University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Pattison.

—Anos.

Some five miles higher up the
Miami, and within a few yards of

the stream itself, was encamped,
on the night of the events detailed,
a band of warriors. Their camp,
however, was very simple. A
small fire was burning on a smooth
plat, around which, with their feet
centering toward the flame, lay extended
some eight or ten dark figures,
asleep—apparently so, at
least—over which the flickering and
sombre light cast wild, fantastic
shadows. The party had not even
taken the precaution to station sentinels—a
proof that they felt themselves
perfectly secure. They were
in the Indian country, where all the
tribes were friendly to each other,
and afar, as they imagined, from
the whites, their only enemies.
'Tis, true, they had been on the
war-path against the latter, and
some of their garments were yet
stained with the blood of recent
victims; while, at the girdles of
two, hung fresh scalps. It was
natural to suppose they would
be followed, yet they seemed to
have no fears—fancying doubtless,
that they were now either too far
distant to be overtaken immediately,
or that their foes were too unskillful
on the trail to find them; and
the more so, that they had broken it
for miles by passing up the bed of
the river. Thus they slept in security—not
as soundly, perhaps, as
they would have done in their own
cabins, but sufficiently sound to answer
all the purposes of nature, in
refreshing their wearied bodies—
while the waning moon, riding high
in the heavens, poured down over
all her flood of mellow light,and partially
dimmed the glare of the fire
of their camp.

It was not far from the meridian
of night when a tall figure glided
among the trees, and stealthily approached
them. When within ten
yards, he halted, examined them at
tentively, and then, as if satisfied
all was right, advanced boldly
toward the circle. Even this last
movement seemed unheeded, tho'
one or two turned and moved their
limbs, as if troubled by some unpleasant
dream; and one actually
went through the motions of taking
the scalp.

“Warriors on the war-path,” said
the voice of the figure, speaking in
the Shawance dialect, “I am surprised
to find you sleeping without
a sentinel!”

At the first sound of the speaker's
voice, each Indian sprang to his
feet in surp rise, and laid his hand
upon the rifle by his side, ready
for defense.

“Ugh!” ejaculated most of the
warriors, as their eyes fell upon
the speaker, while the grasp upon
their weapons gradually relaxed,
and they stood still, as if waiting to
hear further.

“Brothers,” continued Moody,
for he it was, “you sleep too soundly
on the war-path, and might
have been surprised by the pale-faces.”

“Does my brother know of danger,
that he thus chides us?” asked
a tall, fierce looking savage, who
appeared to be one possessed of
authority.

“There is always danger when
foes are in pursuit,” replied Moody.

“Are the pale-faces then on our
trail?” inquired the other, a fierce
gleam of satisfaction shooting
athwart his dark visage.

“They are within five miles of
us?” answered Moody, “and have
possessed themselves of the bird
which I caught in my snare.”

The hand of each was again
placed upon a weapon, and each
turned to the other a startled look
of inquiry, but no one replied. After
a silence of perhaps a minute,

the one who had first addressed
Moody, rejoined:

“Will my brother explain? or
does danger press?”

As Moody apprehended no danger
himself, he briefly narrated such
of the events already known to the
reader as he thought most likely
to rouse the ire of his swarthy companions,
and induce them to enter
into his plans—carefully avoiding,
however, any mention of Luther,
who was known personally, or by
report, to all present, and feared as
a Great Medicine, to contend with
whom would be useless—their
superstitious fears magnifying him
into a supernatural being, directly
under the influence and guidance
of the Great Spirit.

“You have heard,” said Moody,
in conclusion, glancing round upon
his auditors, and noting with satisfaction,
the involuntary tightening
of their hands upon their rifles, the
gleaming of their eyes, and the
dilating of their mostrils, the only
signs, indicative of their intense
interest in his recital. No one replied;
and after a silence of some
moments, Moody resumed, in a
rather impatient tone:

“I trust, my brothers, you are not
turning squaws. That you have
been brave, these eyes have seen,
and this tongue can bear witness.
Are you ready for the war-path
again?—or are your knives and
hatchets dull, and your powder wet?
Speak! for Posetha[1] would know.”

“My brother,” replied Mugwa[2] ,
the spokesman on the part of the
Indians, “is hasty. Posetha should
remember an Indian must always
take time to consider before he
adopts a new plan. We have been
on the war-path toward the south,
and our faces are now set to the
north. Before we change our
course, we must hold council.”

“Then, by—! let it be speedily!”
growled Moody, in English,
making use of an oath. “If you
don't choose to accompany me soon,
I shall go alone; for be revenged I
will, though it cost me my life.”

As this was said in a low tone,
and in a language which the best
among them but imperfectly understood,
it of course elicited no remark.
Each, however, noted the
manner of Moody, and saw that he
was dissatisfied; but even this
failed to bring out a single comment,
so accustomed were the Indians
to silence, when any important
question was pending. Having
seated themselves around the fire,
Mugwa now slowly produced a
pipe, which he filled, and lighted,
smoked a short time in silence, and
passed to his neighbor; who, imitating
his example, smoked and passed
it to the next; and thus it went
around the circle, Moody merely
drawing a few whiffs, to comply as
briefly as possible with the Indian
council custom.

