 | THE RED SKY OF THE MORNING. The wilderness and the war path |  |
THE RED SKY OF THE MORNING.
A FEW years only have elapsed since the great lakes lying upon
the northern frontier of the United States, were surrounded by
vast tracts of silent wilderness, and navigated by the birch canoe
of the native Indian and the adventurous trader. Within the
memory of living men, the savage exercised dominion over nearly
the whole of that vast region, and the bold or inquisitive traveller
who explored those desert shores, endured the various fatigues
and perils incident to voyages of discovery into parts unknown to
civilized men. There was the solitude of nature as it reigns undisturbed
by human enterprise; and there roamed, alike untamed,
the savage man and the wild beast. Beautiful to the eye,
and highly exciting to the imagination, were those broad lakes,
and their magnificent shores—the bays, the islets, the headlands,
and all the attractive features of a blended woodland and water
scenery; but they were solitary and cheerless deserts.
The scene is now changed, as if by magic. Those inland seas
are covered with the fleets of commerce, their bays and inlets are
studded with villages, their rivers pour out a daily and hourly
tribute of rich freights, and their waters are cleft by steamboats,
whose ample size, beauty of model, and magnificence of interior
decoration, cause them to be justly described as floating palaces.
The hard hand of industry is at work there, and pleasure spreads
her glittering wing in the sunshine. Wealth is there with her
millions, and enterprise prolific of novel schemes, and daring undertakings.
Such are the wonderful changes which have taken place in all
the larger lakes, but one. Lake Superior alone, remains surrounded
by the silent forest, and the abodes of savage hunters;
and there are permanent obstacles in the climate and topography
of civilization.
In ascending the chain of lakes, the voyager, after passing the
Sault de Sainte Mary, no longer sees the fertile lands, the rich
green forests, and the attractive scenery which delight the eye,
on the shores of the more southern and eastern of these Mediterranean
seas. Around him are the rigours of a high latitude, and
the desolate features of a sterile country. The shores are bold
and rocky, presenting a series of naked precipices, which afford
but little for the subsistence of man or beast. The scenery is
often magnificent, and highly picturesque; but has no features of
repose, of softness, or of richness. Gigantic precipices are seen
towering upward from the water's edge, presenting the outlines of
gothic architecture. Huge ramparts, arches, and turrets—shapes
innumerable and fantastic, worn by the elements from the solid
barriers of rock that skirt the shore, appear continually, to seduce
the imagination, and surprise the mind, of the traveller. The
general character is cold and cheerless, inhospitable and appalling.
The wave beats angrily against a dangerous coast, whose
scanty verdure offers little to please the eye. Now and then, the
voyager is deluded by the appearance of a valley whose deep recess
protects a rich growth of green foliage, but on steering his
canoe towards it, he finds a narrow channel communicating with
a small lake, or with a swamp. As he meanders the numerous
bays, and the perilous capes, he finds a succession of the same
grand and imposing landscape; the broad lake, the bleak precipice,
and the dreary swamp varied by situation and outline, compose
the elements of every scene.
Leaving the great lake, and proceeding still farther to the north
and west, a boundless region is presented, of sterile, broken, and
rocky country, intersected by rivers, channels, swamps, and small
lakes—a savage wilderness of land and water. So numerous are
the communications which connect these lakes, that the whole region
may be traversed by canoes, in almost every direction; and
the stranger, who follows his guide through the labyrinth, becomes
bewildered by its intricacies, while he is awed by its vast extent,
and dreary sameness.
The gloomy desert to which we have attempted to conduct the
the water courses which are navigated to approach it, are interrupted
by numerous rapids and cataracts, some of which are said
to rival the falls of Niagara in magnitude and sublimity. The
navigation is therefore performed by means only of the light birch
canoe, which is taken from the water, and transported on the
shoulders of men, around such obstructions.
Here, at the summit level, and in the heart of this great continent,
lie the sources of the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi,
which thus rising together, twin offspring of a common fountain,
flow off in different directions, and after roaming, each its thousand
leagues, fall into the ocean at points separated by thirty degrees
of latitude.
The winter, lingering in this high latitude, throughout more
than half the year, covers the whole surface of land and water
with ice and snow, locks up all the sources of vegetation, and
drives the wild bird and beast to more genial climates.
The only human inhabitants of this inhospitable desert, are the
Ojibway Indians, more commonly called the Chippeways, and to
whom, for the sake of perspicuity, we shall apply the latter name.
No branch of the human family lead a more precarious life than
this wretched people. Relying entirely upon the chase, and the
wild products of the soil, for subsistence, they have no agriculture,
nor any settled places of abode. They feast to excess when
game is abundant, but make so little provision for the future, that
a short season of scarcity reduces them to absolute want. Their
most important supply of food is derived from the wild rice, which
grows spontaneously in the swamps, and is gathered by the women
in large quantities, but this bounty of Nature, so wisely provided
to supply the population with food during the inclement season, is
so improvidently used as to be quickly exhausted. The long winter
finds them destitute; the animals constituting game have fled
to more fruitful lands, and famine scowls over the desolated wilderness.
The wretched inhabitants are now reduced to the
most dreadful expedients—long and painful journeys are undertaken
in pursuit of food—their dogs and horses are devoured—
their moccasins and buffalo robes are chewed—and at last many
sink exhausted by famine, or perish wretchedly in the great snow
same inclement region; the more sunny plains lying to the south,
to which the buffalo and deer retire, being inhabited by hostile
tribes.
Although numerous, and scattered over a wide expanse of territory,
the Chippeways have no national organization, and scarcely
a semblance of local government. Here and there a few families
are found collected into a band, ruled by chiefs; but the temporary
bond which unites them is dissolved whenever food becomes
scarce, when they scatter to the four winds like the leaves in
autumn, each family relying upon its own exertions. The chief
retains his office; an empty honour during the greater portion of
his life, which is spent like that of the humblest individual of his
people, in solitary and painful wanderings in search of the means
to satisfy the eravings of hunger. But in the short and joyful
season of plenty, when the rice harvest is ripe, when game is
food in the woods, and the lakes are covered with water-fowl, the
bands reassemble, and the chiefs taste the sweets, and the cares,
of authority.
