-
Notifications
You must be signed in to change notification settings - Fork 0
Expand file tree
/
Copy pathw00113.html
More file actions
6102 lines (4969 loc) · 317 KB
/
w00113.html
File metadata and controls
6102 lines (4969 loc) · 317 KB
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
<html>
<head>
<title>The Prairie Chief</title>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1">
<meta name="Author" content="">
<meta name="Keywords" content="ebook ebooks etext etexts">
<meta name="Description" content="free ebooks">
<link rel="stylesheet" href="/stylesheet1.css" type="text/css">
</head>
<body>
<table align="center" border ="1" width="80%">
<tr>
<td align="center"><img src="/pga-australia.jpg" width="94" height="84" alt=""></td>
<td align="center" bgcolor="#FFE4E1"><font color="#800000" size="5"><b><a href="http://gutenberg.net.au" target="_blank">Project
Gutenberg Australia</a><br>
</b></font><font color="#800000" size="4"><i>a treasure-trove of literature</i><br>
</font>treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership</td>
</tr>
</table>
<!-- ad goes here -->
<p align="center"> </p>
<h1>The Prairie Chief</h1>
<h4>by</h4>
<h1>R.M. Ballantyne</h1>
<hr width="50%">
<ul>
<li><a href="#1_0_2">Chapter One. The Alarm.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_3">Chapter Two. The Surprise and Combat.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_4">Chapter Three. The Massacre and the Chase.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_5">Chapter Four. Circumventing the Blackfeet.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_6">Chapter Five. The Mountain Fortress.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_7">Chapter Six. A Strange Visitor.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_8">Chapter Seven. Big Tim's Method with
Savages.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_9">Chapter Eight. Netting a Grizzly Bear.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_10">Chapter Nine. A Daring Exploit.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_11">Chapter Ten. Snakes in the Grass.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_12">Chapter Eleven. The Snakes make a Dart and Secure
their Victims.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_13">Chapter Twelve. The Pursuit, Failure,
Despair.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_14">Chapter Thirteen. The Powerful Influence of Bad
Weapons and of Love.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_15">Chapter Fourteen. In which Plans, Prospects, Love,
Dangers, and Perplexities are dealt with.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_16">Chapter Fifteen. Plot and Counterplot.</a></li>
<li><a href="#1_0_17">Chapter Sixteen. The Last.</a></li>
</ul>
<hr width="50%">
<h3><a name="1_0_2">Chapter One. The Alarm.</a></h3>
<p>Whitewing was a Red Indian of the North American prairies. Though not
a chief of the highest standing, he was a very great man in the
estimation of his tribe, for, besides being possessed of qualities which
are highly esteemed among all savages — such as courage, strength,
agility, and the like — he was a deep thinker, and held speculative
views in regard to the Great Manitou (God), as well as the ordinary
affairs of life, which perplexed even the oldest men of his tribe, and
induced the younger men to look on him as a profound mystery.</p>
<p>Indeed the feelings of the latter towards Whitewing amounted almost to
veneration, for while, on the one hand, he was noted as one of the most
fearless among the braves, and a daring assailant of that king of the
northern wilderness, the grizzly bear, he was, on the other hand, modest
and retiring — never boasted of his prowess, disbelieved in the
principle of revenge, which to most savages is not only a pleasure but a
duty, and refused to decorate his sleeves or leggings with the
scalp-locks of his enemies. Indeed he had been known to allow more than
one enemy to escape from his hand in time of war when he might easily
have killed him. Altogether, Whitewing was a monstrous puzzle to his
fellows, and much beloved by many of them.</p>
<p>The only ornament which he allowed himself was the white wing of a
ptarmigan. Hence his name. This symbol of purity was bound to his
forehead by a band of red cloth wrought with the quills of the porcupine.
