 | THE INDIAN HATER. Legends of the West |  |
THE INDIAN HATER.
In the course of a journey, which I lately took
through Illinois, I stopped one day at a village for
a few hours, and stepped into a store to purchase
some trifling article of which I stood in need. Finding
a number of persons there, and being not unwilling
to while away a few minutes in conversation,
I leaned my back against the counter, and
addressed myself to a well dressed farmer, who
answered my inquiries respecting the country with
intelligence and civility.
While thus engaged, my attention was drawn to
a person who stood near. He was a man who
might have been about fifty years of age. His height
did not exceed the ordinary stature, and his person
was rather slender than otherwise; but there was
something in his air and features, which distinguished
him from common men. The expression of his
countenance was keen and daring. His forehead
was elevated, his cheek-bones high, his lips small
and compressed—while long exposure to the climate
had tanned his complexion to a deep olive. The
same cause seemed to have hardened his skin and
living petrifaction. There was over all a settled
gloom—a kind of forced composure, which indicated
resignation, but not content. In his eye, there
was something peculiar, yet it was difficult to tell
in what that peculiarity consisted. It was a small
grey orb, whose calm, bold, direct glance seemed
to vouch, that it had not cowered with shame, or
quailed in danger. There was blended in that eye a
searching keenness, with a quiet vigilance—a watchful,
sagacious self possession—so often observable
in the physiognomy of those who are in the habit of
expecting, meeting, and overcoming peril. His
heavy eye-brows had once been black; but time had
touched them with his pencil. He was dressed in
a coarse grey hunting-shirt, girded round the waist
with a broad leathern belt, tightly drawn, in which
rested a long knife, a weapon common to the
western hunter. Upon the whole, there was about
this man an expression of grim and gloomy sternness,
fixedness of purpose, an intense, but smothered
passion, which stamped him as of no common
mould; yet there were indications of openness and
honesty, which forbade distrust. His was not the
unblushing front of hardy guilt, nor the lurking
glance of under-handed villainy. A stranger would
not have hesitated to confide in his faith or courage,
but would have trembled at the idea of provoking
his hostility.
I had barely time to make these observations,
when several Indians, who had strolled into the
presence upon the backwoodsman, whom I have
described, was instantaneous and violent. His eyes
rolled wildly, as if he had been suddenly stung to
madness, gleaming with a strange fierceness; a
supernatural lustre, like that which flashes from the
eye-balls of the panther, when crouched in a dark
covert, and ready to dart upon his prey. His
hollowed cheek was flushed—the muscles, that but
a moment before seemed so rigid, became flexible,
and moved convulsively. His hand, sliding quietly
to the hilt of his large knife, as if by instinct,
grasped it firmly; and it was easy to perceive, that
a single breath would be sufficient to blow up the
smothered fire. But, except these indications, he
remained motionless as a statue, gazing with a look
of intense ferocity at the intruders. The Indians
halted when their eyes met his, and exchanged
glances of intelligence with each other. Whether
it was from instinct, or that they knew the man, or
whether that sagacity, which is natural to their
race, led them to read danger in his scowling visage
they seemed willing to avoid him, and retired.
The backwoodsman made a motion as if to follow;
but several of the persons present, who had watched
this silent scene with interest, gently withheld him,
and after conversing with him a few moments in an
earnest, but under tone, led him off in one direction,
while the Indians rode away in another.
Having understood from the farmer, with whom
I had been talking, that he was about to return
I cheerfully accepted the offer of his company,
and we set out together. Our discourse very
naturally fell upon the scene we had witnessed, and
I expressed a curiosity to learn something of the
history and character of the man, whose image had
impressed itself so forcibly upon my mind.
“He is a strange, mysterious looking being,”
said I, “and I should think he must be better, or
worse, than other men.”
“Samuel Monson is a very good neighbour,”—
replied the farmer cautiously.
“You say that in a tone,” rejoined I, “which
seems to imply, that in some other respects he may
not be so good?”
