one thing I noticed about old Jupe,—whenever the bears stretched her out into a string, she always lost her appetite for the remainder of that day. Well, old Jupe and I were down there, and we had been doing pretty much what I have been telling you, when one day the bears spun her out rather longer than usual, and she got cut so badly, that we had to rest during the whole of the evening. I was sorry for old Jupe, but didn't care much about having to stop myself, for I was right tired and wanted rest, having seen hard times that week.

“The sun, I suppose, was about an hour high, and I was setting down under a big tree, nursing old Jupe, and trying to see if I could'nt set her upon her legs agin, when she raised up her nose, and snuffed the air,—then looked in my face and whined. As she did this, I saw the hair upon her back begin to rise. I knew that there was danger in the wind, and from what old Jupe had told me, I thought the red skins were about. The Ingens were not so rife then as they had been;—it was the fall before 'Squire Rolfe came out from the old state; but people had to keep a sharp look out, for they would come down upon the settlements once in a while, and they were mighty apt to carry off some body's hair with them.

“Well, as soon as old Jupe spoke to me, I looked about, and seed five coming right along in the direction in which I was. They were well loaded, and I knowed at once that they had been down upon the settlements, and were now making their way to the river, that they might cross over and get clear. Although I saw them, I knew they hadn't seen me; so I gathered up my things to start off, without thinking that old Jupe was so badly cut she could'nt follow. When I was ready, I looked at old Jupe,—she tried to get up, but could'nt,—my eyes felt watery, for I hated to leave her, and I had'nt a minute to spare. But old Jupe was a sensible dog; yes, as I said before, she was a nice thing, for without speaking a word, she poked her nose under the leaves, as much as to say, cover me over, and leave me. I did so, and gitting a tree between me and the Ingens, I streaked it. You ought to have seen me run, to know how fast a man ought to move when Ingens are after him. Well, arter streaking it awhile, I thought it would never do to go off that way, and know nothing about 'em, so I began to haul in my horns, and back a little. I got behind a tree, and kept a sharp look out:—presently I seed them all coming straight towards me; so I buckled off agin, and went for some distance, like a bear through a cane brake, and then stopped, and took a stand. I had'nt been there long, before I seed them coming agin. The reason why I saw them so often was, that I kept before them, knowing that they were making straight for the river. I watched them narrowly, looked at 'em with both eyes wide open, and saw they did'nt seem to have any notion of me, but were putting it down fast and heavy that they might git across. It was now getting dark, and I knew that under cover of the night, as they did not suspect any body was near 'em, I could keep close enough to watch them without their knowing it, and this I determined to do, thinking that by possibility something might happen, to pay me for my trouble. You all know I never spared an Ingen; no, there don't breathe one who can say I ever showed him any favour. Well, I kept on before 'em until I got down upon the river bank. It was then quite dark, and growing more so every minute; for a fog was rising from the surface of the water. I looked about to see if they had a boat there, thinking if they had one, I would take it, and let them git across as they could. I was searching longer than I thought for, and did'nt know how the time passed, for suddenly I heard them coming down to the river, at the very point where I was. I was now skeered, and looked about to see if I could get out of the way; but there was no place to hide, and it was too late to escape, either up or down the bank. I'm a gone case, thought I,—used up at last; but just at that moment, I saw a large log or tree, which had been lodged by some high freshet; for one end of it still rested on the bank, while the other extended out into the stream. Said I to myself, ‘I'll git upon this, for it is so dark that they can't see me, and I can then keep a bright look out upon their movements;’ so I stepped on it, and crawled along to the far end. I found that the log was floating, and getting as near the small end as I could, I straddled it, putting my legs in the water to steady me, and laid my rifle across my lap. ‘Oh! that it would but float off,’ said I, but it would'nt.

“Well, down to the water they all came, and stood in about fifteen or twenty feet of me. ‘It is all over now,’ thought I; ‘if discovered, I am used up as fine as salt;—if I ain't, there is no bad taste in a rough 'simmon.’ Well, there they stood in a good humour, laughing and talking, about I hardly know what, for I could'nt catch many of their words. At last, I heard one of 'em say, in Shawanee, ‘where is the canoe? It must be close by. Step upon the log and find it.’

“‘Hold my gun,’ answered one of 'em, and passing it to one of his friends, he stepped upon the log and began to walk right to where I was. Now did'nt I squat low, and feel mean? But hush; he had'nt got far before another must jump on, to help him find the boat. This last one had only walked a few steps, when the log slipped, and splash it came right in the river with the two Ingens. They both held on, though they got a little wet, and the first thing I knowed the log was going out into the stream with all three of us on it. It was slanting at first, and slipping, got pushed off. Those on shore set up a loud laugh, and they would'nt hear any thing until it was too late to give any help. But for those on the log, it was no joke; for they were already out in the stream, and going down it, with a smart current. They now hallooed manfully for help, and those on shore, seeing how it was, told them to hold on, and that they would find the boat and take them off. Well, I have often told you I had seen hard times, now wa'nt here a predicament? On a log with two Ingens, and floating along at night down the Ohio. Well, sure enough, there I was, and what did I think of? why, of every thing in this world; it raily made me feel right knotty, and what to do, I did'nt know. We had now floated two or three hundred yards, and I was sitting as I told you before straddled on the small end, and jest as silent as a deer listening for the dogs, thinking how the affair would terminate, when one of the Ingens who was still standing upon the log, stepped off upon one of the limbs to make room for his companion. His stepping caused the log to creen me in the water, and forgetting where I was, and what I was about, I cried, ‘stop! stop! you'll turn me over.’ ‘Oh hell!’ said I to myself, ‘it is all over now—clean gone this time.’ How the Ingens looked, I don't know, for it was so dark I could'nt see their faces, but they must have been worse skeered than I was, for I knew who they were, and they did'nt know who or what I was. They kept muttering something very fast, and I thought they were going to quit the log and streak it, but arter a few minutes they became silent, and began peeping towards where I was, like a couple of turkies looking for worms. And then one said, ‘dont you see something?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the other, ‘dark lump; bear perhaps;’ and then the one who first spoke, cried out ‘who's there?’ I did'nt answer, but I growed small so fast, trying to squeeze myself out of sight, that my skin hung as loose as if it was a big jacket. They kept peeping at me, and I heard one say, ‘It is no bear. It is a man, look at his head.’ When I heard him say so, I was so mad I wished my head was under the log, but then I thought if it was, I would'nt be any better off than I was then, so I straightened up; I knowed they had seen me, and I thought twa'nt worth while to play 'possum any longer. Well, when I straightened up, he cried out agin, ‘who's there,’ ‘I am here,’ said I, speaking in his own language. The moment I spoke, he laughed, and said to the other, ‘he is a pale face.’”

“How could he tell that, Earth,” inquired another of the group, “you say that it was dark, and a fog was rising.”

“I've got you, Jim,” said Earth, then pausing he began to count on his fingers, saying, “that is four, no, three; now don't forget it, Jim.”

“Go on, go on, Earth,” cried half a dozen voices.

“Well, the reason he knowed me so quick, was that he seed I did'nt speak the real Ingen. Arter he had told the other that I was a pale face, he turned to me, and said, ‘what you doing there?’ ‘sitting down straddle on the small eend,’ said I. When I said this, they burst out into a laugh; I myself was in no laughing humour, and it did'nt sound to me like a laugh, but like a sort of a chuckle, and one said to the other ‘he is a pale face, a lean dog, sleeping on a log, we did catch him good,’ and saying this, they put their hands to their mouth, and gave the war whoop. I tell you what, it was an awful sound, and then they told their companions on shore that a pale face was on the log with them, to get the boat and come quick. Those on shore answered them, and ran laughing down the river looking for the boat, and keeping along with the log. I now found that I must go at the old work, and my bristles began to rise.

“‘Come here,’ said one of 'em, beckoning to me. ‘Come quick, before the others come; I want your hair.’”

“What did he mean by that?” said one, who with the most fixed attention had been standing by eagerly devouring all that Earth had been telling.

“Why, he wanted to scalp me, but recollect, if you please, I have your vote too,” said Earth, again pausing an instant, “That is five, no, four. Well, when he called me to him to let him have my hair, I could'nt stand it any longer, but throwing up my rifle, blazed away; he jumped up like a buck, and fell splash in the water. My rifle made a mighty pretty noise, and I heard the report rolling away for miles up and down the river. As soon as I fired the Ingens on the bank also screamed the war whoop, and the fellow on the log cried out to 'em to bring his gun. I jumped up and crawled at him, he gathered up an old limb and stood his ground. The first thing I knowed, he come down upon me all in a heap, breaking the old limb into a dozen pieces over my head and shoulders; it was a good thing for me, that the limb wa'nt sound. His blow staggered me, but I soon rose up, and seizing my rifle with both hands brought him a side wipe with the barrel. As I did, he slipped off the log in the water, I then hit him another lick, and stooping quickly down, seized him by the head, as he tried to crawl up upon the log. I was now upon the log, and he in the water, so I had him at a disadvantage.

“Well, I kept bobbing his head under;—when I first did it, the bubbles came up just like you were filling a bottle with water; you know, after a bottle is full, it won't bubble; well, I kept bobbing his head under until he would'nt bubble, so I concluded he was full of water, and then let him go; he went down to the bottom, and I never seed him any more.

“All was now quiet, for both Ingens had sunk, and I was master of the log, but I had yet another struggle to make, for I heard the Ingens on shore push off their boat, and seed the waters splash as they darted towards me. It was too late to load, and then I could kill but one; that wouldn't do—no, the only hope was to hide; so I took out a string, and placing my rifle in the water, lashed it to the log, I then threw away my hat, and crawling as far as I could towards the small eend, eased myself gently down into the water, leaving nothing out but my head, and holding on with both hands by a small limb—another minute, and the canoe grated as it run up upon the log. The Ingens looked about and spoke to each other, but could see nothing, they then called their companions by name, but there was no answer. They were now very much distressed, and all got out upon the log, and began to walk about and examine it. When they came to the end where I was, I sunk altogether, and it being the small end of the log, it began to sink, and the Ingens soon went back. I then threw my head back, and put my mouth out that I might breathe, just as a crippled duck sometimes does its bill. I made no noise, it was dark, they could not see me, and all went well. I heard them say ‘they must have killed him,’ and then that ‘they are all gone;’ they seemed very much distressed, wondered much at the whole affair, and none could explain it. After about fifteen minutes, they again stepped into their boat and pushed off. I waited until I could hear nothing of them, then crawled up upon the log, and as I did not wish to run any farther risk, I sat there till day-break.

“The sun was just about to rise, when the log which I was on washed up against the bank not far from where the Ohio empties into the Mississippi. I caught hold of some bushes and pulling the log up along side of the bank, unloosed my rifle, and got out. I had been in the water so long that I was mighty weak, and I was shrivelled up, but as I began to stir about I felt better, and setting off I went back up the river to where I started upon the log. The first thing I seed upon getting back, was old Jupe sitting on the bank waiting for me, at the very spot where the log had slipped off. The thing wanted to lick me all over, she was so glad to see me. I was then right tired, so I started off home, and in about a week or two, Jupe and I arrived there safe and sound, and that is the end of my story.”

“Well, Earth,” said one of the company, “you are all sorts of a looking crittur.”

“Yes,” said Earth, “I know that, I am ring striped, speckled and streaked, but I ain't thinking about that, I'm thinking about the votes. Now gentlemen,” continued Earth, “don't you think they ought to make me sheriff? I say, if Bob Black has floated farther on a log, killed more Ingens, or staid longer under the water than I have, elect him; if not, I say, what has he done to qualify him for the office of sheriff? I have killed more bears than Bob could eat if they were 'coons, and I have fou't some harder fights than Bob ever saw;—now I say agin, tell me what has he done that he ought to be made sheriff. Did any of you ever know him to call for a quart? I never did;—I have known him to call for several half pints in the course of a day, but I never did know him to step forward manfully, and say ‘give us a quart of your best.’ Then I say agin, what the hell has Bob Black done to qualify him for sheriff? Now, if you beat me, beat me with somebody, beat me with a man who knows something which ought to qualify him for sheriff, and not with Bob Black. Bob can't tell you this minute when a bear begins to suck his paws!” Then apparently disgusted with the character and acquirements of his competitor, Earth turned away to seek other company. As he did so, one of the group who had taken more than his proportion of a quart, staggered forward, and cried out “hurrah for Earth, I tell you what, he's a squealer.”

While Earth was thus electioneering, his friend Rolfe, who had left the Court House, after the decision of his case against him, was on another part of the ground, modestly stating what he conceived to be his qualifications, but which, by the by, Earth had never regarded in that light, and was also urging his claims to the office about to be bestowed. Seeing Earth leave the circle which he had been last entertaining, Rolfe approached him and said, “Earth, you must make a speech.”

“Do what, Rolfe?”

“You must make a speech, Earth.”

“What, stand up and speak to 'em all like you did in the Court House.”

“Yes.”

“Oh hell!” said Earth, “I make a speech! I wouldn't do it to be made Governor. But if I was, I would jerk it into 'em mighty curiously.”

“Then we will say no more about it,” said Rolfe.

“You are right about that,” said Earth, and they parted each to electioneer after his own manner.

Night came; the election was over, and our old friend Earth proclaimed Sheriff.

Leaving Rolfe to attend to his profession, and Earthquake to discharge the duties of the office which had just been conferred on him, let us proceed with other parts of our story.

CHAPTER XVI.

“The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding
The hearts of millions till they move as one;

“Thou hast it.”
HALLECK.

Our readers cannot have forgotten the story of the Indian mother who was discovered by the hunters during their excursion to the Wabash, searching at night for her son, nor their consequent visit to her wigwam. Several months had now elapsed since their departure from it; her son had recovered from his wound, and their mutual promise to seek for the maiden had often been a subject of conversation between them. Still nothing had been accomplished, when Pukkwana, who often reverted to the subject, suggested to Oloompa, that by visiting the camp of the Prophet, he might probably obtain some information which would lead to her discovery. She felt satisfied from the story told by the hunters, that the maiden must have been carried to the camp, and there concealed, or else sent away to some distant region. But since their departure, the deep hatred which had ever marked the conduct of Oloompa towards the whites, began to revive in his bosom, and he seemed careless about fulfilling the promise which he had made; and when his mother wished him, in an attempt to do so, to visit the camp of the Prophet, he said, “Mother, shall Oloompa's moccasins be worn with travel for the sake of a pale face? The pale faces hate the red men. They are our enemies. They would drive us away from the graves of our fathers.”

“Oloompa has promised,” was the reply, “his father never broke a promise.”

“Oloompa will remember his promise,” said he, “the hunters were good to his mother. He will seek the maiden; if found, they shall know it. But he here swears before the Great Spirit, eternal enmity to their race. Oloompa will no more travel with them the same path, smoke the same pipe or sit around the same fire. He will wash his hands. He is their enemy.”

“These are the words of the Shawanee Prophet;” said Pukkwana, “he puts bad thoughts into the heads of the red men.”

“Mother, Oloompa knows not the words of the Prophet; they say he preaches peace:—Oloompa's thoughts are always the same;—wrongs are sharp knives, they cut deep.”

“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “when the sky is clear, why think of the storms which have passed?”

“My mother's eyes are dim,” said Oloompa, “she sees not the light of the red torch which is kindling. She hears not the groans of the dying in the howling of the winds. Oloompa's tomahawk shall drink deep of the blood of the whites.”

“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “thy bosom is like the big lake when the winds pass over it. Thy words are harsh to my ears. I like them not. Listen. Thou goest to seek the lost maiden. Thou mayest find her; but if ever by words or acts thou wrongest her when found, or the hunters who bade thee seek her, thou art no longer thy mother's son.”

“Pukkwana knows not Oloompa,” he replied. “Were all the hatred he bears her race, felt but for her alone; under his protection, she would be as safe as though his own blood ran flowing through her veins. Oloompa will set out upon his journey. Where will his mother be when his feet are tired of travel?”

“As soon could I tell where the deer will be which range through the woods for their daily food,” replied Pukkwana.

“Even the deer, when the hunter seeks them not, will feed for months in the same green fields,” said Oloompa.

“Then return to the wigwam of thy mother; if she is absent, follow her footsteps.”

“I will,” he replied, and equipping himself for a long journey, he was soon winding his way through the forest.

Oloompa was now in the first dawning of manhood,—his limbs were beautifully moulded, and but for the effect produced by the wound he had received, which showed itself whenever he moved, he would have been conspicuous for the beauty of his person. The traits of character which chiefly distinguished him, were an uncompromising hostility against the whites, a firm adherence to principle, and a more than ordinary attachment to his mother.

Having arrived at the Prophet's camp, he remained several day's listening to his doctrines, and from a friend, also learned that the captive maiden had been adopted by Netnokwa, and carried by her up into the north-west regions where she resided. Gathering such other particulars as he could relative to the story of the prisoner, he satisfied himself that she was the same for whom he was seeking. He then continued his inquiries, yet in such a way as to avoid suspicion, learned Netnokwa's residence, the nearest route leading to it, and several days after left the camp to prosecute his journey.

Several weeks had elapsed, and Oloompa found himself in the Chippewa country. Its warriors were very much excited, as had been the Indians generally along the tract of country through which he had travelled, and he learned that the excitement had been produced by the continual preachings of agents from the Prophet. In addition to this, at the time of his arrival, runners were going in every direction to announce to the tribe that a great warrior from the Shawanees was anxious to speak to them, having things of importance to communicate. It was Tecumseh, his whole soul was engaged in the enterprise, which, with his brother, he had planned; and wandering about he was now using every exertion to bring it to maturity. No labour fatigued;—no difficulty was too great; he ranged over from one end to the other, the vast region of country occupied by the various tribes, threatening, flattering, arousing, and exciting them to action. When Oloompa heard the name of Tecumseh, and also heard that he was to preach to the Chippewas in general council assembled, he ceased to think of the errand upon which he was bound, and bent his steps at once toward the place of rendezvous. With Tecumseh, although he possessed no acquaintance, yet he loved him for the exertions he was making,—he loved him for the opinions he advocated, and which, in Oloompa's breast, found a congenial response, and he also loved him for the many daring acts of valour which he was said to have performed previous to the peace which then reigned. His heart fluttered with pleasure, when he reflected that he would have an opportunity of hearing a speech from Tecumseh, who was now more famed as an orator, than he had ever been, even as a warrior. He knew not what was to be the purport of his speech, but rightly conjectured, that it would be in furtherance of the plans which he and the Prophet had projected, and which had now become a common subject for discussion among the Indians generally.

Continuing his journey, he learned that the place of meeting, was near the head waters of the Chippewa, and thither he repaired. It was the day appointed for the council, and morning was several hours advanced when Oloompa arrived. Gathered in groups, under the shade of many widely spreading trees, whose branches interlocking, formed an arbour, a thousand and more individuals had already collected, and others were occasionally coming up. The ground was covered with grass, and it was distinguished from many spots equally delightful, only by the rude seats which had been prepared for the occasion. Never had Oloompa seen a more imposing assembly;—ranged in seats in front of a small staging which had been erected, the red men sat; the chiefs and oldest warriors present occupying the first places; those who were next in rank, the second; and so on, declining until on the outer edge were placed the women and children.—Throughout the whole body reigned the deepest silence,—not a whisper broke upon the ear, nor among the chiefs was even a glance averted.

Oloompa, who was an entire stranger, did not at first enter the assembly, but walked to and fro, at a short distance from the place of meeting, with a hope of seeing Tecumseh. He was a member of his own tribe, and a feeling of pride accompanied the thought. He hesitated whether he should make himself known or not. Were he to do so, he would be recognized and received as a friend; but then he might probably be called on to give an explanation of his designs in wandering so far from home, and to do this to Tecumseh, who was the sworn enemy of the whites, he feared might defeat the object upon which he had sat out. Moreover, he felt that he would be ashamed to say to Tecumseh, that his sole object in going so far a journey, was to serve those whom he hated, and whom he regarded as enemies. Feeling thus, he even hesitated whether he should proceed farther; but then there arose in his mind his promise to the white man, and the injunctions of his mother, and after a struggle with himself, he determined to remain where he was, unknown, and to prosecute his journey with the coming of evening.

There was now heard a murmur among the multitude, and Oloompa saw that the staging had been occupied by a warrior. It was Tecumseh. Noble and commanding in appearance, he gazed around him for a few moments, and thus spoke^1;—

1 See note C.

“Brothers—We all belong to one family, we are all children of the Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at the same spring; and smoke the pipe around the same council fire!

“Brothers—We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens. The blood of many of our fathers and brothers, has run like water on the ground, to satisfy the avarice of the white men. We, ourselves, are threatened with a great evil; nothing will pacify them but the destruction of all the red men.

“Brothers—When the white men first set foot on our grounds, they were hungry; they had no place on which to spread their blankets, or to kindle their fires. They were feeble, and could do nothing for themselves. Our fathers commiserated their distress, and shared freely with them whatever the Great Spirit had given his red children. They gave them food when hungry,—medicine when sick,—spread skins for them to sleep on, and gave them grounds that they might hunt and raise corn. Brothers, the white people are like poisonous serpents:—when chilled, they are feeble and harmless; but, invigorate them with warmth, and they sting their benefactors to death.

“The white people came among us feeble; and now we have made them strong; they wish to kill us or drive us back as they would wolves and panthers.

“Brothers—The white men are not friends to the Indians:—at first, they only asked for land sufficient for a wigwam; now, nothing will satisfy them but the whole of our hunting grounds, from the rising to the setting sun. Brothers, they want more than our hunting grounds—they wish to kill our warriors; they would even kill our old men, women, and little children.

“Brothers—Many winters ago, there was no land;—the sun did not rise and set:—all was darkness. The Great Spirit made all things. He gave the white people a home beyond the great waters. He supplied these grounds with game, and gave them to his red children, and he gave them strength and courage to defend them.

“Brothers—My people wish for peace,—the red men all wish for peace; but where the white people are, there is no peace for them, except it be on the bosom of our mother. The red men have borne many and great injuries. They ought to suffer them no longer. My people will not; they are determined on vengeance; they have taken up the tomahawk; they will make it fat with blood; they will drink the blood of the white people.

“Brothers—My people are brave and numerous, but the white people are too strong for them alone. I wish you to take up the tomahawk with them. If we all unite, we will cause the rivers to stain the great waters with their blood.

“Brothers—If you do not unite with us, they will first destroy us, and then you will fall an easy prey to them. They have destroyed many nations of red men, because they were not united,—because they were not friends to each other.

“Brothers—The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies,—he speaks in thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the Mississippi.—The great waters will cover their low lands,—their corn cannot grow, and the Great Spirit will sweep those who escape to the hills, with his terrible breath.

“Brothers—We must be united; we must smoke the same pipe; we must fight each others' battles; and more than all, we must love the Great Spirit;—he is for us,—he will destroy our enemies, and make all his red children happy.”

When Tecumseh had finished, Oloompa remained for some moments lost in reflection; his soul had been stirred to its inmost core: he had heard expressed, in glowing language, the thoughts which burned in his own bosom. The wrongs of the whites had been summed up and made to pass before him, and again he repeated to himself, the oath of eternal enmity, which he had sworn to his mother. When the excitement had a little subsided, a chief rising, moved an adjournment of the council until the next day, and Oloompa, scarcely knowing whither he was bound, left the council, to wander in the forest, and muse upon what he had heard. Days elapsed, and still the power of Tecumseh's eloquence caused him to falter in his determination; but, at the end of that time, again he continued his journey, resolving to accomplish, if possible, that which he had set out to perform, and then to link his fate with Tecumseh, and unite with him heart and soul in the enterprise he had projected.

It was now the second week since Oloompa's departure from the council, and in answer to his last inquiry for information, the reply had been that the wigwam of Netnokwa lay on the banks of the stream along which he was then journeying, and at a distance of only two or three miles. He had before ascertained that the captive maiden still remained with her, and buoyant with hope and joy he now moved forward. He saw before him the successful accomplishment of his journey,—he could now serve the hunter, redeem his promise, and then all obligations were cancelled, and he his inveterate foe. He felt for the little package which had been given him, to be delivered to the maiden, if found,—it was safe; he took it out and examined it; it was rubbed and worn, and while gazing on it, he thought it too small to contain any thing of much value, but his injunctions were positive, and he returned it to his belt.

His face now beamed with happiness, for he was approaching the end of his journey, and he also felt the consciousness of having succeeded in part in his undertaking. Besides this, he would soon be gratified in seeing her for whom he had taken so much trouble; and he was also anxious to see Netnokwa's daughter, whom he had heard spoken of as beautiful above any maid of the forest. He had now continued his journey in silence, for some distance, on the banks of the stream along which he was travelling, when suddenly there was heard a cracking of the bushes, and the running of an animal,—a moment more, and a deer passed.—Yet it bounded not as though it were wild and free, for an arrow had pierced and still stood fixed deep in its body; its life was fast ebbing away, for one might trace its path by the blood which sprinkled the ground where it moved along, and could see that each successive bound was less strong than the one before it. It continued its flight but a short distance farther, when it stopped, and turning its head back, gazed at the fatal shaft;—big tears fell from its eyes,—it nibbled the arrow with its mouth, and endeavoured to pull it out;—it was firmly fixed,—it tried to leap again,—it was too late,—it grew weaker, reeled, fell, and died. Oloompa gazed for a moment, and was hesitating whether or not he should go in pursuit, when he heard the sound of laughing voices,—then a joyous cry, and a form dashed by, as if borne on the wings of the hurrying blast.

Oloompa having reached a point from which he could perceive where the deer had fallen, saw an Indian maiden already bending over its prostrate form, and rightly conjecturing that it was the daughter of Netnokwa, he determined to go thither for the purpose of assisting her, and also of making some inquiries relative to the captive maiden.—No sooner had he made the resolve, than, joyous and happy, he darted away, with the glee of a child, but quickly stopped, for he heard a rustling noise, and looking, saw the captive maiden retreating to a distance within the forest, before she would dare to look back. With Oloompa all exciting subjects were forgotten, and he gazed on her with gladness.—It was she whom he was to make happy,—it was she whom he sought, and forgetting his enmity to her race, he said, as she stood far within the forest, “She is like a snow-drift sleeping in the moonlight;” then bounding away, he was soon by the side of Miskwa.

Having approached, he was charmed by the beauty of her person.—Never had he seen so much symmetry, nor a form so delicately moulded. He hesitated for a moment, before he would speak to her; then seeing the nature of the occupation in which she was engaged, he offered his assistance. Miskwa started at the sound of his voice, for she knew not that any one was present, until he spoke, when she drew her figure up to its full height, and gazed fixedly upon him. Oloompa seemed not to regard her scrutiny,—his countenance was joyous and happy; then looking at the deer before him, he felt the joys of the chase, and before Miskwa had time to answer, added, “a good shot. The bow is strong, and the arrow went straight to its mark.”

Miskwa was pleased with the compliment, for she loved her bow and quiver, and with less formality in her manner than she had at first assumed, replied, “Those who depend on themselves for food, must needs shoot well.”

“Thou art pretty,” said Oloompa; “the Ottawa warriors are not men. They suffer a maiden to kill her own game.”

“Would you have me choose a warrior who can send an arrow less far than I can,” said the maiden.

“Surely not,” said Oloompa.

“The distance is an hundred yards;—will your arrow go more straight than that?” inquired the maiden, pointing to the one which still stood fixed in the deer before her.

“No,” said Oloompa.

“Then thou art not the warrior who shall draw my bow,” said the maiden.

Oloompa was slightly confused, and casting his eyes down, was for a moment silent.

“Does a captive maiden dwell with thee?” he continued.

“No,” said Miskwa.

Oloompa's countenance changed from joy to disappointment, and Miskwa observing it, asked, “Didst thou come to seek her?”

“Yes,” said Oloompa, “and I was happy. I thought I saw her in the forest.”

“Then let thy heart be glad,” said Miskwa;—“the maiden is here;—she lives with me. But she is as free as the air she breathes.”

Oloompa was again happy, and he said, “Thou dost love her?”

“Yes,” said Miskwa, “as I do the life blood which warms my heart. But stay, you shall see her,” and without waiting to know his errand, she ran away to seek her friend, whom she soon found, and cried out, “who dost thou think hast come?”

The maiden had never seen Miskwa so pretty or as much animated, and answered, “I did not know there was one whose coming could make Miskwa so happy.”

“The chieftain seeks ‘Sweet Flower,’” said Miskwa, “come, he waits.”

“Seeks me!” cried the maiden with astonishment.

“Yes,” answered Miskwa. “He told me so; and his heart was glad when he found you were here. ‘Sweet Flower,’” continued Miskwa, “will have a warrior young and handsome to protect her.”

“Oh, hush! Miskwa,” cried the captive. “Fire and water can never unite, nor the red with the white. I shall always be a lone bird without its mate; Oh! do not mention it, for my heart still bleeds over its earliest hopes.”

“Then I will not,” said Miskwa, “but thou art good enough for Pontiac, did he now live.”

The captive made no reply, being willing that Miskwa should continue to think as she did, namely, that her annunciation that the white and the red could never unite, arose from a belief on her part that by a red warrior she would never be wooed; and with a hope of finding out who it was that had inquired after her, for undefined apprehensions began to flit across her mind, she said, “Miskwa, do tell who seeks me?”

“I know not his name, nor why he comes,” said Miskwa. “He says he comes to see thee. It is not in anger. I will tell thee how I saw him?”

“Do,” said the maiden.

“When I left thee,” said Miskwa, “I hastened on after the deer I shot, and having found it, stooped down to bleed it. A moment passed while I was preparing. I heard a voice. It fell soft on my ears as the running of waters, and turning, I beheld a warrior near me with youth and joy beaming in his countenance. But come, go, he will tell thee his errand.” The captive refused, nor could Miskwa persuade her to go, when she requested her to seek her mother and tell her that a warrior was to be her visitor, while she would return and conduct him to her lodge.

The captive hurried away, and Miskwa returning to Oloompa, conducted him to her lodge. While proceeding along she learned the cause of Oloompa's errand, and she was wild with joy. She loved the captive maiden, and her heart fluttered with delight, when she recollected how happy her friend would be. There was nothing selfish in her disposition; she saw that they were to be parted, and yet she banished the thought and dwelt only on the happiness which awaited her friend. She was instantly acquainted with Oloompa; she was frank as if she had known him for years, and treated him with all the kindness of an old friend. If Oloompa was pleased with her before, he was charmed with her now; and scarcely giving him time to talk, she hurried him along to her lodge.