It had been made for him by a dark-eyed girl whose name was an Indian
word signifying “light heart.” But let it not be supposed
that Lightheart's head was like her heart. On the contrary, she had a
good sound brain, and, although much given to laughter, jest, and
raillery among her female friends, would listen with unflagging patience,
and profound solemnity, to her lover's soliloquies in reference to things
past, present, and to come.</p>
<p>One of the peculiarities of Whitewing was that he did not treat women
as mere slaves or inferior creatures. His own mother, a wrinkled, brown
old thing resembling a piece of singed shoe-leather, he loved with a
tenderness not usual in North American Indians, some tribes of whom have
a tendency to forsake their aged ones, and leave them to perish rather
than be burdened with them. Whitewing also thought that his betrothed was
fit to hold intellectual converse with him, in which idea he was not far
wrong.</p>
<p>At the time we introduce him to the reader he was on a visit to the
Indian camp of Lightheart's tribe in Clearvale, for the purpose of
claiming his bride. His own tribe, of which the celebrated old warrior
Bald Eagle was chief, dwelt in a valley at a considerable distance from
the camp referred to.</p>
<p>There were two other visitors at the Indian camp at that time. One was
a Wesleyan missionary who had penetrated to that remote region with a
longing desire to carry the glad tidings of salvation in Jesus to the red
men of the prairie. The other was a nondescript little white trapper, who
may be aptly described as a mass of contradictions. He was small in
stature, but amazingly strong; ugly, one-eyed, scarred in the face, and
misshapen; yet wonderfully attractive, because of a sweet smile, a hearty
manner, and a kindly disposition. With the courage of the lion, Little
Tim, as he was styled, combined the agility of the monkey and the
laziness of the sloth. Strange to say, Tim and Whitewing were bosom
friends, although they differed in opinion on most things.</p>
<p>“The white man speaks again about Manitou to-day,” said
the Indian, referring to the missionary's intention to preach, as he and
Little Tim concluded their midday meal in the wigwam that had been
allotted to them.</p>
<p>“It's little I cares for that,” replied Tim curtly, as he
lighted the pipe with which he always wound up every meal.</p>
<p>Of course both men spoke in the Indian language, but that being
probably unknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as
nearly as possible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough
Backwoods' style of the other.</p>
<p>“It seems strange to me,” returned the Indian, “that
my white brother thinks and cares so little about his Manitou. He thinks
much of his gun, and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his
friend, but cares not for Manitou, who gave him all these — all
that he possesses.”</p>
<p>“Look 'ee here, Whitewing,” returned the trapper, in his
matter-of-fact way, “there's nothing strange about it. I see you,
and I see my gun and these other things, and can handle 'em; but I don't
know nothin' about Manitou, and I don't see him, so what's the good o'
thinkin' about him?”</p>
<p>Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up
into the blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of the
wigwam. Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in subdued
but earnest tones, “I see him in the clouds — in the sun, and
moon, and stars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the
singing waters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him
here.”</p>
<p>Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend's
face.</p>
<p>“But,” he continued sadly, “I do not understand him,
he whispers so softly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend. I wonder
why this is so.”</p>
<p>“Ay, that's just it, Whitewing,” said the trapper.
“We can't make it out nohow, an' so I just leaves all that sort o'
thing to the parsons, and give my mind to the things that I
understand.”</p>
<p>“When Little Tim was a very small boy,” said the Indian,
after a few minutes' meditation, “did he understand how to trap the
beaver and the martin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to
the grizzly bear?”</p>
<p>“Of course not,” returned the trapper; “seems to me
that that's a foolish question.”</p>
<p>“But,” continued the Indian, “you came to know it at
last?”</p>
<p>“I should just think I did,” returned the trapper, a look
of self-satisfied pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of the
celebrity as a hunter to which he had attained. “It took me a
goodish while, of course, to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be
— well, you know what, an' I'm not fond o' blowin' my own
trumpet.”</p>
<p>“Yes; you came to it at last,” repeated Whitewing,
“by giving your mind to things that at first you <i>did not
understand</i>.”</p>
<p>“Come, come, my friend,” said Little Tim, with a laugh;
“I'm no match for you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don't
understand Manitou, an' I don't see, or feel, or hear him, so it's of no
use tryin'.”</p>
<p>“What my friend knows not, another may tell him,” said
Whitewing. “The white man says he knows Manitou, and brings a
message from him. Three times I have listened to his words. They seem the
words of truth. I go again to-day to hear his message.”</p>
<p>The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose.</p>
<p>“Well, well,” he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
“I'll go too, though I'm afeared it won't be o' much
use.”</p>
<p>The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians was
neither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intense
earnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, and
feels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those who
listen. It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but merely
to show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the stirring
incidents which followed.</p>
<p>Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of
Jesus to these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready to
believe, but others doubted, just as in the days of old. For the benefit
of the former, he had this day chosen the text, “Let us run with
patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus.”
