University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

As yet I had not exchanged a word with
any of the tribe but Prairie Flower; and
as I left the cot, I turned toward a crowd,
which was huddled together near the center
of the temporary village, their eyes all
fixed in a certain direction. I knew by
this, and the abrupt departure of Prairie
Flower, that something unusual had occurred;
and hastening forward, I soon
reached them, and, to my surprise, found
most of them in tears, and the others looking
very solemn.

“What has happened, my friends?”
inquired I.

On hearing my voice, those nearest me
turned round and extended their hands in
silence. They then separated, so as to
allow me a passage through; and as I
moved along, I shook a hand of each on
either side. They appeared glad to see
me, but, at the same time, very sad, from
some untoward circumstance, of which I
felt anxious to be informed.

When I had concluded, I turned to an
intelligent youth, and inquired the cause
of each and all looking so serious.

He silently pointed his finger to the
center lodge, and after a solemn pause,
uttered:

“Great Medicine.”

“Sick?”

He nodded his head.

This, then, accounted for the agitation
of Prairie Flower; and after what had
passed between us regarding her history,
it may readily be inferred I felt no little
anxiety to ascertain to what extent the
old man was indisposed, and whether his
case was, or was not, considered immediately
dangerous. He was very old I
knew, and in all probability would not
long survive. Should he die without revealing
to Prairie Flower her history, all
dependence of proof from her would be
cut off, and it would doubtless be a very
difficult, if not an impossible endeavor, to
indentify her with the lost daughter of
Madame Mortimer. On this account, as
well as for old acquaintance-sake, I was
very anxious to enter the lodge — at the
door, or just outside of which, were standing
several females, weeping. I made a
step forward for this purpose, when an Indian
touched me on the shoulder and
shook his head, as a sign that I must go
no nearer.

“I have most important business with
the invalid,” I said. “Can I not be permitted
to see him?”

He again shook his head.

“But this matter is urgent.”

“No one must see him,” he answered,
“but such as he desires to see.”

“Then let me see Prairie Flower.”

“She must not now be called. We wait
her appearance.”

“Will she soon be here?”

“Cannot say.”

There was nothing to do, therefore, but
wait as patiently as I could. What troubled
me the most, was the fear that the
old man might die suddenly, and Prairie
Flower, in her agitation, neglect to question
him till too late. For an hour I paced
to and fro, in a very uneasy mood, revolving
these things in my mind, when the
latter made her appearance outside the
lodge, where she was instantly surrounded
by those nearest in waiting, all eager for
her intelligence. Having spoken a few
words with them, they all moved slowly
away with sorrowful looks, and Prairie
Flower approached to where I was standing.
The Indians, though as anxious as
myself to gain her tidings, moved not from
their places, but waited in respectful silence
for her to open the conversation. I,
however, not being bred in the same school
with them, could not exercise the same
patience; and taking a few steps forward,
I said:

“Great Medicine is ill, Prairie Flower?”

“He is,” she answered in a tremulous
voice.

“Very ill? dangerously ill?” I inquired.

“I fear he is.”

The Indians behind me, on hearing this,
uttered several deep groans, but said not
a word.

“Can he survive, Prairie Flower?”

“I think not,” she answered, mournfully
shaking her head.

“Any particular disease?”

“Old age and debility. He is very
old, and has not been well for some time.
A few minutes before I was called, he was
taken very ill. I fear his time to go is at
hand. Friends,” she added, addressing
her tribe, “you are about to lose one you
love and reverence. Let us commend his
soul to the Great Spirit;” thereupon each
and all kneeled upon the earth in prayer.

When this was over, I turned to Prairie
Flower again.

“Pardon me, fair being!” I said, “at
this solemn time, for intruding worldly
thoughts upon your attention. But the
Old-man-of-the-Mountains is about to depart,
in all probability, to join his fathers
and friends in another state. You think
he holds the key to your history. If you
have not already, would it not be well for
you to bid him unlock the memories of the
past, so far as relates to yourself?”

“True,” she answered, with a start; “I
had forgotten that. I fear it is too late;
for already his voice falters, and he seems
standing midway between time and eternity,
and slowly receding toward the
shadowy land of spirits.”

“Fly!” I urged: “Fly, Prairie Flower!
and do your best, ere all is over!”

“I will,” she said; and at once hastened
back to the lodge.

For another hour I paced to and fro
impatiently, ever and anon turning my
eyes upon the hut where the old man was
breathing his last. At length Prairie
Flower reappeared, and with her three Indian
maidens, all weeping and seeming
very much dejected. On leaving the
lodge, each went separate ways through
the village, Prairie Flower approaching me
direct.

“To prayer!” she said, addressing her
friends, who still remained as she had left
them.

All again kneeled as before. When
they rose to their feet, I addressed her:

“What news, Prairie Flower?”

“He is sinking very fast,” she answered,
sadly.

“Did you gain any information?”

“No! I addressed him on the subject,
but he only looked at me vaguely, and did
not seem to comprehend what I said.”