Arriving there, he was treated with courtesy, and Miskwa calling to “Sweet Flower,” bade her come out, since the warrior wanted to speak to her. She obeyed, and came out shrinking and frightened at she knew not what. Oloompa saw her hesitation, and knowing the cause, was not offended, but gently took her hand. She trembled from head to foot, and Oloompa began his narrative. The first words had scarcely been uttered, before her attention was arrested; she gazed first at Miskwa, and then at Oloompa, and as he proceeded, her soul drank in every word of the recital. When he mentioned that he had been sent in pursuit of her, and uttered the name of Rolfe. “Oh! tell me, tell me, is it true?” she cried. And not waiting for an answer, she looked into the face of the speaker, until she seemed to penetrate the very depths of his soul. Oloompa assured her it was true, and Gay fell weeping on the bosom of Miskwa. A few moments passed, and smiling through her tears, she laid her hand upon Oloompa's arm, and looking in his face, said, “Oh! tell me now! where you saw him, and what he said, and all, all, about him.” Oloompa went on with a farther detail of his narrative, until suddenly recollecting the little package, he loosed his belt to obtain it. “Go on, go on,” cried Gay, “please tell me all about him.” Oloompa withdrew the little parcel, and delivered it to her as coming from Rolfe. It was torn open in an instant, and as she gazed on his own signature, an exclamation of delight broke from her lips, and she ran to her apartment where she read over and over again those lines which were already imprinted upon her heart; pressed them to her lips, and upon Miskwa's entering her room, she again threw herself upon her bosom in a paroxysm of joy. But these moments passed; Gay became composed, and now all were happy. It was beautiful to look upon the affection which had sprung up between Gay and Miskwa; it was so pure, so holy, so deep, there was not even a wish, which the one would not willingly sacrifice for the gratification of the other. With Gay, the hopes which she had indulged in for so long a time, now shone brightly forth, and she saw the attainment of all her wishes, and she was joyously happy. And Miskwa, though always cheerful and contented, was now more so than she was wont to be; this arose partly from the increased happiness of her friend, and partly, because she derived some pleasure from the company of Oloompa.

Gay having retired to her apartment to read and muse over the letter which had given her so much joy, left Oloompa to be entertained by Netnokwa and Miskwa. He had much to communicate which served to interest them. In Netnokwa he found a willing and even eager listener to all the details relative to the present excitement among the Indians; and in the more agreeable company of Miskwa, he forgot his dreams of vengeance, and found that there were other things which could interest. When the night had far worn away, they all retired, and two happier beings than Miskwa and Gay were on that night were not to be found.

With returning day again came life and cheerfulness, and Gay began to discuss the best plan to be adopted consequent upon the receipt of Rolfe's letter. Consulting with Netnokwa and Miskwa she determined to write by Oloompa to Rolfe, inform him of her situation, and ask him to provide some plan for her return. This she felt sure was the best course she could pursue, knowing that Rolfe would cheerfully comply with her request, since being aware of the great excitement among the Indians, she feared to trust herself without being well guarded. Her first endeavour was to persuade Netnokwa to accompany her, and set out at once on her return; but in this she failed, and she ceased to press it, when she heard Oloompa speak of the power of the Prophet, and also the caution with which he had concealed his visit from him as well as his agents.

The day after his arrival, while conversing on the affairs of the red men, Oloompa mentioned having seen Tecumseh. At his name, a slight change passed over the face of Miskwa, and a glance between her and Gay, showed that he had been the subject of conversation between them. Oloompa described the council at which he had seen Tecumseh, and dwelt in glowing colours upon the power of his eloquence, and the effect it produced. Netnokwa made many inquiries after him, and having obtained the information she desired, repeated aloud, “The Shawanee brave has been absent too long from the Ottawa maiden.”

“Not longer,” replied Miskwa, “than the Ottawa maiden wished him, if it was his pleasure.”

They were then silent, but enough had been said to arouse the attention of Oloompa, and he asked, if they knew Tecumseh? They replied, that they did, and spoke of having seen him at the Prophet's camp.

Oloompa remained several days, in order to recruit from his fatigue, and every hour found that he was becoming more pleased with Miskwa. He had won the good opinion of Gay, by the trouble he had taken in her behalf, and Miskwa began to derive pleasure from his company. He was now their constant companion, either roving the woods, with his bow and quiver, or else assisting them in their duties about their wigwam. Yet while he did this, he found that he was involving himself in a difficulty from which he saw no hope of escape; for, from the remarks he had heard relative to Tecumseh, he feared that she was already pledged to become his wife. With these feelings, he mentioned his intention to set out on the following day, in search of Rolfe, to whom he would bear the tidings that the maiden he had so long sought, was at Netnokwa's lodge. Both Gay and Miskwa were not only anxious that he should do this, but also that he should return with him, in order to direct him by the shortest route. Both united in their persuasions, and Oloompa promised to do so. Yet he was sad, and seemed unhappy. Miskwa discovering his apprehensions, relieved them by telling him that there was no probability of her marrying Tecumseh, and a farther explanation took place, which was mutually pleasing to both. Morning came, and with it the preparations for Oloompa's departure. Each of the maidens lent their assistance towards equipping him as comfortably as possible; and Gay leaving Miskwa and Oloompa, retired for the purpose of writing to Rolfe. Netnokwa's intercourse with the traders, had casually furnished her with paper, and other materials were easily obtained. Having prepared herself for the task, she wrote as follows:—

“TO RICHARD ROLFE.

“A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear Richard,—I must write the word,—for your thrice welcome letter; and as many thousands more, for the exertions you have made in my behalf. Yet, oh! words cannot tell what I feel, nor what I owe you, nor what I have suffered. Oh! sad, sad misfortune! Your fears are all too true; and that you alone, of all Others, should have witnessed it!—How mysterious are the decrees of heaven? Oh! what would I give were it but for one hour's conversation with you.

“Upon leaving Petersburg, which we did some five or six months after your departure, my father removed to Baltimore, where he resided some time. There, meeting with some heavy pecuniary losses, he suddenly determined to emigrate to the west. We came to Pittsburg, and entering an ark, I think they called it, we commenced our journey.—The details you are acquainted with. Only fancy my sufferings.

“I am now residing with Netnokwa and her daughter,—the former is chief of the Ottawas, and adopted me to prevent my meeting with a worse fate. They are as kind as they can be, and her daughter I love as I would a sister. But, oh! happy, happy thought! that I am once more to return to the few friends who are yet left me. I have a world of things to tell when I meet. Remember me kindly to the hunter who, Oloompa tells me, was with you, and devise some plan for my return.—Come yourself, Richard,—come quick, and add another to the many inducements I already have to love you. My spirits are all in a flutter, for Oloompa is just about to set out.—Oh! has he not acted nobly! thinking of the whites as he does. Farewell,—may heaven bless you.

“GAY FOREMAN.”

Gay having finished her letter, delivered it to Oloompa, and his preparations being made, he bade them all farewell, renewed his promise to return with Rolfe, and, accompanied by the kind wishes of Netnokwa and the two maidens, sat out upon his journey.

CHAPTER XVII.

“Well might his lays be lofty! soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.”
MRS. HEMANS.

The absence of Oloompa shed a gloom for a few days over the little circle he left. Miskwa felt that she loved him, and the sympathies of Gay were also strongly enlisted in his favour. His feelings against the whites, as a people, he had avowed in her presence, and when she recollected the dreary region through which he was then travelling, and the many difficulties and hardships he must encounter, and thought he was doing all this for one who at most was but a stranger to him, her sympathies were so great, that for a short time even the pleasure arising from the recollection of the object of his journey, was sensibly diminished. But as time glided on, this feeling passed away, and gave place in her breast to the joy of anticipating his return, accompanied, as she fondly hoped, by Rolfe, of whom she had so often, and so kindly thought, and who had so long and so eagerly sought her.

But, leaving Oloompa to continue his journey, let us revert to the designs of Elkswatawa and Tecumseh.

It was now the summer of 1810:—the Indian affairs in the west began to wear quite a warlike character, and so many reports reached Governor Harrison, indicating a hostile disposition on the part of the Indians, that he felt compelled to send a messenger to the two brothers with a speech, setting forth the vast power of the whites, showing that success could not possibly attend their arms, and promising, if practicable, to redress their grievances upon their being publicly stated. The messenger was likewise required to obtain, if possible, a personal interview with the brothers, that he might form some idea of their characters, and also to elicit a history of their views and intentions toward the United States.

Upon arriving in the Shawanee country, the messenger was treated with great courtesy and even kindness, for the policy of the brothers was, to keep the whites in entire ignorance of their designs. In obedience to his wishes, a council was called of all their followers, and the speech of the Governor delivered to the brothers in their presence. They listened to it with the utmost attention, yet refused to return any answer. Upon the whole, however, they stated that they were pleased with it, and Tecumseh said that “he had never been to see the Governor; he only recollected him as a very young man, sitting by the side of General Wayne; that he had never troubled the white people much, and that he would now go to Vincennes, and convince the Governor, that he had listened to bad men, when he was told that the Indians meditated war against the United States.”

The meeting which had been called to hear the speech from the Governor, having been dissolved, Tecumseh invited the messenger to pass the night with him at his lodge, and extended to him all the rude hospitality of his wigwam. In the course of the evening he threw off much of the reserve which usually characterized him, and conversed both freely and frankly. He again denied that he intended to make war upon the United States, but declared, most solemnly, that it was not possible to remain friends, unless the whites would abandon the idea of making settlements farther to the north and westward, and explicitly acknowledge the principle that all the lands in the west, were the common property of all the tribes. “The Great Spirit,” said he, “gave this great island to his red children; he placed the whites on the other side of the big water; they were not contented with their own, but came to take ours from us. They have driven us from the sea to the lakes;—we can go no farther. They have taken upon them to say, ‘this tract belongs to the Miamies, this to the Delawares;’ and so on; but the Great Spirit intended it as the common property of all. Our father tells us, we have no business on the Wabash; the lands belong to other tribes. The Great Spirit ordered us to come here, and here we will stay. I intend not,” he continued, “to make war on the whites, but our rights must be respected, and from this spot, on the banks of the Wabash, I will never remove.”

When morning came, the messenger having gained all the information he desired, prepared to return, and Tecumseh having determined within his own mind, that he would visit the governor for the purpose of endeavouring to remove the impressions under which he laboured, said upon bidding him farewell,—“tell the Governor that I shall soon be with him; thirty or forty of my principal men will attend me, and as my young men are fond of shows, they will probably increase the number. I say these things that our father may not be alarmed, and that he may feast his red children as they deserve.”

During the whole time that the messenger had remained with Tecumseh, the Prophet had been present, yet took no part in the conversation. He left that entirely to the management of Tecumseh, who, though apparently playing a subordinate part to the Prophet, was in reality the life and soul of the projected enterprise. His voice was heard in every council preaching peace, yet causing the red men to dream of war, by narrating over and over again, the wrongs and aggressions of the whites; and to such a degree had he already excited them, that the difficulty now was, to keep down the passions he had called into play. In his own bosom he felt the storm gathering with increased fury, and every hour of his time was passed in summing up the wrongs he had suffered. Large tracts of land had been conveyed away by particular tribes, when Tecumseh regarded it as the common property of all. Murders had been committed by the Indians on the whites, and the murderers had been handed over to the whites for punishment; murders had been committed on the Indians by the whites, and when the murderers were demanded, their calls had been neglected. The wave of population was steadily advancing and encroaching upon their grounds. Want and hunger were already the consequence of the near proximity of the whites, and a history of the past told too truly, that one aggression would be followed by another, until the plough of the stranger would run over the ground now occupied by their wigwams, and then, a few years more, and no Indian would own the land whereon he rested. These were the things which preyed upon the soul of Tecumseh, and caused him to weep for the fate of his countrymen, and these were the feelings with which, in the following month, he sat out to visit the Governor at Vincennes, with a hope of removing from his mind all unfavourable impressions which he might entertain towards the Indians, and at the same time determined to lay before him the wrongs of which he complained, and demand redress.

It was on the 12th of August that Tecumseh, with a small band of warriors, the Governor having positively forbidden his being attended by a large retinue, made his appearance at Vincennes. Accommodations were prepared at the Governor's house, where he expected the proposed meeting would be held; but Tecumseh refused, and halted his followers in the open air, saying that “so the Indians had ever done, and he would not deviate from their customs. That houses were made for the whites to hold their councils in;—the Indians always held theirs under the trees.”

His fame as an orator had already spread far abroad, and the exciting subjects which were to be discussed, together with his connexion with the Prophet, induced crowds of citizens to attend the council. In addition to this, the conduct of the Governor in effecting a treaty the year before, for the purchase of lands by the United States, had been denounced by Tecumseh as unjust and improper, and to hear the grounds of the accusation, as well as that his defence might be more generally known, the Governor had issued invitations to all those disposed to attend. In consequence whereof, besides the crowds of citizens before mentioned, there were present the judges of the supreme court, and the secretary of the Territory, with many officers of the army. The whites, clustered around the Governor, were seated on chairs and benches, and before them lay extended on the grass Tecumseh and his swarthy band, armed with bows, rifles, tomahawks, and war clubs. In the rear, and at a short distance behind the governor, was stationed a small military force, brought up from fort Knox for the purpose of preserving order. Such was the disposition of the respective parties, when silence being commanded, Tecumseh, nothing daunted by the assembly around him, although all were his enemies save his own trusty band, arose with great dignity and calmness of manner, and gathering his blanket about him, poured forth the deep and burning feelings of his bosom. He knew no guile, but spoke the first promptings of his mind. In answer to a call which was made, that he should state “why it was that large bodies of Indians were assembled, warlike exercises practised, and an attitude assumed apparently hostile to the whites,” he declared that “his object, as well as that of his brother, had been an organized plan, from the commencement, to unite all the tribes together, and form them into one nation, for their common defence,—to stay the farther encroachments of the whites, and to hold the lands of the red men, as they were intended by the Great Spirit to be, the common property of all.” He declared, that “the lands which had been lately purchased, should never be settled, and that it was their determination to put to death all the chiefs who had signed the late treaties, and never again to convey another foot of land to the whites. That in the late treaties, lands belonging to the whole, had been sold by a few, for a paltry price, and their princely dominions so encroached upon, that the red men could scarcely satisfy the dire cravings of hunger. That aggression had followed aggression, until from the sea coast they had been driven back to the big lakes, and were now required to move back still a step farther. That the stipulation of the treaty of Greenville, requiring the surrender of murderers, had on the part of the whites, been grossly violated, and the rights of the Indians entirely disregarded. That in all their transactions they had been overreached, and that now they were resolved to yield no longer, but to maintain their rights, at the hazard of their lives.”

He stated, that his object was “not to make war upon the whites, but that the lands lately purchased, must not be settled; that, for himself, he would never surrender his lands on the Wabash, nor move one foot to the westward; that he desired peace, but to preserve it, the Governor must give up the lands just purchased, and promise never to make another treaty without the consent of all the tribes. Do this,” said he, “and Tecumseh is the friend of the Americans, and their ally against the English.—He likes not the English,”—and here he clapped his hands, and imitated a person encouraging a dog to make him fight with another, thereby indicating that thus did the English urge the Indians on against the Americans. “But,” continued he, “should our father not give up the purchase he has lately made, Tecumseh is the inveterate foe of the Americans,—the firm ally of the English.”

Such were merely the heads of his speech, and having seated himself, General Harrison rose in reply. He began by answering that part of Tecumseh's speech in which he stated that “the lands of the red people were intended, by the Great Spirit, to be held in common.” In replying to this, General Harrison observed, that “when the white people arrived on this continent, they found the Miamies in possession of all the country on the Wabash, and the Shawanees then residents of Georgia, from which they were driven by the Creeks; that the lands in question had been purchased from the Miamies, who were the true and original owners of it; that it was ridiculous to assert that all the Indians were one nation. If such had been the intention of the Great Spirit, he would not have put different tongues in their heads, but have taught them a language that all could understand. That the Miamies found it to their interest to sell a part of their lands, and that the Shawanees had no right to come from a distant country to control the Miamies, in the disposal of their own property.”

Here, Tecumseh rising, interrupted the Governor, and declared that “every syllable he had uttered was false, and that he and the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ the then number of states, had imposed upon and cheated the Indians.” He then blew a whistle, and his band sprang upon their feet, with ready rifles, drawn bows, and uplifted tomahawks, directed towards the Governor, and those who immediately surrounded him. The whites rose from their seats, and drew whatever weapon chance had supplied them with, and though largely outnumbering the Indians, they were almost paralyzed by the unexpected position in which they found themselves; and each party stood gazing at the other in perfect silence, neither daring to commence the attack.

When Tecumseh first rose to interrupt the Governor, the guard was called;—several minutes had now elapsed, and still not a word had been uttered,—not an attitude changed,—not a glance averted,—the most breathless silence had reigned,—the most painful suspense still continued, when the guard was seen running to their assistance. The time had not yet arrived for Tecumseh to strike,—he waved his hand, and the bows of his warriors were unstrung, their tomahawks returned to their belts. To the whites it had been a painful scene.—The guards who were ordered up, had now arrived, and were in the act of firing, when the Governor, seeing that the Indians had desisted from their hostile intention, commanded them not. Great confusion existed,—the council was dismissed, and Tecumseh, with his band, immediately left the town.

Having continued his march for several miles, he pitched his camp, and prepared to pass the night. His warriors were ordered to be on their guard against surprise; and also to hold themselves in readiness to move at a minute's warning, while he, retiring apart from the crowd, thought over the events of the day. His soul was now wrung with anguish,—he writhed under the wrongs he had suffered, and at the same time regretted the passion he had exhibited. He feared lest it should prejudice his cause, and that the whites should consider it a sufficient reason for their commencing hostilities. He would not have time to summon his warriors to battle. Moreover, he was not yet ready, for although his emissaries had visited the southern tribes, he himself had not, and therefore it became necessary to do away the impression which his conduct at the council was calculated to create.

With these views, he sent a runner to the Governor, at the first dawn of day, requesting an interview, for the purpose of explaining his conduct the day before. After the breaking up of the council, in the manner above stated, Gen. Harrison, fearing an attack from Tecumseh, had ordered in the militia, and placed the town in a state of defence, and exasperated by what he believed to have been a premeditated attempt at treachery on his part, he at first refused to grant the interview sought. After some consultation, however, he accorded it, upon condition that each party should be attended with the same armed force which was present the day before.

The day wore on, and the red men and white again met in council. Tecumseh was dignified and collected, and rather more conciliating in his manner than he had been at the former conference. He denied having had any intention of attacking the Governor, and exerted himself to remove any such impression which might have been formed, yet reiterated the same opinions which he had advanced the day before, relative to their lands, and the wrongs of the Indians. Having finished speaking, the Governor asked him whether it was his intention now to prevent the surveying of the lands, lately purchased by the United States.

He answered, “It was:—that he and those connected with him were determined that the old boundary should continue.” The Governor complimented him for his frankness, and told him, that his views should be made known to the President, but he feared, without a hope of the lands being surrendered.

“If they are not, I cannot help it,” said Tecumseh, “I know my duty.” The council was then adjourned, and Tecumseh again left the town.—All present were fully impressed with a sense of the high character and noble bearing of Tecumseh, and none more so than the Governor, who, with a hope of eliciting a farther development of his views in private, than he had given in public, determined on the following day, to visit him at his camp. With but a single friend, he appeared before Tecumseh, who treated them both with the most marked respect, carried them to his tent, where, giving them seats, and stretching himself upon the ground, he entered frankly into conversation.

The Governor stated, that he had come with a wish to preserve peace, and desired to know whether his intentions were really such as he had stated in council.

Tecumseh said, “they were;—that he would not willingly make war with the United States, against whom he had no other complaint, than their purchasing the Indian lands.—That he wished to be their friend, and that if the Governor would surrender the lands lately bought, he was the ally of the Americans; if not, he was their enemy.” The Governor again assured him that he would make known his propositions to the President, but informed him, there was no hope of his acceding to them.

“Well,” said Tecumseh, “as the Great Chief is to determine the matter, I hope the Great Spirit will put sense enough in his head to induce him to give up the land. True, he is so far off, that the war will not injure him;—he may sit still in his town, and drink his wine, while you and I will have to fight it out.”

Much conversation ensued, all of which was marked by the most manly frankness, and the Governor rose to depart, saying, “there is one request, Tecumseh, which I have to make, and to which I hope you will agree.”

“Name it,” said the Chief.

“It is,” said the Governor, that “in the event of a war, you will endeavour to prevent the murder of women and children by the Indians, as well as the wounded and prisoners, taken in battle.”

“I promise,” said Tecumseh, “for my soul delighteth not in the blood of women and children; and, Great Chief, remember, if it becomes necessary, extend to the red men the same clemency you ask for the whites.”

“I promise,” said the Governor, and bidding Tecumseh farewell, with a hope that the friendly relations then existing, might not be disturbed, he was soon on his way to Vincennes, meditating upon the interview, and deploring the war which he saw fast gathering, and which was to prove disastrous to the whites, and ruinous to the Indians.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“While through the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And his step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around him rise,
With many a face that smiles on him no more;
With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!”
ROGERS.

Nearly a year had elapsed since the commencement of our story, and the night was cold and rainy, when two friends were regaling themselves with pipes by a comfortable fire in a small building which stood apart from the few houses at that time constituting the village of Bowling Green. This place was even then beginning to show marks of civilization, for log cabins had in many instances, been superseded by well built frame edifices, and taste and culture were now exhibited in many of their walks and gardens.

As the friends sat smoking, the wind ever and anon whistled as it hurried fitfully past, causing them to shrug up their shoulders, and draw still nearer to the fire.

“It makes me feel cold,” said Earth, “to hear the wind whistle as it does, for many and many's the time I've slept out, just sich a night as this,—and I think, Rolfe, you have had a small touch at it too.”

“Yes, Earth, but my experience is nothing in comparison with yours. I often think of the time we passed together in the woods and always with pleasure; though we have had some singular adventures. We ought to have found that girl, Earth.”

“Yes, we ought so, Rolfe; I have never felt satisfied about it. We ought to have found her, and, but for that lying Prophet, we should.”

“I think now,” said Rolfe, “that she was concealed, and that he knew it, but he deceived me at the time.”

“And would do it agin,” said Earth; “you know nothing about Ingens. He is the cause of all this fracas now, and has brought down war upon our heads. What say you, Rolfe; the governor wants volunteers; suppose we go on and take a brush; I reckon this will be about the last chance we shall have, and I am getting right rusty: I hain't killed one now for nearly a year. This business of collecting taxes, and keeping out of the woods, civilizes one mightily. I feel so slick and smooth, I hardly know myself,—what say you?”

“Why, we will talk about that another time; if there is a necessity, we will go. But I am thinking of something else. Earth, the idea will sometimes come across my mind, that the girl who was captured, is the same I once loved.”

“It is all nonsense, Rolfe, you are nation hard to satisfy,—didn't that letter from Petersburg put it all straight?”

“Why, yes; it does seem so, but, you know, I caught a glimpse of her face.”

“Well now,” said Earth, “if you set up your glimpses agin black and white, I've got no more to say about it.”

Rolfe, seeing that Earth was not in a humour to converse on the subject which he had most at heart, was silent; and Earth then asked, “Did you never hear any thing from the old woman nor the Ingen boy.”

“Never,” said Rolfe, “not a word.”

“Just like 'em,” said Earth, “I never know'd one, that was worth a ninepence”—then pausing an instant, he added, “I beg the Prophet's pardon, he is worth a dollar.”

“Why so?” inquired Rolfe.

“Because,” said Earth, “he has roasted so many of 'em. But Rolfe, what can the fellow be arter? if 'twas white men he burned, I could see through it plain enough, but he takes Ingens altogether, and then he picks the best of 'em, and besides this, I am told, he has run 'em all mad, and made 'em believe they can catch the whites in log traps as I used to catch 'coons.”

“I cannot tell,” said Rolfe, and he shuddered, for there passed through his mind the thought that the captive maiden might be she whom he loved, and would yet be brought to the stake.

Earth saw him shudder, and thinking he was cold, stirred up the fire, and replenished his pipe. The wind still howled as it hurried past, and Rolfe also drew his chair closer, complained of being cold, and added fuel to the fire.

“I hate a night like this,” said Earth, “it always make me think of spirits.”

“Rather makes you drink spirits,” said Rolfe; “will you have some?”

“No, I was not speaking of that; you know I don't hate a little, if it is good, worse than any thing else in this world, but that has nothing to do with it. I mean that a night like this always makes me think of ghosts.”

“Earth, you don't believe in ghosts?”

“Don't I believe what I see, and havn't I seen them?”

“I think not,” said Rolfe.

“Well, now the difference is, I think I have,” said Earth.

“Well Earth, I see we can't agree about ghosts, but there is one thing I wish you would tell me.”

“What is it?”

“Will you promise to tell?”

“Name it, and, if it be proper, I will.”

“It is,” said Rolfe, “what I have often heard you allude to, the fate of your family.”

As Rolfe announced this, a shade seemed to pass over Earthquake's countenance, and he was for a moment silent, then removing his pipe, he said, “I will gratify you, Rolfe, for I promised to do so, and we shall never have a more fit opportunity. It is a sad story, and soon told, and I want to tell it, because I know you think me cruel, but I aint so. Let us fill our pipes agin.” Having done so, he began:—

“My father was an early settler in Kentucky. He emigrated while I was a child from one of the counties along the sea coast in North Carolina. What induced him to do so, I never learned; he was poor, and may have moved to better his condition, yet I have always thought that there was some private reason which forced him away. However, my principal recollections now, are of the family, as they were when,—when they perished. My father was, before he moved, though poor, a good liver, and had had the advantages of a good education. I was too young to judge of this at that time, but many recollections now convince me,—for when we moved we brought many books with us, and our neighbours often came to him to write for them, and to settle their accounts.

“Well, when we came out, we settled about fifteen miles from here;—I will show you the place some of these days, though there are now few marks of its ever having been cultivated, and built us a house which was remarked for its neatness and comfort. But it was too far from any other settlement, there were no persons sufficiently near to be called neighbours, and for that I blame the old man, though, I suppose, for doing so, he had his own reasons. I say, I blame him, because I remember I often heard persons ask him, if he was not afraid to reside so far from assistance, in case it should be needed. He said ‘no,’ for he was a brave man and knew no fear. Rolfe, I said I blamed him;—he is gone, and I loved him;—let me blot out that word blamed. Well, we made a small clearing; the old man was very industrious, and though I was a child, yet I assisted him, for I was large enough to plough, and we managed to live very comfortably. My mother, I think I have not before mentioned her, was a good woman, and as kind and gentle as one can be. I have never seen one like her since, and now, while I am talking to you, Rolfe, I can see them all as they used to be. I can see my mother meet the old man with smiles when he would return from his work, and see him, happy as he was, when he could collect us all around him, and make us play for his amusement. We were six in the family, and I the eldest of the children. I had two sisters, a brother, a father and a mother.

“While thus situated, we frequently heard of the Indians, and of acts of violence committed by them; but they generally happened at a distance, and caused us no actual fear. I say fear,—yet we were always on the look out, and somewhat prepared for them, and whenever we had cause to suspect that they were about, word was sent to the neighbours, and we all retreated to the block-house.

“But, one morning, the old man being sick, I took my gun and went out hunting. The Ingens had not then been heard of for some time, and we suspected nothing. I wandered from home a considerable distance farther than was prudent at that time, and it was the middle of the day when I returned, and was distant a mile or two, when I heard the voices of persons who seemed moving along. This was unusual, for sometimes months passed without our seeing any one; and I at once concealed myself, that I might see who they were. I soon discovered that they were a party of Ingens. My heart sank within me, for I was more afraid of an Ingen then than I am now, Rolfe. They were about a dozen in number, and many of them had large bundles; and, what I did not observe at first, I soon noticed, namely, that one of them was riding an old gray mare, which we had brought from Carolina, and which I knew they must have stolen. I recollected having left her in the stable, but thought she had gotten out, and that the Ingens had perhaps found her in the woods. They were all armed, as if for battle, and seemed to be hurrying along. I hardly breathed while they were passing, lest they should discover me; and as soon as they were out of sight, I ran home, to tell what I had seen.

“I had nearly reached there, before I began to think what might have happened, and as soon as the thought struck me, that they might have been to our house, I dashed along until I reached our enclosure. Yes, I reached it, Rolfe, but there was no house to be seen, nor a living soul! no, not even a farm-yard animal. Every thing was deserted, and a thin smoke was rising up from where the house had stood!—Pass me the tobacco, Rolfe.—Well, I cried, as any other boy would have done, and ran blubbering along to the yard; I entered it, and what think you, Rolfe, I stood over the smoking ruins of our house, and saw my father, mother, two sisters, and a brother, lying mangled before me!—Several of them wanted some of their limbs, and, more or less burned, they all lay a black and smoking mass! Yet the size of the skeletons pointed out each, and I knew them as well as I did in the morning. And, Rolfe, they were all innocent and knew no crime, unless it was to love each other too much, and to be happy within themselves. They died, however, not without a struggle, for two red devils lay with them.

“Rolfe, you can never know the agony of that moment!” and a shudder ran over him as he recurred to it—“how utterly lone and desolate I felt!—I cried no more, I ceased to be a boy, and every feeling was instantly merged in the desire for vengeance! Rolfe, you have often thought me cruel, now have I not cause?”

“Your misfortunes, Earth, have been greater than I thought, but I do not deem it just to punish the innocent for the guilty. Those who were not present could not have injured you.”

“Rolfe,” continued Earthquake, “before that fatal day, I was too gentle and meek for a boy. The old man often chided me, for I would cry at the crushing of an insect. I mention this to show that my disposition was not naturally cruel. But, Rolfe, to be left alone in the wide world in one unlucky hour! and Rolfe, hear me, I alone scooped their shallow grave, and shovelled the fresh earth over their smoking bodies! Yes, covered up, hid,—buried the only persons in this world who loved me,—I may say who knew me; and I watched over them, and lay for two nights upon their graves! and the first night, Rolfe, was just such a night as this. It was cold, and raw, and drizzling, and the wind moaned as it passed over me. I thought it sighed to meet with a child so wretched and lonely. From that moment, Rolfe, I vowed vengeance, and I have often fed it with the red man's blood, but it hungers for more. Innocent or guilty, I know not the difference,—every red skin is guilty in my eyes. I owe them a debt yet, and if this Prophet shall stir up a fight, believe me, Rolfe, I will try and settle that account;—it will be, perhaps, the last chance I shall have. But, come, let us drop this subject, for talking of it almost runs me crazy.”

