 | CHAPTER XI. The prairie |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.”
Shakspeare
The Siouxes had awaited the issue of the foregoing
dialogue with commendable patience. Most of
the band were restrained, by the secret awe with
which they regarded the mysterious character of
Obed; while a few of the more intelligent chiefs
gladly profited by the opportunity, to arrange their
thoughts for the struggle that was now too plainly
foreseen. Mahtoree, influenced by neither of these
feelings, was content to show the trapper how much
he conceded to his pleasure; and when the old man
discontinued the discourse, he received from the
chief a glance, that was intended to remind him of
the patience, with which he had awaited his movements.
A profound and motionles silence succeeded
the short interruption. Then Mahtoree arose, evidently
prepared to speak. First placing himself in
an attitude of dignity, he turned a steady and severe
look on the whole assembly. The expression of his
eye, however, changed as it glanced across the different
countenances of his supporters and of his opponents.
To the former the look, though stern, was
not threatening, while it seemed to tell the latter all
the hazards they incurred in daring to brave the resentment
of one so powerful.
Still, in the midst of so much hauteur and confidence,
the sagacity and cunning of the Teton did not
desert him. When he had thus thrown the gauntlet,
as it were, to the whole tribe, and sufficiently asserted
his claim to superiority, his mien became more
affable and his eye less angry. Then it was that he
raised his voice, in the midst of a death-like stillness,
varying its tones to suit the changing character of
his images, and of his eloquence.
“What is a Sioux?” the chief sagaciously began;
“he is ruler of the prairies, and master of its beasts.
The fishes in the `river of troubled waters' know
him, and come at his call. He is a fox in counsel;
an eagle in sight; a grizzly bear in combat. A Dahcotah
is a man!” After waiting for the low murmur
of approbation, which followed this flattering portrait
of his people to subside, the Teton continued—
“What is a Pawnee? A thief who only steals from
women; a Red-skin who is not brave; a hunter that
begs for his venison. In counsel he is a squirrel,
hopping from place to place; he is an owl, that goes
on the prairies at night; in battle he is an elk, whose
legs are long. A Pawnee is a woman.” Another
pause succeeded, during which a yell of delight
broke from several mouths, and a demand was made,
that the taunting words should be translated to the
unconscious subject of their biting contempt. The
old man took his cue from the eyes of Mahtoree, and
complied. Hard-Heart listened gravely, and then,
as if apprized that his time to speak had not arrived,
he once more bent his look on the vacant air. The
orator watched his countenance, with an expression
that manifested how inextinguishable was the hatred
he felt for the only chief, far and near, whose fame
might advantageously be compared with his own.
Though disappointed in not having touched the pride
of one whom he regarded as a boy, he proceeded,
the tempers of the men of his own tribe, in order
that they might be prepared to work his savage purposes.
“If the earth was covered with rats, which
are good for nothing,” he said, “there would be no
room for buffaloes, which give food and clothes to
an Indian. If the prairies were covered with Pawnees,
there would be no room for the foot of a Dahcotah.
A Loup is a rat, a Sioux a heavy buffaloe;
let the buffaloes tread upon the rats and make room
for themselves.
“My brothers, a little child has spoken to you.
He tells you, his hair is not gray, but frozen—that
the grass will not grow where a Pale-face has died!
Does he know the colour of the blood of a Big-knife?
No! I know he does not; he has never seen
it. What Dahcotah, besides Mahtoree, has ever
struck a Pale-face? Not one. But Mahtoree must
be silent. Every Teton will shut his ears when he
speaks. The scalps over his lodge were taken by
the women. They were taken by Mahtoree, and he
is a woman. His mouth is shut; he waits for the
feasts to sing among the girls!”
Notwithstanding the exclamations of regret and
resentment, which followed so abasing a declaration,
the chief took his seat, as if determined to speak no
more. But as the murmurs grew louder and more
general, and there were threatening symptoms that
the council would dissolve itself in confusion, he
arose and resumed his speech, by changing his manner
to the fierce and hurried enunciation of a warrior
bent on revenge.
“Let my young men go look for Tetao!” he
cried; “they will find his scalp, drying in Pawnee
smoke. Where is the son of Boreecheena? His
bones are whiter than the faces of his murderers. Is
Mahhah asleep in his lodge? You know it is many
would he were here, that he might say of what
colour was the hand that took his scalp!”