The numbers composing these bands depend much on caprice
and accident. If a chief is successful in war or hunting, individuals
seek his banner and adhere to him so long as fortune
smiles; defeat in battle, or a scarcity of game breaks asunder
the feeble ties which bind these communities together, and
disperses them throughout the whole length and breadth of the
Chippeway country. The chiefs retain the name and the respect
attached to that station, and take their seats as such in the councils
which occasionally assemble to celebrate feasts, or religious ceremonies,
or to consider of the general interests of the people, while
their actual power, as we have seen, depends on their personal
good fortune and popularity. Unless, however, a chief be utterly
imbecile or worthless, he is never entirely abandoned. A few
relatives, friends, and zealous adherents who cling to their clan
under the worst aspect of its fortune, usually reunite after a forced
separation, and keep the name of the band. But there is a floating
mass, who are Chippeways at large, and who are ready to
march at any moment, under any banner of their nation which
may be in the ascendant.
There was a chief[1]
of the Chippeways, whose name was
Notin, or The Wind, and who was descended from a chief of the
same name, and perhaps from a long line of equally illustrious
ancestors; for it seems to be a time-honoured maxim among all
savages, that greatness is inheritable, and that talents for governing
especially, are transmitted without alloy from father to son.
We have never heard it asserted that the skill of the lawyer or
physician, passed with his goods and chattels, to his heirs, but it
is certainly held by a majority of mankind, that the son of a ruler
is better fitted to bear rule, than a person of plebeian descent;
and it is not until nations reach a high degree of refinement that
this ancient fallacy, if it be one, becomes exploded.
Among the Indians, however, the rule of legitimacy is admirably
qualified in practice, for whenever the next heir of a deceased
chief happens to be a pacific or indolent person, some daring
leader conducts the braves to battle, and rules the tribe in the
name of the proper head man. Something of the same kind
prevails in the best regulated monarchies, where, if the king
happens to be an infant, an idiot, a sot, or a woman, the business
is done by a substitute. But the Indians carry it a little
farther, and if the heir be deficient in moral or physical qualifications,
he is passed over, and the next of kin after him is selected;
and if no suitable person is found in the family, then some successful
warrior succeeds to the chieftaincy.
Our friend Notin held his sovereignty in the regular way. He
had good blood in his veins and could recount the exploits of his
forefathers, in their wars against the Dacotas, for several generations.
He was married, moreover, to the daughter of the chief
of another band of the great Ojibway stock; thus, with commendable
prudence, securing to his own descendants, the advantages
of a pure regal descent.
Neither was this leader destitute of pretensions on the score of
personal merit. He wore a necklace composed of the claws of
an enormous grisly bear, that he had slain in single combat; he
had stolen horses from the British, the Americans, and the Sioux
bands of the Mississippi; the scalps of his enemies graced his
seven feathers of the war eagle, indicating the number of warriors
he had slain in battle. He rode well, fished patiently, and
smoked the great pipe with dignity and composure. He was
expert in tracing out the lurking places of the otter and beaver in
the small streams and secluded valleys; and when in summer he
announced an intention to travel southward to the great plains to
hunt the buffalo, the braves flocked to his banner, eager to engage
in the chase under a leader of such repute; for in these expeditions
they encroached upon the hunting-grounds of the warlike
Dacotas, who often attacked them, and they desired to serve
under one who could marshal them in battle.
Such was Notin, chief of the Thunder Lake band of the Chippeways,
whose sway extended over twenty lodges, and who on
one occasion had conducted a hundred horsemen upon a hunting
expedition on the prairies of the Mississippi. He was, moreover,
like the present king of the French, a careful man in his domestic
economy, and was master of seven horses, ten dogs, three
guns, and several steel traps to take beaver withal, which made
him the wealthiest person of his clan; and he seldom appeared in
public without a train of five or six young men, who followed his
steps that they might learn the arts of the chase by his counsel
and example, in return for which advantage, they always brought
the game they took, to his lodge, and were ready to stand by him
in his private quarrels.
In one particular, this distinguished chief was singular; and to
the remarkable circumstance which we are about to disclose, does
he owe the honour of figuring as the prominent personage of our
legend; for, had he lived like the mass of his countrymen, like
them he would have gone to an obscure grave, and his name
have been preserved for a few generations only, in the ephemeral
traditions of his people. But Notin was not like other men. He
was one of the few who follow not with slavish subserviency the
dictates of fashion, but take the rare and somewhat perilous responsibility
of thinking for themselves. In most things he pursued
the beaten track in which his ancestors had trodden, time
out of mind. As a chief, he violated no law nor usage of his
tribe; he smoked the same pipe which his father had used before
nostrils in the same way; so that the old men, struck with the
resemblance, and with the filial piety, as well as the respect for
public opinion which it indicated, were affected almost to tears,
when they beheld him thus employed. It is by such concessions
to the wisdom of past ages, that kings and rulers reign in the
hearts of their people.
Some casuists would insist that a single departure from the
settled usages of his race, by one who in all other respects conformed
strictly with custom and public opinion, should be set
down as a mere eccentricity, and not as an evidence of moral
firmness, or originality of thought. We think differently; and
without stopping to argue the question, maintain that Notin showed
good sense as well as boldness, in taking the stand he occupied,
in regard to a question of great importance to himself, and
of no little delicacy as it respected his social and political relations.
The matter was this: Notin had but one wife. No other instance
of the kind had ever occurred in his family, all the chiefs
of the Thunder Lake band having maintained a plurality of
wives, and practised a generous hospitality. Not only the head
men, but every individual in the tribe, married as many women
as he could support; and to have but one, was as indisputable a
proof of being a poor creature, as it would be for one of our merchants
to have no credit in bank. It seemed strange, therefore,
that Notin, who was an excellent hunter, and as we have already
specified, a very opulent personage, should content himself with
a single partner.
It is not pretended that the Indians cherish the social virtues
and affections to a degree so far superior to other men, as to require
a numerous family circle, in order to afford them full
scope; for fashion, always heartless and artificial in its decrees,
may demand that which nature may repudiate. There are other
reasons, no doubt, for the discrepancy between their notions and
ours, on this very interesting subject, which it may be well to investigate.
If marriage be honourable among men, who shall
blame them for desiring to reap its blessings to the greatest practicable
extent? And who shall say that an institution which
and pleasant thing at Thunder Lake?
Society has not reached a high state of refinement at Thunder
Lake. Morning visits, promenades and soirees, are not in vogue
there; nor do the ladies indulge in the expensive luxury of shopping.