Earthquake was much excited by the incidents he had been narrating, and Rolfe wishing him to become composed, said nothing, and each remained for a time silent.

It was now near ten o'clock at night. A drizzling rain still pattered against the windows, and the winds whistled as they hurried along, when a sudden rapping at the door started Rolfe and Earth from their reverie. The rap was loud and bold, not that of a dependant, but of one who had a right to enter.

“Who's there?” cried Rolfe.—No answer was returned. “Who's there?” he repeated.—Still no answer.

Earth, being nearest the door, arose, saying, “I will see who it is,” then approached, and opened it. A figure wrapped in a blanket, stood on the topmost step, and as the door was thrown open, entered without the least ceremony. The face and shoulders were muffled up, the legs perfectly naked, the feet clad in much worn moccasins, and from the whole figure the rain was running off in streams. Without making a remark, and waiting only a few seconds, it approached the fire.

“A red skin,” cried Earth, and he sprang to a corner to seize a gun. Rolfe involuntarily caught a stick; the blanket fell from the shoulders of the stranger, who stood forth an Indian warrior, and gazing at Earthquake, cried out in good English when he saw him presenting the gun, “Hold! hunter:—art thou afraid of Oloompa?” Rolfe and Earthquake paused, for they did not at first remember the name, but in an instant it flashed upon Rolfe, and he said, “the wounded boy!”

“The same,” was the brief reply, and Oloompa's visage grew darker as he added, “Oloompa is a man in conflict.”

Rolfe seized his hand and pressed it with joy—Earth carelessly replaced the gun, and advanced, but Oloompa was cold and indifferent to each, for he had not met with the reception which his arduous services entitled him to, and drawing a chair he seated himself by the fire.

“What tidings, Oloompa?” cried Rolfe, with breathless anxiety.

“The maiden lives,” was the answer. “Oloompa has sought her,—he has journeyed far. The hunters receive him with guns and sticks—”

“Is she the same I seek;—oh! Oloompa, tell me.”

Oloompa spoke not, nor even looked at Rolfe, but withdrawing from his belt the letter which he bore, delivered it;—then, after a moment he added, “Oloompa has served the white man, and he is now his enemy.”

Earthquake eyed him from head to foot, then said to Rolfe in an under-tone, “What does he mean by saying he is our enemy?—Rolfe, I have a great mind to use him up.”

“Hush, Earth,” said Rolfe, “regard nothing that he says, he is vexed now, but it will wear off,” and tearing open the note, he read the lines which Gay had written.

“Yes, yes, she is the same,” cried he; and for a moment he was overpowered by contending emotions. He knew not at first, whether to be sorry or glad. He regretted her misfortunes and the sufferings she must have experienced, and his brow was touched with sadness. Then again, she was alive and well, and he was to rescue her and restore her to her friends, and thinking of this, he became almost frantic with joy; and passing the note which he had received to Earth, he approached Oloompa, begged his pardon for the reception they had given him; gave him a thousand thanks for the trouble he had taken, and used all his exertions to make him comfortable and happy.

But Oloompa manifested the utmost indifference to all his attentions, and repulsed every effort at hospitality. He seemed to regard them as disagreeable, and partook of only such refreshments as nature required. Rolfe regretted exceedingly, the reception he had met with, and by his gentleness of manner, and continued efforts to win him from his reserve, succeeded in obtaining from him a history of his journey, together with details of the appearance and occupation of Gay, and a thousand other incidents which were full of interest to him alone.

The more Rolfe thought on the subject, the more happy he became. Every other feeling now gave place to joy. He was now to be happy, and saw before him the accomplishment of all his wishes. He judged from Gay's letter that she still loved him, and his desire was to set off at once to seek her. In making her his, he saw no obstacle, he anticipated no difficulty. He was aware of the excitement which prevailed among the Indians, and also of the general belief that hostilities would be commenced. But Gay was now with friends who loved her, and who would protect her if necessary; and furthermore, he had been assured of her safety by Oloompa, whom he could not doubt, since he had already taken so much trouble to serve him. His object, therefore, was now to make Oloompa happy, and also to make preparations for his intended journey.

In accomplishing the former, however, he still found much difficulty, for his civilities were received with indifference, and Oloompa's wants were few; and even when he conversed, it was as if he considered it a matter of duty, and seemed not to spring from any disposition to talk. Every thing he did was repulsive in its nature, and served to prove that he was disagreeably situated. He would receive nothing as compensation for his labour, save only a small present which he designed for his mother, and told Rolfe that he would lead him to the maiden, and expressed a wish to set off as soon as he should be ready to accompany him. Rolfe felt how much he owed him, he saw that something was heavy at his heart, and he renewed his exertions to entertain him, but in vain; and having exhausted his efforts, he had only to admire the individual whose good will there seemed no hope of purchasing, and who had already done so much to serve one, whom he seemed to consider as his enemy. The cause of this Rolfe could not divine, and it was upon the second evening of Oloompa's arrival, that the two being alone, Rolfe ventured to inquire.

“Will you tell me, Oloompa,” said he, “why it is you have done so much to serve me, placed me under a thousand obligations, and then will not even permit me to be kind to you.”

“The white man was good to my mother,” answered Oloompa;—“he asked me to serve him. I promised.—I have done so. My path was long. Oloompa's moccasins know the travel of two moons. He journeyed far. It was to serve the white man, who hates him. He is ready to lead him to the maiden.”

“Oloompa, you are mistaken,” said Rolfe; “I have no ill feeling toward thee. Thou hast acted nobly; thou hast served me, and I love thee for it. Now only name what I shall do for thee.”

“Go with me at once to the maiden, that Oloompa may be free.”

“And wilt thou accept nothing?” said Rolfe. “I owe thee much; I am thy friend; suffer me to be kind to thee for thy mother's sake, if not thy own. Should Oloompa go thus, Pukkwana will say the white man was ungrateful.”

“Oloompa has spoken,” was the reply. “He wants nothing; let the morrow's sun find him on his journey. He is a caged bird. His spirit longs to be free.”

“Then I can do no more,” said Rolfe, “but will prepare for our journey. You said you desired this, that you might be free. You will conduct me to the maiden, and then leave me. Does danger await me?”

Oloompa smiled, as if in scorn, and said, “the white man knows not Oloompa:—Oloompa is not a snake, to bite without warning. His words are straight. What he says, he does. The white man wrongs him when he suspects. Oloompa has said he will show him the maiden. He still says so, and if her path is watched, he will return with her to the settlements. She shall be safe. Then, Oloompa is free, and his hatred of the white men is a fire which will never burn out.”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know not what to think. I grieve to hear you speak as you do. Forget those thoughts which prey upon your mind, and be my friend. Return with me after having shown me the maiden, and you shall have a house and lands for yourself and mother, and your days shall pass in peace and quiet. Do this, and you will make me happy. If not, say why, what preys upon your mind?”

Oloompa's feelings were touched, by the manner of Rolfe, and he replied, “Oloompa is not ungrateful;—he loves not the white man, yet he thanks him for his kindness. Oloompa's cradle was the tree top. His spirit is as free as the wind that blows. The wild woods must be his home. The hunter asks why it is that Oloompa's mind is troubled? Would he know? Listen:—the Great Spirit made this great island for his red children. The white people came across the wide water, and have taken it from them. Here, where Oloompa stands, his father hunted the deer and buffalo. The whites wanted his hunting grounds. He would not give them up. His blood was spilled upon the ground, and the wigwam of the white man now rises over it! Dost thou know why the red man's heart is sorry?”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know thy feelings, and can make many allowances for them. I never think of the fate of the Indians with a light heart.”

“The white man is not yet satisfied,” continued Oloompa; “he wants more hunting grounds, and again he is kindling the red torch.”

“No,” said Rolfe; “the red man is kindling the torch, and the whites are assembling, to defend themselves. I myself had friends who fell victims to Indian barbarity. Not only that, but our frontiers have been desolated, and women and children inhumanly butchered, to gratify their vengeance. Oloompa, can we suffer that?”

“The white man,” continued Oloompa, “says to-day, ‘here is my boundary’; to-morrow, he moves over it. If the Indians go farther, he follows on; he will not let them live in peace.”

“They are both to blame,” said Rolfe, “and the state of feeling which exists among them is much to be lamented.”

“Indian barbarity!” repeated Oloompa, who seemed not to have regarded Rolfe's last remark:—“The white man taught the red man cruelty.—The white man came to us a stranger and asked for bread:—our fathers gave it. They clothed him,—they nursed him,—they made him grow strong. He turned upon his benefactors, and asked them for their hunting grounds. They refused to give them. What did the white man do, hunter? He kindled the torch;—and the red flames of war devoured, not only our warriors who fought for their wigwams, and their wild lands, but our women and children, who knew no harm. Yes, hunter, they butchered them, not because they had wronged them,—an Indian could have forgiven that,—but for the sake of gain,—for silver. Hunter, art thou proud of being a white man? Tell me.” Then pausing an instant, he continued, “Oloompa loves the red men. They are gone; their spirits would not stay when their hunting grounds were taken from them. They have gone to the Great Spirit, to tell him of the treatment of the white men.”

Rolfe was silent, for he knew not what reply to make, and he was also unwilling to excite Oloompa more.

Oloompa continued, “Hunter, before the white man came, the Indians were happy. They knew no crime. The Great Spirit supplied all their wants, and they believed that all he gave belonged to his red children in common. They protected the weak,—they fed the hungry,—they clothed the naked,—they gave shelter to the stranger. If their hearts were troubled, they would leave their wigwams, and retreating alone to some sacred tree or fountain, in the wilds of the forest, there pour out their most secret thoughts to him whom they knew only as the Great Spirit; there offer up their thanks for the game he had given them,—the care he had bestowed on their squaws and their little ones;—there implore him to take care of a father or a mother who had gone before them;—there entreat him to give them fine fields to hunt in, filled with deer and buffalo; or they would tell the wrongs they suffered from some other tribe to him whom they looked upon as a common father, and ask for vengeance. Hunter, was it wrong? Is the white man's heart glad when he knows what the Indians once were, and sees what the Indians now are?—The white man came:—he gave strong water to the Indians, and made them weak. He made one tribe war with another. He made brothers meet brothers, and fathers, sons, in bloody fray. When weak and divided, the white man himself took up the hatchet, and marched to battle. Our streams ran red with the blood of our children, and our plains were whitened with the bones of the slain. Our warriors were all laid low! Hunter, canst thou now tell, why the red man's heart is sorry? But Oloompa will away. He longs to be free. He will rove the few hunting grounds which are yet left him. Will the white man go to-morrow?”

“Oloompa, while you are excited as I see you,” said Rolfe, “will it be safe for me to venture so far into your country with only a small guard? Tell me, before I name the time for setting out.”

“Oloompa hates the white man,” was the reply, “and the white man knows it. Oloompa has promised to serve him,—he will do it. His path is clear, and the maiden shall return safe. Oloompa came alone,—the white man must go alone. He is safe. What Oloompa has done proves that he will not speak false.”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I never can doubt thee. You tell me I shall be safe;—I believe it;—yet still I would like that some few friends should accompany me.”

“They will make our path longer,” said Oloompa. “Oloompa wants to go quick. He wishes to be free. The white man, perhaps, is afraid,—he may take one friend. Oloompa again tells him his path is clear.”

Rolfe saw that a farther discussion would most probably only tend to provoke him, and he observed, “I am satisfied, and will obey;—the hunter whom you saw here shall accompany us.”

CHAPTER XIX.

“Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye,
The graves of those that cannot die.”
BYRON.

Great excitement prevailed in consequence of the tidings brought by Oloompa. The news quickly spread throughout the village, that Rolfe was about to go in quest of a maiden who had been captured some time before by the Indians; and no sooner was it known, than many of his friends volunteered their services, and offered to accompany him. He thanked them for their kindness, but declined, saying that his friend Earthquake had promised to go, and as they all knew that, in any Indian adventure, Earth was a host within himself, they were satisfied. Speculations as to the person they were going in search of, were made by many ladies of the village, and some even ventured to assert that it was an affair of the heart; but this impression finally gave way to one with which they were more pleased, namely, that the captive lady was a distant relation.

Oloompa, as before stated, met with every attention which kindness could bestow, and every effort was used to make him happy; but there was sadness and gloom upon his brow, and heaviness at his heart. He saw himself surrounded by the enemies of his race, their wigwams rising up, and their fields spread out, where formerly the red man roved sole lord of the forest. He beheld their inquiring and insulting gaze when he ventured out; he thought of the encroachments and aggressions which had ever marked their history, and he saw in the future, the coming struggle, which was to decide for all time, the fate of the red men.

But, sad as were these musings, he felt the consciousness of having done an act which ennobled him in sacrificing every personal feeling to serve Rolfe. He experienced the gratification which flows from a noble deed. He enjoyed that holy and sacred sensation which fills the heart, when one, careless of the opinion of the world, performs some act which is prompted by friendship, by benevolence, or by charity. And yet he was unhappy. Another cause of his unhappiness added to those we have already stated was his late acquaintance with Miskwa, the affianced bride of Tecumseh, as he sometimes feared, notwithstanding her denial to the contrary. And although there were moments in which he believed this, her figure was often dancing before him, and in fancy he walked with her, or drew her bow, or listened to her happy laughing voice; and then came reality, and he longed for the noise of battle, for desperate conflict, and for mighty struggle, that he might pour out his vengeance upon the whites, stay their encroachments, and secure to the red men the quiet possession of their hunting grounds, or in eternal sleep find rest for all his woes.

It was now the morning that Rolfe had promised to accompany Oloompa, and the preparations at his house, showed that he would soon be in readiness to do so. He and Earth were both armed and equipped, pretty much as they were wont to be when all their time was devoted to hunting, and in addition to that, each was supplied with a pair of pistols. Their being armed, was now absolutely necessary, both as a means of defence in case it should be necessary, and likewise for the purpose of providing themselves with food in the vast wilderness through which they were about to travel. At the door were standing three horses equipped for a journey, and around them a group of friends had gathered. The preparations now being completed, “Come Earth,” said Rolfe, “if you are ready, we will set out.”

“Agreed,” said Earth, “for to be armed as I am, makes me think of old times, and we shall be right apt to have some fun.” Then turning to the crowd, “Come now boys, try and settle up before I git back, and tell your neighbours to do the same; don't be backward about your taxes because I am gone; I shall expect to see the thing straight; now you all hear me:” then shaking hands familiarly, Rolfe did the same, and mounting, they, with Oloompa, were off amid the wishes of many friends for a prosperous and safe journey. The gloom which had shaded the brow of Oloompa, now passed away, and he was cheerful and happy at the idea of again entering the woods. Rolfe and Earth were blithe as boys, and although so long a journey lay before them, they spurred their horses and put off in a gallop, the woods echoing to many a hearty laugh as they moved along. Leaving them to pursue their journey, we must detail other incidents in our story.

The Indian affairs on the northwestern frontier were now every day assuming a more hostile appearance, alarm and consternation manifested itself so strongly among the frontier settlers, that Governor Harrison was ordered to hold himself in readiness to attack or defend as subsequent events might require.

The Prophet's band had considerably increased, and although nothing had as yet occurred, which could be regarded as a declaration of hostilities, yet every thing indicated that to preserve peace under present circumstances would be impossible. Mysterious meetings were continually held among the Indians, and orators were never wanting, to paint to them in high wrought colours, the wrongs and grievances under which they suffered. English agents, agents from the most enlightened and civilized country on the globe, were found in attendance at all their meetings, inflaming their prejudices, exciting their passions, and urging them on to a cruel and relentless war against the Americans, a people who had won for themselves the applause of the world, and of whom England, as their mother country, should have been justly proud. And not only was England, proud England, thus warring with those united to her by the strongest ties of blood, but she was urging on to inevitable extermination the innocent and happy aborigines of our country.—She turned their thoughts from the channels in which they were accustomed to flow, and made them dream of dominion and of conquest.—She harked on those, whose passions, when excited, justly entitled them to the appellation of “blood hounds of war,” and turned them loose against the helpless mother, and the new-born babe. She by her influence set fire to our cabins, along the entire north-western frontier, and by the red glare which lighted up the dark and surrounding forest, showed the mangled remains of butchered families. Yes, England, by thy agents thou hast done this and much more; yet with its recital, there is blended no unkind feeling—for I still love thee as thou art, “a handful of earth cast upon the wide waters”—yes, I love thee, and have wandered with pleasure over thy lands, and gazed with delight on thy cities, thy wealth, thy pomp, and thy pageantry;—and yet, if when looking abroad, from the top of one of your green clad hills, upon the wide and extended landscape which lay before me, I should have been reminded of the beautiful prairies in my own native land; and while dwelling in fancy for a moment upon them, I have thought of the desolation which had sometimes marked an Indian trail, together with some of the stories which were told of British influence, pardon me, I could not help it. As I said before, I still love thee; thou art great and powerful; charity, benevolence, hospitality, unbounded knowledge, together with all that is beautiful and bright in science, dwells with thee;—the finest specimens of art, the loveliest landscapes in nature are all thy own;—and thy errors, for errors thou hast committed, must be regarded only as the accidental stains which sometimes deface the most beautiful picture.

It is impossible for an American to read a history of the part played by British agents at the period here alluded to, without feeling excited, but it has long passed, and with it let pass the feelings which such a recital is calculated to engender. To Tecumseh and the Prophet they first made their propositions;—to men suffering under real or imaginary wrongs, and whose whole souls were bent upon the accomplishment of a particular purpose. They were found not to be unwilling listeners.—They were offered arms and ammunition, and promised assistance, if necessary.—The breach between the brothers and the United States, had been daily widening, and they now saw that a struggle was inevitable. The only hope of peace, was in the wished for restoration of the lands lately purchased, and this the Governor had informed them was impossible. The offer of arms and ammunition on the part of the British agents was therefore seasonable, and the brothers accepted it. Yet they knew that they were not offered through kindness to the Indians, but through hatred to the Americans. Such was Tecumseh's perfect understanding of the motive which governed the agents, as he often stated.

Tecumseh's exertions were now great and unremitting; he visited every north and western tribe, animated their warriors, strengthened the confederacy which he had already formed, and prepared them at once for the coming contest. Never was a monarch's voice more absolute than his. If he commanded, he was obeyed; if he expressed a wish, it was executed. And this power, which he looked forward to when unknown, he had obtained by the energy of his own great spirit,—aided by the deep sagacity and forethought of his brother. He had mastered thousands of his fellow men, and bound them to him by the most indissoluble ties, who were as wild as the beasts they hunted;—who belonged to different tribes, and who spoke different languages. He had reconciled all the differences which existed among the various tribes, mastered their feelings by his warm, gushing eloquence; led them whither he pleased; had preached to them peace, yet prepared them for war, and they never, from the beginning, knew what it was he intended. He was bold, ardent, and indefatigable in his exertions. To-day his voice was heard on the Wabash, to-morrow, he was declaiming on the shores of the lakes.

Rumours were now daily coming in, of hostile intentions on the part of the Indians; several murders had been committed by the respective parties, which served very much to exasperate each, and authentic information was forwarded to the Governor of the existence of the confederacy which Tecumseh had formed. Preparations were made on his part for immediate action, and besides the military already in service, the militia of the neighbouring states had been ordered to hold themselves ready to move, whenever required.

At this time Tecumseh returned from a visit to the North-west, and assured Elkswatawa, that in that quarter all was right, and nothing waited for but the signal to strike. At the Prophet's camp, and along the Wabash, the Indians were excited to the highest possible degree, and the difficulty now with him, was to restrain them. Worked into fury by the continual practising of his mysterious rites, members of his band, had, counter to his orders, invaded the settlements and dipped their hands in the blood of the whites. Having done this, they were still more excited, and howling like dogs, were anxious to be unleashed against their prey. New muskets, powder, and balls had already been obtained from the English, and safely deposited at Tippecanoe, and the Prophet having made all preparations as far as he was capable, and also fearing lest the conduct of his followers should call down the vengeance of the whites, before he had organized any plan of attack, proposed to Tecumseh that they should designate a time when the first blow was to be struck. Tecumseh was all anxiety for battle, but he felt that his schemes were not yet matured. He knew not what was the disposition of the southern tribes. He had sent emissaries among the Creeks, Chocktaws, and Cherokees, but had not, as yet, visited them in person, and he was anxious to do so that he might obtain their co-operation, and urging them to strike in the south, at the same time that he did in the north-west, divert the attention of the whites, kindle the flame of war along the whole frontier, and by concentrating his forces when least expected, make themselves sure of victory. Elkswatawa saw the propriety of the measure, but withheld his consent; Tecumseh, however, assured him that in a few days he would set out for the south, visit the various tribes in that quarter, bind them to his confederacy, if threats or persuasion could avail, “and then,” said he, “the red torch shall blaze, and the war-whoop ring.”

This would have been perfectly agreeable to Elkswatawa, but for the excited state of his followers; he knew the feelings of the whites towards him, and he also knew that they were preparing for hostilities. He feared lest some premature occurrence should take place before Tecumseh could return, and being anxious that success should crown the first attack of the Indians, or to use his own language, “that they should strike a sure and heavy blow,” he urged immediate action; and suggested that they should, by stratagem, endeavour to obtain possession of the person of General Harrison, and at the same time seize upon the town of Vincennes, which he thought practicable, and which, if accomplished, would ensure the success of all their schemes. It was while they were debating about this, that an incident occurred, which settled their deliberations.

General Harrison, who, as before stated, was prepared for action, actuated by a spirit of humanity; determined to make another effort for the preservation of peace, and with that view sent an address to the two brothers, calling them by name and styling them the “chiefs of the confederation of various tribes residing at Tippecanoe.” The address commenced by setting forth the various rumours which had reached him, thereby showing the brothers that their intentions were known, and endeavouring to dissuade them from hostilities, by showing the utter impracticability of their purpose. Portions of the document ran thus, “Brothers, our citizens are alarmed, and my warriors are preparing themselves; not to strike you, but to defend themselves, their wives and children. You shall not surprise us as you expect to do; you are about to undertake a very rash act, I advise you to consider well of it, it is not yet too late.

“Brothers, what inducement have you to undertake an enterprise where there is so little probability of success?—do you really think that the handful of men, which you have about you, are able to contend with the power of the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ or even that the whole of your tribes united, could contend with the ‘Kentucky Fire’ alone?

“Brothers, I am myself of the ‘Long Knife Fire;’ as soon as they hear my voice, you will see them pouring forth their swarms of hunting-shirt men, as numerous as the mosquitoes on the shores of the Wabash; brothers, take care of their stings.

“Brothers, I hear that you talk of coming to see me, attended by all your young men, this, however, must not be so; if your intentions are good, you have no need to bring but a few of your young men with you. I must be plain with you, I will not suffer you to come into our settlements with such a force.”

The reception of this accorded with their designs; it gave them a good excuse for visiting Vincennes, and upon consultation with each other, they determined to answer it, and name a day for their visit.

Having resolved to do so, Tecumseh replied in the following words:—

“Brother, I give you a few words until I be with you myself.

“TECUMSEH.”

“Brother at Vincennes, I wish you to listen to me while I send you a few words, and I hope that they will ease your heart; I know you look on your young men, and your women, and children with pity, to see them so much alarmed.

“Brother, I wish you to examine what you have from me, I hope it will be a satisfaction to you, if your intentions are like mine to wash away all these bad stories that have been circulated. I will be with you myself in eighteen days from this day.

“Brother, we cannot say what will become of us, as the Great Spirit has the management of us at his will. I may be there before the time, and may not be there until the day. I hope that when we come together all these bad tales will be settled; by this I hope your young men, your women and children will be easy. I wish you, brother, to let them know when I come to Vincennes and see you, that all will be settled in peace and happiness.

“Brother, these are only a few words to let you know that I will be with you myself, and when I am with you, I can inform you better.

“Brother, if I find I can be with you in less time than eighteen days, I will send one of my young men before me, to let you know what time I will be with you.

“July 4th, 1811.”

Tecumseh's letter having been forwarded to Gen. Harrison, the brothers again met in conference. It seemed that their wishes had been anticipated, and they determined to visit Vincennes, and if deemed practicable after their arrival there, to seize the Governor and massacre the inhabitants. The journeying there would at least afford employment for a time for the Prophet's followers, and if nothing could be effected, Tecumseh resolved to continue on from there to the south and leave Elkswatawa to return to Tippecanoe. The Governor had objected to their visiting him with a large retinue, and to obviate this they agreed to set out with but few followers, and let their warriors come on and join them at Vincennes in roving parties, they themselves professing at the time utter ignorance of their coming. The determination which they had now formed, only served to excite them still more, and they proceeded at once to prepare for their visit. The moment had now arrived when they were about to place the success of those schemes which they had so long been maturing upon a single chance. Yet with all this they blended prudence, for their designs were not communicated to their warriors, who armed, were ordered to move forward and attend a meeting which was to be held at Vincennes, nor were they to be made acquainted with them unless it was desirable to do so after their arrival. They well knew that in their present excited condition, if the object of their visit was known, no power could restrain them, and that an attempt would be made upon the town, however impolitic it might be. Between themselves, they agreed that no attempt was to be made, if they were even suspected: for they believed that the success of their enterprise depended entirely on their success at first; and it did to a great extent, for a failure at first would prove Elkswatawa false as a Prophet, and most probably destroy all the influence which he now possessed, and which he had laboured so long to obtain. None of the distant members of the confederacy they had formed, knew any thing of this scheme.—The warriors who were to accompany them, resided chiefly on the Wabash, and all that Tecumseh had visited were sufficiently excited, and now only awaited his orders. The time appointed for their promised visit had now arrived and passed, and completing their preparations, the brothers sat out for Vincennes.

Upon the reception of Tecumseh's letter, General Harrison began to make preparations for the expected visit, and also to place himself in a situation to repel successfully any attack that might be made, and, as a further defence, a messenger was sent forward to meet Tecumseh, and prevent his coming to the council with an armed force. The eighteenth day arrived,—Vincennes was filled with soldiery, marching and countermarching in every direction; all was bustle and expectation, yet the sun went down, and no tidings were heard of Tecumseh. Several days also passed, and still he came not. At last, the messenger returned, saying, that “Tecumseh was on his march, and with more men than he should have brought to the council;—that when told of the impropriety of bringing so many, he stated that they came of their own accord,—that his guard consisted of but twenty-four men, and that over the remainder he exercised no influence; moreover, that the Governor need not be alarmed, for he came to settle peaceably all their differences.”

On Saturday, the 27th, Tecumseh and Elkswatawa made their appearance at Vincennes, attended by about one hundred warriors. General Harrison, anxious to bring the conference to a close, proposed that it should be held early on Monday morning. To this, Tecumseh objected, and even declined designating a day. The Governor, with a hope of intimidating the Indians, had called a general parade of the militia of the county of Knox.—These, all well armed, were in attendance, amounting in number to about eight hundred. There were also several companies of regular infantry, and a fine troop of cavalry, seventy strong. To see them go through their evolutions, the brothers, with their warriors, were invited. They attended:—they manifested no surprise,—they showed no fear; yet the exhibition had thwarted their plans, and showed the madness of their enterprise. When Tecumseh saw this, he observed, “we will not strike, they are ready.” Elkswatawa sighed, and the brothers returned to their camp.

Monday came,—the whites assembled at the place prepared for the council, and yet the Indians came not. Tuesday came, and it was found that Tecumseh's one hundred men now amounted to three hundred, and that roving bands filled the neighbouring woods.

The brothers now being satisfied that no hope of success remained, and seeing that the whites had prepared themselves as if expecting a surprise, determined to go into council, conciliate the whites if they could, and leave the town. They saw that their presence with their followers created a feverish state of excitement, which, as they could now effect nothing, they were anxious to destroy. In accordance with this agreement, Tecumseh sent a messenger to General Harrison, saying, he was “ready for the conference, and wishing to know whether the Governor would be attended by armed men.” The answer was, that “Tecumseh had his choice; if his men were armed, those of the Governor would be so likewise; if not, then none would be armed.” Tecumseh, however, decided on having a guard, and selected from his warriors two hundred, well armed with bows, tomahawks, rifles, and war clubs, and the two brothers marched to the place appointed for the council.

The whites had already assembled, and the bright muskets of the military glittered in the sun. In advance of the crowd, was stationed a troop of dragoons, seventy strong, dismounted, and armed with a sword and two pistols each; before them, and about their centre was seated General Harrison. Directly opposite this troop, Tecumseh and Elkswatawa led their warriors, and placing themselves in front of their band, they occupied a situation corresponding with that of the Governor. On the one side, was a large and well armed force; on the other, Tecumseh, with his swarthy band, bold, fearless, and undaunted, and as seemingly indifferent to the circumstances in which they were placed as though they had been in their own wigwams.

The conference was opened by a speech from the Governor, in which he accused the brothers of hostile intentions,—spoke of the alarm existing on the frontiers,—demanded that the Indians should be given up who had lately committed murders in Illinois,—adverted to their coming to a friendly conference with so large a retinue; and while he expressed his willingness to hear what Tecumseh had to say in reference to the lands, stated, that he had no power to relinquish them, and that it must be settled only by the President. His speech occupied some time, and in reply, Tecumseh rose.—He was calm and dignified, and as free in debate as though he were addressing a single individual. He denied that he intended hostilities against the whites, but admitted that he had formed a confederacy of all the northwestern tribes; but that it was formed to preserve peace, and to preserve themselves. “The United States,” he said, “had set the example of forming a union among all the ‘Fires,’—the Indians did not object to it, nor did they view it as a hostile act; why, then, should they object to the Indians forming a union?” He said, “the union he would form; that his object was peace; and now having bound together the northwestern Indians, he would, as soon as the council broke, go to the south, for the purpose of visiting the Chickasaws, Choctaws, and Creeks.” In regard to the murders which had been committed, he stated, that “he had set the example of forgiveness, by pardoning persons who had killed his men,—that he had even surrendered his men to punishment when they had committed murders on the whites, as was stipulated for in the treaty of Greenville; but that many Indians had been murdered,—the murderers had been demanded, and as yet not a single white man had ever been given up; and therefore, he must ask the Governor to pardon those who had lately offended.” Fatigued from the exertion he had made, which was long and vehement, in the discussion of the subjects above enumerated, the mere heads of which are given, he asked an adjournment until the next day, which was granted, and he then delivered to the Governor, as he saw he was dissatisfied, a belt of wampum, as a satisfaction for the murders which had been committed. The council then adjourned over to the following day.