When the last smoker had done,
and a sufficient pause had succeeded,
Mugwa rose and said:

“The ears of the Piquas are now
open to the words of the pale-face
chief. Let my brother lay before
them his plans, that they may consider
if they be wise.”

“Brothers,” rejoined Moody, rising
as the other sat down, “my
words shall be few, and to the
point; for my tongue is parched and
thirsty for blood, and my limbs are
weary and stiff with long watching
in the bowels of the earth. Brothers,
I was made your chief, and we
have been upon the war-path together—not
unsuccessfully, as yonder

trophies bear witness.” Here
he pointed to the two scalps before
mentioned, one of which was dangling
from the belt of Mugwa.
“Brothers,” he continued, “on that
war-path all were brave, and fought
as became warriors, until prudence,
the gift of the wise, bade them retire.
On that war-path Posetha
caught a dove, and had her caged,
and then went and consulted
his brothers, and asked, and they
generously gave him, permission to
do with her as he might see proper.
Brothers, Posetha returned to the
cage where he had left his dove, and
there he found her, and was happy,
until the vultures of pale-faces came
and snatched her away, and set upon
him, and nearly picked out his
eyes. Brothers, Posetha would have
revenge!—he would have the bones
of the pale-faces whiten in the open
air, while their scalps dry in the cabins
of his red friends! Brothers, if
you are ambitious, now is the time
to distinguish yourselves, and carry
home trophies that shall please the
Great Spirit, and send your names
down by tradition to far posterity.
The pale-faces will be unguarded;
they think the “Cat” is dead; and
they can be taken unawares, and
conquered without a blow. Brothers,
if you are willing, Posetha will
lead you to a cover, where your
enemies will pass unguarded, and
can all be made your prisoners for
the torture, or their scalps can be
taken on the spot. Brothers, I have
only one reserve to make: the dove
must not be harmed; she is mine,
and I must have her to coo in my
wigwam. Brothers, I am done, and
wait your answers.”

Moody sat down, and a deep silence
succeeded. Each savage remained
as stern and motionless as
marble, with his eyes fixed upon the
fire, apparently in a dreamy, con
templative mood. At length Mugwa
motioned for the pipe; and on
its being handed him, he refilled it,
smoked a little, and passed it to his
neighbor; and thus it went around
the circle again, in silence, not a
single warrior having opened his
lips. After another brief pause,
whereby each seemed determined
to give his neighbor a chance, Mugwa,
chief of the Indians, arose.
We say chief, for although Moody
was nominally so, yet Mugwa had
more direct command over the savages
than the other.

For a moment or two, Mugwa ran
his eyes over the group before him,
as we sometimes see an orator,
when he desires to make an impression,
and draw exclusive attention
to himself. He was a tall, powerful
warrior, and in his paint looked
sufficiently ferocious to entitle him
to his appellation of the “Bear,” or
please the vanity of a savage. His
eyes were black and fiery, and a
look of cunning and brutality formed
the prevailing expression of his
features.

“Brothers,” he said at length,
“you have heard the words of Posetha;
to Mugwa they seem wise and
good. There seems a chance for
more trophies. A chance to take
new vengeance on this hated race,
that are fast usurping our own and
the hunting grounds of our fathers.
Soon shall we be forced toward the
setting sun, unless our hands are
continually died in their blood.
They will over-run and cover the
land we tread on as the leaves in
the autumn. If a viper creep into
our wigwam, do we not crush it,
lest it do us harm?—and yet were
the ground thick with vipers, instead
of pale-faces, we should have reason
to rejoice. Brothers, on this
war-path we have done well—shall
we not do better? Shall we not

please our squaws and young men,
by bringing them prisoners to torture?
When we take the scalps of
our enemies, the Great Spirit is
pleased—shall we not, then, please
the Great Spirit? The voice of
Mugwa says `Yes!' Who says
`No?' Let me hear?”

Here Mugwa sat down, amid
grunts of approbation from his savage
auditors. Another profound
silence of some minutes succeeded,
when a warrior rose.

“Unkee,” he said, “has heard the
words of the great chiefs, and he
thinks them wise. In the lodge of
Unkee are a squaw and three pappooses.
When he returns, they will
ask to see his trophies. Unkee has
nothing to show. Their faces will
be sad. Unkee would have them
glad. The great chiefs have pointed
out a way. Unkee is pleased, and he
thinks the chiefs wise. He is done.”

Saying this, the last speaker quietly
resumed his seat. But enough
had been said. There was no further
need of grave deliberation.
The minds of all had become fully
settled. Their passions had been
wrought upon, and they were ready
for deeds of blood. Suddenly some
two or three warriors sprang to
their feet, and uttered the scalp
halloo. Others followed their example.
The matter was soon decided,
and the council over. Water
was now brought and thrown upon
the fire; belts were tightened;
weapons put in their proper places;
and the announcement was made
that all was ready.

“Follow!” said Moody; and taking
his way across a small open
plat, he was soon buried in a dense
thicket. One after another, to the
number of ten dark warriors, trod
in his steps, and, disappearing, left
the scene of the late council silent
and deserted.