“Alas! I fear it is too late, Prairie
Flower!”

“I fear so,” she rejoined. “But he
may revive a little; and if he do, I will
question him again.”

With this she returned to the lodge of
the invalid, while I proceeded to join my
friend, and inform him what had occurred.
I found Huntly as I had left him, in company
with my compagnons d'voyage, all
engaged in an animated conversation.

“Well,” he said, as I entered, “what
news, Frank? Something has happened,
I know by your sober looks.”

I proceeded to detail what had transpired,
and the fears I entertained.

“This is unfortunate,” he said, when I
had done; “most unfortunate.”

The sun was some half an hour above
the hills, when Prairie Flower again joined
us in haste. Pierre, Teddy and Black
George had left some time before, so that
no one was in the cot but myself and
friend, and we were so deeply engaged in
discussing the various matters which had
transpired, as not to be aware of her close
proximity till she spoke:

“Where is this person,” she asked,
`whom I resemble?”

“I left her in Oregon City,” I replied.

“That is far away,” she rejoined, musingly.

“But what success, Prairie Flower?”

“Better than I expected.”

“Indeed! You give us joy.”

“As I observed he might do, when I
quitted you,” she answered, “the old man
again revived, when I immediately put the
question as to what he knew of my history.
He seemed much surprised, and inquired
my reasons for asking. I hurriedly
informed him of your conjectures. He
listened attentively, and seemed ill at ease.
He had promised, he said, in reply, never
to divulge, during his natural life, who I
was, nor anything connected with my
earliest years.”

“Ha! then he knows your history
himself?”

“Nay, do not interrupt me.”

“I crave pardon! Go on.”

“Yes,” continued Prairie Flower, “he
said he knew much concerning me, but
did not know all; that something had
whispered him this information might
be valuable to me at some future time;
and that he had recorded it on a roll of
parchment, which he had purchased of a
trader for the purpose. This parchment,
he said, was concealed under a stone in a
certain place, which none but such as to
whom he might reveal the secret, would
ever be able to find. He farther said, that
if in truth I had a sister and mother living,
I had better perhaps seek them out, and
should they recognize and claim me, I
could then do as I saw proper, either cling
to them or my tribe; that although I had
been reared for the most part among Indians,
and had adopted their habits and
customs, still I was not of their race—not
of their blood—and he could therefore
see nothing unnatural or improper in my
desiring to form acquaintance with my own
kin. But, he added, lest I should meet
with disappointment—in my kin, or those
I supposed to be such, not claiming me on
what I and they might know—he thought
it better I should remain ignorant of myself,
until I had seen them face to face,
when, should all turn out as I desired, it
would be time enough to produce proof;
and that if I would promise to go in quest
of them before perusing, or allowing another
to peruse, the parchment in question,
he would make its locality known.”

“What a singular request!” said I.

“True,” replied Prairie Flower; “but

as I have said before, Great Medicine is
a very singular being, and an enigma to
all.”

“And did you agree to his proposition?”

“I did, though somewhat reluctantly.
But I knew if I did not, that the secret
would die with him, and of this I could not
bear to think.”

“And so he told you all?”

“He did.”

“And where is the parchment concealed?”

“Nay,” she answered, shaking her
head, “I do not know as I am at liberty
to tell.”

“I beg your pardon, Prairie Flower!
I certainly had no right to question. But
you will accompany us to Oregon City?”

“That is what I came to speak about,”
she replied, timidly. “You really think
your conjectures are right?”

“We do,” answered Huntly. “Everything
tends to convince us so. At first,
what was only a vague suspicion with us,
has since grown almost to a certainty.
Come, go with us, sweet Prairie Flower!
Say you will go, and I shall be happy.”

Prairie Flower changed color as Huntly
spoke, and turned aside her head.

“And you will allow me a few companions?”
she timidly inquired.

“As many as you please,” returned
Huntly, “so you will consent to go.”

“But when do you start?”

“We will wait your time.”

“My duty,” she said, solemnly, “is
henceforth by the side of Cha-cha-chee-kee-hobah,
till he take his departure to the
land of eternal rest—then to follow his remains
to the grave—which done, I shall
soon be ready to join you. Adieu, for the
present! I must return to him now.”

Saying which, she quitted the lodge.

“At last,” said Huntly, turning to me:
“At last, Frank, I have hope. Let us
forth and take the evening air—for strange
thoughts are crowding my breast.”