Having returned to their camp, the brothers again met in secret conference, but they were sad and dispirited; preparations had been made for which they were not prepared; and by which not only were their plans thwarted, but they feared the effect which such a military display was calculated to have upon their own followers. To obviate this, and to explain to them what had, as yet, been done in council, a general meeting was called. It was now late at night—the moon was full, and “riding high in Heaven,” the evening was mild, with only air enough to stir their jet black locks, or whisper in soft low accents as it passed through the neighbouring trees, when Elkswatawa rose, and began to sing an evening hymn; soon the crowd joined with him, and as he led the song, he inwove with it a narration of their sufferings, and blended with it the glorious promises of the Great Spirit. His followers were now excited to the highest degree, and ready for any enterprise however hazardous. He then called for silence and detailed the views of the Governor which had been given in council,—ridiculed them, and laughed at his calling out all his men, for the purpose of frightening them into a compliance with his wishes.

Having exhausted himself, he was seated, and Tecumseh rose, he began by attempting to destroy any impression which might have been made by the military display at Vincennes; he roused their pride, he inflamed their passions, he complimented them on their bravery and noble bearing, and looked to the future for a realization of all their hopes;—he exhorted them to peace, and sobriety, and orderly conduct, and told them that the time had not yet come.

The Indians had been led to believe by the Prophet, that their lands were to be restored to them, and their condition in other respects essentially benefitted, but how it was to be effected many did not know; some had vague and uncertain ideas of the manner, and it was as yet only the warm partizans of the brothers among the various tribes to whom their plans had been fully developed. Tecumseh's remark therefore, “that the time had not yet come,” was understood by but few of the mass of his hearers,—yet he went on to develope his plans more and more to his followers;—dwelling upon the perfidy of the whites—suggesting the probability of an attack from them, and urging the necessity of their being always prepared. He told them that the council would break up on the morrow, and that he would set out immediately on a visit to the southern Indians, to get them to join their confederacy and to tell them of the conduct of the whites. He then advised them to return to their homes, and commit no aggressions; that the whites would only make it an excuse to seize their lands and treat them amiss while he was absent; that, having returned from the south, he would visit the President, and their claims should then be attended to. The meeting was then adjourned, sentinels placed to prevent a surprise, and all was quiet in the camp.

The following day the whites again assembled in council, yet the day was far spent when the brothers, with their warriors, made their appearance. The same disposition of themselves and forces was made that had been adopted the day before, and the council was again opened. Tecumseh continued his speech;—narrated the wrongs of the Indians, and demanded retro-cession of the lands lately purchased. At its close, much fatigued, he turned to look for a chair; no seat had been provided for him, and feeling slighted, he turned with an indignant air towards the Governor, who, observing it, ordered one to be handed. It was done; with the remark, “your Father requests you to take a chair.” “My Father!” said Tecumseh, casting it proudly from him, “the sun is my father, the earth my mother; upon her bosom I will repose;” and he stretched himself upon the ground. The debate was still warmly continued, several other chiefs of the red men addressed the assembly, the day closed, and yet nothing had been done. Charges were made against the whites by the Indians, and charges were made against the Indians by the whites; each party professed to desire peace, yet neither would do that which would give satisfaction to the other.

The moon was now high, and the night wearing away, when the Governor, anxious to put an end to the conference, told Tecumseh, that he had stated that his designs were peaceable, and he could now prove it, by delivering over to punishment the Indians who had lately committed the murders in Illinois, otherwise his intentions would be viewed as at war with his declarations. Tecumseh, in answer, stated that he could not give them up; he had pardoned the whites when they had killed his men, and he must now require from them the same forgiveness.

The Governor then asked him if he intended to prevent the settlement of the new purchase. He replied, that he hoped no attempt would be made to settle it until his return from the south;—that he had formed a confederacy of all the north-western tribes, and as soon as the council broke, he should visit the southern tribes for the same purpose;—that while he was absent, many Indians from the far west tribes, would settle at his town, and that the lands of the late purchase they would wish to use as hunting grounds, and that therefore he would wish no attempt made to survey them until his return, as it might lead to some difficulty;—and farther, that he wished no revenge sought for any injury which might be committed during his absence; that his intentions were peaceable, and upon his return he would himself visit the President, and settle all their differences;—that in the mean time, as the affairs of all the north-western Indians were in his hands, and nothing could be done without him, he would send messengers to all the tribes to prevent them from doing any mischief. These remarks called for a reply on the part of the Governor; nothing was effected—the council adjourned, and the brothers with their warriors, leaving the town, retired to their camp.

The next morning early, Tecumseh, having exacted a promise from his brother, that he would make no move until his return, descended the Wabash with twenty four men, on his way to the south, while Elkswatawa, with the remainder of the band, returned quietly to Tippecanoe.

CHAPTER XX.

“There is a trampling in the wood;—
The mat, the cabin's entrance rude,
Shakes;—it was no dream of fear,—
Behold an Indian's face appear,
He stands within the cot.—”
YAMOYDEN.

We must now return to Kenah, the Prophet's messenger. Having left the wigwam of Netnokwa, dissatisfied with his visit, and vowing vengeance against its inmates, he continued his wanderings for the purpose of still farther disseminating his doctrines. Journeying among her own tribe, every day gave him proofs of the great influence she wielded, and he saw that it was vain to attempt to effect any thing, while in her own lodge she permitted the doctrines of the Prophet to be ridiculed, and his agents to be treated with derision and disrespect. Satisfied with the correctness of this opinion, and not being able by his own means to counteract the effect which the sentiments there uttered were likely to produce, he at once bent his steps towards the camp of the Prophet, determined to lay the matter before him, and to ask his interference. In doing this, besides the desire he had widely to disseminate the doctrines he was preaching, he was angered to find himself thwarted by one of that hated race, whose destruction he was plotting; and he resolved within his own mind, that if he could obtain the Prophet's consent, she should expiate her offence by death.

Having arrived in the country on the Wabash, he lost no time in searching out the Prophet, whom he found engaged as he had left him, in exciting and preparing the Indians for the part they were to act. Seeking an opportunity, he gave a detail of his wanderings, and dwelt particularly on the reception he had met with at Netnokwa's lodge, and the opposition he had encountered to the propagation of his doctrines, in the person of a pale face girl. He urged the necessity there was for removing her, together with the Indian maiden, who was entirely under her influence; and likewise, the propriety of adopting some strong measures relative to Netnokwa. He urged this the more, because he believed her at most lukewarm in her support of his doctrines, and feared that from the high place she held in the affections of the Indians, she might, if permitted to waver in her opinions, destroy at any moment, the influence which he had already obtained among them. He was angered, and his thirst for vengeance caused him to urge with great eagerness, the immediate adoption of some strong plans.

When Kenah first announced his visit to the lodge of Netnokwa, the countenance of the Prophet was darkened with anger, and he bit his lips in suppressed rage; yet Kenah finished his story, and still the Prophet, to his surprise, remained silent. Had the persons whose deaths he wished, been any other than those they were, no difficulty would have ensued; they would have been removed without a struggle, for the Prophet always thirsted for blood;—he was never known to forgive an enemy, nor ever, under any circumstances, to intercede for a victim; the narrative of Kenah had embittered his feelings in the highest degree;—he was mad with rage, and still he refused to answer Kenah's demand, requiring time to pass upon the matter. Taking this view of his character, Kenah viewed his conduct as perfectly incomprehensible. His divine mission had been ridiculed and denied, he himself decried as an impostor, and that too by a woman, and she of a hated race, and yet he required time to act.

Kenah felt that a change had come over the Prophet, and leaving him, he mentioned the circumstances, and they soon became the common talk of the camp. But while he did this, he little knew the difficulties which lay in the way of the Prophet. At the first recital of the events which Kenah had detailed, the Prophet knew that the white maiden alluded to, could be no other than the same who was captured by Yanatah, and whom he had given to Netnokwa to take with her home;—and that the red maiden who was said to be under her influence, and whose death Kenah also thought desirable, could be no other than she who was to have been the bride of Tecumseh. When he recollected that this difficulty had occurred in consequence of his having once, and once only, permitted a pale face who was in his clutches to escape from them, he felt a pang, such as is ordinarily felt, when one reverts for a moment to some deep crime which stains his past life. Under these circumstances he for some time hesitated what to do. Netnokwa was powerful, and possessed great influence, which it was necessary either to obtain or destroy. How to do this, while those who resided with her, were suffered to ridicule his doctrines, he could not tell. To accuse her of witchcraft, and order her to the stake, was now impossible, for he had lately declared, in the words of the Great Spirit, that all witches were exterminated, and he (the Great Spirit) appeased.

To connive in any way at the death of her daughter, was equally impossible, standing as she did toward Tecumseh, somewhat in relation of an affianced bride; and to order to death the captive maiden, who was under the same roof, he equally feared would call down his displeasure; for he knew the opposition he had felt to the summary method which had been practiced for removing the chiefs who were his enemies, and also his general repugnance to shedding the blood of women and children. With these views, and still undecided, he summoned Kenah, and explained to him the difficulties by which he was surrounded; and after a discussion of the plan best to be adopted, it was agreed that Netnokwa, with her daughter and the captive, should be brought at once to the camp of the Prophet, where they could be at least prevented from doing any mischief, and where they should remain until Tecumseh's return from the south, when, in general council, some disposition should be made of them. This plan appearing feasible, and having been agreed upon, they began to make preparations for carrying it into effect. Kenah was cautioned that Netnokwa was to be borne away without the knowledge of her tribe, and that neither she nor the maidens who were with her, were to receive the least injury. He deemed wisely that, once safely in his power, he could turn her influence to his own account, and at least keep her as a hostage for the good conduct of her tribe. It was but a short time after this resolve, when Kenah, having selected some half a dozen of the Prophet's most confidential followers, left the camp, and set out in the direction of Netnokwa's lodge.

The Indian affairs were now every day assuming a more warlike character, and Tecumseh and Elkswatawa, although engaged in different quarters of the country, were using all their exertions to prepare for the coming conflict. No open act of hostility had as yet been committed; but their plans were fast maturing, and Tecumseh had avowed his purpose to strike a sure and heavy blow as soon as he should return from the south, where he was now engaged in uniting in one common bond, the various tribes in that quarter. While such were the exertions of Tecumseh and Elkswatawa, General Harrison was arduously engaged in organizing and disciplining the militia under his command, and preparing for the crisis which he saw fast approaching. Accounts, containing all the information he could gather, relative to the proceedings of the Indians were regularly forwarded to the War Department, and he was in daily expectation of receiving orders requiring him to disperse the band of the Prophet, which, moving as it did always, just on the frontiers, served to keep the citizens in a state of perpetual alarm.

While such was the aspect of the Indian affairs, Rolfe and Earthquake were journeying on with Oloompa, to the lodge of Netnokwa. As yet they had been unmolested, but they saw from the excitement which was every where existing among the Indians, that hostilities were intended, and they regretted having ventured so far with so small a force. In Oloompa, however, they had seen no change since, though still reserved, and not cordial in his manner, he continued to aid them in supplying all their wants, and assured them of their safety.

The history of Gay Foreman, now presented her in a situation of great interest; for, while in one direction, Oloompa and Earthquake were moving on for the purpose of restoring her to her friends in the settlements; in another, Kenah, with his party, was hurrying on to seize her and the friends she had formed, and carry them all as prisoners to the camp of the Prophet.

At the cottage of Netnokwa, all was quiet, and nothing told of the fate which awaited its inmates. The time for Oloompa's promised return had arrived, and the maidens were excited with the pleasing anticipations of soon seeing him, accompanied as Gay fondly believed he would be, by Rolfe, of whom she had never thought but with affection.—Time had glided on smoothly since Oloompa's departure. They had had but few visitors, and were now alone. Netnokwa and the maidens were pursuing their usual avocations, either embroidering with the needle, which, with all, was a daily duty, or else making moccasins, and decorating them with beads. Buffalo skins were also often prepared, and adorned on the inner surface, with paintings or hieroglyphical devices, by means of colours obtained from the woods, which remained fresh and vivid, although exposed to the changes of the weather. When not engaged in these things, they were nursing their flowers, or roving through the woods.

So were they situated, and it was evening, when they were alone in their wigwam, that their ears were assailed with the most terrific yell. It reverberated through the woods like the ringing of a horn, and in another moment, Kenah and his party were rushing towards them. Netnokwa sprung forward and planted herself in the door. Miskwa and Gay crouched behind her. The Prophet's band, like a swollen torrent, came sweeping on. “Stop, madmen!” she cried, in a loud piercing voice, which appalled even the fiercest hearts, and hushed them into silence deep as that of the grave:—“Dost thou know Netnokwa? Darest thou fell the old oak of the forest, or handle roughly the loveliest flower of the prairie? Cowardly wretches! what want you here?” She ceased:—they were awed into silence, and, like dogs at bay, were kept at a distance, by Netnokwa's glance. But a moment passed, and Kenah again rushing forward, the frame of old Netnokwa yielded to his impetuosity, and entering the cabin, he was followed by his party. At first, were heard cries and shrieks, and several moments passed of distracting doubt. Then the voice of old Netnokwa was heard sounding loud above the storm within, and venting curses and imprecations on Kenah and his party. “Whence came ye? Who orders? How dare you touch Netnokwa? Netnokwa is now as withered grass,—her stream of life is almost dry,—her hair is whiter than the snow.—Who wants her? Say, blood hounds! why come ye?”

“The Prophet,” cried Kenah.

“May the lightning of the Great Spirit wither his heart. May his spirit never enter the happy hunting grounds of the red men,” cried Netnokwa. “He wants the last drop that flows in the veins of the old woman.”

“No,” said Kenah, “the Prophet wishes to see Netnokwa. He sends for her to his camp. He will not harm her.”

“Then why did he not send a runner. The message of the Prophet is heavy; six warriors must bear it. Why come ye all?”

“It is the Prophet's will:”—was the brief reply.

Netnokwa shook her head, for she saw too well, the fate which awaited her, and calming herself, she turned to Miskwa, who with Gay had crouched down behind her, each trembling with fear. Holding with her a hurried dialogue for a few moments, she again turned to Kenah; “What becomes of Netnokwa's daughter, the loveliest flower of the prairie?”

“The Prophet wishes to see her;” was the answer.

“And the captive maiden;—” she continued.

“Will spread her blanket in the camp of the Prophet?” replied Kenah.

Gay now wept as if her heart would break, for she regarded herself as the author of the heavy misfortune, which had come so suddenly upon them; while each moment Netnokwa and Miskwa grew more composed.

“Where is Tecumseh?” inquired Netnokwa.

“Tecumseh has no home,” said Kenah. “He wanders far and wide, and spreads his blanket when the sun goes down.”

“Netnokwa's daughter will be the bride of Tecumseh; does he know that the Prophet wants her blood?”

“The Prophet is not now dry;” was the answer. “When he drinks again, it will be the blood of the whites. Kenah has no time for talk;—when night comes, Netnokwa and the maidens must set out upon their journey. Let them prepare.”

Miskwa had now recovered her firmness of character. It was not the fear of death, which had caused her to tremble in the first instance, for there were many ways in which she would have met it, and died worthy of the race from which she sprung; but it was the indescribable dread produced by the name of the Prophet, with the knowledge that she had incurred his displeasure, and was to be ushered at once into his presence. Gay still wept, and rising, threw herself on the bosom of Miskwa, and begged her to forgive her for the calamity which she had brought upon them. She lamented not her own fate, but seemed only to deplore that of her friends. Miskwa tried to soothe and console her, and repeated to her that Kenah had said the Prophet only wished to see them at his camp. Yet, even while she said so, she felt that he would never have ordered them from so far a distance into his presence, but from some sinister motive; and she then recollected Tecumseh, and hope beamed forth, when she thought of the relation in which she stood towards him.

Netnokwa now, leaving her lodge, came out in the open air; Kenah, and his party followed, for their object was to take them off as soon as the night set in, and removing them silently, leave no trace of their departure. Should it be known that Netnokwa was threatened with danger, and was to be dragged away into the presence of the Prophet, Kenah knew that her friends would be instantly in arms, and he with his party, be made to suffer death for the steps they had already taken. This, then, was to be prevented, and stationing themselves on the outside of her cabin, they kept watch, that none of its inmates might escape, and no one approach without their knowledge. While they did this, Netnokwa, now as calm as if no danger awaited her, in deep meditation was silently walking to and fro in front of her door. Though worn with years, there was something so majestic and commanding in her manner, that not a member of Kenah's party but felt its influence. Her figure, tall and thin, was bent by age, and her hair, once of the glossiest black, was now white as the fresh fallen snow, and dishevelled, fell loosely over her shoulders. The sun was fast declining, and Kenah seeing that Netnokwa was making no preparations to commence her journey, said aloud, “When night comes, Netnokwa will set out to see the Prophet. The wise man always prepares for his journey.” Netnokwa was silent; she saw that it was worse than vain, situated as she then was, to oppose their determination, and she entered her wigwam. “Come, my children,” said she, “a few hours more, and they say we must leave. It is for the banks of the Wabash. We go to see the Prophet. Let us get ready our richest clothes. We may go over the border, and Netnokwa wishes to be fine when she meets her warriors who have gone before her, to the happy hunting grounds of the Great Spirit.”

“Oh! mother,” cried Gay, rushing into the arms of Netnokwa, “it is I who have done this. You loved me, and preserved me, and I have called down the vengeance of the Prophet upon you.—Oh! that I were dead.—Wilt thou pardon me?—I did not intend it.”

“Rise, daughter,” said Netnokwa, gently unclasping Gay's hands, “Why weeps ‘Sweet Flower?’ Is it that Netnokwa is going to her long home? Like the old oak, she has spread out her arms to shelter her tribe; but her branches are now withered. She is no longer the green bough:—why should she remain? The blasted tree only tells of the storms which have passed. Netnokwa is tired of journeying. The end of her path will make her glad.”

“But, oh! mother,” cried Gay, “I have brought ruin upon you; and what will become of Miskwa?”

“She will follow her mother, if she is a trueborn maiden,” said Netnokwa. “Why weep that the fountain bursting forth, soon finds its way to the big lake? Why lament that the flower clothed in beauty, is cut down in summer? Why grieve that her path is short, and her journey soon ended? Netnokwa has been travelling long to her happy hunting grounds. The way is bad.—Her feet are bruised and sore with travel, and her arms wear the marks of thorns and briars. The face of ‘Sweet Flower’ is like the snow, but her heart is that of a red maiden,—she shall go with us; Netnokwa will tell the Great Spirit that her heart is good, and ask him to let her stay with his red children.” Gay could make no reply, her feelings were too strong for utterance, and she continued weeping.

Fancy never sketched a lovelier being, than was Miskwa at this moment; having composed herself, she stood drawn up to her full height, apparently firm, and manifested the hitherto undeveloped energies of her character. All fear was banished, and she stood calmly listening to the words of her mother, and struggling to keep down her sympathy for her friend. When Netnokwa finished speaking, Gay turned from her, and weeping, her eyes met Miskwa's; there was an eloquent interchange of thought, and starting forward, she again threw herself on her bosom. Miskwa spoke not; but her feelings were awakened by the sufferings of her friend, and though silent, she proved how deeply she felt; for two streams, which had their source in as pure an affection as ever kindled a human bosom, flowed fast and free.

Netnokwa now reminded them of the hour which Kenah had mentioned, as the time when they must set out upon their journey. It was sooner than the maidens expected, and Gay now mentioned what before she had only thought. “Oh! Miskwa, what will become of Rolfe and Oloompa, and how sadly will they be disappointed. Oh! that they had come before this.”

“They will follow us,” said Miskwa. “Oloompa will see what has happened. He can trace our steps. He may yet save us from the Prophet.”

“Heaven grant that he may,” said Gay, and again she began to weep,—and added, “oh! Miskwa, to be taken away at the very moment I believed I was to be made happy, and to leave him when he has been so long seeking me,—oh! it is hard, hard.”

Miskwa asked her to get together such articles as they would need, and to aid her mother, in making preparations for their journey, while she would attend to another duty. Gay left her, to comply with her request, and while she did this, Miskwa taking up some clay from the floor, moistened it, and kneading it into a pliant substance, seemed suddenly to forget her situation with the feelings which had agitated her, and was engaged, heart and soul, in fashioning into small images the clay she held in her hands. A few moments passed, and six little men, or figures which she regarded as such, were made, and placed upon a shelf behind her, with their faces fronting the direction in which she thought Kenah and his party would travel. Having examined them for a while, turned them around several times, and satisfied herself that they were properly arranged, she again resumed her task. Next came from her fingers an old woman, her figure bore the marks of great age, and rude as were her features, there were evidently marks of great wretchedness in her countenance. She was placed just in front of the six men, and it was evident that they were driving her along. Soon two little girls were placed by the side of the old woman, and having satisfied herself that they all occupied their exact positions, she was again at work. The next figure she made, was a man several times as large as any she had yet formed; he was made to stand on the farther edge of the shelf, and to him, the party seemed endeavoring to make their way. A number of little cabins were then made, and placed near him, and stretching out a small piece of clay, and curving it so as to represent the meanderings of a river, this was placed near the houses, and her task was completed. The whole had been the labour of a few minutes, and no one had observed her occupation. She then, with a lighter heart than she before possessed, joined her mother, and began to assist her and Gay in making their preparations to set out. None seemed disposed to converse, and in silence they continued their duty, at the same time bidding farewell to every little nook or corner, and imagining to themselves the reception and the fate, which awaited them at the Prophet's camp. With Gay, there were other thoughts which added to her unhappiness; it was the sad issue which was to attend Rolfe's exertions in her behalf.

Darkness was now settling over the land, when Kenah entered the lodge, and told Netnokwa that he was ready to set out. He again assured her of her safety, as well as that of her daughter and the captive, provided they obeyed his orders. He required that in setting out upon their journey, they should make no noise, nor attempt to escape, at the peril of their lives; but to proceed in such a manner as to create no surprise, even should they be seen. And that this she must do, until the whole party had passed beyond the reach of her tribe. In case he was discovered, he said he was ordered by the Prophet, first to kill her daughter, and then the captive and herself. These were hard requisitions. Netnokwa made no reply, but in obedience to Kenah, they all took up their bundles, and came out of the lodge. He then closed the door, giving to the cabin an appearance that its inmates had merely left it for a time, and soon after, the captives were surrounded, and ordered to move forward. Netnokwa and Miskwa obeyed in silence, but Gay, thinking that there it was she had expected to meet Rolfe, turned round, and gazing at the cabin, burst into a flood of tears, for with that look, she gave up all hope of ever seeing him again. As she did this, Kenah rudely caught her arm, and jerking her around, held his tomahawk in her face, then whispering in her ear, said, “Kenah's tomahawk loves the pale face's blood; it is now thirsty,—when the maiden makes a noise, it shall drink.” His words caused her to shudder, as though a serpent was creeping over her, and her cries were hushed. This movement was not seen by Miskwa or Netnokwa, and Gay, as soon as she recovered a little from the shock which Kenah's words had given her, bent her steps towards them, and they all moved forward in the deepest silence.

CHAPTER XXI.

“Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling
O'er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunters still to chase, to win!”
MRS. HEMANS.

Kenah, with his captives, departed from the lodge of Netnokwa at night. Oloompa, with Rolfe and Earth, reached there late on the following day. Upon nearing the lodge, they were happy, and all spurred their horses, and moved gallantly forward. Oh! the wild delight that sparkled in the face of Rolfe! a moment more, and he would clasp to his bosom the idol of his heart! and Oloompa's heart fluttered, and joy beamed from his countenance; for as deep passions often burn within those whose complexions are the “shadowed livery of the burnished sun,” as to another class to whom nature has given clear skins, and brighter hues; and he thought of Miskwa bounding wild and free as the doe she hunted, and he heard her happy laugh, and the silvery tones of her voice fell rich on his ears. As for our old friend Earth, he never could do things as others did them; his heart had never been taught to love, yet though a stranger to the emotions which agitated the breasts of his companions, he was still happy; he was joyous, in anticipating the pleasure which awaited his friend, and, moreover, he was anxious to see her after whom he had been so long “trapesing,” as he termed it, and but a short time before he observed, “Rolfe, I feel a sort of a quirk to see your gal;”—so that, when Rolfe and Oloompa put their horses in a gallop, to reach Netnokwa's lodge, he followed on in a long trot, and while they thought of those they loved, he hummed an old song, beginning,

“'Way down in old Virginny,
Long time ago:”——

but the trotting of his horse, chopped it up into monosyllables, or I would say shorter pieces, if I knew how to characterize them, and not being much pleased with his own performance, he ceased singing, and jerking “Juno,” for so he called his horse, into a canter, he rode up by the side of Rolfe. Another moment, and they had halted in front of the cabin. Then, dismounting,—“how is this?” said Earth;—“the door closed, and nobody at home!”

Rolfe and Oloompa were both disappointed; yet the latter, after a moment, answered:—“They make a short path,—they have gone to bring a deer from the woods,—they will soon be back.”

This seemed probable enough, and they proceeded to hobble their horses, and then turned them out to graze. Having done that, they began to reconnoitre the cabin.

“How high is the sun, Earth?” inquired Rolfe.

“Something like three hours,” replied Earth, who at the moment when spoken to, was examining how the door was fastened. “Rolfe,” continued he, “this place aint locked,—it is only fastened by a wicket; suppose we go in, and see if we can't git a bite of something, for I feel rather pickish. I am sure, neither the old woman nor the gal will care, since we are just off a journey. What say you, Oloompa?”

“It is right,” he replied; “an Indian's wigwam is the stranger's home. An Indian always gives what he has.”

Earth, hearing this, pushed open the door, and entered. Rolfe and Oloompa followed. They were silent a moment, and fear and anxiety settled over their countenances. They looked at each other,—and then Earth and Rolfe gazed fixedly in the face of Oloompa. Oloompa stood firm,—he quailed not beneath their glance; but observed, “the white man doubts Oloompa;—Oloompa never speaks false. The pale face maiden rested here,—so did Netnokwa and her daughter. They are gone,—Oloompa is in the dark, and his heart is sorry:—he grieves at what he sees.”

“Oh, God!” exclaimed Rolfe, “am I again disappointed!”

“See,” said Earth, “how these things are scattered about;—they left here in a great hurry, and without any idea of returning.”

“Where have they gone?” exclaimed Rolfe.

There was no reply, for none could tell; and Rolfe turned upon Oloompa;—“Tell me where she is, villain! you have deceived,—tell me or you shall die!” He was wild with rage, and his eyes gleamed as do those of a maniac. Yet Oloompa was calm,—no piece of statuary was ever more unmoved,—and he would not deign to reply when threatened. Rolfe, exasperated, raised his arm as if to strike. The lightning's flash is not more bright nor quick, than was the change which came over Oloompa's face. There was light,—it was the gleaming of a tomahawk as it shone on high:—his left foot was advanced,—his body thrown back, rested on his right, and he stood in the act to strike. At the same time, there was heard the springing of a trigger, and Earth's rifle was brought to his face.—None spoke, and thus for a time they stood. Returning consciousness came to the mind of Rolfe,—his arm fell by his side,—Oloompa returned his tomahawk to his belt, and Earth, uncocking his rifle, rested it on the floor. “Oloompa has journeyed two moons, to serve the white man, and he seeks to kill him;—he is thirsty, and wants blood:—let him take it,—Oloompa will go to the long home of the red men,—he is weary of his path. Can the white man make rivers flow or mountains rise in the prairie? No. How can Oloompa make women be present, when they have gone away?—Oloompa tells what he knows. He left them here. He expected to find them here.”

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “you are wrong about that,—you can see, from these signs, that they have been here, and that they went away at a mighty short notice.”

“Oh! Earth,” answered Rolfe, “I am perfectly crazy,—I don't know what I say or do.” Then, turning to Oloompa, he said:—“Oloompa, I ask your pardon,—I know not what I am doing.”

“Oloompa wants no pardons,” was the reply.—“The white man has stuck in another thorn,—let it stay there. Why should Oloompa wear out his moccasins in bringing the white man to Netnokwa's lodge? Was it to harm him? Who is here to do it? The white man's heart is sorry for the pale maiden. Does not Oloompa's bleed for the red? She is gone! She steps like the fawn,—her feet leave no print upon the grass.” And leaving the wigwam, he began to examine the earth near and around the cabin, to see if any signs would tell him whither the inmates had gone, or why they had left so precipitately. Rolfe and Earth soon came out, and were engaged in the same duty.

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “this business of yours is a curious sort of thing, and there seems to be no eend to it at all. Now, it aint no use to tell me not to swear, for if I can find out who is at the bottom of this, man or woman, I don't care;—if I don't chaw 'em up, I wish I may be damned.”

“Yes, you may eat them all, Earth, for what I care,” replied Rolfe, for he was still angered, and proceeded on towards Oloompa.

“The white man thinks Oloompa speaks false; see!” said he,—a smile playing over his countenance, as he made the remark.

“See what?” said Rolfe.

“Many people have been here,” answered Oloompa, pointing to several different places upon the earth.

Rolfe looked, and looked again, but he could see nothing. “Come here, Earth, and tell me if you can see what Oloompa does.”

“What is it?” inquired Earth.

“He says,” answered Rolfe, “that many people have been here.”

“So much the worse,” said Earth, as approaching he bent down, and began to examine several slight indentations, at which Oloompa was intently gazing. Having scrutinized for a time, he observed, “Rolfe, I can't make out any thing; I see several marks, but I should jest as soon think that a 'coon had made 'em with his toe nails when he was walking it off, as any other way.”

But Oloompa regarded not their dialogue; every moment his face became brighter; and, jumping up, he began to examine other spots.—Then, for a moment walking slowly, and circling round, like a hound which has lost the track, he crossed the prints several times, satisfied himself of the direction they had taken, then following a short distance, only that no doubt might remain, he gave a whoop of joy, and ran back towards the hunters. Earth was still suspicious, and raised his rifle.

“Down with your gun, hunter;—Oloompa's heart is glad. He sees their path,—he can follow them,—he will show the white man the pale maiden, and he will see the fawn of the forest.—The white man shall say Oloompa is true to his word.”

There was an expression so joyous in his countenance, and his manner was so earnest, that hope came to the hearts of the hunters. Oloompa continuing to search, entered the wigwam, and Rolfe said, “Earth, may he not be deceiving us?”

“No, Rolfe, there is no lie in a face, when the soul beams out as it now does in his. I would trust it, if 'twas green or grizzle, much less red.”

“But then, Earth, where have they gone, and when did they leave, and who carried them away?”