Whitewing had been much troubled in spirit. His mind, if very inquiring,
was also very sceptical. It was not that he would not — but that he
could not — receive anything unless <i>convinced</i>. With a strong
thirst after truth, he went to hear that day, but, strange to say, he
could not fix his attention. Only one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on
his memory: “It is the Spirit that quickeneth.” The text
itself also made a profound impression on him.</p>
<p>The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice in
prayer, when a shout was heard in the distance. It came from a man who
was seen running over the prairie towards the camp, with the desperate
haste of one who runs for his life.</p>
<p>All was at once commotion. The men sprang up, and, while some went out
to meet the runner, others seized their weapons. In a few seconds a young
man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burst into
their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, many
hundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that he
was one of that old chief's braves, and was hasting to give his tribe
timely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quite
unable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, or beg
them to send on a fresh messenger.</p>
<p>“<i>I</i> will go,” said Whitewing, on hearing this;
“and my horse is ready.”</p>
<p>He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where
his steed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so
as to admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion.</p>
<p>He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well
the red man's staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised
to see by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusually
excited.</p>
<p>“Whitewing is anxious,” he said, as they ran together.</p>
<p>“The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle's
camp,” was the brief reply.</p>
<p>“Oho!” thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he
knew his friend to be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the
heart. For some time he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in
that organ. “Now,” thought he, “I know it.”</p>
<p>“Little Tim will go with me?” asked the Indian, as they
turned into the hollow where the horses had been left.</p>
<p>“Ay, Whitewing,” answered the trapper, with a touch of
enthusiasm; “Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin,
as long as—”</p>
<p>An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it was
discovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open that
concealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow got rid
of their hobbles and galloped away.</p>
<p>A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It was
quickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetest
and most enduring brave of his tribe. He would <i>run</i> home.</p>
<p>Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and
started off like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few
hundred yards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.</p>
<p>“Pooh! It's useless,” he exclaimed. “I might as well
run after a streak o' greased lightnin'. Well, well, women have much to
answer for! Who'd iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance
like that? It strikes me I'll sarve him best by lookin' after the
nags.”</p>
<p>While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get one
of the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and that
of his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride to
the rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons of the
prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on the
first horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trained
runner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as evening
advanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he held
on, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been more
injudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it was unwise,
when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in the distance was
traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these he reduced the
pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of a rather
precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of the
much-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in a
moment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently — so
much so, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a
few moments to rest.</p>
<p>While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of
one utterly worn out, part of the missionary's text flashed into his
mind: “the race that is set before us.”</p>
<p>“Surely,” he murmured, looking up, “this race is set
before me. The object is good. It is my duty as well as my
desire.”</p>
<p>The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his
young blood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the
race had only just begun. But ere long the pace again began to tell,
producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil. Hour
after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatement in the
pace, and the night was now closing in. This however mattered not, for
the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieve guard with the
sun. Again the thought recurred that he acted unwisely in thus pressing
on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and sat down.</p>
<p>This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for while
running, it had never left him. He now deliberately set himself to
consider it, and the word “patience” arrested his
attention.</p>
<p>“Let us run with patience,” he thought. “I have not
been patient. But the white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he
said it was the whole race of life. Well, if so, <i>this</i> is part of
that race, and it <i>is</i> set before me. Patience! patience! I will
try.”</p>
<p>With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly.
For some time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of
his race his patience began to ooze out. He could calculate pretty well
the rate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing
the exact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to
reach the camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed. The
very thought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him down
altogether. Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with such
violence that for a moment or two he lay stunned. Soon, however, he was
on his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but felt that
the attempt was useless. With a deep irrepressible groan, he sank upon
the turf.</p>
<p>It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of the
preacher's text came to his mind: “looking unto Jesus.”</p>
<p>Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the
Saviour with the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him.
He was roused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses'
hoofs.</p>
<p>The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind. Starting up, he hid
behind a piece of rock. The sounds drew nearer, and presently he saw
horsemen passing him at a considerable distance. How many he could not
make out. There seemed to be very few. The thought that it might be his
friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it should turn
out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribe be
sealed. The case was desperate; still, anything was better than remaining
helplessly where he was. He uttered a sharp cry.</p>
<p>It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next
moment the faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse
by the bridle.</p>
<p>“Well, now, this is good luck,” cried the trapper, as he
rode up.</p>
<p>“No,” replied the Indian gravely, “it is not
<i>luck</i>.”</p>
<p>“Well, as to that, I don't much care what you call it —
but get up. Why, what's wrong wi' you?”</p>
<p>“The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently,
trusting too much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to
mount.”</p>
<p>“Well, now I come to think of it,” said the trapper, as he
sprang to the ground, “you have come a tremendous way — a
most awful long way — in an uncommon short time. A fellow don't
think o' that when he's mounted, ye see. There now,” he added,
resuming his own seat in the saddle, “off we go. But there's no
need to overdrive the cattle; we'll be there in good time, I warrant ye,
for the nags are both good and fresh.”</p>
<p>Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he had
discovered along with that of his friend some time after parting from
him, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than the
ordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half-wild creature
of Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.</p>
<p>Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily on
side by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over the
ground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentle
undulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocks and
ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clear of
clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawing rein
until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before the break
of day.</p>
<p>The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strength
rapidly as they advanced.</p>
<p>“There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here,”
murmured the Indian.</p>
<p>“No, all safe!” replied the trapper in a tone of
satisfaction, as they cantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves,
and beheld the wigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight
on the plain below.</p>
<h3><a name="1_0_3">Chapter Two. The Surprise and Combat.</a></h3>
<p>How frequently that “slip 'twixt the cup and the lip” is
observed in the affairs of this life! Little Tim, the trapper, had barely
pronounced the words “All safe,” when an appalling yell rent
the air, and a cloud of dark forms was seen to rush over the open space
that lay between the wigwams of the old chief Bald Eagle and a thicket
that grew on its westward side.</p>
<p>The Blackfoot band had taken the slumbering Indians completely by
surprise, and Whitewing had the mortification of finding that he had
arrived just a few minutes too late to warn his friends. Although Bald
Eagle was thus caught unprepared, he was not slow to meet the enemy.
Before the latter had reached the village, all the fighting men were up,
and armed with bows, scalping-knives, and tomahawks. They had even time
to rush towards the foe, and thus prevent the fight from commencing in
the midst of the village.</p>
<p>The world is all too familiar with the scenes that ensued. It is not
our purpose to describe them. We detest war, regarding it in ninety-nine
cases out of a hundred as unnecessary. Sufficient to say here that the
overwhelming numbers of the Blackfoot Indians were too much for their
enemies. They soon began to overpower and drive them back towards the
wigwams, where the poor women and children were huddled together in
terror.</p>
<p>Before this point had arrived, however, Whitewing and Little Tim were
galloping to the rescue. The former knew at a glance that resistance on
the part of his friends would be hopeless. He did not therefore gallop
straight down to the field of battle to join them, but, turning sharply
aside with his friend, swept along one of the bottoms or hollows between
the undulations of the plain, where their motions could not be seen as
they sped along. Whitewing looked anxiously at Little Tim, who, observing
the look, said:—</p>
<p>“I'm with 'ee, Whitewing, niver fear.”</p>
<p>“Does my brother know that we ride to death?” asked the
Indian in an earnest tone.</p>
<p>“Yer brother don't know nothin' o' the sort,” replied the
trapper, “and, considerin' your natur', I'd have expected ye to
think that Manitou might have some hand in the matter.”</p>
<p>“The white man speaks wisely,” returned the chief,
accepting the reproof with a humbled look. “We go in His
strength.”</p>
<p>And once again the latter part of the preacher's text seemed to shoot
through the Indian's brain like a flash of light — “looking
unto Jesus.”</p>
<p>Whitewing was one of those men who are swift to conceive and prompt in
action. Tim knew that he had a plan of some sort in his head, and, having
perfect faith in his capacity, forbore to advise him, or even to speak.
He merely drew his hunting-knife, and urged his steed to its utmost
speed, for every moment of time was precious. The said hunting-knife was
one of which Little Tim was peculiarly fond. It had been presented to him
by a Mexican general for conspicuous gallantry in saving the life of one
of his officers in circumstances of extreme danger. It was unusually long
and heavy, and, being double-edged, bore some resemblance to the short,
sword of the ancient Romans.</p>
<p>“It'll do some execution before I go down,” thought Tim,
as he regarded the bright blade with an earnest look.</p>
<p>But Tim was wrong. The blade was not destined to be tarnished that
day.</p>
<p>In a very few minutes the two horsemen galloped to the thicket which
had concealed the enemy. Entering this they dashed through it as fast as
possible until they reached the other side, whence they could see the
combatants on the plain beyond. All along they had heard the shouts and
yells of battle.</p>
<p>For one moment Whitewing drew up to breathe his gallant steed, but the
animal was roused by that time, and it was difficult to restrain him. His
companion's horse was also nearly unmanageable.</p>
<p>“My brother's voice is strong. Let him use it well,” said
the chief abruptly.</p>
<p>“Ay, ay,” replied the little trapper, with an intelligent
chuckle; “go ahead, my boy. I'll give it out fit to bu'st the
bellows.”</p>
<p>Instantly Whitewing shot from the wood, like the panther rushing on
his prey, uttering at the same time the tremendous war-cry of his tribe.
Little Tim followed suit with a roar that was all but miraculous in its
tone and character, and may be described as a compound of the
steam-whistle and the buffalo bull, only with something about it
intensely human. It rose high above the din of battle. The combatants
heard and paused. The two horsemen were seen careering towards them with
furious gesticulations. Red Indians seldom face certain death. The
Blackfoot men knew that an attack by only two men would be sheer
insanity; the natural conclusion was that they were the leaders of a band
just about to emerge from the thicket. They were thus taken in rear. A
panic seized them, which was intensified when Little Tim repeated his
roar and flourished the instrument of death, which he styled his
“little carving-knife.” The Blackfeet turned and fled right
and left, scattering over the plains individually and in small groups, as
being the best way of baffling pursuit.</p>
<p>With that sudden access of courage which usually results from the
exhibition of fear in a foe, Bald Eagle's men yelled and gave chase. Bald
Eagle himself, however, had the wisdom to call them back.</p>
<p>At a council of war, hastily summoned on the spot, he said—</p>
<p>“My braves, you are a parcel of fools.”</p>
<p>Clearing his throat after this plain statement, either for the purpose
of collecting his thoughts or giving his young warriors time to weigh and
appreciate the compliment, he continued—</p>
<p>“You chase the enemy as thoughtlessly as the north wind chases
the leaves in autumn. My wise chief Whitewing, and his friend Leetil Tim
— whose heart is big, and whose voice is bigger, and whose
scalping-knife is biggest of all — have come to our rescue
<i>alone</i>. Whitewing tells me there is no one at their backs. If our
foes discover their mistake, they will turn again, and the contempt which
they ought to pour on themselves because of their own cowardice they will
heap on<i>our</i> heads, and overwhelm us by their numbers — for
who can withstand numbers? They will scatter us like small dust before
the hurricane. Waugh!”</p>
<p>The old man paused for breath, for the recent fight had taken a good
deal out of him, and the assembled warriors exclaimed
“Waugh!” by which they meant to express entire approval of
his sentiments. “Now it is my counsel,” he continued,
“that as we have been saved by Whitewing, we should all shut our
mouths, and hear what Whitewing has got to say.”</p>
<p>Bald Eagle sat down amid murmurs of applause, and Whitewing arose.</p>
<p>There was something unusually gentle in the tone and aspect of the
young chief on this occasion.</p>
<p>“Our father, the ancient one who has just spoken words of
wisdom,” he said, stretching forth his right hand, “has told
you the truth, yet not quite the truth. He is right when he says that
Leetil Tim and I have come to your rescue, but he is wrong when he says
we come alone. It is true that there are no men at our backs to help us,
but is not Manitou behind us — in front — around? It was
Manitou who sent us here, and it was He who gave us the
victory.”</p>
<p>Whitewing paused, and there were some exclamations of approval, but
they were not so numerous or so decided as he could have wished, for red
men are equally unwilling with white men to attribute their successes
directly to their Creator.</p>
<p>“And now,” he continued, “as Bald Eagle has said, if
our foes find out their mistake, they will, without doubt, return. We
must therefore take up our goods, our wives, and our little ones, and
hasten to meet our brothers of Clearvale, who are even now on their way
to help us. Our band is too small to fight the Blackfeet, but united with
our friends, and with Manitou on our side for our cause is just, we shall
be more than a match, for them. I counsel, then, that we raise the camp
without delay.”</p>
<p>The signs of approval were much more decided at the close of this
brief address, and the old chief again rose up.</p>
<p>“My braves,” he said, “have listened to the words of
wisdom. Let each warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp
when the sun stands there.”</p>
<p>He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about
an hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern
sky.</p>
<p>As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by
magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching
horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and
strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.</p>
<p>“Follow me,” said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned
like the rest to obey the orders of the old chief.</p>
<p>“Ay, it's time to be lookin' after her,” said Tim, with
something like a wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied
with his own thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He
strode swiftly through the camp.</p>
<p>“Well, well,” soliloquised the trapper as he followed,
“I niver did expect to see Whitewing in this state o' mind. He's
or'narily sitch a cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you've much to answer
for!”</p>
<p>Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving
his horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing's
steed.</p>
<p>Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from
the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the time
the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young girl,
whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark eyes.
The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age between
fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship, coupled with a
somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such an extent that,
when asleep, she might easily have passed for an Egyptian mummy. One
redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact that all the deep
wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of
kindliness. Her loving character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany
countenance, so that he who ran might easily read.</p>
<p>With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave
the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with equal
quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the wrinkles
on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety caused by
the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled, however, by a
few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger woman to prepare for
instant flight. She acted with prompt, unquestioning obedience, and at
the same time the Indian went to work to pack up his goods with all
speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to tie up the packs and prepare
them for slinging on horse and dog.</p>
<p>“I say, Whitewing,” whispered Tim, touching the chief with
his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approval — for Tim,
who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend's welfare,
rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as
pretty — “I say, is that her?”</p>
<p>Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.</p>
<p>“Is that <i>her</i> — <i>the</i> girl, you know?”
said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to
convey worlds of deep meaning.</p>
<p>“She is my sister — Brighteyes,” replied the Indian
quietly, as he continued his work.</p>
<p>“Whew!” whistled the trapper. “Well, well,” he
murmured in an undertone, “you're on the wrong scent this time
altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are.
Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor life'll turn up soon
enough, no doubt. But I'm real sorry for the old 'un,” he added in
an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent
over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet
inquiringly at what was going on. “She'll niver be able to stand a
flight like this. The mere joltin' o' the nags 'ud shake her old bones
a'most out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her
to starve, but Whitewing'll niver do that. I know him better. Now
then” — aloud — “have ye anything more for me to
do?”</p>
<p>“Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the
horses.”</p>
<p>“Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes.”</p>
<p>With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to
obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.</p>
<p>Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief's reserve
wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.</p>
<p>“Mother,” he said, sitting down beside her and speaking
loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, “we must fly. The
Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?”</p>
<p>“I am always ready to do the bidding of my son,” replied
this pattern mother. “But sickness has made me old before my time.
I have not strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It
is better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young
ones.”</p>
<p>“The young ones can take care of themselves,” replied the
chief somewhat sternly. “We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our
business to live as long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will
carry you. Often you have carried me when I could not ride.”</p>
<p>It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language,
and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts had
been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was
affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged
was not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the supposition
of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, he said
nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at once.</p>
<p>The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition
was not favourably received, began to obey her son's directions by
throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under
her chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet,
wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green
blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip
of deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey
lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the
wood fire, and awaited her son's pleasure.</p>
<p>Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight
carried into effect.</p>
<p>“We're all ready,” said Little Tim, whom he met not far
from the wigwam. “Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes
an' a lot o' youngsters lookin' after them. All you want now is to get
hold o' her, and be off; an' the sooner the better, for Blackfoot
warriors don't take long to get over scares an' find out mistakes. But
I'm most troubled about the old woman. She'll niver be able to stand
it.”</p>
<p>To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed to
be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised,
having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was under
a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.</p>
<p>“Is my horse at hand?” asked Whitewing.</p>
<p>“Ay, down by the creek, all ready.”</p>
<p>“And my brother's horse?”</p>
<p>“Ready too, at the same place; but we'll want another good 'un
— for <i>her</i>, you know,” said Tim suggestively.</p>
<p>“Let the horses be brought to my wigwam,” returned
Whitewing, either not understanding or disregarding the last remark.</p>
<p>The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion
that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all
needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the
Indian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood before
the door, holding the bridles of the two horses.</p>
<p>Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and
somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.</p>
<p>“Ha! that's it at last. The horse for <i>her</i>,” said
the trapper to himself with some satisfaction; “I knowed that
Whitewing would have everything straight — even though he <i>is</i>
in a raither stumped condition just now.”</p>
<p>As he spoke, Brighteyes ran towards the wigwam, and looked in at the
door. Next moment she went to the steed which Little Tim had, in his own
mind, set aside for “<i>her</i>,” and vaulted into the saddle
as a young deer might have done, had it taken to riding.</p>
<p>Of course Tim was greatly puzzled, and forced to admit a second time
that he had over-estimated his own cleverness, and was again off the
scent. Before his mind had a chance of being cleared up, the skin curtain
of the wigwam was raised, and Whitewing stepped out with a bundle in his
arms. He gave it to Little Tim to hold while he mounted his somewhat
restive horse, and then the trapper became aware — from certain
squeaky sounds, and a pair of eyes that glittered among the folds of the
bundle that he held the old woman in his arms!</p>
<p>“I say, Whitewing,” he said remonstratively, as he handed
up the bundle, which the Indian received tenderly in his left arm,
“most of the camp has started. In quarter of an hour or so there'll
be none left. Don't 'ee think it's about time to look after
<i>her</i>?”</p>
<p>Whitewing looked at the trapper with a perplexed expression — a
look which did not quite depart after his friend had mounted, and was
riding through the half-deserted camp beside him.</p>
<p>“Now, Whitewing,” said the trapper, with some decision of
tone and manner, “I'm quite as able as you are to carry that old
critter. If you'll make her over to me, you'll be better able to look
after <i>her</i>, you know. Eh?”</p>
<p>“My brother speaks strangely to-day,” replied the chief.
“His words are hidden from his Indian friend. What does he mean by
'<i>her</i>'?”</p>
<p>“Well, well, now, ye are slow,” answered Tim; “I
wouldn't ha' believed that anything short o' scalpin' could ha' took away
yer wits like that. Why, of course I mean the woman ye said was dearer to
'ee than life.”</p>
<p>“That woman is here,” replied the chief gravely, casting a
brief glance down at the wrinkled old visage that nestled upon his breast
— “my mother.”</p>
<p>“Whew!” whistled the trapper, opening his eyes very wide
indeed. For the third time that day he was constrained to admit that he
had been thrown completely off the scent, and that, in regard to
cleverness, he was no better than a “squawkin' babby.”</p>
<p>But Little Tim said never a word. Whatever his thoughts might have
been after that, he kept them to himself, and, imitating his Indian
brother, maintained profound silence as he galloped between him and
Brighteyes over the rolling prairie.</p>
<h3><a name="1_0_4">Chapter Three. The Massacre and the Chase.</a></h3>
<p>The sun was setting when Whitewing and his friend rode into Clearvale.
The entrance to the valley was narrow, and for a short distance the road,
or Indian track, wound among groups of trees and bushes which effectually
concealed the village from their sight.</p>
<p>At this point in the ride Little Tim began to recover from the
surprise at his own stupidity which had for so long a period of time
reduced him to silence. Riding up alongside of Whitewing, who was a
little in advance of the party, still bearing his mother in his arms, he
accosted him thus—</p>
<p>“I say, Whitewing, the longer I know you, the more of a puzzle
you are to me. I thowt I'd got about at the bottom o' all yer notions an'
ways by this time, but I find that I'm mistaken.”</p>
<p>As no question was asked, the red man deemed no reply needful, but the
faintest symptom of a smile told the trapper that his remark was
understood and appreciated.</p>
<p>“One thing that throws me off the scent,” continued Little
Tim, “is the way you Injins have got o' holdin' yer tongues, so
that a feller can't make out what yer minds are after. Why don't you
speak? why ain't you more commoonicative?”</p>
<p>“The children of the prairie think that wisdom lies in
silence,” answered Whitewing gravely. “They leave it to their
women and white brothers to chatter out all their minds.”</p>
<p>“Humph! The children o' the prairie ain't complimentary to their
white brothers,” returned the trapper. “Mayhap yer right.
Some of us do talk a leetle too much. It's a way we've got o' lettin' off
the steam. I'm afeard I'd bust sometimes if I didn't let my feelin's off
through my mouth. But your silent ways are apt to lead fellers off on
wrong tracks when there's no need to. Didn't I think, now, that you was
after a young woman as ye meant to take for a squaw — and after all
it turned out to be your mother!”</p>
<p>“My white brother sometimes makes mistakes,” quietly
remarked the Indian.</p>
<p>“True; but your white brother wouldn't have made the mistake if
ye had told him who it was you were after when ye set off like a mad
grizzly wi' its pups in danger. Didn't I go tearin' after you neck and
crop as if I was a boy o' sixteen, in the belief that I was helpin' ye in
a love affair?”</p>
<p>“It <i>was</i> a love affair,” said the Indian
quietly.</p>
<p>“True, but not the sort o' thing that I thowt it was.”</p>
<p>“Would you have refused to help me if you had known
better?” demanded Whitewing somewhat sharply.</p>
<p>“Nay, I won't say that,” returned Tim, “for I hold
that a woman's a woman, be she old or young, pretty or ugly, an' I'd
scorn the man as would refuse to help her in trouble; besides, as the
wrinkled old critter <i>is</i> your mother, I've got a sneakin' sort o'
fondness for her; but if I'd only known, a deal o' what they call romance
would ha' bin took out o' the little spree.”</p>
<p>“Then it is well that my brother did not know.”</p>
<p>To this the trapper merely replied, “Humph!”</p>
<p>After a few minutes he resumed in a more confidential tone—</p>
<p>“But I say, Whitewing, has it niver entered into your head to
take to yourself a wife? A man's always the better of havin' a female
companion to consult with an' talk over things, you know, as well as to
make his moccasins and leggin's.”</p>
<p>“Does Little Tim act on his own opinions?” asked the
Indian quickly.</p>
<p>“Ha! that's a fair slap in the face,” said Tim, with a
laugh, “but there may be reasons for that, you see. Gals ain't
always as willin' as they should be; sometimes they don't know a good man
when they see him. Besides, I ain't too old yet, though p'raps some of
'em thinks me raither short for a husband. Come now, don't keep yer old
comrade in the dark. Haven't ye got a notion o' some young woman in
partikler?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” replied the Indian gravely.</p>
<p>“Jist so; I thowt as much,” returned the trapper, with a
tone and look of satisfaction. “What may her name be?”</p>
<p>“Lightheart.”</p>
<p>“Ay? Lightheart. A good name — specially if she takes
after it, as I've no doubt she do. An' what tribe does—”</p>
<p>The trapper stopped abruptly, for at that moment the cavalcade swept
out of the thicket into the open valley, and the two friends suddenly
beheld the Indian camp, which they had so recently left, reduced to a
smoking ruin.</p>
<p>It is impossible to describe the consternation of the Indians, who had
ridden so far and so fast to join their friends. And how shall we speak
of the state of poor Whitewing's feelings? No sound escaped his
compressed lips, but a terrible light seemed to gleam from his dark eyes,
as, clasping his mother convulsively to his breast with his left arm, he
grasped his tomahawk, and urged his horse to its utmost speed. Little Tim
was at his side in a moment, with the long dagger flashing in his right
hand, while Bald Eagle and his dusky warriors pressed close behind.</p>
<p>The women and children were necessarily left in the rear; but
Whitewing's sister, Brighteyes, being better mounted than these, kept up
with the men of war.</p>
<p>The scene that presented itself when they reached the camp was indeed
terrible. Many of the wigwams were burned, some of them still burning,
and those that had escaped the fire had been torn down and scattered
about, while the trodden ground and pools of blood told of the dreadful
massacre that had so recently taken place. It was evident that the camp
had been surprised, and probably all the men slain, while a very brief
examination sufficed to show that such of the women and children as were
spared had been carried off into slavery. In every direction outside the
camp were found the scalped bodies of the slain, left as they had fallen
in unavailing defence of home.</p>
<p>The examination of the camp was made in hot haste and profound
silence, because instant action had to be taken for the rescue of those
who had been carried away, and Indians are at all times careful to
restrain and hide their feelings. Only the compressed lip, the heaving
bosom, the expanding nostrils, and the scowling eyes told of the fires
that raged within.</p>
<p>In this emergency Bald Eagle, who was getting old and rather feeble,
tacitly gave up the command of the braves to Whitewing. It need scarcely
be said that the young chief acted with vigour. He with the trapper
having traced the trail of the Blackfoot war-party — evidently a
different band from that which had attacked Bald Eagle's camp — and
ascertained the direction they had taken, divided his force into two
bands, in command of which he placed two of the best chiefs of his tribe.
Bald Eagle himself agreed to remain with a small force to protect the
women and children. Having made his dispositions and given his orders,
Whitewing mounted his horse; and galloped a short distance on the enemy's
trail; followed by his faithful friend. Reining up suddenly, he
said—</p>
<p>“What does my brother counsel?”</p>
<p>“Well, Whitewing, since ye ask, I would advise you to follow yer
own devices. You've got a good head on your shoulders, and know what's
best.”</p>
<p>“Manitou knows what is best,” said the Indian solemnly.
“He directs all. But His ways are very dark. Whitewing cannot
understand them.”</p>
<p>“Still, we must act, you know,” suggested the trapper.</p>
<p>“Yes, we must act; and I ask counsel of my brother, because it
may be that Manitou shall cause wisdom and light to flow from the lips of
the white man.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don't know as to that, Whitewing, but my advice,
whatever it's worth, is, that we should try to fall on the reptiles in
front and rear at the same time, and that you and I should go out in
advance to scout.”</p>
<p>“Good,” said the Indian; “my plan is so
arranged.”</p>
<p>Without another word he gave the rein to his impatient horse, and was
about to set off at full speed, when he was arrested by the trapper
exclaiming, “Hold on? here's some one coming after us.”</p>
<p>A rider was seen galloping from the direction of the burned camp. It
turned out to be Brighteyes.</p>
<p>“What brings my sister?” demanded Whitewing.</p>
<p>The girl with downcast look modestly requested leave to accompany
them.</p>