“Well, as to that—I can not say, of my own
knowledge, that I know any harm of the man.”
“And what do other people say of him?”
The farmer hesitated, and then, with a caution
very common among people of this description,
replied:—
“People often say more than they can prove.
It's not good to be talking of one's neighbours.
And Monson, as I said before, is a good neighbour.”
“But a bad man, as I understand you.”
“No—far from it:—the man's well enough—except—”
and here he lowered his tone, and looked
cautiously around. “The folks do say he is rather
too keen with his rifle.”
“How so;—does he shoot his neighbour's cattle?”
“No, sir—Samuel Monson is as much above a
mean action as any other man.”
“What then;—is he quarrelsome.”
“Oh, bless you, no!—There's not a peaceabler
man in the settlement;—but he used to be a great
Indian fighter in the last war, and he got sort o'
haunted to the woods;—and folks do say that he is
still rather too keen on the track of a moccasin.”
“I do not exactly comprehend you, my dear
sir.—The Indians are, I believe, now quiet, and at
peace with us.”
“Why, yes, they are very peaceable. They
never come near us, except now and then a little
party comes in to trade.”
“They are civil, are they not?”
“Yes, sir, quite agreeable—bating the killing of
a hog once in a while—and that we don't vally—
seeing that it is but just natural to the poor savage
to shoot any thing that runs in the woods.”
“In what way then does this Monson interfere
with them?”
“I did not say, stranger, that Monson done it.
No, no; I wouldn't hurt no man's character; but
the fact and truth are about this. Now and then
an Indian is missing; and sometimes one is found
dead in the range;—and folks will have their notions,
and their talk, and their suspicions about it
—and some talk hard of Monson.”
“But why charge it upon him?”
“Why, if you must have it out, stranger, in this
country we all know the bore of every man's rifle.
Now the bullet holes in all these Indians that have
been shot, are the same, and we know whose rifle
they suit. Besides this, horse tracks have been
seen on the trail of the moccasin. They were very
particular tracks, and just suited the hoof of a certain
horse. Then a certain man was known to be
lying out about that same time; and when all these
things are put together, it don't take a Philadelphia
lawyer to tell who done the deed. Then he sometimes
goes off, and is gone for weeks, and people
guess that he goes to their own hunting grounds to
lie in wait for them. They do say, he can scent a
red skin like a hound, and never lets a chance slip.”
“But is it possible, that in a civilized country,
within the reach of our laws, a wretch is permitted
to hunt down his fellow creatures like wild beasts;
to murder a defenceless Indian, who comes into
our territory in good faith, believing us a Christian
people?”
“Why it is not exactly permitted; we don't
know for certain who does it, nor is it any particular
man's business to inquire more than another.
Many of the settlers have had their kin murdered
by the savages in early times; and all who have
been raised in the backwoods, have been taught to
fear and dislike them. Then Monson is an honest
fellow, works hard, pays his debts, and is always
willing to do a good turn, and it seems hard to
break neighbourhood with him for the matter of
an Indian or so.”
“But the wickedness—the shame—the breach of
law and hospitality!”
“Well, so it is. It is a sin; and sorry would I
be to have it on my conscience. But then, some
think an Indian or two, now and then, will never
be missed; others, again, hate to create an interruption
in the settlement; others, who pretend to know
the law, say that the general government has the
care of the Indians; and that our state laws wont
kiver the case; and withal Monson keeps his own
counsel, and so among hands he escapes. After all,
to come to the plain sentimental truth, Monson has
good cause to hate them; and many a man, that
would not dip his own hand in the blood of an
Indian, would as soon die as betray Monson; for
few of us could lay our hands on our hearts, and say
that we would not do the same in his situation.”
At this point of the conversation, we were joined
by several horsemen, who were pursuing the same
road with ourselves; and my companion seeming
unwilling to pursue the subject in their hearing, I
was unable to learn from him what injury the Indian
hater had received, to provoke his sanguinary
career of vengeance. Nor did another opportunity
occur; for we soon came to a point where the road
diverged; and although my friendly companion,
with the usual hospitality of the country, invited
me to his house, I was obliged to decline the invitation,
and we parted.
I continued my journey into the northwestern
part of Illinois, which was then just beginning to
a few scattered settlements. Delighted with
this beautiful country, and wishing to explore the
lands lying between this tract and the Wabash, I
determined, on my return, to strike directly across
through an uninhabited wilderness of about a hundred
and fifty miles in extent. I hired an Indian
guide, who was highly recommended to me, and set
out under his protection.
It is not easy to describe the sensations of a
traveller, unaccustomed to such scenery, on first
beholding the vast prairies which I was about to
explore. Those which I had heretofore seen, were
comparatively small. The points of woodland which
make into them like so many capes or promontories,
and the groves which are interspersed like islands,
are, in these lesser prairies, always sufficiently near
to be clearly defined to the eye, and to give the
scene an interesting variety. We see a plain of
several miles in extent, not perfectly level, but
gently rolling or undulating like the swelling of the
ocean when nearly calm. The graceful curve of
the surface is seldom broken, except when here and
there the eye rests upon one of those huge mounds,
which are so pleasing to the poet, and so perplexing
to the antiquarian. The whole is overspread with
grass and flowers, constituting a rich and varied
carpet, in which a ground of lively green is ornamented
with a profusion of the gaudiest hues. Deep
recesses in the edge of the timber, resemble the
bays and inlets of a lake; while occasionally a long
eye to roam off and refresh itself with the calm
beauty of a distant perspective.
The traveller as he rides along these smaller
prairies finds his eye continually attracted to the
edges of the forest, and his imagination employed
in tracing the beautiful outline, and in finding out
resemblances between these wild scenes and the
most highly embellished productions of art. The
fairest pleasure grounds, the noblest parks of European
princes, where millions have been expended
to captivate the fancy with elysian scenes, are but
mimic representations of the beauties which are
here spread by nature; for here are clumps, and
lawns, and avenues, and groves—the tangled thicket,
and the solitary tree—and all the varieties of scenic
attraction—but on a scale so extensive, as to offer an
endless succession of changes to the eye. There is
an air of civilization here, that wins the heart—even
here, where no human residence is seen, where no
foot intrudes, and where not an axe has ever trespassed
on the beautiful domain. So different is this
feeling from any thing inspired by mountain, or
woodland scenery, that, the instant the traveller
emerges from the forest into the prairie, he no
longer feels solitary. The consciousness that he is
travelling alone, and in a wilderness, escapes him;
and he indulges the same pleasing sensations, which
are enjoyed by one, who, having been lost among
the labyrinths of a savage mountain, suddenly
descends into rich and highly cultivated fields. The
the refreshing sweetness and graceful beauty of the
rural scene; and recognises at every step some well
remembered spot, enlarged and beautified, and, as it
were, retouched by nature's hand. The clusters of
trees so fancifully arranged, seem to have been disposed
by the hand of taste, and so complete is the
delusion, that it is difficult to dispel the belief, that
each avenue leads to a village, and each grove conceals
a splendid mansion.
Widely different was the prospect exhibited in
the more northern prairies. Vast in extent, the distant
forest was barely discoverable in the shapeless
outline of blue, faintly impressed on the horizon.
Here and there a solitary tree torn by the wind,
stood alone like a dismantled mast in the ocean.
As I followed my guide through this desolate region,
my sensations were similar to those of the
voyager, when his bark is launched into the ocean.
Alone, in a wide waste, with my faithful pilot only,
I was dependent on him for support, guidance, and
protection. With little to diversify the path, and
less to please the eye, a sense of dreariness crept
over me—a desolation and withering of the spirit,
as when the heart, left painfully alone, finds nothing
to love, nothing to admire, nothing from which
to reap instruction or amusement. But these are
feelings, which, like the sea sickness of the young
mariner, are soon dispelled. I began to find a
pleasure in gazing over this immense, unbroken
waste; in watching the horizon in the vague hope of
my eyes, as they galloped off—their forms growing
smaller and smaller, as they receded, until they
faded gradually from the sight. Sometimes I descried
a dark spot at an immense distance, and
pointed it out to my companion with a joy, like that
of the seaman, who discovers a distant sail in the
speck which floats on the ocean. When such an object
happened to be in the direction of our path, I
watched it as it rose and enlarged upon the vision—
supposing it one moment to be a man—and at another
a buffalo; until, after it had seemed to approach
for hours, I found it to be a tree.
Nor was I entirely destitute of company; for my
Pottowattomie guide proved to be both intelligent
and good humoured, and although his stock of English
was but slender, his conversational powers were
by no means contemptible. His topographical
knowledge was extensive and accurate, so that he
was able not only to choose the best route, but to
point out to me all the localities. When we halted,
he kindled a fire, spread my pallet, and formed a
shelter to protect me from the weather. When we
came to a stream which was too deep to ford, he
framed a raft to cross me over with my baggage,
while he mounted my horse and plunged into the
water. Throughout the journey, his assiduities
were as kind and unremitting as all his arrangements
were sagacious and considerate. A higher
motive than the mere pecuniary reward which he
expected for his services, governed his actions: a
dignity of heart, raised him above the ordinary savage,
and rendered him not only a respectable, but
an interesting man.
After travelling nearly five days without beholding
a human habitation, we arrived at the verge of
a settlement on the Wabash. We passed along a
rich bottom, covered with large trees, whose thick
shade afforded a strong contrast to the scenes we had
left behind us, and then ascending a gentle rise,
stood on a high bluff bank of the Wabash. A more
secluded and beautiful spot has seldom been seen.
A small river, with a clear stream, rippling over a
rocky bed, meandered round the point on which
we stood, and then turning abruptly to the left, was
lost among the trees. The opposite shore was low,
thickly wooded, and beautifully rich in the variety
of mellow hues painted by the autumn sun. The
spot we occupied was a slip of table land, a little
higher than the surrounding country. It had once
been cleared for cultivation, but was now over-grown
with hazle-bushes, vines and briars, while a
few tall, leafless trunks, once the proudest oaks of
the forest, still adhered tenaciously to the soil. A
heap of rubbish, intermingled with logs half burnt
and nearly rotten, showed the remains of what had
once been a chimney—but all else had been destroyed
by time or fire. One spot only, which had been
beaten hard, was covered with a smooth, green
sward, unmixed with brush; and here we stood
gazing at this desolate spot and that beautiful
broken silence, when the report of a rifle was heard,
and my guide, uttering a dismal yell, fell prostrate.
Recovering his senses for an instant, he grasped his
gun, partly raised his body, and cast upon me a look
of reproach, which I shall never forget; and then,
as if satisfied by the concern and alarm of my countenance,
and my prompt movement to assist him,
he gave me one hand, and pointing with the other
towards the woods, he exclaimed—“Bad—bad,
white man!—Take care!—” and expired.
I was so much surprised and shocked at this catastrophe,
that I stood immovable, thoughtless of
my own safety, mourning over the brave Indian,
who lay weltering in his gore, when I was startled
by a slight rustling in the bushes close behind me,
and raising my eyes, I beheld Monson! Advancing,
without the least appearance of shame or fear,
until he came to the corpse, and paying not the
slightest attention to me, he stood and gazed sternly
at the fallen warrior.
“There's another of the cursed crew,” said he,
at length, “gone to his last account!—He is not
the first, nor shall he be the last.—It's an old debt,
but it shall be paid to the last drop.”
As he spoke, he gnashed his teeth, and his eyes
gleamed with the malignity of gratified revenge.
Then turning to me, and observing the deep abhorrence
with which I shrunk back, he said:—
“May be, stranger, you don't like this sort of
business?”