“Ah, that I can't tell; let Oloompa alone,—he'll worm it out. These red skins are mighty keen upon tracks. Now you may believe me or not, but I had rather have that fellow's eyes upon a warm trail, than old Jupe's nose;—she was mighty good. Poor thing! she's gone now.”

“But then, Earth, he will have to examine so closely as he goes along, that we shall not be able to go as far in a month, as those who have taken her away, will in a day.”

“Ah! there you are out agin, Rolfe. When Oloompa satisfies himself that he is right, he will follow their tracks through the woods in a hand gallop. It is true he will have to stop sometimes, to see if they have turned off,—but that won't take him long. You see the Ingens havn't roads as we have, and are therefore compelled to travel by courses.—If he can find out where they are going, he has got 'em slick enough.”

As Earth finished the remark, Oloompa made his appearance at the door, and said with a bright face, “Come! come quick!—you shall see.”

Rolfe and Earth both ran forward, that they might behold it, whatever it were, and found Oloompa wild with pleasure, and gazing on the little images made by Miskwa, and which still occupied the positions in which she had left them.

“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, wringing his hands in disappointment, “this is too bad, I thought it was something.”

“Yes,” said Earth, “the fellow is a fool;” then gazing at them more closely, “but Rolfe, it was a right slick dirt-dauber that made 'em.”

“Can the white man see?” said Oloompa, now joyously happy.

“See?—the devil!” said Earth, “what does he want to see for. I wouldn't give a wasp's nest for all of 'em, for if the water was in good order, and I had one, I could catch a dish of big pickles;—but these here things are good for nothing upon the face of the earth.”

“It is the red man's letter,” said Oloompa.

“Nonsense,” said Earth, “I take up my hand full of mud, and throw it against the house;—does the red man read it?”

“The red man cannot read the white man's letter,” said Oloompa. “What did you give me for the maiden, when you left my mother's wigwam? a piece of paper covered with black marks; Oloompa looked at it, and said ‘nonsense;’—when he gave it to the maiden, it made her heart glad. Listen, Oloompa will read.” The attention of Rolfe and Earth was arrested by the earnestness of his manner, and gazing at the figures before him, he proceeded: “Six men have been here,—see them,” and he touched the six images with his finger.—Then continued: “They have carried away Netnokwa and the two maidens;” and he pointed to the images representing the old woman and the two girls, saying “the men drive the women;—see the men behind, and the women before;—the women look sorry, they do not wish to go. Oloompa showed their tracks on the ground.—Look at their faces, they are turned the same way.”—

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “Oloompa is right; he reads it like a book.”

“Hush! Earth; I am all anxiety to hear something farther.”

“They are going to see a great man,” continued Oloompa, and he pointed to the larger image. “It is the Prophet,—these small pieces of clay are houses,—they form a town,—it is Tippecanoe. This,” pointing to the piece of clay which curved several times, and stretching along, lay near the houses, “is the river. Does Oloompa read? can the white man now see?”

“Yes,” said Earth, “he can. Oloompa is true to his word;” then turning, “Rolfe,—Rolfe, this thing is as plain as day-light. The Prophet has taken them all prisoners, and they are now journeying towards his town.”

“Then Earth, they are to be burned!”

“Oh! God knows,” said Earth, “I wish they were out of his clutches;” then turning to Oloompa, “Can Oloompa make the figures tell when Netnokwa left her lodge?”

“They are not hard;—the time cannot be long since she left;” replied Oloompa.

“Did she leave to-day?” continued Earth.

“No,” answered Oloompa, “perhaps yesterday. If the white man is ready, Oloompa will go; he is troubled, his heart is soft;—the red maiden left her letter for Oloompa, and told him to follow.”

Rolfe felt that he had wronged Oloompa in the suspicions which he first entertained, and the deep feeling he now manifested, together with his whole conduct, served, every moment, to exalt him in his estimation. Regretting what had happened, he approached him and said, “Oloompa, you must forgive me; my heart is sorry for what I have done. The red maiden loves the pale face,—Oloompa must love the white man. We will travel the same path,—we must be friends.”

Oloompa did not reply to Rolfe's remark, but said, “Oloompa's eyes will know no sleep. The red maiden goes to the camp of the Prophet.”

“Does death await them?” said Rolfe.

“The Prophet is great,” was the reply, “the red people fear him. Will the hunters go? Oloompa is ready, he will show the path.”

Rolfe then, turning to Earth, began to consult with him. The evening was far advanced, and Earth suggested, that as they could not continue the pursuit after it was dark, that they had better rest themselves, and refresh their horses, that they might be the better able to prosecute their journey on the following day. Rolfe was now nearly paralyzed by disappointment; for with the tidings that Gay had been carried to the camp of the Prophet, went hope from his bosom, and he was merely a passive agent in the hands of Earth. “Do as you please,” said he to Earth, “I can advise nothing. Oh! it is sad, sad, that fresh hopes should have sprung up, only to be blighted.”

“Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “the thing ain't drawn to a focus yet;—it may be mighty bad, and I am afraid it will be, but now is the time to try and prevent it. It will take 'em several weeks to reach the Prophet's camp, and I shall think it right strange; indeed, it would be very curious, if, when we three are following 'em, they should all get there safe.”

Rolfe made no reply, but seated himself in a corner of the hut, while Earth sought Oloompa, to discuss with him the plan best to be adopted. He was impatient to commence the pursuit, but, for the purpose of refreshing the horses, and with a belief that in doing so they would actually gain time, he came into Earth's measures. It was then settled that they should rest where they were for the night, and set out with the first light of day.

“I will now go and attend to the horses;” said Earth; “Oloompa, you open the old woman's traps, and see if you can't git a bite of something for supper.” There was no reply, and Earth went out, leaving Rolfe and Oloompa lounging in and about the cabin. They had no disposition to converse, and wandered about for a time, thinking of the past, the present, and the future. It was nearly night, when Earth, having finished his task, returned to the lodge; upon entering, he found Rolfe lying on some skins which he had spread out, and absorbed in the deepest thought; while Oloompa, having drawn up a small bench near to the images, was in silence gazing on them, and reading them over and over again. Earth was touched by the attitudes assumed by each, for both indicated great feeling, with a perfect disregard of worldly matters. There were no preparations for supper, and not even a fire had been kindled. Seeing this, he observed familiarly, “Come boys, come, stir about;” then, turning to Oloompa, “Can Oloompa now read more than he has told us?”

“They have carried her to the camp of the Prophet;” answered Oloompa. His voice faltered a little as he said so, and he turned away.

Earth said no more to them, but proceeded to kindle a fire, and looking up the chimney, discovered that it had been converted into a smoke house, and was well supplied with bear meat and venison. This, to him, was a matter of no surprise; it being a common custom with the Indians, and also with the whites who reside along the frontiers. Taking down the piece which most pleased his fancy, his rude supper was soon prepared, and discussed with a gusto only known to those whose appetites are sharpened by a healthy exercise. Rolfe and Oloompa seemed not inclined to eat, and Earth, actuated by one of the many idiosyncrasies which ever characterized him, viewed it as a compulsory act on their part, requiring him to eat their shares. So one would judge from his observations—“Come, boys, I am mighty tired, I wish you would help me through with it.” Then, continuing his laborious duty for a few moments more—“Well, I do believe you all mean to kill me.” Nobody replied, he continued—“There is no back out about me; I wish old Jupe was alive—she wouldn't see me suffer in this sort of way;”—still eating,—“I have begun it now, and I will go through with it, if it puts a joint out of place.”

“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, “how can you be talking so at such a time;—come, go to sleep and be quiet.”

“Hush, Rolfe; you had better come and take a bite yourself; it will do you more good than grieving a month. Now you won't feel half as well as I will in the morning.” There was no reply, all conversation ceased, and a few hours after Rolfe and Oloompa were hushed in sleep or in troubled dreams, and that Earth slept, there could be no doubt, from a certain peculiar noise that was heard soon after he retired to rest. With the first light of morning the hunters mounted, and Oloompa, striking off into the direction indicated by the images, and likewise by the foot-prints which he had discovered the evening before, led the way. Having taken his course, he proceeded as nearly as practicable in a straight line, holding no intercourse with the hunters, and examining the ground closely as he moved along. Rolfe and Earth followed on, and trusted implicitly to his guidance.

It was now near the middle of the day, and nothing had occurred to the hunters to prove whether they were on the right track or not; they had seen no sign or mark, which indicated that the party had moved forward in that direction, but were still journeying, as they had been for hours, through a wild and pathless forest, when Oloompa stopped and waited their coming up. He had reached a small stream which it was necessary to cross, in order to continue on in the direction in which he had set out; and which the party he was pursuing must have crossed, unless he himself had been grossly deceived. When the hunters came up he stated this, and upon consultation, they deemed it wisest to dismount and let their horses graze, while they endeavoured to satisfy themselves whether they had crossed or not. Oloompa told them his belief that they had crossed, and most probably within a mile of where they then were. He also cheered the hunters, by telling them that he had seen distinct traces of their having moved on in the direction in which they had come; and taking one end of the stream, he requested the hunters to go down the other, and by examining the bank see if they could find their foot-prints. The banks being soft and muddy, the indentations of their feet would be deep and easily discovered. If no trace could be found in going a mile, they were to return. Parting, they commenced their journey;—Sometime elapsed, and Rolfe and Earth were returning to their horses unsuccessful, when they heard the voice of Oloompa calling to them. Proceeding to him, he joyously pointed out what he had been searching for. The tracks were plain and deep; those of the women clearly marked, and easily distinguished from those of the men;—and with this, came cheerfulness to the whole party; Oloompa felt more confident, and Rolfe and Earth, seeing the great ingenuity exercised by him, began to believe that they would overtake them. Returning for their horses, they came back to where the party had crossed, and animated with hope, continued the pursuit. Oloompa, now, satisfied that he was on their trail, moved forward with more confidence, as did likewise the hunters, and several times would he stop and point out signs which indicated their path.

It was late in the evening, when, still journeying along, Oloompa pointed out at a short distance before them, a thin smoke rising up from the remains of a declining fire. Thither they hurried, and there the party they were pursuing had encamped, and they could not have left it many hours before. Hope now increased, and Oloompa began to search out their path, setting out in the direction in which they had been journeying, and which he knew was the most direct route to the Prophet's camp. He closely examined the woods, yet no displaced leaves, no broken twig, no slight and but half formed foot-print, told that human beings had gone in that direction, and unsuccessful, he returned to the fire where the hunters still remained. His want of success, for a moment dampened their spirits, but that they had been there, no one could doubt, and with proper exertions, it was equally plain that their path could be traced;—for no attempt had been made by them to conceal their flight, for the reason that, having left secretly, they expected not to be pursued. But darkness was now gathering fast over the land, and by it all farther search prevented. So, unsaddling their horses, they obtained for them such provender as the place afforded, and kindling up the fire, prepared to pass the night. They were now southeast of Rainy Lake, and near the Great Portage which connects Lake of the Woods with Lake Superior. This Portage is merely a series of Lakes, some of them separated by narrow strips of land, but generally with small outlets leading from one to the other, and forming throughout the whole, a general chain of communication. Oloompa having failed to trace them in the direction in which he had expected, suggested to the hunters the probability of their having gone to the Great Portage, taken a canoe and crossed Lake Superior, where the Portage enters into it. He stated that this was practicable, and a feat often accomplished by the Indians, for that it was the narrowest part of the lake, and moreover, that there were two islands, which answered as good resting places, and which also subdivided the distance. This was another difficulty in the way of the hunters; if the party had gone to the lakes, they would perhaps lose all trace of them and have to give over the pursuit. Yet, to prevent it they could do nothing; they had already accomplished all that human nature was capable of, and though anticipating disappointment, they slept soundly from a consciousness that he had used every possible exertion. With morning, they again resumed the search; Oloompa found the direction in which they had departed, and told them they had gone to the Great Portage. He himself was now dejected, for he feared that they had already descended the Portage, and reached the lake; and changing his course, he conducted the hunters to where the Portage flows into the lake, intending, if they had not descended, to wait and intercept them.

It was the middle of the day, when Oloompa and the hunters reached the lake. Its broad surface, disturbed by a fresh breeze, lay glancing in the sun. The wind fanned their feverish and excited frames, and they stood alone on the shore, and looked abroad in silence on the vast surface before them, and the jutting promontories, and half concealed rocks against and over which the waves were dashing and fretting; and then the bold and high shore, which, robed in grandeur, overlooked the vast prospect before them. For a moment they stood in silence,—the scene occupied all their thoughts; then they began to search the shore and gaze upon the wide waste, to see if any freighted canoe was dancing over its waters. There was none,—not a sail, not a wide-spread blanket, greeted the eye;—no, not a sound broke upon the ears, but the hoarse dashing of the waves, as they washed up against the shore. And thus they stood,—and this was the end of their hazardous journey and exciting pursuit. None seemed disposed to speak, for there was only one hope remaining, and that was that they might not have descended the Portage,—to the mouth of which the distance was now nearly half a mile; and thither they proceeded. They had continued on but a short distance further, when darting out of the Portage into the lake, moved a canoe, with the speed of an arrow,—a blanket, spread out on either side, served for sails,—the wind was blowing fresh from the shore; not a paddle was seen, save one, which managed by a warrior at the stern, served the purpose of a rudder. It was filled with people. Rolfe and Earth turned to Oloompa, for the first glance had awakened their fears, and though the distance was so great they could see nothing distinctly, yet they felt as if she whom they sought was leaving them for ever. In Oloompa's countenance, they saw that their fears were too true,—his deep silence,—the fixed gaze with which he watched the canoe, and the dark shadows which passed over his face, spoke more plainly than words. After watching it for several minutes, he said:—“She is gone!—the fawn will be carried to the Prophet's camp, and Oloompa cannot help it.”

“Oloompa, can we do nothing?” said Rolfe.

“Nothing,” was the reply; and he again repeated, “She is gone!”

Their situation then again became a matter of consultation. To follow them with any hope of success was now impossible. In open warfare, they could render no service, and would most probably loose their lives. They had hitherto continued the pursuit, with a hope of finding them where they rested, when, not expecting an attack, they would be easily beaten, and the prisoners rescued. But now, should Kenah and his party discover that they were pursued, which they would be very apt to do, should the hunters cross the lake, they would unhesitatingly kill their prisoners sooner than deliver them up. These reasons induced them unwillingly to adopt another plan, which was for a time to give over the pursuit, and leaving the lake, proceed on land, by the nearest route, to the Prophet's camp, and if Kenah and his party had not reached there, which they could easily find out by means of Oloompa, to lie in watch at a distance from it, intercept them if possible, and attempt a rescue. In the event that they had reached it, then to get Gay out by stratagem, if they could; if not, to demand her of the Prophet, and threaten him with a hostile invasion from the whites, in case he refused. This plan was sanctioned by Oloompa, who was as eager in his endeavours to prevent Miskwa from being carried into his camp, as were Rolfe and Earth in their wishes to prevent Gay.

This resolution was no sooner adopted than turning back, they began to skirt the lake to its most southern point, from which they intended to strike off for the Prophet's camp. The route pursued by Kenah and his party, is one very often followed by the Indians, going from the lands on the Wabash, to the country north of the great lakes, or rather by those visiting the Wabash, from the north-western regions; and though the passage is sometimes attended with great danger, on account of their crossing in light canoes, still they often venture. The islands in Lake Superior, where the great Portage enters, afford them resting places, and so much divide the distance as to render crossing no very difficult feat; thence coasting along the southern shore, they descend through St. Mary's River, into Lake Huron, and coast it,—or, entering Lake Michigan, through the straits of Michilimackinack, descend through the lake, into the limits of Indiana, and at no great distance from the head waters of the Wabash. This was the route by which Kenah had proceeded to the country in which Netnokwa lived, and by which he was now returning. Leaving him to prosecute his journey, and the hunters, with a perfect knowledge of the route he had taken, which they had learned from Oloompa, endeavouring to intercept him, we return to the camp of the Prophet.

CHAPTER XXII.

“With cautious steps the thicket threading,
And startling oft, as through the glade
The gust its hollow moanings made,
The maid pursued her silent guide.”
BYRON.

It will be recollected, that we left Tecumseh descending the Wabash, on his way to the south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous to his departure, that his object in going, was, not to prepare for war, but, in imitation of the whites, to form a bond of union among all the Indian tribes, solely for their own protection and self-preservation. He had given Elkswatawa the most positive injunctions not to commence hostilities during his absence; he had urged him to restrain those who were immediately under his command, until his return, when the signal should be given, and together they would strike a sure and heavy blow in some quarter where least expected. But scarcely had Tecumseh left, before appearances at the Prophet's camp, began to wear a more warlike aspect. The number assembled generally consisted of some five or six hundred warriors, who, by the continual practising of mysterious rites, on the part of the Prophet, were excited to such a degree, that, notwithstanding the most positive orders to the contrary, aggressions were daily committed by them on the whites. From his camp, they made their incursions into the settlements, and to it they returned for protection. It served as a rallying point for all the Indians who committed depredations on the citizens of the United States; and when demanded, under one of the articles of a former treaty, the Prophet now, in every instance, refused to deliver them up. In consequence of this, the citizens along the frontiers became still more clamourous for energetic and offensive measures. A correspondence was opened between General Harrison and the Hon. Wm. Eustis, the then Secretary of War, in which all the information relative to the conduct of the Indians, was regularly forwarded. This produced, as was expected, an order from the War Department, requiring General Harrison to disperse the Prophet's band, and commence offensive operations, if they should be deemed necessary, but at the same time, if possible, to preserve peace.

In accordance with this order, a deputation was sent to Elkswatawa, requiring that the Indians assembled at his town should at once disperse, and that reparation should be made for the injuries which they had already committed, or that warlike operations would be forthwith commenced. This, together with a knowledge that large bodies of troops were then assembling at Vincennes, induced the Prophet to send messengers in return, who were fully authorized to make such promises and professions of peace, in compliance with the terms required, as would be entirely satisfactory. By this means, that is, by making promises and delaying the fulfilment of them, Elkswatawa hoped he should be enabled to accomplish his design of awaiting the return of Tecumseh; inasmuch as it could not be expected that the terms required were to be performed at once. The Prophet himself wished for battle, and so did his immediate followers; yet he saw how unwise such a course would be at this time, while his brother was absent, and likewise, while the warriors of the vast confederacy which had already been formed were entirely ignorant of his design. To send messengers among them, and call them in, would be at once to throw off the mask and prepare for open warfare. This he could not do consistently with the pledge given Tecumseh, and he therefore resolved to use every possible exertion to preserve peace.

The messengers of the Prophet, whom we mentioned above as having been deputed by him, visited Vincennes late in September, 1811, and so successful were they, that they, in some measure, lulled the suspicions of the whites, and left the town under an impression that all would remain satisfied, and peace be preserved, at least for a time. But the continual assembling of warriors from a distance at Tippecanoe, and the daily necessity which the Prophet found for preaching his doctrines, and practising his rites, kept his followers, who always remained with him, in such a feverish state of excitement, that in sorrow he looked upon the vast machinery he had set in motion, and his heart was troubled when he saw that it was about to be deranged, before its accumulating and still increasing power could be brought to bear upon his great design; for scarcely a week elapsed after the return of his messengers, before aggressions were again committed by some of his band, and General Harrison determined at once on commencing offensive operations.

Early in October of this year, we find him encamped on the banks of the Wabash, about sixty-five miles above Vincennes, with a chosen body of troops, anxious to be led on against the Indians. Here he built a fort, which at the request of the officers, was called Fort Harrison, reconnoitred the adjacent country, and waited several days, with a hope of receiving a deputation from the Prophet, which might be able to explain away and satisfactorily adjust the differences which had lately arisen, in consequence of the violation of previous promises. Elkswatawa was aware of his approach, and with a hope of preserving peace, sent messengers, as he afterward stated, promising to comply with any demand which the Governor might make. The messengers, however, never arrived, and in consequence of it, the American army continued its march; and Elkswatawa learning this, began with great diligence to fortify his town, and place it in the best possible state of defence, in order to protect himself against the attack of the whites, in case it should become impossible longer to preserve peace.

It was in November, 1811, and on the sixth of the month, that the army under General Harrison lay within a mile and a half of Tippecanoe. It had been regularly advancing until the present time, and yet the Indians had shown no disposition to treat for peace; and a halt was now called, for the purpose of allowing them farther time to do so. The consequence of the near proximity of the whites, called forth messengers on the part of the Prophet, who demanded in his name, why it was that the Americans were marching upon his town. They stated that the Prophet was anxious to avoid hostilities,—that he was ready to comply with the demands of the Governor, and had with that view sent messengers to him several days before, who must, unfortunately, have gone down the opposite side of the river from that on which the general was advancing, or he would have seen them. In answer to this, the grounds of complaint were again stated by General Harrison, who also added, that the messengers, although expected, had never arrived. Some further conversation took place,—the Indians were apparently sincere in their professions, and a suspension of hostilities was agreed upon until the following day; when the Prophet, with the chiefs who were with him, was to meet General Harrison and his staff, and the terms of peace were then to be agreed upon between them.

The most eligible spot that could be selected for passing the night, was now chosen by the American army, and this consisted of “a dry piece of ground, which rose about ten feet above the level of a marshy prairie in front towards the town, and about twice as high above a similar prairie in the rear, through which, near the bank, ran a small stream, clothed with willows and brush-wood.” Late in the evening, the army marched to the ground selected, and encamped for the night. The different companies were then disposed in order of battle, and in case of a night attack, which no one feared, they were ordered to occupy the ground upon which they were then placed; and in conformity with a general order, both officers and soldiers were required to rest in their clothes, with their arms by their sides. Sentries were then placed so as to guard every possible approach of the enemy, and the duties of the evening having been performed, groups of officers and soldiers might be seen standing around the camp fires, expressing their dissatisfaction that a peace which they thought would soon be broken, was about to be concluded, and they forced to return home, without having had a battle. This was mortifying to many, who had joined the army for the sake alone of gaining glory, and many also, were discontented because they were exasperated against the Indians on account of their many acts of petty aggression.

Such was the state of feeling, and the order of things in the American army, which now numbered more than eight hundred men, while that of the Prophet amounted to some five or six hundred. On the one side was a body of disciplined troops, well armed and equipped for battle; on the other, a band of savages, armed, some with guns and rifles, the remainder with bows, tomahawks and war-clubs. It was at this time, and on the morning of the day that the American army arrived, when Kenah, who had now been absent nearly two months, entered alone into Tippecanoe. The Indians were so much excited, that his entrance was not observed by them, and he proceeded at once into the presence of Elkswatawa.

“Ha! Kenah,” said he, “thou art welcome.—Where rests the old woman?”

“Without the walls of the town,” answered Kenah; “she is guarded; the two maidens rest with her. Kenah seeks the Prophet, to know his will.”

“Bring them into the camp,” replied the Prophet; “place them within a cabin, and see that it be watched; and mark me, Kenah, it is the Prophet who speaks,—let not the old woman nor the pale face maiden venture out. The fresh air must not breathe upon their faces. Netnokwa is great, and might lead astray the red men. The pale face maiden would be torn limb from limb. Netnokwa's daughter is to be my brother's bride:—she is free, yet leaves not our camp. Does Kenah hear?” Kenah bowed assent, and Elkswatawa continued:—“Say to the old woman, when within her lodge, ‘the Prophet gives her welcome to his camp;’—it will make her heart glad. And now, Kenah, put your finger upon your lips. Let your arrival be dark;—the Prophet wishes no talk about a woman. The pale faces are crawling upon the lands of the red men, and the Prophet's heart is troubled. When they are gone, the Prophet will see to his prisoners. He says Kenah is true to his trust. He has spoken.——Yet stay, Kenah,—say to him who guards Netnokwa's cabin, ‘death follows his steps, if he disobeys.’ Away.”

Kenah bowed, and without replying, retired from his presence, to obey his orders. Selecting a cabin for his prisoners, which, though at some distance from the rest, was so situated as to render escape on their part almost impossible, he returned to his party. Then causing Netnokwa and the maidens to wrap themselves up so as to conceal their faces, he led the way, and making them follow, soon safely lodged them in the cabin designated.—The warriors were generally engaged in another quarter, and the arrival of Netnokwa and her party was consequently unnoticed. Kenah then, selecting one of his band, ordered him to stand guard,—detailing to him, at the same time, the Prophet's injunctions, with the penalty threatened in case of disobedience. He then entered the cabin and approaching Netnokwa, said:—“The Prophet bids Kenah tell the old woman, ‘she is welcome to his camp.’”

“The Prophet bids the old woman welcome to his camp?” replied Netnokwa:—“When the panther springs upon the doe, he says ‘welcome;’ if the doe has two fawns, he says ‘welcome’ three times.” Kenah replied not to her remark, but continued; “it is the Prophet's will that Netnokwa and the pale face maiden remain within this lodge:—they go not out, or the ground, like a thirsty dog, will drink their blood. Netnokwa's daughter is free to range our camp,1 but ventures no farther, at the peril of her life. So says the Prophet.”

1 See note D.

“Netnokwa's daughter will remain within your lodge,” replied Miskwa. “To be with her mother is freedom enough for her.”

Kenah made no answer, but leaving the warrior on duty, he and the remainder of his band were soon mingling with the crowd.

Kenah and his party, whom we have seen safely lodged in the camp of the Prophet, arrived by the route before marked out as the one most likely to be selected by them. Oloompa and the hunters, leaving, as was stated, the south-western extremity of Lake Superior, were using all exertions to reach the point where Kenah and his party had disembarked, under a belief that thither they were bound, and with a hope of getting there in time to intercept them before their arrival. Yet, although the distance to be travelled by them, was much less than that which was to be accomplished by Kenah, they arrived too late. They reached there only in time to learn from an Indian they chanced to meet, that a party, described to be such as the one they were pursuing, had on the morning of the previous day, left the lake for the Prophet's camp.

“Now,” said Earth, “this is what I call close work,—we have no time for talk. Oloompa, find the trail and let us be off.”

“The best trail now,” answered Oloompa, “is the shortest path; Oloompa knows the direction,” and saying so, he pointed with his finger.

“Go on then,” said Rolfe, and again they hurried away in pursuit.

Kenah entered Tippecanoe in the morning;—it was evening, and on the same day, when Oloompa pointed out to the hunters the situation of the town. All gazed at it in silence, when Earth said, “well, Rolfe, here this thing winds up. It must be brought to a focus now, and I am glad of it, for I am tired chasing people that I can't see.”

“Are you sure, Earth, that she is in the camp?” inquired Rolfe.

“Ask Oloompa,” said Earth.

Oloompa smiled at Rolfe's incredulity, and observed, “when Oloompa, for a whole moon, follows the wrong path, the bear, when the hunter strikes, will cease to struggle for its life.”

“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “now tell us what is best to be done?”

“No,” said Earth, “we will all talk it over.—Come, Oloompa, the hunter acknowledges the red man is wiser than the white. Oloompa is young, but he has the wisdom of gray hairs: his advice is good.”

Oloompa was evidently pleased with the compliment, but there was a slight curl of his lip, as if in scorn, when he turned to confer with the hunters. The subject having been discussed, with all the plans suggested by each, it was agreed, that the whole party should lay concealed in the forest, until night sat in; that then, approaching nearer to the town, the hunters should conceal themselves, while Oloompa entered it, to search for Netnokwa and her party. Should the captive maiden be there, and an opportunity offer of rescuing her by stratagem, Oloompa was to effect it, and deliver her over to the hunters. In any event, he promised to return, and give them such information as he might be able to obtain; and while for them he promised to do this, his thoughts were chiefly engrossed by Miskwa, and he was revolving over and over in his own mind, what plan he should adopt in reference to her:—“If, with the white, Oloompa brings the red maiden, will the hunters harm her?” said he.

“No,” said Earth, “although she is a red skin, by heaven, I swear to protect and defend her as I would my sister, were she living.”

Rolfe readily promised the same, and eagerly cried, “Oh! bring her, Oloompa! bring both! and go with me; I will give thee a wigwam and lands, which shall be thy own, and thy days shall pass in peace and quiet.”

“No,” answered Oloompa; “I have said the red men and white can never dwell together. There must ever be a wall between them. Yet Oloompa is satisfied—the hunters will protect the red maiden?”

“They will,” was the answer.

“Oloompa will visit the camp of the Prophet,” said Rolfe, “and hear him preach; he may find the red maiden safe, and forget the white. The hunters wait for him; will he return?”

“Oloompa's promise is not a reed to be bent or broken,” was the answer. “If Oloompa lives, the hunters shall see him. If the maiden can be brought without the camp, she comes with Oloompa.”

It was now getting dark, and the party concealing their horses, began to approach the town. The hunters then selected a spot, where they promised to remain, and Oloompa moved on. Upon going off, he said:—“The hunters will not doubt Oloompa, for though it be deep in the night, he will return.”

“We doubt thee not,” said Rolfe, “return as soon as may be, and our blessings attend thee.”

Night had now advanced an hour or two, when a single warrior, armed as if in readiness for battle, was seen to emerge from the forest, and bend his steps towards the Indian camp. He approached with the bold bearing of a welcome guest, and was nearing it, when the sound of the American drum in the distance, fell harsh upon his ears. He stopped, the sound stirred him to the inmost soul, and as each successive note fell harsher still, his countenance changed until it writhed in agony. The truth burst upon him, and hurriedly he entered the town. No one stood sentinel, nor at first, did even a warrior meet his eye; the cabins were untenanted, the doors swung open, and to all appearance the town was deserted. But as madly he hurried on, the distant hum of suppressed voices was heard, and then in the moonlight was seen the bright gleam of arms, and soon after a dark mass of bodies closely gathered, showed that all the Indians were assembled in council.

When Oloompa discovered this, he stopped, and for a moment hesitated, not knowing the part which it was proper he should play. In the distance lay the camp of the whites, plainly visible from the fires which marked its situation. In it, he saw the enemies of his race, those whom he hated, and against whom he had sworn vengeance, to be extinguished but with his life. Gazing in another direction, yet near at hand, he saw the large gathered crowd of his own countrymen, attempting, no doubt, to organize some plan for destroying those who had dared to invade their lands; and securing to themselves vengeance for the wrongs they had suffered, as well as for those they were daily suffering. Seeing these things, his soul glowed with fiercest hate against the whites, and he felt that in his exertions to serve the hunters who belonged to that grasping race, he had, perhaps, wronged his countrymen; and he now regretted the promise he had made them. Then, as the storm of passion subsided, he thought of Miskwa; and when with that, came the belief that she had been brought a prisoner within the very walls of the town in which he now was, and that she was destined probably to become a victim to the Prophet's policy, or rather his cruelty, he was recalled to a sense of his situation. He recollected all he had accomplished;—he recurred to the deep confidence the hunters had placed in him, and he determined to attend the council, see what steps the Indians were about to adopt, and when it had adjourned, continue his search for Netnokwa and her party, and then, to act as, upon further consideration, he should deem advisable.