There are no auctions in that benighted region—no old
pictures—second-hand furniture, nor cast-off jewellery, offered
very low, to tempt the vanity and avarice of very economical and
ambitious, and would-be very fine ladies. Silks and satins, Leghorn
bonnets, and merino shawls, are wholly unknown even in
the best circles of Thunder Lake. There are neither music
masters, nor French masters, nor Italian singers, nor imported
dancing girls, to be supported by the hard earnings of the indulgent
father and husband. There are no societies to coax from the tenderhearted
matron the pittances of time and money remaining unappropiated,
from the more clamorous demands of dissipation and
extravagance; nor is it the fashion for indigent young men to be
educated by the contributions of indigent young women.
Marriage, therefore, in the pure and original state of that blessed
institution, such as existed in the times of the ancient patriarch,
and such as now prevails among our red brethren, is a
very different affair from any thing which is known to more civilized
communities. The aboriginal may marry once and again,
without incurring the fearful responsibilities which rest upon the
husband in our more artificial mode of life. A plurality of tender
and beloved wives might enliven his fireside, by the manifold
joys of connubial love, without the danger of making him bankrupt
by their extravagance.
Men naturally do that which they conceive will best secure
their happiness. All, except confirmed bachelors and misanthropes,
admit the felicity and blessedness of the holy state of
matrimony; and if this proposition be conceded, it follows, that
as we multiply the causes and agents of wedded bliss, we increase
the chances for happiness. If marriage be a source of comfort
and joy unspeakable, can we doubt the wisdom of frequently
adding new fuel to the genial flame, and keeping up a comfortable
fire upon the altar of domestic love? In short, if the husband
should be honoured with the plighted faith of three?
The wife of Notin was beautiful. She was taller than other
women of her race; her form was noble and commanding, and
her countenance very pleasing. Instead of the vacant and sullen
expression exhibited in the features of most of the Indian women,
she wore a satisfied and cheerful aspect, and had an air of
smartness which showed that she considered herself of some importance.
Notin was very fond of her, and was strongly suspected
of giving her more of his confidence than was usually conceded
to the wives of the Chippeways—had such a thing been imagined
possible among that manly race, he would have been considered
a henpecked husband.
This couple had an only child, a daughter, who was called
Misquabunokwa, or, The Red Sky of the Morning, who inherited
her mother's beauty, spirit, and quickness of intellect. They
who decry female beauty as mere vanity, are but superficially
versed in the movements of the human heart. To speak of it
lightly as an outwnrd show, as an ephemeral possession that
blooms and is blighted with the passing season, may be very
plausible, but is also very fallacious. The beauty of a woman
is a substantial quality of such value, that there is scarcely a
doubt whether it be not the pearl of price, the most precious gift
of nature. It is the talisman of her power, the agent and the
symbol of her sovereignty. Men not only admire, but do homage
to it; they not merely love, but worship it. Wealth, intellect,
and attainments sink into nothing in comparison with this power,
which outshines, while it adorns and vivifies them all. It is so
irresistibly attractive as to produce a powerful reactive influence
on the character of its possessor. The beautiful girl soon becomes
conscious of a power that elevates her above her companions.
The love of admiration plants itself deeply in her mind;
and the desire to deserve and win that tribute inspires her thoughts
and polishes her manners. The ambition to please becomes a
ruling passion; and no woman of superior personal attractions
ever made that attempt in vain. Politeness and gracefulness grow
out of the continual effort to gain approbation; unless, indeed,
where the defect of mind is so great as to substitute arrogance and
and whenever a woman possessing to a high degree, the peculiar
graces of her sex, rises above the mere drudge, and aspires to be
the companion, the idol, or even the sovereign of man, she usually
succeeds to a certain extent, and only fails of complete success
from the want of the support of her own sex. One swallow does
not make a summer, nor can one fair woman inspire a whole
people.
The handsome wife and daughter of Notin were ambitious;
and it was probably through their influence that no other female
was admitted to their family circle, while their cheerfulness and
assiduity threw around their fireside so many unwonted charms
and comforts, that Notin, yielding to the natural indolence of the
savage character, grew every year less active in hunting, and
more reluctant to lead his braves to the war path. His people,
while they still respected his person and office, began to follow
younger and more enterprising leaders; and the women of the
village failed not to throw out hints, in season and out of season,
against the bad practice of having but one wife, and the sinister
influence of handsome women over brave chiefs.
From the causes we have mentioned, or some other, the popularity
of Notin declined, and as the season approached, when it
became necessary to provide for the winter, the tribe began gradually
to disperse, either singly or in small parties, until not more
than a dozen families remained at Thunder Lake. These were
the personal friends of the chief, who still lingered around him,
though participating in some degree in the coolness which had infected
the band. At last it became necessary that they also
should seek a more suitable wintering place, and a meeting of all
the men was called, to debate on the subject. After the pipe had
been passed round, they sat some time in perfect silence. Then
an old man arose and addressed the meeting:
“Brothers! In the winter the wind comes from the North,
and is very cold; it goes to the South and gets warm, and comes
back in the summer, melting the ice, and causing the grass and
trees to grow. Thus we know that one end of this great island
is very cold, and the other very hot. There is no place that is
spirits of good men go after death.
“Brothers, listen! We do not know why the Master of Life
made it so, but we know that summer is gone and winter is coming.
The Great Spirit has taught the brutes to fly from the North
wind, and to hide themselves when the storm spirits are let loose
upon the earth.
“Brothers, look around! The water fowl have left the lakes
and islands where they hatched their young. They have risen
up in great flocks, and fill the air like clouds. They are screaming
for joy because they see a bright land, far off, where they can
get plenty to eat, for the waters there will not be frozen in the winter.
“Let us be wise like the buffaloes, that have gone to the green
pastures of the Missouri, and the water fowl that have fled to the
quiet lakes of a sunny land. Let us take pity on our women and
little children, and carry them to the great plains, where there is
game to feed upon.
“Brothers! I have spoken.”
This speech was well received. A grunt of approbation followed
each sentence, and at the close they all drew a long breath,
as if each felt relieved of his own doubts.
Then Notin took the pipe slowly from his mouth, letting the
bowl of it fall quietly into his left hand, and blowing the smoke
out deliberately through his nostrils, like one who was in deep
thought. He raised his eyes and looked around upon the company.
All were silent, for they knew the chief was about to
speak. He laid aside the pipe and arose, threw the blanket from
his right shoulder, so as to leave his right arm bare, and then
drew it closely around him. His attitude was graceful and commanding,
and his figure such as an artist would have chosen to
study. He spoke in a loud, clear voice, looking round upon the
whole assemblage, as if addressing himself to each in turn. He
said:
“My children! I have listened to my brother who has just sat
down. He is an old man. The snow has fallen so often on his
head, that it has turned white. He is like a tree covered with
frost. He is wiser than I am; listen to his words. I would not
the counsels of that aged brave.