“Wretch—miscreant—murderer! begone! Approach
me not,” I exclaimed, drawing a large pistol
from my belt; but, before I was aware, the backwoodsman,
with a sudden spring, caught my arm,
and wrested the weapon from me; and then remaining
perfectly calm, while I was ready to burst with
rage, he said,
“This is a poor shooting-iron for a man to have
about him—it might do for young men to `tote'
in a settlement, but it is of no use in the woods—no
more than a shot-gun.”
“Scoundrel!” said I, “you shall repent your
violence—”
“Young man!” interrupted he, very coolly, “I
am no scoundrel;—you mistake—you do not know
me.”
“Murderer!” repeated I, “for such I know you
to be, think not this bloody deed shall go unpunished.
My life is in your power, but I dread
not your vengeance!”
While I was thus exhausting myself in the expression
of my rage and horror, the more politic
Monson, having possessed himself of the Indian's
gun, dropped it, together with my unlucky pistol,
on the ground, and placing one foot on them, he
proceeded deliberately to re-load his rifle.
“Don't be alarmed, young man,” said he, in reply
to my last remark, “I shall not hurt a hair of your
head. You can not provoke me to it. I never
harmed a Christian man to my knowledge.”
“See here!” he continued, as he finished loading
he proceeded in a hurried tone:
“This was my home. Here I built a house with
my own labour. With the sweat of my brow I
opened this clearing. Here I lived with my wife,
my children, and my mother. We worked hard—
lived well—and were happy. One night—it was in
the fall—I had gathered my corn, the labour of the
year was done, and I was sitting by the fire among
my family, with the prospect of plenty and comfort
around me—when I heard a yell! I never was a
coward, but I knew that sound too well; and when
I looked round upon the women and the helpless
babes that depended on me for protection, a cold
chill ran over me, and my heart seemed to die. I
ran to the door, and beheld my stacks in a blaze.
I caught up my gun—but in a moment, a gang of
yelling savages came pouring in at my door like so
many howling wolves. I fired, and one of them
fell. I caught up an axe, and rushed at them with
such fury that I cleared the cabin. The monsters
then set fire to the roof, and we saw the flames
spreading around us. What could I do? Here were
my poor, old mother, and my wife, and my little children,
unable to fight or fly. I burst the door, and
rushed madly out; but they pushed me back. The
blazing timbers came falling among us—my wife
hung on my neck, and called on me to save her
children—our pious mother prayed—while the
savage wretches roared, and laughed, and mocked
us. I grasped my axe, and rushed out again. I
killed several of them;but they overpowered me,
was dear to me. All—all perished here in the flames
before my eyes. They perished in lingering torments.
I saw their agonies—I heard their cries—they called
on my name. Oh, heaven! can I ever forget it?”
Here he stopped, overcome with his emotions,
and looked wildly around. Tears came to his relief,
but the man of sorrows brushed them away, and
continued:
“They carried me off a prisoner. I was badly
wounded, and so heart-broken, that for three days
I was helpless as a child. Then a desire of revenge
grew up in my heart, and I got strong. I gnawed
the ropes they had bound me with, and escaped
from them in the night. In the Indian war that
followed, I joined every expedition—I was foremost
in every fight;—but I could not quench my
thirst for the blood of those monsters. I swore never
to forgive them, and when peace came, I continued
to make war. I made it a rule to kill every red skin
that came in my way, and so long as my limbs have
strength I shall continue to slay the savage.”
“Go!” he continued, “pursue your own way,
and leave me to mine. If you have a parent that
prays for you, a wife and children that love you,
they will receive you with joy, and you will be
happy. I am alone;—there is none to mourn with
me, no one to rejoice at my coming. When all
that you cherish is torn from you in one moment,
condemn me, if you can: but not till then. Go!—
That path will lead you to a house;—there you will
get a guide.”
| THE INDIAN HATER. Legends of the West | |