This resolution was no sooner formed, than he bent his steps towards the excited crowd, and mingling with them, became one of the council. He first looked round to see if he could discover the dreaded Prophet, but he saw no one whom he could identify as such. He heard nothing but bitter curses and denunciations against the whites; rage and fury filled the breasts of all, and they were crying out to be led on to battle. His own passions were kindled by the hoarse breathings of vengeance around him, and never was there a more excited multitude. They counted not numbers, they questioned not success; they were burning with vengeance, and only anxious to quench it at once in the blood of the whites.

Elkswatawa had now a difficult part to play. He had raised a storm which he could not control; he had excited his followers until they were lost to reason, and now, like raging beasts, were chafing against their bounds in order to get loose. This was what he apprehended, when he urged Tecumseh to take some decisive step before his departure for the south. He, himself, was burning with rage; his soul writhed with agony when he saw the fires of his enemies under the walls of his town, and not one of the crowd was more anxious for immediate battle than himself. But then there were many reasons why peace, if attainable at any sacrifice, should still be preserved. He had promised Tecumseh, who absent, was now labouring for the common cause, that no act on the part of the whites, should force the Indians to hostilities. His town, though strongly fortified, contained only his own immediate followers, and they were far less numerous than the army before them. The warriors of the confederacy he had formed, were entirely ignorant of his situation, and to hazard a battle now, was not to avail himself of the power he really possessed; but it was to place his success upon a single chance, where the odds were greatly against him. Aware of all this, he had sent messengers, with professions of peace, to General Harrison while on his march; and still, with the hope of obtaining it, had, on the arrival of the American army, renewed his professions, and expressed a willingness to meet the whites in council on the following day, when he would accede to all their demands. This, for the reasons before stated, was now his determination, and nerving himself for the crisis, he resolved to oppose the calls which his followers were clamorously making to be led on against the whites.

Rising in council, Elkswatawa urged to them the reasons why peace should be preserved. He reminded them of his promise to Tecumseh; he told them of the impropriety of striking without the aid of their brothers of other tribes; he called their attention to the fact, that the American army was greatly superior to them in numbers, and dwelt upon the evil consequences which would result from their being beaten. He unfolded to them his plans; he showed them the necessity there was, that success beyond a doubt, should crown their first effort,—again urged them to peace,—then, awaited their response.

The power of the Prophet was gone; and his arguments for procrastination were only answered with cries for vengeance and immediate battle. In Elkswatawa, they still had implicit confidence as a Prophet. He had predicted, and proclaimed to them, time after time, that success would attend them in all their exertions. He had told them that the Great Spirit would turn the balls of the whites aside, and render them harmless; and that he would give light to the Indians, while their enemies should be involved in darkness. They reminded him of this, told him that the whites were now under the walls of his town, and that the Great Spirit would, as he had promised, deliver them over into the hands of the Indians.

When Elkswatawa heard these things, he determined to refuse no longer, but to yield his consent. Without it, he saw that his character was lost, even with his own followers; and it was better to hazard a battle, and run the chance for success, than quietly to surrender without a struggle. Having come to this determination, after several attempts, he obtained silence. He then requested that a communication which he was about to make to them, should be received in silence, lest from their noise, they should indicate their intentions to the whites. All was hushed, and the Prophet then informed them that they should be led to battle, at the same time stating that the reason why he had refused at first, was that he was anxious that the red men from distant tribes should be present, to share the victory, and to see the predictions of the Prophet fulfilled. At this annunciation, there were bursts of joy, and a few half suppressed war whoops were heard, notwithstanding the positive orders which had been given to the contrary. Elkswatawa then called some of the most influential of his followers close around him, and together, they discussed the mode of attack best to be adopted. Among them, it was finally agreed, that they should meet the whites in council on the next day, lull their suspicions by acceding to all their demands, and then, at an unexpected moment, assassinate the General and commence the attack. Having resolved upon this plan, the Prophet told it to the assembled crowd, and asked if there were any persons present who would volunteer to devote themselves to death, in effecting the assassination of the general. Two warriors were heard to cry out in the affirmative, and being called, they approached and stood before the Prophet. Upon inquiry, they were both found to be members of the tribe of Pottowatamies; and upon their again renewing the wish, that the duty required should be assigned to them, they received the blessing of the Prophet, and leaving him, were soon lost in the crowd. The council was then adjourned, and the warriors ordered to disperse, in order to prepare themselves for the coming day. But it was soon manifest that they were dissatisfied; for as they hurried away, they would gather in groups, and discuss over, and over again, the plan which had been adopted. Their wishes were for a night attack; the predictions of the Prophet had induced them to regard the American camp as already their own, and they were anxious at once to be unloosed, that they might revel in the carnage of the whites.

While the council lasted, Oloompa's bosom was agitated by more contending emotions than I can describe, and when it was over he left the crowd, resolving to take part in the struggle on the coming day, and for the present to search the town, that he might learn the fate of Netnokwa and the maidens. That they had preceded him, and were now within the same walls with himself, he felt confident, and he at once began the task. He made no inquiries, fearing that were he to do so, he might excite suspicion; but wandering from cabin to cabin in a careless and indifferent manner, he examined each. The Indians, excited, were moving to and fro with hurried steps in every direction, and on this account the conduct of Oloompa, which at another time might have appeared singular, was entirely unnoticed by them.

He had now continued his search nearly throughout the town, and the disappointment consequent upon his not finding Netnokwa and her party, as he had expected, was causing him to forget the more exciting circumstances of his situation, when, as chance directed, he bent his steps toward the part of the town at which she had entered, and was proceeding to examine a single cabin which stood apart from the rest, when he was hailed by the warrior whom Kenah had left on duty. Not thinking for a moment, that Oloompa could have any definite object in wandering idly about, as he seemed to be, he called to him, to come and give a detail of the proceedings which had been adopted in council. Oloompa approached, and expressing some surprise that a warrior should have been absent from so important a meeting, learned the welcome intelligence, that his absence was owing to his having been ordered by the Prophet to stand guard over some women, who had been brought prisoners to his camp. At these tidings Oloompa's feelings fluttered with delight, for those he sought were in the cabin before him: there was the pale face maiden, in serving whom he had already encountered so many hardships, and there was Miskwa, whom he now loved more dearly than his life. These things deeply moved him, yet he was apparently calm, and began to narrate minutely to the sentinel that which had happened in council. It was all new to him, and he seemed well pleased and much excited at the struggle which was to take place on the morrow. Oloompa then elicited from him a history of his journey, together with a description of his captives, the orders of the Prophet in relation to them, and his views of the probable fate which awaited them. He learned that Kenah and his party had reached the camp without being aware that they were pursued, and had arrived by the route along which he had traced them. He also ascertained, that the red maiden was free to leave the lodge if she pleased, while her mother and the white maiden were to be strictly confined. From this circumstance he concluded, that the two latter were to be adjudged to death, and with this he recollected, that were it known that a pale face girl was in the camp, excited as the warriors now were, no exertions, however great, would be sufficient to preserve her life. Circumstances showed that there was no time to be lost, and he determined at once to act.

In the cabin now, all was quiet. A small fire was glimmering on the hearth, just enough to show that around it were grouped Netnokwa and the two maidens. They sate in deep silence, brooding over their respective situations, and despair was stamped upon the brow of each; the bosom of Gay would sometimes heave with convulsive throbs, and a slight shudder, as if she was cold, would pass over her frame. Oloompa, still continuing to converse with the sentinel, carelessly withdrew his tomahawk from his belt, and filling the bowl of it with tobacco, entered the cabin as though it were a mere matter of course, apparently for the purpose of lighting his pipe. As he entered, there was a slight stir among the females, and when they discovered that his object seemed merely to get some fire, they moved that he might approach. The light was not sufficient at first to show his features, and advancing, he made a signal for silence; then taking Miskwa's hand pressed it affectionately, and whispered in her ear the word, Oloompa;—as though she had received an electric shock, was her whole frame agitated, and then, like the sudden bursting out of the sun, when the heavens have been obscured by a dark cloud, was the change in Miskwa's countenance from despair to pleasure;—her whole face sparkled with beauty, and she returned Oloompa's recognition, yet was silent. He then proceeded to stir the fire, and while he did this, Miskwa whispered to Gay, who instantly started up and gazing wildly about her, was by Oloompa hushed into silence. With agony traced in every lineament of her face, she gazed on him, and with difficulty articulating, she uttered in a suppressed voice the words, “Where is he?”—

“Without the camp, and waiting for you,” replied Oloompa, at the same time pressing his finger to his lips, and pointing to where the sentinel stood. Gay could restrain her feelings no longer, but uttered a cry of delight; it arrested the attention of the guard, who, believing that Oloompa was frightening the maiden, called to him to come away, and let her alone; that her time would come soon enough. Oloompa whispered to Miskwa to leave the lodge and walk about in the camp. At the sound of his words, Netnokwa waked into life. He then lit his pipe, and fearing lest he should excite suspicion, was soon carelessly conversing again with the guard. The coming struggle was an exciting subject, and in it all other thoughts were apparently merged. The warrior now on duty would be relieved about midnight, and he was anxiously awaiting the time when, released from guarding women, he should begin to prepare to fight against men.

Nearly an hour had elapsed since Oloompa left the cabin, when Miskwa presented herself at the door, saying, “the daughter of Netnokwa will venture abroad in the camp; it is the Prophet's will that she should do so when she pleases.”

“She can do so,” replied the guard; “but death follows her steps if she goes without it.”

Miskwa made no answer, but leaving the cabin, went, apparently, towards the most crowded part of the town.

“Dost not our brother fear?” said Oloompa, addressing the guard, “she goes so far, his eyes cannot follow her.”

“Her mother is here;” was the answer. “Her love for her mother is a strong cord; it will draw her back. But if she escapes, the wrath of the Prophet would descend on our head. She must sure return;—will our brother watch her?” Oloompa answered that he would, and relieving himself from his rifle and hunting accoutrements, he deposited them at the cabin door, thinking, that in so doing, he would strengthen the confidence which seemed already to have sprung up between himself and the sentinel, and it would also give him an excuse for returning to the cabin in the event of his wishing it. He then hastened away to keep a watch upon Miskwa. Getting without sight of the guard, he approached her, a hurried recognition took place; then withdrawing beyond the reach of observation, they recounted to each other all that had happened since they parted, and dwelt upon their present painful situation. There was little time for regret, and they began to discuss what was best to be done. Miskwa told him that she had been permitted by the Prophet to venture abroad, under the belief on his part, that she was to be Tecumseh's bride; but denied, positively, that she had any such intention. For herself, being unrestrained, she now had no care, and all her alarm was for her mother and the captive maiden. What fate awaited them she knew not, yet her fears caused her to anticipate the worst. What was to be the result of the coming struggle, or what influence it might exert upon the conduct of the Prophet towards them, it was impossible to foretell. Oloompa hearing these things, suggested to her the possibility there was of her escaping with the pale face maiden. The hunters were without the town, awaiting their coming, and ready to defend both at the hazard of their lives. But with the discussion came proofs that it was impracticable. For, even were the sentinel despatched who guarded the cabin, the town was filled with warriors, passing in every direction; their flight would surely be observed, and a sudden death pay the penalty of their attempt. Could they succeed in getting without the walls, Netnokwa was old and decrepid, and would most certainly be overtaken. Oloompa then persuaded her to leave her mother, and endeavoured to convince her that a worse fate awaited her than she apprehended.

“No,” said the maiden, “when Miskwa was helpless, her mother nursed her. Miskwa will live or die with her mother.”

Oloompa was silent; and the maiden continued: “Miskwa loves the pale face, and her heart bleeds to see her in the Prophet's camp. Miskwa can leave her lodge whenever she pleases. She will make the pale face maiden look like Miskwa, then send her out. Oloompa can take her and carry her to the white man who waits for her. Their hearts will then be glad, and Miskwa will love Oloompa. When Oloompa serves Miskwa's friend, he serves Miskwa. Speak,—what says Oloompa?”

Oloompa was recalled to a sense of his promise, by the suggestion, and a feeling of pleasure lighted up his countenance when he reflected that it was practicable. “Oloompa will do it,” he answered; “he promised to bring the maiden to the hunters. He will serve them, and then he is free; but what becomes of Miskwa?”

In answer to this, Miskwa again reiterated her anxious desire that the captive maiden should be as soon as possible restored to the hunters, and that then, should it be practicable for herself and mother to escape, that they would seize the first opportunity to do so. She then added,—“Oloompa, now we part;—the pale face shall seem to be a red maiden; follow her steps when she leaves the lodge. Deliver her safe to her friends who seek her. Then let thy return to the camp be as swift as the flight of the eagle. Miskwa will prove to Oloompa she loves him.” Then, before he could reply, away she darted; and happy with what he had just heard, he followed on only close enough to see her re-enter the lodge, where were imprisoned her mother and friend.—Then, approaching the sentinel, he observed, “the maiden plays about like a deer in the moonlight; she came this way; has she entered?”

“She is safe within,” was the answer, and Oloompa, leaving for the purpose of again mingling with the crowd, promised that he would return, and tell if any tidings had come from the camp of the whites, or any change of plan had been agreed upon among the warriors.

It was now late in the night, and entering that part of the town in which the Indians were mostly crowded together, he found them still excited and dissatisfied:—all had their arms, and none seemed at all disposed to rest. Here he remained for some time, mingling promiscuously with the crowd, and learned that their present excitement was owing to an attempt on their part to have another council called, and the mode of attack which had been agreed upon in the early part of the evening, changed. They wished to substitute in its place a night attack. They were anxious for immediate battle;—they were now more clamorous than they had been before, and some even hinted, that as the whites were under the very walls of their town, they could not escape them, and that it would be wise to disobey the commands of the Prophet; because, in so doing, they could satiate at once their thirst for vengeance. Oloompa, fearing that some immediate steps would be taken, which would tend to operate against the escape of the captive, and, having been absent nearly long enough to allow her to assume her disguise, returned again to the cabin, and withdrew the attention of the sentinel from its inmates, by describing to him the feelings and wishes of the warriors he had left, and his belief that they would force the Prophet to change the plan which had been adopted, and lead them against the whites before the day dawned. While thus conversing, he walked to and fro before the door, and saw one who seemed an Indian maiden press the hand of Netnokwa, and then throw herself on the bosom of Miskwa. Oloompa was agitated,—he felt that the moment of trial was come, and he renewed his effort to interest the sentinel. As he again passed before the door, he discovered Miskwa pressing forward the captive, in order to make her leave the lodge. He stopped, and standing just before the warrior, directed his attention to the heavens, and asked him the hour of the night. A moment passed,—there was the rustling of a garment heard,—a maiden left the lodge, and looking carelessly about her, walked farther into the town.

“The old woman's daughter is fond of moonlight,” said the sentinel, as she passed on; “she likes not her cage.”

The remark was not heard by the maiden, and Oloompa made no reply; for at that moment, a warrior was seen passing along, and summoning the red men again to council. No sooner was the glad call heard, than there was hurrying past to the place of meeting. Oloompa kept his eyes upon the maiden, as she now stood looking upon the town, and started forward apparently as if he designed to follow the crowd. The warrior on duty was relieved, his time having expired, and forgetting to mention that a prisoner was absent, he hurried away to the council. Oloompa, passing by where the captive stood, whispered to her to follow him, and moved slowly on in the direction in which all seemed hurrying. When he had gotten without sight of the cabin he left, and found that most of the crowd had passed him, he stopped, and pointing out a small path to the maiden, told her to follow it to the walls of the town, where he would meet her. He then passed on to the council, and, remaining only for an instant, proceeded by a circuitous route, to the place designated. The captive maiden awaited him, and upon his arrival, ran forward to express her gratitude. Oloompa motioned her to be silent, and assisting her out of the camp, they proceeded to the spot where he had left the hunters. Upon nearing it, a hoarse voice cried out, “who comes there?” and the barrel of a rifle was seen to gleam in the moonlight.

“Oloompa and the captive maiden,” was the answer.

Rolfe rushed forward, but drew back when he beheld the figure before him.

The captive maiden cried, “Richard! it is Gay!—it is Gay, though she seems not to be;” and in an instant more she was clasped to the bosom of Rolfe.

A few moments passed:—the first wild burst of feeling consequent upon their meeting had scarcely subsided, when Rolfe, calling her attention to Earth, told her that he was the friend to whom she owed so much, and bade her thank him. “A thousand, thousand thanks!” she cried, extending her hand to Earth. “They are a poor offering for so much service, yet they are all that Gay now has to give.”

Earth was much affected, and replied not to her, but turning to Rolfe, said,—“Rolfe, I wish you had not told her any thing about thanking me; you know that to make a friend happy, is as much as Earth ever desires.”

“Hunters,” cried Oloompa, who, since he delivered up Gay, had been quietly looking on, “listen;—the hour has now come,—we have travelled a long path to its end,—we part for ever.”

“Noble, noble Oloompa!” cried Rolfe, cordially grasping his hand, “oh! say not so; come, love us, and dwell with us, and let us be friends. All that the white man has, shall be yours.”

Oloompa replied:—“See you yon fires which burn in the distance? There are encamped the enemies of Oloompa's race. They come to drive the red men from their town, and force them still farther into the depths of the forest. Oloompa saw this, yet he brought the maiden to her lover. He served the white man; he has redeemed his promise, and is now free. Farewell!” and saying so, he turned to depart.

“Stay! stay! Oloompa!” cried Rolfe;—“oh! name some way in which I can pay thee for all that thou hast done for me.”

“Oloompa wants nothing of the hunters,” was the answer.

“And what becomes of the red maiden?” inquired Rolfe.

“Oloompa knows not,” he replied. “Dark clouds hang over the land. He cannot see through them. Oloompa has no time; the white maiden will tell all.”

“Oh!” cried Gay, “should they escape, bring her,—Oloompa! do bring her, with her mother, and dwell with me.—I owe them gratitude and love, and even life.”

Oloompa made no reply, and Rolfe continued:—“Oloompa! do come. You know where our wigwam is; my home will be that of the maiden, and we shall ever be happy to see those who have loved and served us. The time may come, when Oloompa will not think as he now does. Then, should it please heaven to deliver from the Prophet's hands Netnokwa and her daughter, oh! come with them to our lodge, and we will give you a wigwam, supply all your wants, and love you as friends.”

Oloompa was still silent, and seeing that he would not reply, Gay continued:—“Oloompa! will you leave us in anger, after having done so much that we can never repay? Miskwa would not do so.”

“Maiden,” replied he, “could a pale face make Oloompa change, it would be the one before me; and had Oloompa never known other whites than those he now sees, he would never have hated their race as he does. As a people, they have wronged him, and he has sworn in the bitterness of his soul to be avenged. The white man knows Oloompa will keep his promise. Oloompa's bosom is open; he does not wrap himself up when he talks to the white man. Go, hunters, Oloompa hates the whites, but he has given you his hand in friendship, and he would not harm you. Bear the maiden away with the speed of an arrow, for, ere to-morrow's sun goes down, death will be abroad in the land.”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “once more let me entreat you to give up your schemes of vengeance, and go and dwell with me.”

“Seek not vengeance!” answered Oloompa;—“when the fires of the whites are kindled on the lands of the red men! Sooner bid a mother not seek for the child she has lost. The hunter loves the white maiden; he has travelled far to find her.—Does he now ask Oloompa to leave the red maiden a prisoner in the Prophet's camp? Far sooner would Oloompa be torn limb from limb, and thrown in fragments as food for dogs. Oloompa has spoken,—we must now part,”—and saying so, he extended his hand to Gay.

“Oloompa,” she cried, “tell Netnokwa I love her as a mother, and bear to Miskwa my fond, my sisterly regard. Tell her to remember one who can never forget her, and whose only wish is that she may have an opportunity of serving her. And need I tell you how pleased I shall be to hear of their safety? And oh! should happier days await them, bring her with her mother to my home, and again will Gay bless and thank you.”

“May the Great Spirit watch over and protect you as though you were his only child,” replied Oloompa, turning from her.

He then bade the hunters farewell, again cautioned them to hurry away with the maiden, and started forward to the Indian camp. As he left, tears flowed from the eyes of Gay, the manly bosom of Rolfe heaved with emotion, and even Earth, the cold, the bitter enemy of the wild race from which Oloompa sprung, felt deeply, and frankly expressed the high admiration he entertained for his noble foe. He also added his most earnest wishes that the storm which impended might pass away, and peace and happiness crown the evening hours of Oloompa.

CHAPTER XXIII.

“The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries, hark! the foes come:
Charge, charge!—'tis too late to retreat.”
DRYDEN.

The spot where Oloompa left Rolfe and his party, and which they still occupied, was a small glade or opening in the forest about half a mile from Tippecanoe, and nearly the same distance from the American camp. It commanded a tolerable view of each, yet they were now rendered rather indistinct by the continual passing of dense heavy clouds over the face of the moon, and by a thin mist which also seemed settling over the land. For some time after he left them, they gazed in silence on the scene. In one direction, lay the Indian town, faintly discernible through the “struggling moon beams' misty light,” and apparently as quiet as though it were the abode of peace and contentment; for from it there came not a sound, and nothing indicated life therein, save the occasional gleam of a torch which suddenly burst upon the view, and then flitted away before you could mark its place. In another, lay the camp of the whites, equally quiet, yet wearing a less gloomy appearance, for their fires burned brightly, and imparted a degree of cheerfulness to the scene.

When the flow of feeling consequent upon Oloompa's departure had somewhat subsided, “Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “let us do something; and first let me advise that we go a little within the forest, for were any one now to pass here, we should be discovered.”

“For Heaven's sake then, let us go;” said Gay, “and oh! Richard, let us escape quickly, for should they find that I have left the camp, they will come in pursuit.”

“Fear not, lady,” said Earth, “they are now thinking of other things;—you will not be pursued to-night.”

“Then say, Earth,” said Rolfe, “what shall we do? shall we take Oloompa's advice, and hurry away, or seek safety within the American camp.”

“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I can't hurry away, that is out of the question; I don't believe I could leave a chance like this, to save my life; and yet I hardly know what to do. Oloompa has behaved nobly; I didn't think it was in a red skin.”

“Oh! that he has,” cried Gay, “and so has Miskwa and Netnokwa; who could have been kinder?”

“Well,” continued Earth, “as I was going to say, he has told us what he thinks best, and he has his reasons for telling us what he did. Now, you can see from the fact that the whites are encamped so near to their town, that the Prophet is amusing them with professions of peace. If that was not the case, you know, that as they came all the way here to punish the Ingens for their late doings, they would have attacked them at once. From Oloompa's hint, the Ingens may intend to strike a blow to-night, but they can't do any thing; the whites must beat 'em if they have a fight, for, you may be certain, General Harrison would never have come so far upon their lands without men enough to answer his purpose. My notion, therefore, is, that if we could once get within the camp, we should be safe. But, Rolfe, I don't like their large fires, we can see every thing that's going on in the camp. Look in the Ingen town; they are too keen for that.”

“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “if there is a doubt, had we not better seek safety in flight?”

“Rolfe,” answered Earth, “that will not do. If I was to run off now, and the Ingens and whites were to take a brush, I don't think I should ever git over it, as long as I lived.”

“Well, Earth, you may take a brush or not, as you please, but I am determined to adopt some plan for our safety.”

“Rolfe,” replied Earth, “you are getting mighty independent all at once; I didn't say that I was so run mad for a fight, as you seem to think, that I would take a brush whether any body else did or not. I merely meant that if they went at it, I should like to go snacks;—and, I say agin, if they were to do it, and I didn't have a hand, it would go with me to my grave. I don't believe I should ever hold my head up agin as long as I lived. But I am just as much determined to see this lady safe as you are.”

“Then, good sir,” said Gay, addressing Earth, “please let us fly, and you go with us; then we shall all be safe.”

“Lady,” answered Earth, “we cannot fly, for old Juno is as stiff as if he had the rheumatics, and all we could do, would be to move on in a short trot.”

His remark was perfectly unintelligible to Gay, and turning to Rolfe, she said, “tell me, what does he mean, Richard?”

Rolfe smiled at the artless manner in which she asked it, and replied, “He means, my love, that his horse is foundered from pursuing the party who brought you here captive;” then turning to Earth, said, “I did not think of that, Earth; our horses are surely in no condition to travel.”

“No,” answered Earth, “I said old Juno might move in a short trot, but I don't believe one of 'em could move a peg, if you were to place a dozen ears of corn in their sight, and just so far that they couldn't reach it; and you know, if any thing could jerk 'em out of their places, that would be the thing to do it. They were stiff when we got off of them, and the thing is worse now; for they have been standing some six or eight hours, or perhaps longer,—for it is so cloudy that I can't exactly see what is the hour. No, Rolfe, 'taint worth while to talk about running away; as I said before, the best thing we can do, is to enter the camp. Let us get as near to it as we can to-night, and when morning comes, go in;—we shall then be safe.”

“Would it not be better for us to go in to-night?” inquired Rolfe.

“No,” answered Earth, “that would be rather dangerous; you can see from here, that in the camp they all seem to be asleep; the sentries are, no doubt, keeping a bright watch, and if we were to go poking about there to-night, we might be used up as so many Ingens, before we could make them know who we were.”

“That we should,” said Gay; “Richard, you know they would take me for an Indian; and indeed, I should feel ashamed to go into the camp in the morning disguised as I am. Will you not let me try and get off some of the paint first?”

“My love,” answered Rolfe, “that is a matter of no moment, they will only compliment you for your heroism, and respect you the more for the dangers you have escaped.”

“A woman will be a woman,” said Earth; “she cares more now about the paint on her face, than she does about the fear of being scalped.”

“Oh! how can you say so,” said Gay.

“Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I think we had better be moving; it must be getting towards day, and every thing is so quiet now, that we cannot have a better time. We must leave the horses to take their chance, and I will return and see about them to-morrow.”

“Then move on,” said Rolfe, “we will follow,” and starting off, Earth led the way, saying, “step lightly, and let no one speak until we stop.”

The ground over which they were now to pass, was somewhat broken, and covered in many places with thick dwarf bushes; through these, they had with the utmost caution made their way, and were now nearing an open prairie, covered with tall grass, which lay immediately in front of the camp, and between it and the Indian town. Earth halted a moment when he beheld it, and seemed to hesitate as if doubting whether it were prudent to proceed or not. But gazing around, and seeing nothing to excite his fears, he whispered to his companions, “stoop low, and move on.” He had now continued his way some short distance further, and until a small cluster of bushes indicated that there the land was rather drier than that over which they had just been passing, and thither he bent his steps. But no sooner had he reached the little knoll upon which they grew, than stopping suddenly, he beckoned to his companions, and when they had approached him, crouched down and motioned to them to do the same.

“What see you?” said Rolfe.

Earth made no reply, but pressed his finger to his lips, and then raised his hand to his ear, as if endeavouring to catch some passing sound. Not a moment elapsed, before there was heard the light step of coming feet. “Lay closer down,” said Earth. The sound increased, and then died away, as though it proceeded from persons who were passing. When all seemed quiet, Earth gently raised his head, and scarcely did he do so, before he heard persons moving in another direction, and through the dim moonlight, saw a party of Indian warriors treading their way with hurried, though cautious steps, toward the camp of the whites. Then listening a moment,—“by gum, Rolfe, the prairie is nat'ally alive with them; I can hear them in every direction; we did run a great risk; they must have seen us when we crossed that piece of grass, and taken us for Ingens, I reckon.”

“Oh! then I fear we shall yet be discovered,” cried Gay.

“Oh, hush! Rolfe, I wish you would make her be quiet. There will be all sorts of work presently; the Ingens are moving on to attack the whites.”

“Oh, God!” said Rolfe, “is it possible? may they not be reconnoitring?”

“No,” answered Earth; “in a night attack they generally go off in small parties; hardly ever more than three or four at a time.”

“Oh!” cried Gay, “is there no way in which we can give our friends notice? Should the Indians enter the camp while they sleep, they will all be massacred.”

“This is what Oloompa meant,” said Rolfe, “when he told us to hurry away.”

“Yes,” said Earth, “and we may wish we had taken his advice. I do wish those fires were out,—hush!” and at that moment, two Indians were seen to glide by, within rifle shot:—“Look at them,” continued Earth, “there can be no mistake, and I am not sure but that the camp is surrounded before this.”

“Is there no way,” repeated Gay, “in which we can warn the whites of their danger?”

“Lady, you are the real genuine,” said Earth; “most people would think of themselves first; but you are right; if the Ingens get into the camp before the whites have notice, they will use 'em all up. I think a single life is nobly disposed of, when given for the preservation of many, so I will slip away and risk it;—hush!”—then listening,—“I hear some more passing along on the edge of the prairie. I will try and get into the camp if I can; if not, I will fire my gun and give the alarm. But oh! Rolfe, if I can only get inside, and tell them what the Ingens are about, we will have as much fun as if we were shooting turkies at a bait.” Then rising,—“good bye, may God bless you both.”

“Stop, stop!” said Gay, addressing him, “I did not mean that you should go.”

“Lady, I intended it from the first minute;—I was only waiting for them to stop passing a little, that I might at least have a chance to do some good.”

“Earth,” said Rolfe, quickly, “what is to become of us, if you leave?”

“Oh! I can do no good by remaining now,” said Earth; “you had better conceal yourselves as well as you can, and remain where you are;—keep a sharp look out, and if an Ingen comes near you, shoot him down. You will hardly be in danger, unless they stumble over you, for you see they have something else to think of. Watch how the battle goes, and if you find it going against us, why do the best you can; take the woods, and try and reach the settlements. The Ingens are now passing in every direction:—it will not do for you to stir yet; so, hide awhile longer; keep close, until the rifles begin to talk pretty pert, then, if you choose, get as far as you can from the town, and wait the result. If the Ingens are beaten, come to the camp, and if every thing goes well, we shall again meet; if not, why, as I said before, do the best you can; and as in that event, I shall probably be used up, we had as well, before we part, shake hands; for it may be for the last time.” Taking Gay's hand, he grasped it cordially, saying,—“lady, these little fingers tell that the forest should not have been thy home.—Good bye! may heaven bless you.”—then, turning to Rolfe,—“well, Rolfe, we have seen some strange things in our time. I wish I had told you, before we parted, of the last fight that old Jupe had; but I hav'nt time now. If I should happen to quit to night, why sometimes think of Earth when you take a glass, and recollect, that though a rough fellow, his intentions were always to do what he believed right. Farewell!”

