 | CHAPTER VIII. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“That was a sight for a father. I can't tell you—and I won't
try—how I felt. But I lay there, resting upon my hands and
knees, jest as if I had been turned into stone with looking. I lay
so for a good half hour, I reckon, without stirring a limb; and you
could only tell that life was in me, by seeing the big drops that
squeezed out of my eyes now and then, and by a sort of shivering
that shook me as you sometimes see the canebrake shaking with
the gust of the pond inside. I tried to pray to God for help, but I
couldn't pray, and as for thinking, that was jest as impossible.
But I could do nothing by looking, and, for that matter, it was
pretty cla'r to me, as I stood, with no help—by myself—one rifle
only and knife—I couldn't do much by moving. I could have
lifted the gun, and in a twinkle- tumbled the best fellow in the
gang, but what good was that guine to do me? I was never fond
of blood-spilling, and if I could have been made sure of my
daughter, I'd ha' been willing that the red devils should have had
leave to live for ever. What was I to do? Go to the block?
Who know'd if it warn't taken, with every soul in it? And
where else was I to look for help? Nowhere, nowhere but to
God! I groaned—I groaned so loud that I was dreadful 'feared
that they'd hear me; but they were too busy among themselves,
eating supper, and poor Lucy in the midst, not eating, but so pale,
and looking so miserable—jest as I had seen her, when she was
only a child—in the same fix, though 'twas only an appearance
—eleven years ago! Well, at last, I turned off. As I couldn't
say what to do, I was too miserable to look, and I went down to
the bottom of the hill and rolled about on the ground, pulling the
hair out of my head and groaning, as if that was to do me any
good. Before I knew where I was, there was a hand on my
shoulder. I jumped up to my feet, and flung my rifle over my
head, meaning to bring the butt down upon the stranger—but his
voice stopped me.
“ `Brother,' said he, `me Lenatewá!'
“The way he talked, his soft tones, made me know that the
young prince meant to be friendly, and I gave him my hand; but
the tears gushed out as I did so, and I cried out like a man struck
in the very heart, while I pointed to the hill—`My child, my
child!'
“ `Be man!' said he, `come!' pulling me away.
“ `But, will you save her, Lenatewá?'
“He did not answer instantly, but led me to the little lake, and
pointed to the old tree over which I had borne his lifeless body so
many years ago. By that I knew he meant to tell me, he had not
forgotten what I had done for him; and would do for me all he
could. But this did not satisfy me. I must know how and when
it was to be done, and what was his hope; for I could see from
his caution, and leading me away from the camp, that he did not
command the party, and had no power over them. He then asked
me, if I had not seen the paint of the warriors in the camp. But I
had seen nothing but the fix of my child. He then described the
paint to me, which was his way of showing me that the party on
the hill were his deadly enemies. The paint about their eyes
was that of the great chief, his uncle, who had tried to murder
him years ago, and who had been shot, in my sight, by the party
of his father. The young chief, now in command of the band on
the hill was the son of his uncle, and sworn to revenge the death
of his father upon him, Lenatewá. This he made me onderstand
in a few minutes. And he gave me farther to onderstand, that
there was no way of getting my child from them onless by cunning.
He had but two followers with him, and they were even
then busy in making preparations. But of these preparations he
either would not or could not give me any account; and I had to
wait on him with all the patience I could muster; and no easy
trial it was, for an Indian is the most cool and slow-moving creature
in the world, unless he's actually fighting, and then he's
about the quickest. After awhile, Lenatewá led me round the
hill. We fetched a pretty smart reach, and before I knew where
I was, he led me into a hollow that I had never seen before. Here,
to my surprise, there were no less than twelve or fourteen horses
fastened, that these red devils had stolen from the settlement that
young prince told me.
“ `Him soon move,' said he, pointing to one on the outside,
which a close examination showed me to be my own—`Him soon
move,'—and these words gave me a notion of his plan. But he
did not allow me to have any hand in it—not jest then, at least.
Bidding me keep a watch on the fire above, for the hollow in which
we stood was at the foot of the very hill the Indians had made
their camp on—though the stretch was a long one between—he
pushed for'ad like a shadow, and so slily, so silently, that, though I
thought myself a good deal of a scout before, I saw then that I warn't
fit to hold a splinter to him. In a little time he had unhitched my
horse, and quietly led him farther down the hollow, half round
the hill, and then up the opposite hill. There was very little
noise, the wind was from the camp, and, though they didn't show
any alarm, I was never more scary in my life. I followed Lenatewá,
and found where he had fastened my nag. He had placed
him several hundred yards from the Indians, on his way to the
block; and, where we now stood, owing to the bend of the hollow,
the camp of the Indians was between us and where they had
hitched the stolen horses. When I saw this, I began to guess
something of his plan. Meantime, one after the other, his two
followers came up, and made a long report to him in their own
language. This done, he told me that three of my hunting companions
had been sculped, the other, who was Hugh Darling, had
got off cl'ar, though fired upon twice, and had alarmed the block,
and that my daughter had been made prisoner at the farm to
which she had gone without any company. This made me a little
easier, and Lenatewá then told me what he meant to do. In
course, I had to do something myself towards it. Off he went,
with his two men, leaving me to myself. When I thought they
had got pretty fairly round the hill, I started back for the camp,
trying my best, you may be sure, to move as slily as Lenatewá.
I got within twenty-five yards, I reckon, when I thought it better
to lie by quietly and wait. I could see every head in the huddle,
and my poor child among them, looking whiter than a sheet, beside
their ugly painted skins. Well, I hadn't long to wait, when
there was such an uproar among the stolen horses in the hollow
and whickering, you never heard the like. Now, you must know,
that a stolen horse, to an Indian, is jest as precious as a sweet-heart
to a white man; and when the rumpus reached the camp,
there was a rush of every man among them, for his critter.
Every redskin, but one, went over the hill after the horses, and he
jumped up with the rest, but didn't move off. He stood over poor
Lucy with his tomahawk, shaking it above her head, as if guine
to strike every minute. She, poor child—I could see her as plain
as the fire-light, for she sat jest on one side of it—her hands were
clasped together. She was praying, for she must have looked
every minute to be knocked on the head. You may depend, I
found it very hard to keep in. I was a'most biling over, the more
when I saw the red devil making his flourishes, every now and
then, close to the child's ears, with his bloody we'pon. But it
was a needcessity to keep in till the sounds died off pretty much,
so as not to give them any scare this side, till they had dashed
ahead pretty far 'pon the other. I don't know that I waited quite
as long as I ought to, but I waited as long as my feelings would
let me, and then I dropped the sight of my rifle as close as I could
fix it on the breast of the Indian that had the keeping of my child.
I took aim, but I felt I was a little tremorsome, and I stopped. I
know'd I had but one shoot, and if I didn't onbutton him in that
one, it would be a bad shoot for poor Lucy. I didn't fear to hit
her, and I was pretty sure I'd hit him. But it must be a dead
shot to do good, for I know'd if I only hurt him, that he'd sink the
tomahawk in her head with what strength he had left him. I
brought myself to it again, and this time I felt strong. I could
jest hear a little of the hubbub of men and horses afar off. I knew
it was the time, and, resting the side of the muzzle against a tree,
I give him the whole blessing of the bullet. I didn't stop to ask
what luck, but run in, with a sort o' cry, to do the finishing with
the knife. But the thing was done a'ready. The beast was on
his back, and I only had to use the knife in cutting the vines that
fastened the child to the sapling behind her. The brave gal
didn't scream or faint. She could only say, `Oh, my father!'
and I could only say, `Oh! my child!' And what a precious
hug followed; but it was only for a minute. We had no time to
left the critter, and if the good old nag ever used his four shanks
to any purpose, he did that night. I reckon it was a joyful surprise
to poor Betsy when we broke into the block. She had given
it out for sartin that she'd never see me or the child again, with
a nateral sculp on our heads.
| CHAPTER VIII. The wigwam and the cabin | |