Arm in arm we strolled through the little
village, where the solemn faces of all
we met bespoke the gloom of mourning
for one universally beloved, and took our
way down to the little streamlet, which,
all unconscious of mortal change, ran
murmuring on as it had done perchance
for ages. All nature reposed in her most
charming beauty of quietude. The sun
was just beginning to sink behind the lofty
mountains to the westward, and the last
flood-light of day made golden the tiny
waves of the water, and began to hasten
the long shadows, precursors of diurnal
night, and that night of death which knows
no waking. The very air seemed solemn,
it was so still. Scarce a breath moved;
and the leaflets hung down their heads as
if in sorrow. The feathered warblers,
which had made music all day, were winding
up their tunes with what seemed a
melancholy cadence. A few night-watchers
had just began to give each other calls
in timid tones, as if half afraid their voices
were trespassing upon a scene too sacred.
It was just calm enough, and mild enough,
and lovely enough, and solemn enough, to
awaken meditative thought—that thought
in which all the unutterable poetry of our
nature becomes infused. When the outward
sense bids the inner tongue speak to
us in language which the enraptured soul
only comprehends. When we feel a melancholy
happiness, and a desire to steal
away from everything living, and in solitude
commune with ourselves and our God.
When the natural voice jars discordantly
with the finer and more elevated tones of
our being, proceeding from the spirit-harp,
touched by the unseen hand of the All
pervading Deity. When, in short, we
feel drawn by an unexplainable sympathy
to a lonely meditation on things high and
holy, beyond the matter-of-fact events of
every day experience. Did you never feel
thus, reader? Did you never steal away
from your daily cares, your business, your
friends — from everything common and
evanescent—to hold a quiet communion
with your nobler thoughts?—and then trace
those thoughts, as it were, to their primeval
source—the eternal fount of the Great
All-Good? And are not such sweet
thoughts, and sweet moments of happy
rest, in a life more or less filled with turmoil
and pain? For myself, I answer yes;
for I look upon them as foretastings of a
state of blissful and eternal beatitude,
when the changing circumstances of this
life shall trouble us no more forever.

Thus I felt, and thus my friend, on the
present occasion. Deep thought with

both was too busy for words, and we
gained the rivulet in silence. Some fifty
yards above us was a large, flat rock,
overhanging the gurgling waters. Toward
this Huntly silently pointed; and obeying
the gesture, I accompanied him thither.
Seated at length upon it, our eyes simultaneously
fixed upon the rapid current
laving its base, and our ears drank in its
music, while the sunlight gradually departed
the stream, the deepening shadows
of night stretched over us, growing more
and more somber, and the stars here and
there began to peep out in the heavens,
and shine brighter and more bright, till the
firmament above appeared blazoned with
thousands on thousands of shining worlds,
the armorial bearings of the Great Omnipotent.
Still we sat in silence—now soaring
in thought to another existence—now
dwelling upon the wonders of nature as a
complicated whole, or equally complicated,
inexplicable part—and anon reviewing the
past, touching upon the present, and leaping
forward in imagination to the future--
that future, to the young, of golden hopes
and bright anticipations, destined for the
most part never to be realized. Thus we
mutely sat, for an hour or more, when
Huntly broke the silence.

“Frank,” he said, “what a charm, what
a solemn charm there seems in everthing
to-night! I have been musing, as it were,
upon everything. I have been back to
my boyhood days, when I was wild, giddy,
reckless, and frolicsome. When I had no
thought beyond the sport of the hour, and
no ambition but to make a jest of my fellow
beings. I have traced up our youthful
sports (for you and I were almost one,
you know,) to that sudden resolve which
parted me for the last time from my
beloved father.”

Here his voice faltered to a pause, and
for some moments he remained silent, with
his face bowed upon his hands. Then
raising his head, he dashed away a few
tears and resumed:

“I have recalled event after event to
the present time, and find, in my reckless
career, that I have much, too much, to regret.
But I believe in an overruling,
mysterious Power, and that there has been
a purpose in all beyond my own simple
inclinations. Adversity, I feel, has been
for the best, by working in me a great
change. Yes, Frank, I am a changed
being. From boyhood I have passed to
manhood, and from the idle follies of
youth, to the wiser and more sober
thoughts of maturer age.

“Once I was all for adventure and
change—but now the case is different. I
have seen enough, and am satisfied. Let
me once more be comfortably situated,
with a home and friends, means to gain
an honest living, and, Frank, one, one
sweet being to cheer me with her smiles
over the otherwise toilsome path of life—
and I shall rest content.”

“A great change this, in Charles Huntly,
most certainly,” I said; “a great
change indeed! But perhaps no more
than in myself; for I, too, am tired of adventure,
and ardently long for those very
joys, (joys now, Charles, though once it
was not so,) of which you speak.”

“Hark!” exclaimed my friend at this
moment. “What sound is that?”

A long, loud, mournful wail came borne
upon the air.

“Alas!” said I, “it speaks a soul
departed!”

“Let us return,” said Huntly, with
a sigh; and forthwith we set out for the
village.

“On our way thither, we several times
heard the same melancholy sound; and
as we entered the precincts of the little
settlement, we beheld somber figures moving
to and fro, bearing lighted torches.
As we drew near the center lodge, I discovered
Prairie Flower, in company with
several of her own sex, moaning with grief.

She espied us as we came up, and, separating
from her companions, approached
and extended a hand to each.

“Alas! my friends,” she sighed, “I
need your sympathy. He who has been
to me a guardian — a father — is now no
more.”

Her voice faltered as she spoke, and
withdrawing her hands from ours, she
covered her eyes and wept aloud.