Gay and Rolfe made no reply, but were much affected, and moving off, Earth turned and said,—“there is one thing I forgot, which I had as well tell you: you are both young, and likely to travel the same path; so, try and go along in a spirit of compromise; we all have our quirks, and it is no use to get cross about small things;” and still talking, he glided away through the grass, and his last words which were heard by Rolfe, were,—“take a brush.”

Continuing to approach the camp, Earth moved on as cautiously as though he were one of the party of Indians now attempting to surprise it; thinking that, even should he be seen, he would not be recognized, but regarded merely as one of the assailing band. Leaving him to continue his exertions to enter the camp, we must return for a moment to the Prophet.

As Oloompa expected when he left Tippecanoe, the warriors succeeded in forcing the Prophet to give them immediate battle, and in accordance with that resolve, they all left the town, and at the moment that Earth was endeavouring to enter the American camp, they were creeping stealthily around it, or rather, lying down, were cautiously drawing their bodies through the grass and bushes. When Elkswatawa determined to fight, he again resumed the character of Prophet, which for a few moments he had laid aside, in his great anxiety to preserve peace, and calling his warriors around him previous to their setting out, he reiterated to them his predictions of success beyond a doubt, and renewed the promise of the Great Spirit, that the balls of the whites should fall harmless among them, and that they should have light, while their enemies would be involved in darkness. The fiat of Heaven itself could not have inspired them with more confidence, and scarcely were the words uttered, before stealing away in small parties, they began to surround the American camp, with a hope of realizing its truth.

When the plan of attack was determined on, at the Prophet's suggestion it was also agreed, that he himself was not to mingle in the fight; his person was too sacred; but, remaining in the rear, he was to direct by his counsel, and hold intercourse with the Great Spirit. The object of the Indians in surrounding the camp, and approaching it so cautiously, was at a given signal to despatch all the sentries, and rushing forward before the whites could be organized, commence the massacre. At the time that Earth left Rolfe, they had already approached so near to the American lines, that even the guards as they moved on their posts were heard by them, and still all went well. Not a whisper, not a sound, save the heavy tread of the sentinel as he walked his path, broke upon the ear. Leaving them for a moment, let us enter within the camp of the whites.

It now wanted a quarter of four o'clock, and General Harrison had already risen, and was conversing with his aids, who, wrapped in their blankets, were reclining around him.

“How long before we shall turn out, general?” was asked by one of them.

“Ten minutes;”—was the reply.

The mist, which for some hours had been gathering over the land, was now condensed into a cold drizzling rain; thick clouds swept by ever and anon, obscuring the moon, and all was hushed in silence, when the report of a gun rang through the camp, and with it came the war-whoop of five or six hundred Indians. Then, in an instant, was heard the long roll of the drum, and there was hurrying to and fro, “and mounting in hot haste,” and swift winged messengers of death were flying in every direction. From one end of the camp to the other, there was heard the crash of arms, and the whites fired against an unseen enemy, and yet they saw themselves falling, fast and thick. It was now discovered that their camp fires only served to render them visible, while they tended more effectually to conceal the Indians. They were, therefore, hurriedly covered over, and then the doings of death were done in darkness, or by faint glimpses caught from the red glare of the discharging guns. On each side might be seen the impetuous onset, and the deadly struggle; and men fell grappling hand to hand, yet saw not the face of him who dealt the blow.

While thus the battle raged, the Prophet was stationed on an eminence at a comfortable distance, and though he fought not, he sang loud and long, and howled his war song until it reached the ears of his warriors. But now a messenger came from them with the tidings that, counter to his predictions, the balls of the whites came straight, and that his men were falling. “Fight on! fight on!” cried the Prophet, “it will soon be as I said;” and when his answer was borne to his warriors, they again rushed upon their enemies, and the tomahawk struggled for life or death with the musket. The bayonet was pushed aside and the soldier brained with the war-club, and hand to hand they fought, and yielded not. On each side would the combatants, with a recklessness of life scarcely ever before witnessed, approach the fires and mend them up, for the purpose of adjusting their firelocks. They then afforded a fair mark, and rarely, if ever, returned to their ranks. Thus they fought until morning dawned; but now that discipline and tactics were brought into play, valour could do no more. The half-armed Indians could no longer contend with deep lines of well armed soldiery. There was no longer hope, and they left the field, and were beaten; yet for the red men who had fallen many times their number of whites had found a sad and speedy death; and among them were several officers—noble spirits—who embodied in their own characters all that was ennobling in human nature, and during the short time of that struggle, won for themselves fame, which will perish only when the battle itself shall be forgotten.

The details of this battle prove it, on the part of the Indians, to have been the best contested engagement ever fought by them; and when we take into consideration the many disadvantages under which they laboured, when we reflect that they were fewer in number than their opponents, that they were badly armed, and not knowing the use of cartridges, were obliged to load by guess in the dark, while the whites possessed all the advantages belonging to a well disciplined and well equipped corps, we cannot but commend the bravery with which they commenced and sustained the attack. They fought with a desperation never before witnessed, and yielded only, when farther resistance was absolute madness. This was no doubt owing to the faith which they had in the declarations of the Prophet, who had often told them that success was certain; and likewise to the high state of excitement generated by the continual performance of his mysterious rites. When the Indians retreated, they re-entered their town, and the whites, content with their advantage, did not pursue them, but passed the day in burying their dead, taking care of the wounded, and fortifying their camp, lest the attack should be renewed. To them, the seventh of November was a sad day, for very many of their companions who had arrived the evening before, flushed with hope, were numbered among the slain.

The firing had long ceased, and morning was several hours advanced, when two persons were seen to emerge from the forest, and approach the American lines. Earthquake, who had reached the camp too late to warn the whites of their danger, but who had nevertheless succeeded in entering it and had borne himself gallantly in the conflict, was the first to discover them, and rushing forward he heartily congratulated them upon their safety.

“Well, Rolfe, what became of you?”

“Why, we took your advice, Earth; escaped to the woods and concealed ourselves until we discovered that the Indians were beaten. And pray what became of you after leaving us?”

“Ah! that will make half a dozen good yarns,” said Earth, “I'll spin 'em some of these times, when we have less to do. I had right smart fun, though I didn't get there quite soon enough. One of the sentinels saw an Ingen in the grass, crawling along, and cracked it into him, just as I was looking about to see where I could best get into the camp. Rolfe, I thought of you both when they all whooped. I tell you what, it was almost enough to turn a man gray:”—then, turning to Gay, “I suppose you were badly frightened.”

“Not so much at the whooping as I was at the firing,” she replied. “I have been so long with the Indians, that I have become familiarized to all their customs. They often whoop in their games and amusements, and therefore, to me it was not so startling as it was to Richard. He was most frightened, and wished often for you. But tell me, and I almost fear to ask, how many have fallen?”

“Ah!” said Earth, “we had better not talk about that; it is mighty bad; we can't yet tell how many?”

“How many Indians?” said Rolfe.

“That we can't tell either,” said Earth.

“Did Oloompa fall?” inquired Gay.

“I don't know,” said Earth, “I saw him last night, after I left you; but we will talk of that another time. We are now just going within the camp.”

“Earth, I wish you would try and get permission for us to enter a tent; for Gay is tired to death, and would not like to be gazed at and harassed with questions now.”

“Do, for Heaven's sake,” she added, “for, indeed, I am worn with fatigue, and now, if I only knew that Miskwa and her mother were safe, I should be happy.”

“Happy! Gay;”—said Rolfe, “see there, they are burying the dead.”

“Richard, I only mean as happy as one can be, situated as I am,” she replied.

While thus conversing, Earth had hurried away to obtain the use of a tent, and Rolfe and Gay, having entered the camp, their appearance was hailed with much pleasure, and every comfort which it afforded was readily extended to them. Her story was soon known, and even there excited much attention. Her escape was regarded as little less than miraculous, and the many difficulties which she had already encountered won for her the regard of many who cheered her with the hope that all dangers were now passed, and that she would soon reach the settlements in safety. At this time Earthquake rejoined them, saying that one of the officers had kindly begged that the lady would occupy his tent, and Gay complaining much of fatigue, was by Rolfe conducted thither, and left to repose.

Throughout the whole of the day, the army lay within their entrenchments, fearing to venture out; for they had suffered very heavy loss, and now knew neither the number of the Indians, nor whither they had gone. Night came, and still no enemy appeared. Every precaution was taken to prevent another surprise, and they awaited the return of morning with the most anxious solicitude. It came:—beautiful and cheering was the breaking day, and with its first light, was heard the morning drum, calling the soldiers to arms; and, soon after, the whole army was in motion, and on parade.—The dragoons and mounted riflemen were then detailed,—ordered to reconnoitre the town, and report the number and position of the Indians. They performed their task, and returned quickly, saying, that the town was deserted,—not an Indian to be seen.

Orders were then given that the town should be burned, and the soldiers set out for that purpose. Rolfe and Earth, leaving Gay protected by the detachment stationed at the camp, proceeded with them. Moving forward, they had, at every step, examined the features of the Indians who were slain, fearing lest they should find Oloompa among the number. He was not with those who lay around the camp, where only the battle had raged; and now they continued on to the deserted town, for the purpose of prosecuting their search, knowing that thither had been carried the wounded.

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “you told us when we met you yesterday, that you saw him during the action:—tell me where?”

“It was not long,” said Earth, “after I got into the camp. I'll tell you all about it some of these times. It was a mighty nice thing, that, before;—I think I had just used up a fellow, who slipped in and squatted by the fire to fix his flint;—well, as I was saying, it was at that time; I was loading, and mighty fast too, about as fast as if a neighbour had had his fingers in my eyes, and I was anxious to shoot him, when I saw a fellow with his rifle up, taking deliberate sight at me. It was too late to get out of the way, and I made up my mind to give up the ghost, when I saw his rifle drop. As he put it down, he cried, ‘hah!’ and instantly disappeared in the darkness. It was just before we covered up the fires, and I only got a glimpse of his face as he turned off; but, Rolfe, I never saw him look as he did then.”

“Then, Earth, he spared you even in battle.”

“He did so, Rolfe, and I don't believe he would have raised his rifle agin me at first, if he had known me.”

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “if he is wounded, I hope we shall find him, for he behaved so nobly I should be pleased to have it in my power to extend to him any assistance.”

“So would I,” answered Earth, “for I set him down as an exception to all I ever knowed. I wonder what has become of the old woman, and the Ingen gal; he had a mighty strong liking for her.”

“Oh! I trust,” said Rolfe, “that they escaped, and are safe. Gay told me last night how kind they had been to her. Earth, no mother or sister could have been more so, and then, in conniving at her escape, they risked their lives, and may for ought we know, have already suffered death on that account.”

“I reckon the Prophet's hands were too full for any thing of that sort,” answered Earth.

Thus conversing, they entered the Indian town. It bore marks of having been deserted in great haste, for large quantities of corn and other provisions were left, together with all their household utensils. Some guns, which had not as yet been divested of the coverings in which they were imported, with a small quantity of the best double glazed rifle powder, were also found, affording convincing proof, if proof were wanting, that the Indians were aided and abetted by the English, before hostilities were declared between them and the Americans.

While the soldiers, in pursuance of orders, were burning the town, Rolfe and Earth continued their search, with the hope of finding some trace by which they might satisfy themselves of the safety of those in whose fate they were interested. They discovered in the town several warriors, who, brought from the scene of battle, had there died of their wounds; but they could recognise in neither the ill-fated Oloompa. Proceeding on, and searching cabin after cabin, they reached the one in which had been confined Netnokwa and her daughter.—Upon entering it, Rolfe started back, and cried out, “Oh! God! Earth, look!”—

Would that we could, in the due course of our narrative, draw a veil over that which follows:—Netnokwa and her lovely daughter had fallen victims to the Prophet's cruelty. Irritated by the failure in his attempt upon the American camp, he had, upon his return, discovered the escape of the white maiden, which he could account for only through their agency, and attributing to it his defeat, he harked on against them, his infuriated followers.—The ‘old oak of the forest’ was laid low, and the ‘loveliest flower which ever had its birth on the prairie,’ was cut down in its bloom! They lay in death as they had lived in life,—together.

A crowd soon collected to view the spectacle.—Rolfe told their story, and dwelt upon the kindness they had shown to the maiden now in the American camp, and their agency in her escape. Their characters won the respect, and their fate excited the sympathy of all. There now only remained the sad duty of interring their remains. Rolfe told Earth, that it was better not to tell Gay, until the last offices were over;—that she was now worn down with fatigue, and to witness them would only add to her distress, without imparting any consolation. Earth accorded with him in opinion, and making such preparations as circumstances permitted, they, assisted by a few friends, bore them away to a quiet part of the town, and deeply deploring their sad fate, consigned them in silence to the grave. The ceremony was sadly contrasted with the scene around it. Rolfe saw the soldiers setting fire to the houses, and eagerly bent on destroying what remained of Indian property. He thought of the fortune which had made him acquainted with several members of that ill-starred race; he reflected upon the many fruitless attempts they had so often made to stay the advance of the whites;—then passed before him the conduct of those who had so nobly served him, and leaving Earth to mingle with the crowd, he returned to the American camp, and seeking her for whose sake he had encountered so many dangers, he said:—“Gay, my love! I must still add another pang to your misfortunes.”

“Oh! what! what!” she cried, “does danger threaten you?”

“No;—Netnokwa and her daughter”——

“Are killed?”

“Yes,” said Rolfe.

“Oh! Richard!”—and covering her face, she was silent for a few moments,—“what have I done! all who love me, seem fated to death! Oh! Miskwa; Miskwa! could not all thy virtues save thee!”

“Come, love,” said Rolfe, “rather rejoice that you escaped; for the same fate awaited you.”

“Oh! Richard! rejoice in the death of one who knew not wrong, and who ever loved her friends more dearly than herself! but for you, I had rather have suffered with her than live and know that I may have brought misfortune on herself and mother. Oh! kind, dear Miskwa!”

Rolfe used all his exertions to console her,—assured her that the death of Miskwa and her mother had been caused solely by the cruel orders of the Prophet; and saying every thing that he could to sooth her, left her for a time to her own meditations.

The town had been burned, the smoke was still rising from its ruins, the soldiers had all returned to their camp, and it was evening when Rolfe and Gay stood alone over the fresh grave of Netnokwa and her daughter. Upon arriving there, Gay wept bitterly, and vented her grief in passionate exclamations. “Oh! Richard!” she cried, “only a short time since, and she was planning my safety, regardless of her own! and now”—her utterance was choked with grief.

“Come, Gay,” said Rolfe, “let us return.”

She spoke not, but continued moistening the earth with her tears. Rolfe then entreated her to leave, saying, that the army would set out on the next morning, for the settlements, and that it was necessary that they should at once return to the camp. Twilight was shedding its influence over the scene, when bidding a long, last farewell to the spot where now remained those who had so nobly served her, she permitted him to lead her away.

On the morning of the 9th the troops were early in motion. The Indians were no where to be seen, and fearing lest they should get reinforcements, and return to the attack, they determined to move forward on their march to Vincennes. Forming in the same order in which they had arrived, their loss was more apparent than it had been; and served to shed a gloom over the whole army. All the wagons, with the exception of one, were filled with the wounded, and in that were carried the arms of those who had fallen. There being now no means of transporting their baggage, they resolved to destroy it, and General Harrison setting the example, it was cheerfully followed.

The army then took up its line of march, and Gay, mounted on horseback, and escorted by Rolfe and Earth, proceeded under its protection as far as Vincennes, where they rested a few days, and then continued their journey to Kentucky.

CHAPTER XXIV.

“Last of a noble race,
To a lonely bed they bore him,
'Twas a green, still, solemn place,
Where the mountain pine waves o'er him;
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.”
MRS. HEMANS.

We have now traced to a close, the main incidents in our story, and still it is unfinished as far as regards the fate of several characters who have played a conspicuous part in the foregoing narrative. To give a brief sketch of their subsequent history is now our purpose.

With the loss of the battle of Tippecanoe at once sunk the character of Elkswatawa as a Prophet. He had prophesied success to those who should be engaged in the battle, and with it an exemption from all injury. His prophecies were proved false; for the battle was lost, and many of his warriors killed. His power was now gone; those who had lost relatives in the late action, reviled and abused him as a bad man, and public opinion among the Indians was also very strong against him on account of his having embroiled them with the whites, and plunged them into difficulties from which they now saw no hope of escape. In this state of things, he retired with a small party, to one of the Huron villages, where he determined to remain until the opposition against him had in some measure spent its force, when he would again endeavour to regain that influence which he before possessed. The immediate consequence of the defeat of the Indians at Tippecanoe was a disposition on their part to sue for peace. The chiefs of all the tribes which were in the late action, the Shawanees alone excepted, repaired to Vincennes, and delivered up their arms; and the Prophet's band having dwindled down to a mere handful of men, circumstances seemed to promise a speedy and amicable adjustment of the Indian affairs.

When the battle of Tippecanoe was fought, Tecumseh was absent at the south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous to his departure, that his object in visiting the Indians in that quarter, was to endeavour to unite them in the confederacy he had already formed. But no sooner had the battle taken placed and the Indians delivered up their arms and sued for peace, than he returned to his lands on the Wabash. When he found that all the plans which he had so long been maturing, had been frustrated by the rashness of Elkswatawa and his followers, his soul was wrung with anguish:—he vented his wrath against him, and wept over the derangement of his schemes.—He had now with him but eight followers, and the band of the Prophet amounted to but few more;—and this was the result of their joint labours for so many years. When Tecumseh saw this, he repined no longer, but reconciling all differences with Elkswatawa, went at once to work to endeavour to regain what he had lost.

Previous to Tecumseh's visit to the south, Mr. Madison, who was then President of the United States, had expressed a wish, that those chiefs who were dissatisfied with the late treaties, should visit Washington, for the purpose of stating their grievances; at the same time, promising them that they should be redressed if practicable. Tecumseh had consented to do so, upon his return; and now, for the purpose of gaining time, and also quieting still further the apprehensions of the whites, he sent a messenger to General Harrison, avowing that he was ready to set out with the deputation which had been invited to proceed to Washington, to treat for peace; but that his wish was to go as its chief.

He was answered, that he might visit Washington with the deputation, but not in the capacity he desired. This wounded his pride, for he thought himself entitled to the rank to which he aspired, and with the refusal he relinquished all thoughts of peace. He saw that the battle was to be fought, and he nerved himself for the contest. His exertions were now more unremitting than ever:—again he visited every neighbouring tribe; called its warriors together, depicted the wrongs they suffered, dwelt upon the ruinous consequences of such a peace as the whites would dictate, and urged them on to battle for their rights. He spoke of the invasion of the whites, and the battle of Tippecanoe, and in fine, left no topic untouched, which was calculated to excite the Indians against the United States. The Prophet also was again seen wandering far and wide, and preaching the words of the Great Spirit. His failure at Tippecanoe, he rationally accounted for, by saying that some woman had, by touching his sacred utensils on the evening of the battle, destroyed their charm, and so specious were the devices he used, and so ignorant the multitude upon which he operated, that we find him again playing quite a conspicuous part. But he was never destined to regain the power which but a short time before he had wielded. Tecumseh now avowed himself the master spirit of the projected enterprise, and rose as rapidly in favour with the Indians, as the Prophet had declined. The result of his exertions will be seen, when, notwithstanding the deranged state in which he found his affairs upon his return, two months after this time, we find him at the head of a roving band, spreading terror and devastation along the whole range of our north-western frontier. Nothing could equal the fear he inspired, for so extensive was the confederation he had formed, that incursions would be made by members of his band, and families murdered at a distance of one and two hundred miles apart. When pursuit was made, the Indians were gone, and the occurrence of these things at so many different points, tended so much to distract and divide public attention, that it was found impossible to embody the militia at any one place, in sufficient numbers to be of service. No one knew when he was safe, for murders were committed in places deemed hitherto secure, and very often the attack was directed where least expected. There was no guarding against it, for no one could tell where the blow was to fall, and the result was, that entire families were seen deserting their homes, and flying they knew not where for protection. Many sought Vincennes, but scarcely would they reach it, before rumour represented that the Prophet, with a numerous band was coming down upon the town, and the fugitives left it, to continue their flight. In every quarter, was terror, consternation, and fear exhibited.

To counteract this, all the troops under General Harrison were called out, and so disposed as to protect as much of the frontier as possible, and a special messenger was likewise despatched, for the purpose of calling together a council of the tribes, and either settling upon the terms of peace, or else securing their neutrality. This was essential, because the chiefs of many of the tribes had delivered up their arms, after the battle of Tippecanoe, and expressed a willingness to treat for peace; and it was also highly necessary, because the attitude assumed by England at this time, warranted the belief that war would soon be declared between the two countries; and as in case of such an event, the contest would lay in a great measure along the lakes, it became a matter of great moment, to conciliate as many of the tribes as practicable.

The special messenger appointed by General Harrison, so far succeeded in his mission, that, in May, 1812, a grand council of twelve tribes was held at Mississinniway, on the Wabash. Each tribe had its orator, who addressed the council, and all were for peace, with the exception of Tecumseh. Even he, seeing that all were against him, dissembled, and said he was willing to treat for peace; but in his speeches, he never lost sight of the injuries which had been inflicted by the whites, nor did he fail to advert to the causes of complaint which he considered most irritating. He deemed it unwise there to avow that his intentions were for war, yet at the close of one of his speeches, in allusion to the whites, he said, “should they come again and make an unprovoked attack on us at our village, we will die like men, but we will never strike the first blow.” During the discussion, the Prophet was spoken of by several of the tribes, as a bad man, and their present difficulties were attributed to him. They protested that they would no longer listen to his doctrines, nor have any connexion with him; and the council adjourned, leaving an impression on the whites, that peace would be adhered to by most of the tribes which were present.

Although Tecumseh had expressed a willingness to be at peace, and a disposition to remain so, no sooner was the council broken up than we find him going among the very tribes whose chiefs had just pledged themselves to preserve peace, strengthening the confederacy which he had already formed, and urging the Indians in the most exciting language, to prepare for battle. With the breaking up of the council at Mississinniway, he drew off all reserve, and no longer pretended to conceal his designs. He proclaimed that his voice was for battle, and battle he would have until he and his warriors should be no more, or until the Ohio river should be acknowledged as the northern boundary of the United States, and a promise on the part of the whites be given, never more to purchase lands of the Indians, without the consent of every tribe on the continent.

The breach between England and the United States, was now every day widening, and all foresaw that war was inevitable. In consequence of this, extensive preparations were made:—forts were built and garrisoned, and the whole northern frontier placed in the best possible state of defence. Tecumseh, who when he first projected the scheme which he had been so long maturing, was as bitter in his feelings against the English as the Americans, now saw that he could do nothing by opposing both, and that he must at once take part with one or the other. The injuries inflicted by the Americans, were fresh in his mind; he saw them in possession of lands to which he thought his tribe entitled, and he saw them grasping at the small portion of territory yet left to the red men. He had received overtures before this, from English agents, and he now bent his steps toward the Canada lines.

On the 18th of June, of the year 1812, war was declared against England, and affairs in the west wearing a more alarming aspect, greater preparations became necessary. To General Harrison was assigned the command of the western army, and all his exertions were devoted to making preparations for the opening campaign. Tecumseh had, in the meantime, formed an alliance with the English; for soon after his return to the Wabash, he was heard to state to the commander at Fort Wayne, while on his way to the Malden council, that he had orders from the English, to receive twelve horse loads of ammunition, for the use of his people at Tippecanoe. He was also placed at the head of the Anglo-Indian Department, and to him was assigned the rank of a general officer in the English army.

The council at Malden, to which allusion has been made above, was called by the English for the purpose of counteracting the effect of that which had been held at Mississinniway, and with a hope of gaining over to their side, the few tribes which still adhered to the American cause. It was numerously attended; Tecumseh and the prophet, Elliot, a British Indian agent, and the commanding English officer, were all present. The few tribes which had resisted the influence of Tecumseh and the Prophet, and still adhered to the American cause, were threatened and persuaded, but in vain; they remained firm; and after a warm and animated discussion, all the chiefs who were favourable to the English cause, seized the hatchet of their English father.—Tecumseh was the first to do so,—as emblematical of their determination,—saying, “we now come forward and take hold of your war hatchet, and will assist you to fight against the Americans.” The council then adjourned. Tecumseh now redoubled his exertions,—journeying by night and day, he again visited the tribes of his confederacy, and to each applied that stimulus which was most likely to excite them to immediate action. Some he persuaded, others he threatened; no labour fatigued him; no exertion was too great; and, while he himself was thus engaged, his emissaries were likewise travelling in every direction for the purpose of assembling the Indians.1

1 See note E.

Such were the exertions of Tecumseh, and although they were so far crowned with success, that by his means a greater number of Indians were embodied than were ever before known to have assembled at any former time, still he failed in the accomplishment of those great ends for which he had so long been labouring. He failed in establishing the Ohio River as the north-western boundary of the United States, which he often asserted to be a favourite measure, and his determination to effect. Yet, his endeavours to do so, have won for him a reputation which will last until the aborigines of our country shall be forgotten. He also failed to unite in one confederacy, as was his purpose, all the tribes in the great Mississippi valley. Still his visit to the south has generally been regarded as the exciting cause of the subsequent hostility of the Indians in that quarter.

When Tecumseh and Elkswatawa commenced their operations, no improper motive influenced them. They contended for the possession of a waste and unimproved territory. They fought to establish the principle, that all the lands held by the Indians, belonged to the whole collectively, and not to particular tribes. Believing that the United States had grievously wronged them in purchasing large tracts from a single tribe, they thenceforth resolved, that it should be regarded as common property, never to be disposed of without the consent of all. They also united, heart and soul, endeavouring to fix a limit to the growing power of the United States. For they saw the stream of population fast pouring upon their lands, and knew that, unless stayed, it would soon sweep from them the few possessions they still held.

These, with them, were praiseworthy objects, and by them for a long time, were they solely influenced. But, circumstances changed in a measure, the current of their thoughts, and thenceforward personal vengeance urged them on in all their operations. At first, their resentment was against the whites, whether as English or Americans, they knew no difference; it was the whites who had wrested from them their lands. But when they saw that hostilities were about to commence between England and America, and reflected upon the growing power of the latter, they began to waver in their original purpose. They gave their ears to the soft persuasions of the English agents, who flattered their pride, courted their assistance, sympathized with them in all their sufferings, and attributed their misfortunes to the grasping power of the Americans. When the brothers heard these things, and remembered that those oft told tales were not the date of yesterday, but had been reiterated for years, they yielded, and in lending their assistance to the English, changed in a great degree the holy nature of the war they were waging.

It is not our purpose to enter minutely into the details of all the campaigns in which Tecumseh was conspicuous, and therefore we must condense the events of his latter days into a few brief pages. We do this unwillingly, for every incident connected with him is interesting, and proves him to have possessed a great mind, imbued with chivalry of character which would have shed lustre over any person, in any age. Throughout the whole of the contest, his conduct was bold, frank, and manly, and though a savage, no act of inhumanity ever stained his fair fame. The cause which called forth his exertions was an holy one; it was to stay the encroachments of the whites, to render the rights of his countrymen respected, and secure to them the quiet possession of the lands which they still retained. In his own beautiful language, he compared the continual advancement of the white settlements to a “mighty wave overspreading the land,” and the confederacy he was forming, to “a dam made to resist it.”

The history of the Prophet is so blended with that of Tecumseh, that we cannot well separate them, even did we wish it. Cowardly, cruel, and treacherous, he possessed but few redeeming virtues. Yet all the incidents which marked his career as a Prophet, prove him to have been a most extraordinary man. In the first place, the assuming of a character which was founded in deception, and the many petty artifices which he was called on daily to practise for so long a time, in order to sustain that character, prove that he must have had a mind both singularly constituted and of great power. And this is still more apparent, when, also, we reflect that, notwithstanding the most violent opposition from the chiefs of all the tribes upon which he operated, and also from the whites, long before his designs were regarded as hostile, he succeeded in creating in his own person a power which was felt throughout the remotest tribes, and in wielding an influence not less fatal and mysterious in its effects, than was that of the inquisition, in the plentitude of its power. That power must have been great, and a great mind alone could have created it, which enabled him to lead as he pleased, the lawless band of Indians who generally accompanied him; which enabled him, like Prospero, who, by the wave of his wand, called up tempests from the vasty deep, at his bidding, to lash his followers into the fury of a raging storm, or hush them when excited, into quiet deep as that of a sleeping child. But, luckily for the whites, with the battle of Tippecanoe, was lost the influence of the Prophet. Had he won that battle, or had the Indians, throughout the north-western war, fought with the same desperation which marked their conduct at Tippecanoe, the result, though in all probability the same, would, by the whites, have been far more dearly purchased. Yet, although he there failed, he relaxed not in his exertions; for, after this, we often find him associated with Tecumseh, though always playing a subordinate part.

But, as regards Tecumseh, if there be one trait in his character more attractive than another, it is the clemency and humanity which ever marked his conduct; and this is the more remarkable, when we regard the many irritating circumstances which urged him on in his hostility to the United States. Had he, in the many contests in which he engaged, acted according to the general rule of Indian warfare, he would still have been great, then how much brighter appears his fame, when we recollect, that, during the north-western war, atrocities were perpetrated without a parallel in the annals of civilized warfare, and that against Tecumseh not a single act of wanton cruelty was ever charged. When the battle, or rather the massacre of the River Raisin took place, Tecumseh was collecting his warriors on the Wabash, and his after conduct proves that, had he been present, the scene that there occurred, would not now remain a blot upon the fame of England. In one of the sorties from Fort Meigs, many Americans were captured, and when confined and disarmed, the Indians proceeded inhumanly to butcher them. Tecumseh having heard what was going on, rushed to the spot, reproached them with their cruelty, and stopped the massacre. He is said to have stipulated with General Proctor for the delivery of General Harrison into his hands, in the event of his being captured. What disposition he would have made of him, had it so happened, we can never know, and can only conjecture from what is known of his character. In all probability his pleasure would have been to have extended to him the hospitality of his wigwam, and like Roderick Dhu, have guided him safely beyond the confines of his lands, and then set him free.