“Children and brothers! Let every one think for himself;
the Great Spirit whispers to the heart of every man, and tells
him what he should do. Let us all obey Him.
“My friends! The Great Spirit does not often visit his red
children in the daytime; he comes in the night and whispers to
us while we sleep. Foolish men do not know his voice. They
do not know when the Master of Life speaks to them, because
they do not see him.
“Listen to me! Last night as I slept in my lodge I had a
dream. I heard a sound like the tramping of a great herd of
buffalo, and I was troubled to know what it meant. I tried to rise,
but could not. Then I heard a voice which said, `Go not to the
buffalo plains; your band is scattered, and there are not enough
left to make battle against the Dacotas. They are watching for
you in great numbers, and if you go to their hunting grounds
they will slay your wives and children.'
“The voice ceased. Again, I heard a loud noise, like the
roaring of the north wind, and the dashing of waves against the
rocks. That sound died away like the first. I listened to hear
the voice speak again. I did not hear that voice any more; but
I saw a place on the shore of the great lake—a cove sheltered
from the winds, where the water was deep and still. I saw the
fish playing in the water. They were very large fish, and were
so many that they had scarcely room to turn. I knew the place,
for I had been there.
“Listen! I know it is not right to tell our dreams. The
Master of Life is angry when we repeat what he has whispered
into our hearts in our sleeping moments, and therefore our fathers
have admonished us that if we repeat our dreams they will not
come to pass. But I have told mine, because it was given me as
a chief for the use of my children, and I hope the Good Spirit
will not be angry, for the voice said, `Tell your people not to go
to the land of the Dacotas—they are numerous as the leaves on
the trees, and are now painted for war, and looking with angry
eyes towards the North.'
“Children and Friends! I am not afraid of the Dacotas. I
lodge. When they hear the war-whoop of Notin they tremble;
even their horses scent me afar off, and snort when they discover
me coming. But I dare not disobey the Great Spirit. Let every
man do as he thinks best. If any choose to go with me, I shall be
glad to have them in my company.
“I have said all I have to say.”
The chief resumed his seat, and for some time they all sat in
silence. Notin then threw the ashes from his pipe, arose, and
gathered his blanket around him. The braves also arose, and retired.
When the council was broken up, the braves collected in little
groups, and seemed to be consulting what to do; but their exchange
of opinions was more by looks and hints than by conversation.
One said, “It is better to live on deer and bear meat than
fish.”
Another responded, “If one has a dream it is right for him to
go by it—for my part, I have not had any dream.”
A third exclaimed, “A man who has but one wife is easily
provided for; I have three wives, and cannot depend on catching
fish.”
Others said, “It is very unlucky for men to tell their dreams.”
So they separated and went to their lodges.
The next day the whole band was in motion, and it was evident
that no community of feeling or purpose prevailed among them.
They moved off in small parties in a southwardly direction, but
apparently by different paths; and at the close of the day, the
lodges were all deserted, and not a living thing was seen to stir
in the village.
Notin with his wife and daughter embarked in a birch canoe,
taking with them all their moveables, and proceeded towards
Lake Superior. The weather was already cold, and they were
much exposed to its inclemency, but they persevered, and at
length reached that noble inland sea, upon whose banks they
sought a resting place. Slowly meandering the sinuosities of the
northern shore, they kept on their way, sometimes stopping to
catch fish, or to seek food on the land, but more frequently compelled
Once when the storm raged violently, they steered their frail bark
into the mouth of a small river, where they found a harbour surrounded
by cliffs which protected it on all sides from the winds,
while a grove of large trees, which grew upon a strip of rich alluvion
that margined the water, added a further shelter. The
storm raged for several days, and while the lake was white with
foam and the surges beat angrily against the shore, our weather-bound
travellers found a secure retreat, by the margin of a deep
and unruffled pool, abounding in the finest fish, and affording ample
means of subsistence.
Delighted with this spot, and wearied with the laborious and
perilous navigation of the lake shore, the wife of Notin insisted
on taking up their residence here for the winter. Notin urged
his dream, and spoke sadly of the evil consequences which never
failed to result from disobedience of the Great Spirit, who sent
good birds to whisper into the ears of his children, and gave them
dreams to fill their hearts with right thoughts. His wife and daughter
considered the dream already fulfilled, and were certain they
had found the very spot indicated. If our worthy chief had been
blessed with a plurality of wives, they would have differed in
opinion, and he would have pursued the dictates of his own judgment,
but as he had but one, her influence shook the convictions
of his mind. Meanwhile the storm continued; it was impossible
to navigate the lake, and equally so to traverse the rocky and
broken shore, covered with snow, which was not yet frozen sufficiently
to bear the weight of a man. The women began to
build a lodge, which was soon completed, and when at last the
winds lulled, the family were so snugly housed, that they were
all alike unwilling to move. They were secure of a present
subsistence, and this is no small matter to the Indian, whose precarious
life is a succession of feasting and want, and who is often
driven to such dreadful extremity of hunger, that the prospect of
famine, though familiar, is very appalling. To him the possession
of food brings relief from every care, for when not engaged
in war, eating and sleep are the business and amusement of his
life. Various causes therefore combined to induce Notin to remain
at the spot thus accidentally chosen.
Weeks rolled away without any material change in the circumstances
of the family. The supply of fish continued abundant,
and the remains of the jerked meat and wild rice which had
been preserved for winter, added an occasional variety to their
simple meals. Notin occasionally went out to hunt, with little
success, except that once he accidentally found a moose, and at
another time a bear.
Winter was now completely set in. The lake, as far as the
eye could reach, was covered with masses of ice, jammed and
heaped up by the wind, and then covered with snow. The snow
clothed the precipices and lay deep in the valleys. Nothing else
was seen except the leafless trees, and the bare sides of the tall
cliffs. When the sun shone it lighted up a magnificent scenery,
gorgeous and gigantic in its proportions and effect—a wide and
vast landscape embracing mountains of snow, parapets of ice,
and cliffs of towering height, all white and shining with resplendent
brightness. After a night of intense cold, the forest trees
were often seen loaded with crystals of frost, incrusting every
bough and twig; and the whole landscape, as the first beams of
the morning sun fell upon it, glowed with refulgent splendour.
But all that beauty and magnificence faded away when the glorious
light of the sun, which brightened it into existence, was
obscured by clouds, and the fierce wind came howling over the
bleak and dreary wilderness. Then the bright hues that gladdened
the eye, and spread out a thousand fanciful and illusive
shapes, were all melted away; the huge barriers of rock whose
bold outlines and gorgeous livery of light and shade threw out the
shapes of arches, spires, and battlements, were sobered down into
the realities of cliff and chasm. But under all changes, these
wild scenes were cold and terrific. They were the dwelling place
of winter. The storm-clouds brooded upon the savage desert;
the winds gathered here as if to collect their powers, and swept
hence upon their errand of destruction.
The scenic beauties of this inhospitable region are, however,
but little known, as they are seldom beheld except by the unimaginative
Indian, who has neither heart nor eye for the sublime
and beautiful of Nature, except in a few rare instances, when
natural phenomena become connected with his wants, his perils,
of these lonely beings, protected only from the intense cold of the
46th degree of northern latitude, by a frail lodge composed of
bark, and separated from all their species by immeasurable and
impassable tracts of wilderness, dragged out a cheerless existence,
destitute of every social and intellectual enjoyment, and possessing
barely the scanty means of sustaining animal life.
But they did not remain the sole tenants of this wild retreat.
One day they were surprised by the appearance of three squalid
men at the entrance of their lodge, who, according to the Indian
custom, seated themselves before the fire. The parties exchanged
glances, but not a word was spoken. The women placed food
before the strangers, who devoured it with the rapacity of persons
who had long fasted. Famine and exhaustion were painfully
stamped upon their features. Their limbs were attenuated, their
forms wasted and bent, their eyes sunk and heavy. The forlorn
wanderers were recognized to be a distinguished Chippeway brave
and his sons, all men of athletic frame and high spirit, though
now emaciated by extreme suffering, into mere skeletons. Having
eaten, salutations were exchanged, and they recited their
adventures. They were the remains of a small party, who had
improvidently lingered about their summer haunts until the winter
overtook them. When their small store of provision was
exhausted, and the game in their vicinity destroyed, they attempted
to fly from famine. No permanent relief could be expected short
of several hundred miles, and this fearful journey was undertaken,
in the depth of winter, through a pathless wilderness.
Credulity would be startled, and humanity shocked, by a recital
of all the painful vicissitudes endured by these unhappy
travellers. Relying upon the chance supplies of food afforded
by a barren district, covered with snow, they were reduced to
the most piteous straits. They devoured their worn-out horses
and famished dogs, and then sought to glean a subsistence from
berries, and the bark of trees. Now and then a lost and half-starved
animal, thrown like themselves into a false position,
afforded them a chance repast, and again days were passed in
abstinence. In some exposures they found the snow not sufficiently
frozen to bear them, and then they trudged heavily on
assailed them. Under all these appalling difficulties, these Indians,
naturally indolent and fickle, proverbially deficient in
enterprise and industry, pressed onward with patience and fortitude,
in moody silence.
There was a point, however, beyond which exhausted Nature
could no longer struggle. One after another sunk under the
accumulated pressure of hunger and fatigue, until at last, of
twelve souls, the leader of the party and his two sons only survived;
and when these helpless wanderers espied the smoke rising
from Notin's camp, it was with difficulty that they rallied sufficient
strength to reach it.
After the new comers were somewhat recruited, they constructed
a lodge for themselves, and made their arrangements to
spend the winter at this spot. For a while, things went on
smoothly, but at length the supply of fish became short; the
fishing sometimes yielded but one meal a day, and often not so
much. The hunters extended their excursions to considerable
distances, but usually returned without any game—for what
living thing could endure the rigours of such a winter! All, all
had fled to a more genial clime, or were hybernating in caves and
secret hiding places; and as these isolated human beings wandered
through the dreary waste, eagerly searching every den and
covert, they became more and more convinced that they were the
only living tenants of this vast solitude.
At last, the dreadful signs of famine, known by sad experience
to all of this devoted little party, began to become manifest, and
those expedients for sustaining life which are only adopted as a
last resort, were reluctantly employed. They chewed their moccasins,
they boiled their dried skins, the bones that had been cast
away were carefully collected—every atom that contained nutrition
was sedulously gathered.
In this new emergency, Notin lost his self-possession. A despondency
crept imperceptibly over him. This feeling, which
sometimes assails the most vigorous minds, is not uncommon among
the savages, whose crude and misty superstition, looking to no
natural system of causes and effects, but referring events to good
or bad luck, or to the agency of friendly or malign spirits, they
a contest with unseen influences, which they dread, but know not
how to propitiate. Often without any apparent cause, without
the consciousness of having given offence to the Great Spirit, or
to any of the numerous manitoes who watch over mankind for
good or evil, the Indian finds his exertions palsied by some invisible
hand, and every effort of courage, or of wisdom, rendered
abortive. His arm becomes powerless, and the bold heart of the
warrior no longer beats in his bosom. The fickle breath of a
woman is in his nostrils. If he goes out to hunt, the game scent
him afar off, and fly at his approach. If he sets his traps for beaver,
a foul spirit sits down beside them, to warn those sagacious
animals of their danger. Believing himself engaged in a fruitless
war, against an adverse destiny, yet stripped of the ordinary powers
of manhood, he sinks into that hopeless apathy with which all
of his race meet the approach of death—the apathy of the Heathen,
unconscious of sin, ignorant of redemption, and viewing the
dissolution of the body as a painful change, which like other pains
he is taught to bear with indifference.
Under the influence of such prejudices, Notin was at no loss
to discover causes for his ill fortune. He fancied that he had offended
the Great Spirit, by disclosing a dream, which should have
been kept sacred in his own breast, and by not following out the
indications of the vision, according to his own convictions. He
looked back with contrition to the dispersion of his band, which,
though not an uncommon occurrence, he attributed in this instance
to his own departure from the customs of his people, and
neglect of the will of the good spirits. To all the remonstrances
therefore of his wife, who alone ventured to touch upon a subject
so delicate and serious, he replied: “Trouble me not. The
Master of Life is angry at Notin. When he smiles the trees become
green, and the grass grows upon the plains; when he shuts
his eyes and blows his cold breath upon the earth, the leaves fall,
and living things die. He is mad at Notin. He has taken the
man's heart out of my breast and given me the heart of a little
child. He will soon take the breath out of my body, and send
my spirit away to some other land, I know not where.”
The wife of Notin, being a woman of bold spirit, was not
repaired to a thicket hard by, where she spent the greater part
of the night in prayer. No one followed her: and if any surprise
was excited by her absence, her family were either induced
by confidence in her sagacity to suppose she was engaged in some
effort for their relief, or were withheld by superstition from intruding
on her privacy.
In the morning she had crawled back, and sat, emaciated with
long fasting and chilled with cold, over the embers that glowed
in the centre of the lodge; on the opposite side, couched in an
abject posture, was the dejected chief, while the daughter sat between
them. There was nothing to eat, no employment to engage
their attention, no instant danger to arouse them to exertion.
A wretched family they were; but no tears were shed, no complaint
was uttered; theirs was not the acute grief that breaks up
the fountains of life, and pours itself out in a flood of lamentations,
but the patient sorrow that congeals the vital energies into torpor.
The chief, a gloomy hypochondriac, and the women exhausted
by fatigue of body and mind, they were all pinched with cold, and
perishing of famine. Their eyes, half closed, were bent stupidly
on the feeble light that seemed expiring as rapidly as their own
lives. The wife at length spoke to her husband, thus: “Listen
to my words. The Great Spirit is not angry with us any more.
Last night I prayed to him to take pity on us. I told him we
were dying for want of food, and asked him to give us something
to eat. As I prayed, sleep fell on my eyes, and I beheld a place
not far distant, where there is a hole in the earth, filled with
brushwood, and covered over with snow. Under that brush I
saw a large bear. Then I thanked the Great Spirit, and said I
will go and tell Notin. He will be glad to hear that the Great
Spirit is not angry with him any longer.”
The chief supposed his wife to be raving, and cast an inquiring
glance towards her. Her countenance was calm; he knew she
had been absent for several hours; and he had confidence in her
sagacity, as well as in her attachment. There is no faith so strong
as that of the husband, in a wife whose actions and thoughts have
been tried by many vicissitudes, and whose love has stood the test
of every ordeal to which it could be brought in the endless circle
of human depravity, passion, suffering, and temptation. For
twenty years she had been the companion of his prosperous and
adverse fortunes; had followed his footsteps through perilous
wanderings, through hostile lands, through pestilence, war, and
famine, and had never faltered; wherever he led the way she
walked with the courage of one who knew no fear; whatever he
commanded, that she did with the devotion of one who knew no
law but his will, no impulse but love for him.
Such was the being whose voice now came over the withering
spirit of the chief like the breath of spring upon the chilled earth.
He raised his head languidly and said,
“Woman, are you jesting? Or has any one given you the
strong water of the white man?”
She replied, “When did I ever tell you a lie? I am in earnest.
An evil manito has pursued and would have destroyed us;
but the Master of Life has heard my cry and taken pity on us.
Take your gun, and let us go to the place where food is provided
for us.”
Notin, like a wise man, followed the advice of his wife. He
took his gun, tomahawk, and hunting knife, and went with her,
their daughter accompanying them in silent wonder. The spot
was readily found, but it cost them much labour, weak as they all
were, to remove the snow and brush. At length Notin stooped
down, and having examined the spot, exclaimed, “It is true! I
smell a bear! The Great Spirit has not deceived us!” Upon a
further search, they found the animal, imbedded in his lair, in a
state of torpidity; and we need scarcely add that it was soon despatched,
and carried in triumph to the camp.
From what source the wife of Notin derived the information on
which she acted with such promptitude and success, we shall not
pretend to decide. Whether, having accidentally discovered the
hidden treasure, she used the information in the manner best calculated
to relieve the diseased mind of her husband, as well as to sustain
her own influence; whether the prayers which she addressed
to the unknown God, ignorantly, but in a believing spirit, found
herself, by a supposed vision, she was led to use the means which
were successful through a happy coincidence,—are points on
which others may speculate; it is enough for us to relate the
facts.
Delivered from the distemper of the mind, which had benumbed
his faculties, Notin became comparatively a happy man. The
temporary supply of food, so unexpectedly procured, invigorated
and inspirited the whole party, and gave renewed activity to their
fishing and hunting excursions; and these efforts, with a few fortuitous
supplies, carried them through the winter. In the spring
they repaired their canoes, and previously to joining the band at
Thunder Lake, proceeded to the trading establishment at Fond
du Lac, where they purchased guns, ammunition and other necessaries,
for which they agreed to pay with the proceeds of the
summer and autumn hunting.
We return now upon the thread of our story, to speak of the three
persons who last became members of this little band. The father
was a Chippeway brave, who had so well proved his courage and
address, that he was often chosen to lead parties of his people in
their war or hunting expeditions. Both of his sons were tall and
finely formed; they were well trained in manly exercises, and
had already been tried upon the war path. They were alike excellent
models of savage beauty, exhibiting in their persons those
prominent and exquisitely moulded features, well-turned limbs,
and graceful attitudes, of which so many instances are seen
among this singular race; but the elder, who was called Ka-kaik,
the Hawk, had a stern and vindictive expression of countenance,
while the younger, Mehkenauk, the Turtle, had a face which indicated
cheerfulness and candour.
These young men became mutually smitten with the charms
of the “Red Sky of the Morning;” and each, jealous of the other,
endeavoured to conceal his attachment from all except its object,
with whom he lost no opportunity of secretly ingratiating himself.
The solecism of a Chippeway courtship will no doubt startle
some of our readers. Those who know this people only through
the medium of books, will object, that the Indians are callous to
the passion and the sentiment of love, and that their marriages
those who are chiefly interested. Such is the general fact, but
the exceptions are sufficiently numerous, not only, according to
the paradox of the grammarians, to prove the rule, but to vindicate
the truth of our narrative. The laws of nature cannot be
abrogated. Their action may be modified by national policy or
supersition, by educational bias, or by the necessity that knows
no law. But the passion implanted in the human bosom for beneficent
purposes, remains immutable there; although, like a seed
buried deeply in the earth, it may not germinate. It is surrounded
by circumstances unfriendly to its development. A cold and
unnatural fabric of society, forbids its expansion. It is still a
constituent element of the soul, indestructible and co-existent with
it; and like the imprisoned fountain, it will testify its existence
by bursting out, or like the germ, when a genial ray penetrates
to its cold and dark place of interment, it will expand and shoot
into life, and bloom into fragrance and beauty.
The brothers became aware that they were the rivals of each
other, and each began to use all his cunning, to conceal as well
as to advance his suit, and to throw obstacles in the way of his
competitor. Taught from infancy to suppress their feelings, to
persevere in the pursuit of any desired object, and to spurn as
unmanly every passion and affection that should stand in the way
of any purpose of ambition or of honour, the contest soon became
one of highly-wrought excitement. Both were high-spirited
young men, just commencing the career of life, with exorbitant
notions of their own qualifications, and full of that youthful pride
which dreads a failure in any attempt, however unimportant.
Panting for action and achievement, the love for that dark-eyed
maiden, the fairest of her race, afforded the only outlet for their
pent-up desires which their isolated condition presented. A fierce
passion for victory animated their bosoms; each marked the
footsteps of the other, and watched every glance with untiring vigilance,
while the fires of jealousy and hatred were studiously
concealed.
The usual forms of courtship were avoided by both the brothers,
who, in their eagerness to attain their object, sought to reach
it by hidden ways. The elder applied secretly to the mother, to
while he hinted darkly at evils that might befall all who
should cross his path. They younger sought the ear of his mistress,
and finding a propitious moment, pressed his suit, and had
the satisfaction of learning that the Red Sky of the Morning was
not averse to his success.
It was not long before the mother and daughter compared
notes, and Notin was apprized by his wife of the whole matter.
That sagacious chief, comprehending at once the mischief threatened
to the peace of his family by the contest between the young
men, determined to avert the present fury of the storm, by temporising
with both parties. He sought an interview with each
separately, and with an air in which kindness was mingled with
reproof, addressed them both alike, somewhat as follows:
“Why have you secretly hovered round my lodge, to steal
away my daughter—like the wolf who creeps into a camp when
the hunters are absent? Why have you not asked her in marriage
in the usual way? Is this the respect with which you treat
a chief, who is also your friend? You came to my camp hungry,
and I received you as one of my children, but you would treat
me as if I was a false Dacota, or a trading white man. Are you
so poor, that you have no present to offer—how then can you support
a wife? I know you are very poor—your gun is worn out,
your powder and lead exhausted—you have no horse to ride, nor
even a dog to follow you. Are you not ashamed to approach the
daughter of a chief in so wretched a condition? Go, then, to the
war path, and take spoils from our enemies, or go and hunt, and
sell your skins to the traders. Let me see what you can do, and
I will determine whether you are worthy of my daughter.”
Such was the position in which the parties stood on their arrival
at Fond du Lac, where several days were consumed in procuring
the supplies which they required; and they were about to
depart, when it was discovered that both the brothers were missing.
Under other circumstances, this abrupt departure would
not have afforded any cause for remark; for among the Indians
the social bond is so slightly drawn as to impose little restraint
upon the movements of individuals, who wander off upon any sudden
caprice, without thinking it necessary to consult those who
habits of life, and constant exposure to danger, render them familiar
with these hasty separations, while their suspicious and jealous
dispositions lead them to concealment. Fully equipped for
war or hunting, they had left the camp separately, and, as was
supposed, in different directions. The father of the young men
made no comment on the occurrence, and the family of Notin
had their own reasons for observing silence, so that nothing was
said of the disappearance of the rival brothers. The remainder
of the party returned to the haunt of the tribe at Thunder Lake,
where Notin intended to pass the summer in collecting the scattered
members of his tribe.
The wanderers had not been long at home, when others of the
tribe, who had passed the winter at different places, and encountered
a variety of suffering and adventure, collected around them,
to spend a short season in comparative repose, before the commencement
of the autumn hunt. The Turtle, the younger of the
absent brothers, after an absence of a few weeks, rejoined his
friends, rich in plunder, the avails of his own boldness and address.
He had proceeded alone to the country of the Dacotas,
where he had seized several fine horses, and other spoil, which
he now brought in triumph to the village, and the larger portion
of which he immediately tendered to the parents of the Red Sky
of the Morning, as a marriage present. So tempting an offer was
not to be refused; and the maiden, as is usually the case when
the wooer is wealthy, yielded her assent to the wishes of her parents,
with a filial piety which cannot be too highly commended.
The happy lover led his bride to the lodge he had prepared for
her reception; and on the following morning set out on a hunting
expedition, followed by her who was to be hereafter the companion
of his toils and dangers. Whether fear of the vengeance of the
elder brother, the Hawk, or simply a taste for that luxury of unsophisticated
minds, the enjoyment of each other's society, dictated
this journey, we are unable to determine.
Shortly after the departure of the lovers, the Hawk made his
appearance. He too had been successful, and the inhabitants of
the village were thrown into a state of high excitement by a signal
which announced that he bore the bloody trophies of the victor.
in upon them in the hour of slumber—had slain two men, and
then massacred the remainder of the family, whose scalps he exhibited
in evidence of this atrocious deed of daring. To the ears
of those who have enjoyed the endearments of social life, it may
sound strange that the murderer of women and children should be
received with welcome. Yet such was the reception of the midnight
prowler, who came reeking with the blood of the innocent
and helpless. He was welcomed as one who had conferred honour
upon his people. Their natural love of vengeance and hatred
of their enemies were gratified by the bloody exploit. He was
conducted into the village by the whole band, the warriors dancing
around him, and singing their war-songs, while the women
and children followed the procession uttering shouts of joy and
triumph. On reaching the war-pole which stood in the centre of
the village, the scalps were suspended upon it, and a solemn dance
was performed; after which the successful brave withdrew to
one of the lodges, and seated himself on the ground before it in
silence. No one saluted him, nor asked him any questions, until
food was placed before him, and his hunger was satisfied. He
ate with the ravenous appetite of one who had fasted long; for in
the prosecution of his tedious journey homeward, he had eluded
pursuit by rapid marches, seldom halting except to sleep, nor
venturing to deviate far from his path in pursuit of game. When
sated with food he raised his head—the braves began to collect,
seating themselves quietly around him—the pipe was lighted, and
the lazy volumes of smoke began to curl over the heads of the
quiet assemblage. The Hawk recognised his friends, and they
gradually slid into a conversation which led to a recital of his
adventures. It is popularly supposed that curiosity appertains
especially to the female sex, and the Indian, above all men, is
thought to hold in supreme contempt this feminine propensity;
yet strange as it may seem, no tea-party or other collection of
the softer sex, ever followed up the tangled thread of a scandalous
rumour with more assiduity than was shown by these lordly
savages, in drawing out all the details of a massacre so congenial
to their tastes.
Having passed several hours pleasantly in such improving
comrade, and more than ever convinced that the Chippeway nation,
and particularly that portion of it comprised in the band at
Thunder Lake, were the bravest people on the face of the earth.
As for the Hawk, being well gorged with food, and disburthened
of the tale of his prowess, his mind was at ease, and his body
comfortable; so that, gathering his blanket about him, and throwing
his heroic form on the ground, he slept soundly for the next
fifteen hours. This luxurious state of repose would probably
have lasted for several days, had not an evil bird whispered bad
tidings in his ears.
It is not known with precision how the Hawk first heard of
the marriage of his brother with the Red Sky of the Morning.
The Indians say it was told him by a bad bird; but this phrase
includes all mischief-makers and tale-bearers, as well as the malevolent
spirits who assume the shapes of the feathered tribes to
work their evil purposes upon men. He made no remark; but
the disappointment and rage depicted upon his countenance, indicated
the storm of passion that raged within. He stalked moodily
about during the remainder of the day; and this hero, who
wore in triumph the scalps of two families, and was universally
envied and admired as the most expert cut-throat in the band,
was to all appearance as unhappy as any common man. So true
it is that genius and great actions, while they win applause, do
not afford any protection against the ordinary griefs of humanity.
To sum all in one word, he was crossed in love. The night was
spent in angry and revengeful thought, and before the day dawned
he had departed from the village.
Long and gloomy was the pilgrimage of the disappointed lover.
His first intention was to separate himself from his tribe, and to
abjure for ever all connection with his kindred. The wounded
pride that results from disappointment in a darling object, impelled
him to avoid the society of those who knew the tale of his
discomfiture. The success of a rival galled his vanity; and revenge,
the darling passion of the savage, began to coil itself about
his heart. Almost unconsciously he sought the trail of the objects
of his hourly thought, and having discovered the direction
of their journey, found an intense, though undefinable, interest in
strange gratification which a diseased spirit finds in that which
chafes its wound, impelled him forward; but every day and every
hour nourished within him the demon of revenge.
The solitary being who had thus given himself up to the indulgence
of a single passion, now devoted all his energies to the task
of searching out and studying those sings by which the Indian
derives intelligence that would be sealed to any other eye, and
that enable him to pursue the track of a retreating foe with astonishing
success. The footprints impressed upon the earth—the
relics of an extinguished fire—a thousand particulars too minute
to attract attention, except from a mind trained to seek and weigh
them, all afford him information; and having a clue, however
slight, his sagacity, his knowledge of the country, and his familiar
acquaintance with the habits of his people, enable him to follow
it out with wonderful acuteness. Thus he proceeded on his
tedious adventure for several weeks, often losing the track, and
again finding it accidentally, or by means of diligent research—
sometimes, when at fault, retracing his own footsteps until he regained
the track, and sometimes striking at a venture for some
distant point ahead, at which he supposed the travellers would
touch. At length he discovered newly-made signs, which showed
that those he sought were near at hand.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shadows of night
were gathering around, when the Hawk made the discovery
which suddenly arrested his footsteps. He paused upon the brink
of a beautiful river, whose clear waters flowed calmly by; the
air was still, and not a sound disturbed the harmony of the quiet
scene. On the opposite shore a thin column of smoke rose from
a thicket which concealed the fire from which it issued. He sat
down and gazed upon it, as the tiger watches the prey that is
unconsciously approaching his lair.
As long as the twilight lasted, he watched the object which had
thus riveted his attention, absorbed in thought, and lashing himself
into fury, by giving full scope to the passions that had long
been pent up in his bosom. Wearied, at last, he threw himself
on the ground to sleep, when suddenly the hooting of an owl attracted
his notice. The note was low, melancholy, and prolonged,
—a dismal screeching, so like the wail of human misery, that
many listen to it with superstitious dread. It now fell on the ear
of one who heard it with intense emotion. The bird of night was
the badge of his own family; and the very cry that now broke
so mournfully upon the stillness of the night, was used as a secret
signal between its members. Often, when lying in ambush, or
creeping stealthily upon a foe, had that wailing note conveyed intelligence
to his ear, and he heard it now with a thrill which
caused his whole frame to tremble. His sensations partook of
joy, uncertainty, and terror. He doubted whether the sound he
heard was the voice of the natural bird, which it resembled so
nearly, that even his practised ear could detect no difference—
whether it was the croaking of a spirit to warn him of danger,
or allure him to destruction, or whether it was the night signal
of a living member of his own family. Again and again it was
repeated, and then a response faintly heard from a distance,
across the water, ended his conjectures by the conviction that the
voices he heard were those of the objects of his intense hatred!
Creeping upon his hands and knees to the water's edge, the
Hawk listened: the splashing of a paddle was heard, and then a
birch canoe came gliding swiftly and silently over the still surface
of the river. It was guided by a single person, who plied
the paddle with expertness, but with the caution of extreme vigilance,
dipping it so gently as to create the least possible noise,
yet urging the skiff rapidly on its way. As it touched the beach,
the Hawk, losing all self-command, rushed forward, and stepped
into the little bark, shoving it at the same moment into the stream.
The woman who guided it resumed her labour; but in the next
instant a loud exclamation from the shore discovered to her that
a stranger had taken the place of him she sought; and a third
party, plunging in the water, soon reached the canoe, and grappled
it with a lusty hand. A fierce struggle ensued, and the
slight vessel being overturned, the combatants, locked in each
other's grim embrace, were cast into the water. The battle
there, though desperate, was brief. For a few minutes there was
a fearful struggle—then a deep groan from the Hawk, and a loud,
triumphant yell from his adversary announced the result.
The next morning's sun revealed a mournful spectacle. On
the shore lay the stiff and bloody corpse of that vindictive man
whose sad journey we have pursued to its tragic close. Beside
him sat the brother, the rival and foeman, whose hand had dealt
the fatal blow, and the beautiful woman, whose attractions had
kindled the feud which led to this fatal catastrophe. They shed
no tear, for it was not their nature to weep. They wailed not,
for the fallen was not a beloved object. But they gazed in terror
upon the dead man, and trembled at the dreadful thought that a
brother had shed a brother's blood.
Years have rolled away since that event. The Turtle returned
to his tribe, and lived long to enjoy the love of the Red Sky of
the Morning. A curse remained upon the place of the battle, which
became haunted by spirits, and was ever after avoided by men.
The Indians, in passing it, steer their canoes silently along the
opposite shore, and shudder as they point out to the stranger the
spot which, in their expressive language, they have named The
Place of the Fratricide.[3]
| THE RED SKY OF THE MORNING. The wilderness and the war path | |