In this strain the artful chief continued for many
minutes, calling those warriors by name, who were
known to have met their deaths in battle with the
Pawnees, or in some of those lawless frays which so
often occurred between the Sioux bands and a class
of white men, who were but little removed from them
in the qualities of civilization. Time was not given
to reflect on the merits, or rather the demerits, of
most of the different individuals to whom he alluded,
in consequence of the rapid manner in which he run
over their names, but so cunningly did he time his
events, and so thrilling did he make his appeals, aided
as they were by the power of his deep-toned and
stirring voice, that each of them struck an answering
chord in the breast of some one of his auditors.
It was in the midst of one of his highest flights of
eloquence, that a man, so aged as to walk with the
greatest difficulty, entered the very centre of the circle,
and took his stand directly in front of the speaker.
An ear of great acuteness might possibly have detected
that the tones of the orator faltered a little, as
his flashing look first fell on this unexpected object,
though the change was so trifling, that none, but such
as thoroughly knew the parties, would have suspected
it. The stranger had once been as distinguished for
his beauty and proportions, as had been his eagle eye
for its irresistible and terrible glance. But his skin
was now wrinkled, and his features furrowed with so
many scars, as to have obtained for him, half a century
before, from the French of the Canadas, a title
which has been borne by so many of the heroes of
France, and which had now been adopted into the
language of the wild horde of whom we are writing,
as the one most expressive of the deeds of their own
brave. The murmur of Le Balafré, that ran through
his name and the high estimation of his character,
but how extraordinary his visit was considered. As
he neither spoke nor moved, however, the sensation
created by his appearance soon subsided, and then
every eye was again turned upon the speaker, and
every ear once more drunk in the intoxication of his
maddening appeals.
It would have been easy to have traced the triumph
of Mahtoree, in the reflecting countenances of
his auditors. It was not long before a look of ferocity
and of revenge was to be seen seated on the
grim visages of most of the warriors, and each new
and crafty allusion to the policy of extinguishing their
enemies, was followed by fresh and less restrained
bursts of approbation. In the height of this success
the Teton closed his speech by a rapid appeal to the
pride and hardihood of his native band, and suddenly
took his seat.
In the midst of the murmurs of applause, which
succeeded so remarkable an effort of eloquence, a
low, feeble, and hollow voice was heard rising on
the ear, as though it rolled from the inmost cavities
of the human chest, and gathered strength and energy
as it issued into the air. A solemn stillness followed
the sounds, and then the lips of the aged man were
first seen to move.
“The day of Le Balafré is near its end,” were
the first words that were distinctly audible. “He is
like a buffaloe, on whom the hair will grow no longer.
He will soon be ready to leave his lodge, to go in
search of another, that is far from the villages of the
Siouxes; therefore, what he has to say concerns not
him, but those he leaves behind him. His words are
like the fruit on the tree, ripe and fit to be given to
the chiefs.
“Many snows have fallen since Le Balafré has
been found on the war-path. His blood has been very
gives him dreams of war no longer; he sees that it is
better to live in peace.
“My brothers, one foot is turned to the happy
hunting-grounds, the other will soon follow, and then
an old chief will be seen looking for the prints of
his father's moccasins, that he may make no mistake,
but be sure to come before the Master of Life,
by the same path, as so many good Indians have already
travelled. But who will follow? Le Balafré
has no son. His oldest has ridden too many Pawnee
horses; the bones of the youngest have been gnawed
by Konza dogs! Le Balafré has come to look for a
young arm, on which he may lean, and to find a son,
that when he is gone his lodge may not be empty.
Tachechana, the skipping fawn of the Tetons, is too
weak, to prop a warrior, who is old. She looks before
her and not backwards. Her mind is in the lodge
of her husband.”
The enunciation of the veteran warrior had been
calm, but distinct and decided. His declaration was
received in silence, and though several of the chiefs,
who were in the counsels of Mahtoree, turned their
eyes on their leader, none presumed to oppose so
aged and so venerated a brave in a resolution that
was strictly in conformity to the usages of the nation.
The Teton himself was content to await the result
with seeming composure, though the gleams of ferocity,
that played about his eye, occasionally betrayed
the nature of those feelings, with which he witnessed
a procedure, that was likely to rob him of that one
of all his intended victims whom he most hated.
In the mean time Le Balafré moved with a slow
and painful step towards the captives. He stopped
before the person of Hard-Heart, whose faultless
form, unchanging eye, and lofty mien, he contemplated
long, with high and evident satisfaction. Then
making a gesture of authority, he awaited, until his
from the post and his bonds, by the same blow of the
knife. When the young warrior was led nearer to
his dimmed and failing sight, the examination was
renewed, with all that strictness of scrutiny and admiration,
which physical excellence is so apt to excite
in the breast of a savage.
“It is good,” the wary veteran at length murmured,
when he found that all his skill in the requisites of a
brave could detect no blemish; “this is a leaping
panther! Does my son speak with the tongue of a
Teton?”
The intelligence, which lighted the eyes of the
captive, betrayed how well he understood the question,
but still he was far too haughty to communicate
his ideas through the medium of a language that belonged
to a hostile people. Some of the surrounding
warriors explained to the old chief, that the captive
was a Pawnee-Loup.
“My son opened his eyes on the `waters of the
wolves,' ” said Le Balafré, in the language of that
nation, “but he will shut them in the bend of the
`river with a troubled stream.' He was born a
Pawnee, but he will die a Dahcotah. Look at me.
I am a sycamore, that once covered many with my
shadow. The leaves are fallen, and the branches
begin to drop. But a single succour is springing
from my roots; it is a little vine, and it winds itself
about a tree that is green. I have long looked for
one fit to grow by my side. Now have I found it.
Le Balafré is no longer without a son; his name will
not be forgotten when he is gone! Men of the Tetons,
I take this youth into my lodge.”
No one was bold enough to dispute a right, that
had so often been exercised by warriors far inferior
to the present speaker, and the adoption was listened
to, in a grave and respectful silence. Le Balafré
took his intended son by the arm, and leading him
with an air of triumph, in order that the spectators
might approve of his choice. Mahtoree betrayed no
evidence of his intentions, but rather seemed to await
a moment better suited to the crafty policy of his
character. The more experienced and sagacious
chiefs distinctly foresaw the utter impossibility of two
partisans so renowned, so hostile, and who had so
long been rivals in fame as their prisoner and their
native leader, existing amicably in the same tribe.
Still the character of Le Balafré was so imposing,
and the custom to which he had resorted so sacred,
that none dared to lift a voice in opposition to the
measure. They watched the result with increasing
interest, but with a coldness of demeanour that concealed
the nature of their inquietude. From this
state of embarrassment, and as it might readily have
proved of disorganization, the tribe was unexpectedly
relieved by the decision of the one most interested in
the success of the aged chief's designs.
During the whole of the foregoing scene, it would
have been difficult to have traced a single distinct
emotion in the lineaments of the captive. He had
heard his release proclaimed, with the same indifference
as the order to bind him to the stake. But now,
that the moment had arrived when it became necessary
to make his election, he spoke in a way to prove
that the fortitude, which had bought him so distinguished
a name, had in no degree deserted him.
“My father is very old, but he has not yet looked
upon every thing,” said Hard-Heart, in a voice so
clear as to be heard by all in presence. “He has
never seen a buffaloe change to a bat. He will never
see a Pawnee become a Sioux!”
There was a suddenness, and yet a calmness in
the manner of delivering this decision, which assured
most of the auditors that it was unalterable. The
heart of Le Balafré, however, was yearning towards
the youth, and the fondness of age was not so readily
triumph, which the boldness of the declaration, and
the freshened hopes of revenge had given rise to, by
turning his gleaming eye around the band, the veteran
again addressed his adopted child, as though his purpose
was not to be denied.
“It is well,” he said; “such are the words a brave
should use, that the warriors might see his heart.
The day has been when the voice of Le Balafré was
loudest among the lodges of the Konzas. But the
root of a white hair is wisdom. My child will show
the Tetons that he is brave, by striking their enemies.
Men of the Dahcotahs this is my son!”
The Pawnee hesitated a moment, and then stepping
in front of the chief, he took his hard and
wrinkled hand, and laid it with reverence on his head,
as if to acknowledge the extent of his obligation.
Then recoiling a step, he raised his person to its
greatest elevation, and looked upon the hostile band,
by whom he was environed, with an air of loftiness
and disdain, as he spoke aloud, in the language of
the Siouxes—
“Hard-Heart has looked at himself within and
without. He has thought of all he has done in the
hunts and in the wars. Every where he is the same.
There is no change. He is in all things a Pawnee.
He has struck so many Tetons that he could never
eat in their lodges. His arrows would fly backwards;
the point of his lance would be on the wrong end;
their friends would weep at every whoop he gave;
their enemies would laugh. Do the Tetons know a
Loup? Let them look at him again. His head is
painted, his arm is flesh, but his heart is rock. When
the Tetons see the sun come from the Rocky Mountains,
and move towards the land of the Pale-faces,
the mind of Hard-Heart will soften, and his spirit
will become Sioux. Until that day he will live and
die a Pawnee.”
A yell of delight, in which admiration and ferocity
but too clearly announced the character of his fate.
The captive awaited a moment, for the commotion
to subside, and then turning again to Le Balafré he
continued, in tones far more conciliating and kind, as
if he felt the propriety of softening his refusal in a
manner not to wound the pride of one who would so
gladly be his benefactor.
“Let my father lean heavier on the fawn of the
Dahcotahs,” he said. “She is weak now, but as her
lodge fills with young, she will be stronger. See,”
he added, directing the eyes of the other to the earnest
countenance of the attentive trapper; “Hard-Heart
is not without a gray-head to show him the
path to the blessed prairies. If he ever has another
father, it shall be that just warrior.”
Le Balafré turned away in disappointment from
the youth, and approached the stranger, who had
thus anticipated his design. The examination between
these two aged men was long, mutual, and
curious. It was not easy to detect the real character
of the trapper through the mask which the hardships
of so many years had laid upon his features, especially
when aided by his wild and peculiar attire.
Some moments elapsed before the Teton spoke, and
then it was in doubt whether he addressed one like
himself or some wanderer of that race who, he had
heard, were spreading themselves, like hungry locusts,
throughout the land.
“The head of my brother is very white,” he said,
“but the eye of Le Balafré is no longer like the
eagle's. Of what colour is his skin?”
“The Wahconcah made me like these you see
waiting for a Dahcotah judgment; but fair and foul
has coloured me darker than the skin of a fox. What
of that! Though the bark is ragged and riven, the
heart of the tree is sound!”
“My brother is a Big-knife! Let him turn his
he see the salt lake beyond the mountains?”
“The time has been, Teton, when few could see
the white on the eagle's head farther than I; but the
glare of fourscore and seven winters has dimmed my
eyes, and but little can I boast of sight in my latter
days. Does the Sioux think a Pale-face is a god,
that he can look through the hills!”
“Then let my brother look at me. I am nigh him,
and he can see that I am but a foolish Red-man.
Why cannot his people see every thing, since they
crave all.”
“I understand you, chief; nor will I gainsay the
justice of your words, seeing that they are too much
founded in truth. But though born of the race you
love so little, my worst enemy, not even a lying
Mingo, would dare to say that I ever laid hands on
the goods of another, except such as were taken in
manful warfare, or that I ever coveted more ground
than the Lord has intended each man to fill.”
“And yet my brother has come among the Red-skins
to find a son?”
The trapper laid a finger on the naked shoulder
of Le Balafré, and looked into his scarred countenance
with a wistful and confidential expression, as
he answered—
“Ay; but it was only that I might do good to the
boy. If you think, Dahcotah, that I adopted the
youth in order to prop my age, you do as much injustice
to my good-will, as you seem to know little of
the marciless intentions of your own people. I have
made him my son, that he may know that one is left
behind him—Peace, Hector, peace! is this decent,
pup, when gray-heads are counselling together, to
break in upon their discourse with the whinings of a
hound! The dog is old, Teton, and though well
taught in respect of behaviour, he is getting, like ourselves,
I fancy, something forgetful of the fashions of
his youth.”
Further discourse between these veterans was interrupted
by a discordant yell, which burst at that
moment from the lips of the dozen withered crones,
who have already been mentioned as having forced
themselves into a conspicuous part of the circle.
The outcry was excited by a sudden change in the
air of Hard-Heart. When the old men turned towards
the youth, they saw him standing in the very
centre of the ring, with his head erect, his eye fixed on
vacancy, one leg advanced and an arm a little raised,
as if all his faculties were absorbed in the act of
listening. A smile lighted his countenance for a
single moment, and then the whole man sunk again
into his former look of dignity and coldness, as
though suddenly recalled to self-possession. The
movement had been construed into contempt, and
even the tempers of the chiefs began to be excited.
Unable to restrain their fury, the women broke into
the circle in a body, and commenced their attack by
loading the captive with the most bitter revilings.
They boasted of the various exploits, which their
sons had achieved at the expense of the different
tribes of the Pawness. They undervalued his own
reputation, and told him to look at Mahtoree, if he
had never yet seen a warrior. They accused him
of having been suckled by a doe, and of having drunk
in cowardice with his mother's milk. In short, they
lavished upon their unmoved captive a torrent of that
vindictive abuse, in which the women of the savages
are so well known to excel, but which has been too
often described to need a repetition here.
The effect of this outbreaking was inevitable. Le
Balafré turned away disappointed, and hid himself in
the crowd, while the trapper, whose honest features
were working with his inward emotions, pressed
nigher to his young friend, as those who are linked
to the criminal, by ties so strong as to brave the
opinions of men, are often seen to stand about the
place of execution to support his dying moments.
though the chiefs still forebore to make the signal,
which committed the victim to their mercy.
Mahtoree, who had awaited such a movement among
his fellows, with the wary design of concealing his
own jealous hatred, soon grew weary of delay, and,
by a glance of his eye, encouraged the tormentors to
proceed.
Weucha, who, eager for this sanction, had long
stood watching the countenance of the chief, bounded
forward at the signal like a blood-hound loosened
from the leash. Forcing his way into the centre of
the hags, who were already proceeding from abuse
to violence, he reproved their impatience and bade
them wait, until a warrior had begun to torment, and
then they should see their victim shed tears like a
woman.
The heartless savage commenced his efforts by
flourishing his tomahawk about the head of the captive,
in such a manner as to give reason to suppose,
that each blow would bury the weapon in the flesh,
while it was so governed as not to touch the skin. To
this customary expedient Hard-Heart was perfectly
insensible. His eye kept the same steady, riveted
look on the air, though the glittering axe described,
in its evolutions, a bright circle of light before his
countenance. Frustrated in this attempt, the callous
Sioux laid the cold edge on the naked head of his
victim, and began to describe the different manners,
in which a prisoner might be flayed. The women
kept time to his cruelties with their taunts, and endeavoured
to force some expression of the lingerings
of nature from the insensible features of the Pawnee.
But he evidently reserved himself for the chiefs, and
for those moments of extreme anguish, when the loftiness
of his spirit might evince itself in a manner better
becoming his high and untarnished reputation.
The eyes of the trapper followed every movement
of the tomahawk, with the interest of a real father,
he exclaimed—
“My son has forgotten his cunning. This is a
low-minded Indian, and one easily hurried into folly.
I cannot do the thing myself, for my traditions forbid
a dying warrior to revile his persecutors, but the
gifts of a Red-skin are different. Let the Pawnee
say the bitter words and purchase an easy death. I
will answer for his success, provided he speaks before
the grave men set their wisdom to back the folly
of this fool.”
The savage Sioux, who heard his words without
comprehending their meaning, turned to the speaker,
and menaced him with instant death for his temerity.
“Ay, work your will,” said the unflinching old
man; “I am as ready now as I shall be to-morrow.
Though it would be a death that an honest man
might not wish to die. Look at that noble Pawnee,
Teton, and see what a Red-skin may become, who
fears the Master of Life and follows his laws. How
many of your people has he sent to the distant prairies,”
he continued, in a sort of pious fraud, thinking,
that while the danger menaced himself, there could
surely be no sin in extolling the merits of another;
“how many howling Siouxes has he struck, like a
warrior in open combat, while arrows were sailing
in the air plentier than flakes of falling snow. Go!
will Weucha speak the name of one enemy he has
ever struck?”
“Hard-Heart!” shouted the Sioux, turning in his
fury, and aiming a deadly blow at the head of his
victim. His arm fell into the hollow of the captive's
hand. For a single moment the two stood as though
entranced in that attitude, the one paralyzed by so
unexpected a resistance, and the other bending his
head, not to meet his death, but in the act of the
most intense attention. The women screamed with
triumph, for they thought the nerves of the captive
the honour of his friend, and Hector, as if conscious
of what was passing, raised his nose into the air, and
uttered a piteous howl.
But the Pawnee hesitated only for that moment.
Raising the other hand, like lightning, the tomahawk
flashed in the air, and Weucha sunk to his feet,
brained to the eye. Then cutting a way with the
bloody weapon, he darted through the opening, left
by the frightened women, and seemed to descend the
declivity at a single bound.
Had a bolt from Heaven fallen in the midst of the
Teton band it would not have occasioned greater
consternation than this act of desperate hardihood.
A shrill plaintive cry burst from the lips of all the
women, and there was a moment, that even the oldest
warriors appeared to have lost their faculties.
This stupor endured only for the instant. It was
succeeded by a yell of revenge, that burst from a
hundred throats, while as many warriors started forward
at the cry, bent on the most bloody retribution.
But a powerful and authoritative call from Mahtoree
arrested every foot. The chief, in whose countenance
disappointment and rage were struggling with
the affected composure of his station, extended an
arm towards the river and the whole mystery was
explained.
Hard-Heart had already crossed near half the bottom,
which lay between the acclivity and the water.
At this precise moment a band of armed and mounted
Pawnees turned a swell, and galloped to the margin
of the stream, into which the plunge of the fugitive
was now distinctly heard. A few minutes sufficed
for his vigorous arm to conquer the passage, and
then the shout from the opposite shore told the humbled
Tetons the whole extent of the triumph of their
adversaries.
| CHAPTER XI. The prairie | |