Tecumseh succeeded in bringing more men into the field than were ever before embodied by any other chieftain. From a single excursion on the Wabash, he returned at one time, with six hundred warriors, and from the commencement of hostilities, up to the period of the battle of the Thames, was hovering along our frontiers, with a force of from two to three thousand. At the head of two thousand warriors, he aided General Proctor, in the two attempts which he made on Fort Meigs, and was likewise engaged in many other skirmishes along our line of posts.

But distinguished as Tecumseh was for his deeds as a warrior, we have ever regarded him as still more conspicuous, from the convincing proofs he has left, that he was an orator, in the highest sense of the term. That he was fearless, see his declarations in council, when surrounded by his enemies. What apophthegm, though uttered in Rome, in her happiest days, surpasses his reply to the interpreter, when, fatigued from speaking in council, at Vincennes, he saw that no chair had been provided for him. “Your father,” (alluding to General Harrison,) said the interpreter, “requests you to take a chair,”—at the same moment handing one. “My father!”—replied Tecumseh, “the sun is my father, the earth my mother; upon her bosom I will repose;”—and, suiting the action to his words, he laid himself on the ground. What more striking than his reply to General Harrison, when discussing in his own tent, the probability of war. Alluding to the situation which the President of the United States would occupy in such an event, he replied,—“True, he is so far off, that the war will not injure him; he may sit still in his town, and drink his wine, while you and I will have to fight it out;” or the words of Tecumseh, when, in one of his speeches, alluding to the earthquake which overwhelmed New Madrid, he says:—“The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies; he speaks in thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the Mississippi; the wide waters will cover their low lands, and the Great Spirit will sweep from the earth, with his terrible breath, those who escape to the hills.” Of all his speeches which have been preserved, the one which we here extract, gives perhaps the best idea of his manner and mode of expression. In judging of it, as of all other Indian productions, we should make allowance for the loss they must necessarily sustain in being translated, and secondly, for the fact that, as a general remark, all the persons who have been employed as interpreters among them, have generally been uneducated men. Tecumseh, being at Malden, with General Proctor, when the latter began to make preparations for retreating, in consequence of Perry's victory, and not knowing why he was hurrying away, demanded a council in the name of all the Indians, and spoke as follows:—

“Father—Listen to your children! You have them all now before you.

“The war before this, our British father gave the hatchet to his red children, when our old chiefs were alive. They are now dead! In the war, our father was thrown on his back, by the Americans, and our father took them by the hand without our knowledge. We are afraid our father will do so again at this time.

“Summer before last, when I came forward with my red brethren, and was ready to take up the hatchet in favour of our British father, we were told not to be in a hurry, that he had not yet determined to fight the Americans.

“Listen! When war was declared, our father stood up and gave us the tomahawk, and told us that he was then ready to strike the Americans; that he wanted our assistance; and that he would certainly get us our lands back, which the Americans had taken from us.

“Listen!—You told us at that time to bring our families to this place, and we did so; and you promised to take care of them; that they should want for nothing, while the men would go and fight the enemy; that we need not trouble ourselves about the enemy's garrisons; that we knew nothing about them, and that our father would attend to that part of the business. You also told your red children that you would take good care of your garrison here, which made our hearts glad.

“Listen!—When we were last at the Rapids, it is true, we gave you little assistance. It is hard to fight people who live like ground-hogs.2

2 Alluding to the Americans in their forts.

“Father, listen!—Our fleet has gone out; we know they have fought; we have heard the great guns; but we know nothing of what has happened to our father with one^3 arm. Our ships have gone one way, and we are much astonished to see our father tying up every thing and preparing to run away the other, without letting his red children know what his intentions are. You always told us to remain here and take care of our lands; it made our hearts glad to hear that was your wish. Our great father, the king, is the head, and you represent him. You always told us you would never draw your foot off British ground; but now, father, we see you are drawing back, and we are sorry to see our father doing so, without seeing the enemy. We must compare our father's conduct to a fat dog, that carries its tail upon its back, but when affrighted, it drops it between its legs, and runs off.

3 Commodore Barclay.

“Father, listen!—The Americans have not yet defeated us by land; neither are we sure that they have done so by water; we therefore wish to remain here, and fight our enemy, should they make their appearance. If they defeat us, we will then retreat with our father. At the battle of the Rapids, last war, the Americans certainly defeated us; and when we returned to our father's fort at that place, the gates were shut against us. We were afraid that it would now be the case; but instead of that, we now see our British father preparing to march out of the garrison.

“Father!—You have got the arms and ammunition which our great father sent for his red children. If you have an idea of going away, give them to us, and you may go and welcome. Our lives are in the hands of the Great Spirit. We are determined to defend our lands, and if it be his will, we wish to leave our bones upon them.”

During the retreat of General Proctor, which finally ended in his discomfiture, he returned with Tecumseh and a small guard to view the ground at a place called Chatham, where a large unfordable creek falls into the Thames. Having thoroughly examined the place, it was approved of, and Proctor told Tecumseh, as they rode in the same gig, that upon that spot they would either defeat General Harrison or there lay their bones. Tecumseh seemed much pleased at this determination, and said, that “it was a good place, and when he should look at the two streams, they would remind him of the Wabash and Tippecanoe.” It was here that a skirmish took place but a short time previous to the general battle, Proctor having left Tecumseh to defend the pass, with about twelve hundred Indians. He was unsuccessful, and rejoining Proctor they formed in order of battle, near the Moravian towns. Tecumseh commanded the right wing of the allied army, and was himself posted on the left of that wing. It is said, he entertained fears that Proctor would retreat, and that some few minutes before the battle commenced, he rode up to him, and told him that the British wing was not far enough up to be in line with his.

This incident in the history of Tecumseh, is narrated on the authority of an English officer who was taken prisoner, and Tecumseh was surely authorized in making the assertion, from Proctor's failing to assist him in defending the pass at Chatham. An examination of that place will show, as stated by historians, that had the ground been occupied by the Indians and English conjointly, and had they defended it with even tolerable bravery, it would have been utterly impossible for the American army to have crossed over. Great as were the exertions of Tecumseh, and untiring as were his efforts for so long a time, it was his misfortune to be connected with, and in a great degree governed by one to whom he was in every point of view superior. In forming an alliance with the English, he necessarily placed himself under the guidance of Proctor, who was at the head of the English forces. From the time of their first connexion, Tecumseh was ever urging him on to battle. Upon the first tidings of Perry's victory, Proctor, notwithstanding Tecumseh's remonstrances, hurried away from Malden, where he was then encamped. “If,” says the historian of the western war, “he had taken Tecumseh's advice, and fought the Americans before retreating, the result must have been more glorious at least, if not entirely favourable to the British arms.” And throughout all his subsequent retreats we always find Tecumseh stationed in the rear, and guarding the passes, while the English army continued its flight in safety; and to such an extent was this cowardly policy carried, that even when they had resolved to fight, and all their forces were arranged, we see Tecumseh just on the eve of the battle, going up to the English general, and telling him that his wing was not sufficiently advanced. How must Tecumseh's soul have glowed with indignation when he saw this conduct in one whom he had so faithfully served, and who, instead of attempting to withdraw himself from the contest, and thrust forward his allies, ought rather by his example, to have incited them to deeds of noble daring. Leaving Proctor, and no doubt deploring the hard fate which had made them acquainted, he returned to his warriors, and with his return, the battle commenced. Here was Tecumseh's last struggle. With the first onset of the Americans, the British lines were broken, and their troops either surrendered or fled precipitately.—The only resistance, then, to our victorious arms was found in the right wing, where stood Tecumseh, with his swarthy band. Conspicuous among his warriors, by a plume of white feathers, which he wore in his cap, he was seen dealing destruction around him, and in the most exciting language, was heard to urge his followers to the onset. Although the regular troops of the allied army were routed, and Tecumseh saw them flying from the field, still he, with his trusty band, quailed not. They yet breasted the storm of war, fighting hand to hand for the position which they first occupied. But now, when charge followed charge, and mounted infantry, flushed with success, came rushing impetuous on, and bearing down all before them, the Indians began to waver, and yielded to the shock. But no sooner did they turn to fly, than the voice of Tecumseh, who still stood firm as a mountain rock, was heard rising far above the crash of arms and din of battle, rallying them, and again cheering them on to the attack;—again they returned,—but to be beaten back; and again and again they braved the battle's fiercest shock.—Then fled; but, hark! no rallying voice recalls them now. The chief with the ostrich plume, lies low! Tecumseh had fallen! But not alone; for many of his best and bravest followers lay close around him.

The sequel is soon told. The allied army being routed, the Indians immediately after, sued for peace, and the spirit of opposition which had so long been manifested to the measures of the government, was effectually quelled.

As to the individual who killed Tecumseh, public opinion ever has been, and still remains divided. Sometime previously to the battle of the Moravian towns, Colonel Richard M. Johnson, than whom no one bore himself more gallantly in the north-western war, joined the army, with a corps of mounted volunteers, from Kentucky. He was present at the battle of the Thames, and commanded that part of the American army which was opposed to Tecumseh and his immediate followers. To him has generally been assigned this honour.4

4 See note F.

“The grave in which Tecumseh's remains were deposited by the Indians, after the return of the American army, is still to be seen near the borders of a willow marsh, on the north line of the battleground, with a large fallen oak tree lying by its side. The willow and wild rose, are thick around it, but the mound itself is cleared of shrubbery, and is said to owe its good condition to the occasional visits of his countrymen.”

A brief mention of the remaining characters of our story, and we have done.

Oloompa! yes, noble, generous Oloompa! all thy virtues could not save thee! ill-fated wert thou as the noble chief whom it was thy destiny to follow. Escaping from the battle of Tippecanoe, he united himself with Tecumseh immediately upon his return from the south, continued one of his firmest adherents, and fell fighting by his side, in the battle which closed his career.

A word of the Prophet.—Tecumseh having forgiven him for his agency in the ill-timed explosion of their schemes, they again became united, and the Prophet continued for some time unremitting in his exertions to unite the Indians. In the records of that period, we frequently find mention of his wandering about and preaching even up to within a short time of the battle of the Thames. We can find no evidence of his having been present in any engagement; yet it would perhaps be unfair to presume that therefore he was absent, inasmuch as even though present, he himself would have been overshadowed by the greater fame of Tecumseh. When, subsequent to the battle of the Thames, the Indians sued for peace, and began to form treaties with the United States, the Prophet retired to the neighbourhood of Fort Malden, on the Canada side of Detroit River, where, without exercising the least influence, and even despised by the Indians, he continued to reside, a pensioner on the bounty of the British government, until the time of his death, not many years since. The general contempt with which he was treated during his latter days, must in his mind, have been sadly contrasted with the vast power which he once wielded, and formed a good commentary on the cruel and treacherous policy which characterized him. Had he, in his exertions for his countrymen, pursued a different course, he might have left a more enviable reputation, yet he could never have equalled Tecumseh; nor could Tecumseh, by possibility, have played the part assigned to Elkswatawa. Had the brothers succeeded in the accomplishment of their wishes, volumes would have told the story of their praise. They failed, their joint endeavours have been almost forgotten, and even of their history, though so intimately blended, in the recollection of the public, scarcely any remains save the proud name of Tecumseh.

We have now to dispose of the hunters and Gay Foreman; and first in place, comes our old friend Earth, whom to forget would be a crime. Having, as we have seen, returned with Rolfe to Kentucky, he for some time devoted himself to the duties of his office: but the exciting events of the north-western war, calling for the assistance of every patriot, he buckled on his armour anew, and formed one of the regiments of mounted volunteers who accompanied Colonel Richard M. Johnson, to the scene of battle. Upon leaving home, he was still heard to repeat the words, “take a last brush,” and to caution the boys, as he called the citizens of his county, “to settle up, and not hold back merely because he was absent.”

As each one in that gallant corps bore himself bravely, it is needless to pass encomiums on Earth, but let us take it for granted from what we know of his character, that he did his duty, and as he himself would add, “a little extra.” After the close of the campaign, he returned to Kentucky, and though not then very far advanced in years, yet he was a weather-beaten and war-worn soldier. Settling down quietly in life, he also followed Rolfe's good example, and married. But as it often happens in like resolves, he married directly counter to all the promises he had made himself; for, notwithstanding his often avowed predilection for large and fat ladies, he chose for his partner, one who was remarkably thin and delicate. And some time after, upon being rallied by Rolfe on his choice, he answered,—“I did always think, Rolfe, that if by any very singular quirk, I should happen to be married, that it would be to a large woman. But Polly,” for so he called his wife, “was an orphan; her father fell fighting the battles of his country, and her mother dying soon after, she became dependent on the world's charity. I always thought her a good girl, Rolfe, and when left alone, her being thin and delicate, I regarded as a strong reason why she should have a protector, and, therefore, I have sworn to love and cherish her.”

“Pardon me, Earth,” said Rolfe, “thou art a noble soul, and may the choicest blessings of heaven attend thee.”

Rolfe, upon his return to Kentucky, was married to Gay Foreman, and they long lived happy in their domestic relations, beloved by all who knew them. Assiduous in the discharge of its duties, he won for himself the highest place in the profession to which he belonged; and honoured by the confidence of the people, became conspicuous in the councils of his adopted state, and afterward stood among the foremost of the Kentucky delegation to the seat of government, where, during hours of recreation, he was often seen dashing through the streets of Washington, in a handsome curricle, with his forest bride, whose powers of conversation, grace of manner, and singular story, rendered her the idol of every circle she entered, and enabled her to exercise not less influence in the gay and fashionable world, than did her husband in the councils of the nation.

APPENDIX.

NOTE A.—Page 7.

This being the identical speech sent by General Harrison to the Indians, on hearing of the burning of the chiefs, we make no apology for inserting it entire. The beauty of its composition and its remarkable adaptation to the Indian style, will render it interesting to every reader, and the spirit of humanity which it breathes does honor to the head and heart of its accomplished writer.

NOTE B.—Page 26.

The speech here attributed to Kenah, is reported by Tanner, who was thirty years a captive among the Indians, as having been made to him by one of the Prophet's agents, and he also farther states, ridiculous as it may seem, “that very many of the Indians killed their dogs and obeyed the commands of the Prophet, in every particular, as far as it was practicable.”

NOTE C.—Page 60.

The speech which we have here attributed to Tecumseh is reported by Hunter, in his “Manners and Customs of several Indian Tribes,” to have been delivered by Tecumseh in his presence to the Osages in Council, when wandering for the purpose of effecting a general union. We have given it in order to strengthen the view which we have taken of his policy.

Hunter thus speaks of Tecumseh and his speech:—

“He addressed them in long, eloquent and pathetic strains, and an assembly more numerous than had ever been witnessed on any former occasion, listened to him with an intensely agitated, though profoundly respectful interest and attention. In fact, so great was Tecumseh's eloquence, that the chiefs adjourned the council, shortly after he closed; nor did they finally come to a decision on the great question in debate, for several days afterward.

“I wish it was in my power to do justice to the eloquence of this distinguished man; but it is utterly impossible. The richest colours, shaded with a master's pencil, would fall infinitely short of the glowing finish of the original. The occasion and subject were peculiarly adapted to call into action all the powers of genuine patriotism; and such language, such gestures, and such feelings and fulness of soul contending for utterance, were exhibited by this untutored native of the forest in the central wilds of America, as no audience, I am persuaded, even in ancient or modern days, ever before listened to.”

The great question here alluded to, was whether or not they should give their assistance to the English.

NOTE D.—Page 73.

We have used the words camp and town as synonymous; they were literally so. Tippecanoe was at this time the Prophet's residence, and no sooner did he hear that the whites were marching upon his lands, than he began to place it in the best state of defence, and actually bestowed more labour upon it, than was ever before known to be done by Indians upon any fortification; and at the time we speak of, it was a regular encampment, fortified on every side.

NOTE E.—Page 226.

The following extract from a letter of the Commander of Fort Wayne, to an American Authority, which we find in that truly interesting work, “Thatcher's Indian Biography;” will serve to give the reader some faint idea of the exertions the Brothers were now making for the promotion of the great cause which lay so near their hearts.

“On the 12th [July, 1812,] the Prophet arrived at this place, with nearly one hundred Winnebagoes and Kickapoos, who have ever since been amusing the Indian agents at this place with professions of friendship, and it is now evident that he has completely duped the agent who had suffered him to take the lead in all his councils with the Indians, giving him ammunition, &c. to support his followers until they can receive a supply from Tecumseh.

“On the 19th instant an express arrived in the Prophet's camp from Tecumseh. In order that it should make the better speed, the express stole a horse from some of the inhabitants of the river Raisin, and rode night and day. The horse gave out within twenty miles of this place. This messenger was directed by Tecumseh to tell the Prophet to unite the Indians immediately, and send their women and children towards the Mississippi, while the warriors should strike a heavy blow at the inhabitants of Vincennes; and he, Tecumseh, if he lived, would join him in the country of the Winnebagoes.

“The Prophet found no difficulty in keeping this information to himself and one or two of his confidential followers, and forming a story to suit the palate of the agent here; and, on the 20th instant, he despatched two confidential Kickapoos to effect the objects Tecumseh had in view. In order that these two Indians might make the better speed, they stole my two riding-horses, and have gone to the westward at the rate of one hundred miles in twenty-four hours, at least. To keep the agent blind to his movements, the Prophet went early in the morning yesterday, and told the agent that two of his bad young men were missing, and that he feared they had stole some horses. The agent found no difficulty in swallowing the bait offered him, and applauded the Prophet for his honesty in telling of his bad men, as he called them, stealing my horses.

“To keep up appearances, the Prophet has this morning despatched two men on foot, as he tells the agent, to bring back my horses, &c. He says he and all his party will certainly attend the Commissioner of the United States next month at Piqua.

“This he will do, if he finds he cannot raise the western Indians against the United States; but if he finds the western Indians will join him, you may rely on it, he will strike a heavy blow, as Tecumseh says, against the whites in that quarter. You may rely on the correctness of this statement, as I received information relative to the views of Tecumseh, last night, from a quarter that cannot be doubted. The conduct of the agent towards the Prophet, I have been an eye-witness to.”

NOTE F.—Page 239.

As to the individual who had the honor of shooting Tecumseh, public opinion ever has been, and still remains divided, and though a matter of no moment in itself, his death has often been discussed with as much warmth and zeal, as if the ascertaining of who killed him, involved the settlement of some cardinal principle. This discussion owes its origin to party feeling, together with the exertions of the friends of Col. Johnson on the one side to give him the honour, and to the equally zealous efforts of his opponents on the other to wrest it from him, without being able to agree on any other individual upon whom they will bestow it. Could it be proved that Colonel Johnson did kill Tecumseh, it would add nothing to his fame as a hero; could the world be convinced that he did not, it would detract nothing from the glory which he has already won. The settlement of this question, therefore, even were it in our power, could neither add to, nor take from his reputation. It has no sort of connexion with his character as a statesman, and could not affect him otherwise. That he was an able officer is proved by the success of the division under his command at the battle of the Thames:—that he was a brave man, and ever present at the post of danger, is apparent from his having received during that action five wounds, while a small white mare which he rode, died under him of sixteen. These facts establish for him the character of an intrepid and dauntless soldier; while the proving that he killed Tecumseh could do no more, even if it effected so much.

In the work which I have just written, I profess to set forth the principal acts, as well as the most striking features in the character of this celebrated chieftain, and as on that account some information, or at least a detail of those circumstances which are known relative to his death, may be expected, I shall give in a concise manner such particulars of the battle in which he fell as I have often heard stated in connexion with this event. Before doing so, however, I will mention the sources from which they have been drawn, and leave the reader to award to them such a degree of belief as he pleases.

An admiration for the character of Tecumseh, and a desire to obtain as much information as I could relative to him and the Prophet, induced me, long before I entertained the idea of attempting to write a novel, to examine every source which promised to aid me in my wishes. Travelling much throughout most of our western states, I often met with persons who were present in many of the engagements which took place along our north-western line of Posts, during the late war with Great Britain, and also with several who were actors in the battle of the Thames, and the exciting events of that period becoming a subject of conversation, from them I heard many details. From passing conversations, therefore, and from books, the following facts have been gathered.

The battle of the Thames was fought on the evening of the 5th of November, 1813. On the morning of that day the American army, in pursuit of the English, arrived at Arnold's mills, situated on the river Thames, and distant twelve miles from the Moravian Towns. By 12 o'clock, the whole army had crossed the river; the ford being too deep for infantry, each horseman was required to take up a soldier, and the remainder passed over in boats. No sooner was this effected, than Colonel Johnson was ordered to hasten forward with his regiment, for the purpose of ascertaining the number and situation of the enemy, who were now known to be near at hand. His regiment numbered twelve hundred men, and allowing for the sick, it always presented an effective force of at least one thousand. They were all volunteers, well mounted, and well equipped, burning with a desire for glory, and anxious to meet the enemy. This was the only part of the American army which was mounted, and consequently it was the most effective in pursuit. In pursuance of the order received. Colonel Johnson moved forward with his regiment, followed as rapidly as was practicable by the Infantry, and had advanced some ten or twelve miles, when he found his farther progress checked by the appearance of the English army drawn up in order of battle, and apparently waiting an attack. A messenger was despatched with these tidings to General Harrison, and in the mean time Colonel Johnson drew up his regiment, and remained in front of the enemy. The English army was stationed not on a plain or even a partially open space, but entirely in the woods. The left wing, composed altogether of British regulars, rested on the Thames, and extended to a swamp which was almost impassable, and which ran parallel to the river for several miles, and distant from it, only some two or three hundred yards. Across this swamp, and in a line with the regulars or left wing, was posted the right wing of the English army, commanded by Tecumseh, and composed wholly of Indians. The Infantry of the American army had not yet come up, and the afternoon was fast wearing away. Colonel Johnson's regiment still remained where it was first halted, namely, in front of the British regulars, who were now known to number only some six or seven hundred men, and upon General Harrison's arrival, Colonel Johnson was ordered, at the approach of the American Infantry, to file off to the left, take post in front of the Indians, and leave the Infantry alone to contend with the British regulars. An examination for some time, of the swamp, on the other side of which the Indians were posted, proved this to be impracticable, for at first, no place could be found where it was possible to cross it. The mounted volunteers were also sanguine of success, and impatient for immediate action. The plan of battle was therefore changed; and Colonel Johnson was ordered to divide his regiment into two lines of five hundred each, and refusing the right wing, to charge upon the British regulars, while every exertion would be made to bring up the Infantry to his assistance. The regiment was divided. To Lieutenant Colonel James Johnson was assigned the command of the right division, while Colonel Richard M. Johnson retained the command of the left, and they were in the act of leading the charge, when information was brought by some persons who had been despatched for that purpose, that a place had been discovered where it was practicable to cross the swamp. In consequence of this, Colonel Richard M. Johnson determined to file off still farther to the left, cross the swamp, and oppose the Indians, leaving his brother to charge with his single division against the left wing. His reasons for doing this were, that Colonel James Johnson insisted, as did likewise the men who were with him, that they themselves were amply sufficient to beat the left wing or British regulars, and they also judged it impossible to employ effectually, a thousand mounted men in a compact body in the woods, and on so small a strip of land as the one they then occupied. They also feared lest their numbers, by hindering each other, should prove injurious to themselves.

Colonel R. M. Johnson, having, as before stated, resolved to cross the swamp, parted from his brother, each agreeing that the blast of a bugle was to be the signal for an attack upon each wing at the same time. Leading his division, he had no sooner crossed the swamp, than the bugle was heard, and with it, commenced the charge of cavalry. Colonel James Johnson charged at full speed with his division formed into five columns, each column presenting a front of but two men abreast. He received, as he rapidly advanced, the fire of the whole English force, yet not a man of his division was killed, and in less than five minutes from the first moment of the charge, the British ranks were broken, and the men threw down their arms and surrendered themselves prisoners of war. In this encounter, two or three only of the volunteers were wounded, while some ten or twelve of the regulars were killed, and about twice that number wounded. At the same time that Colonel James Johnson led the charge against the left wing; Colonel R. M. Johnson led the charge against the Indians or right wing. At his order, however, his men moved forward at a slow pace, for no opposing force was visible, and as yet they were charging against an unseen enemy. They were however prepared, each man was ready for instant battle, and all were advancing, Colonel Johnson being at the head of a company of rather more than one hundred men, which was but a short distance in advance of the remainder of his division, when from behind each tree sprung a warrior, and the war whoop was yelled, by a thousand voices, accompanied at the same time by an instantaneous discharge of fire-arms. This was returned by the cavalry, more than half the advanced division of which was dismounted at the first fire. The different companies in the rear however now rushed forward, charge followed charge, and the battle was maintained with the greatest obstinacy. The Indians were several times forced to give ground, but when they did, a voice was heard distinct and clear above the din of battle, rallying them in the most exciting language, cheering them on to the attack, and again they returned, and renewed the contest. This was counter to all former experience in Indian engagements, for, when once broken, they had heretofore invariably been beaten. When Colonel Johnson began the charge, he selected from his division twenty men, and ordered them to remain near his person during the engagement; the battle had now raged only a short time, and out of the twenty, nineteen had been either cut down or dismounted;—only one remained by his side. It was now deemed advisable that the whole division should dismount, the horses of the soldiers were accordingly turned loose, and the battle renewed on foot. The soldiers now fought with the Indians hand to hand, and in several places the appearance was that of many engaged in single combat, and repeatedly did they struggle for life or death separated only by the body of a tree. So literally was the battle in this part of the line fought hand to hand, that the blood often spurted out from the person killed, upon the one who killed him. At this stage of the battle, Colonel Johnson occupied the extreme right of his division, and, as subsequent events proved, he was directly in front of Tecumseh and his immediate followers, who occupied the extreme left of their right wing. The Indians numbered more than a thousand men, and extended for some distance in the woods, and while Colonel Johnson's division was still warmly engaged, seasonable assistance was afforded by the remainder of the army, which had now come up, and the Indians were engaged throughout the whole extent of their line. Opposite the extreme left of the right wing, where Colonel Johnson with his division was still fighting, and where indeed the only contest may be said to have taken place, the Indians had been several times repulsed since the cavalry were dismounted, yet still, they continued to rally and return to the attack. It was now discovered that this was effected by the power of a single chief, who was conspicuous from his apparel, and also from a plume of white feathers which he wore in his cap; and in consequence of it, many efforts were made to cut him off, which for a long time proved ineffectual; for he was scarcely stationary a moment, but was present every where, his voice was heard in every quarter, and no sooner was he seen in one position, and an attempt made upon him, than moving rapidly away, he occupied another, and was still heard cheering on his men.

Up to this time, Colonel Johnson had received four wounds; he was shot through the left arm, hip, knee, and leg, was bleeding freely, and consequently becoming weak. His mare, from the loss of blood, was also fast failing him; he was unable to dismount, and even if dismounted could not move; he therefore saw plainly that if his mare fell before the Indians were routed, he must inevitably be tomahawked; and to beat them, there seemed to be no other hope, but by killing the gallant chief who exercised so powerful an influence over them.

Colonel Johnson was still in advance of his division, and the weakness of his mare admonished him that she could stand up but a short time longer, when he saw at a distance of about thirty or forty yards from him, the chief whom he was anxious to meet. He had at the instant when discovered, stopped at the root of a large fallen tree, the top or branches of which serving somewhat as a cover, Colonel Johnson moved forward, with a determination to meet him in single combat. At this time, he had only one loaded pistol, which he cocked, and holding it in his right hand, pressed it close against the saddle, and rather behind him, for the purpose of concealing it; his bridle he held in his left hand, and in this situation he advanced. His mare could now only walk, and even in that gait, her step was unsteady, yet, he reached the top of the tree, and was as yet undiscovered, but in endeavouring to get round it, for the purpose of placing himself on the same side with the chief, and also approaching near enough to render his own fire certainly effectual, his mare became entangled in some of its branches, and in endeavouring to free herself, arrested the attention of the chief, who instantly moved forward a step or two, and raising his rifle, deliberately shot at Colonel Johnson, who still continued to advance. His ball entered the left hand of Colonel Johnson, between the first and second fingers; shattered his wrist, and then glanced off—causing his hand to relax the grasp of the bridle, and fall powerless by his side; yet his mare, still reeling, walked forward. The chief having discharged his rifle, quickly changed it to his left hand, drew from his belt his tomahawk, and sprung forward. Colonel Johnson's pistol was still concealed, and he seemed only to be armed with the sword which hung at his side, and thus they now advanced. They had approached so near, that the chief raised his arm, as if in the act to throw his tomahawk, for he was not near enough to strike with it, when Colonel Johnson raised his pistol. It was unexpected, and the chief recoiled a step at the sight. Colonel Johnson then fired, and the chief sprung in the air, and fell dead. The Indians uttered a cry of lamentation, immediately fled, and the battle was ended; no resistance being made after the fall of the chief.

The most remarkable circumstance which I have ever heard relative to this event, and I believe it to be well authenticated, is, that when Colonel Johnson and the chief were advancing upon each other, the former was in the presence of the Indian force, and might have been shot down at any time during the encounter; but they forebore to fire upon him, and all pausing, gazed in silence, and left the two brave chiefs to decide the matter themselves.

Thus, I believe, fell Tecumseh. I say so, for that he was killed in that part of the line whore Colonel Johnson was himself posted, has never yet been questioned; and though unknown at the time of his death, yet, when recognized, he was found lying by a large fallen tree, pierced with three wounds, a pistol ball, and two buckshot. The person who loaded Colonel Johnson's pistols on the day of the battle, deposed that such was the load he placed in each; it was usual to fire with single balls, and no other pistols than Colonel Johnson's were proved to have been differently loaded on the same day. The balls which entered the breast of Tecumseh ranged downwards, a proof that the person who shot him, must have been on horseback, or rather above him; with the exception of Colonel Johnson, and a friend who acted as his aid, no other persons were on horseback in that part of the line, at the time when Tecumseh fell, and the Indians fled. Another reason for this opinion is, that Colonel Johnson's hat, and also the scabbard belonging to his sword, were found lying near Tecumseh.

The Indians having fled, several friends led Colonel Johnson's horse a short distance from the field, that his wounds might be attended to, and upon being lifted from his mare, she immediately sunk and died. When examined, she was found to have been shot in sixteen places.

Such are the details, as I have often heard them stated, relative to the death of Tecumseh, and a careful examination of the subject induces me to believe that they are entitled to the fullest belief.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- ELKSWATAWA;

- THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

- A TALE OF THE FRONTIER.

- CONTENTS.

- PREFACE.

- ELKSWATAWA;

- THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- APPENDIX.

- ELKSWATAWA;

- THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

- A TALE OF THE FRONTIER.

- ELKSWATAWA;

- THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- APPENDIX.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE