 | THE INDIAN HATER. The wilderness and the war path |  |
THE INDIAN HATER.
Some years ago, I had occasion to travel over the beautiful
prairies of Illinois, then a frontier state, containing but few inhabitants,
and those chiefly of the class called backwoodsmen.
In the course of my journey, I stopped one day at a village to
rest; and while my horse was eating his corn, and mine hostess
was picking the chicken that was to be broiled for my dinner, I
stepped into a neighbouring store to purchase some small article
of which I stood in need. I found a number of persons there, engaged,
some in buying merchandise, some in talking politics, and
others in reading the manuscript advertisements of stray horses
and constable's sales, that were pasted on the walls. There were
a bottle of whiskey and a pitcher of water on the counter, free
for all comers, as was the hospitable fashion of those days, before
temperance had got to be a tip-top virtue, or Father Mathew the
greatest of modern reformers. Being not unwilling to observe
a scene which might afford amusement, and to while away a few
minutes in conversation, I leaned my back against the counter,
and addressed myself to a person having the appearance of a
substantial 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 thin and compressed. Long exposure to the climate had
tanned his complexion to a deep brown, and had hardened his
petrifaction. He seemed to have lived in the open air, exposed
to the elements, and to every extreme of temperature.
There was nothing in the dress of this individual to attract attention;
he was accosted occasionally by others, and seemed
familiar with all who were present. Yet there was an air of abstraction,
and standing aloof about him, so different from the noisy
mirth and thoughtless deportment of those around him, that I
could not help observing him. In his eye there was something
peculiar, yet I could not tell in what that peculiarity consisted.
It was a small grey orb, whose calm, bold, direct glances, 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
eyebrows had been black, but time had touched them with his
pencil. He was dressed in a coarse grey hunting shirt, of homespun
cotton, girded round the waist with a broad leathern belt,
tightly drawn, in which rested the long knife, with which the
western hunter despatches his game, cuts his food, picks his flint
and his teeth, and whittles sticks for amusement.
Upon the whole, there was about this man an expression of
quiet determination, of grim and gloomy sternness, of intense but
smothered passion, which stamped him as something out of the
ordinary view of character; yet there were indications of openness
and honesty, that forbade distrust. He was rough, but not a
ruffian. His was not the unblushing front of hardy guilt, nor the
lurking glance of underhanded villany. A stranger would not
have hesitated to confide in his faith or courage, but would have
been extremely reluctant to provoke his hostility.
I had barely time to make these observations, when several Indians,
who had strolled into the village, entered the store.
The effect of their presence upon the backwoodsman, whom I
have described, was instantaneous and remarkable. His eyes
rolled wildly, as if he had been suddenly stung to madness,
gleaming with a strange fierceness—an intense lustre, like that
which flashes from the eyeballs of the panther, when crouched
was flushed; the muscles, that but a moment before seemed so
rigid, became flexible, and twitched convulsively. His hand sliding
quietly to the hilt of his large knife, as if by an involutary
impulse, grasped it firmly; and it was easy to perceive that a
smothered fire had been disturbed, and that a single breath would
be sufficient to light up a blaze. 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 the natural sagacity of their race enabled them to read
the signs of 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 company, who had watched this
silent, though momentary 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 home, and that my route led
through his neighbourhood, I accepted the offer of his company
and guidance, and we set out together. It was a pleasant afternoon
in the fall, and as our horses trotted quietly over the smooth
prairie road, the discourse naturally fell upon the scene we had
just witnessed, and I expressed a curiosity to learn something of
the history and character of the man, whose image had impressed
itself so forcibly on my mind. I was young and romantic then,
and singular as this being certainly was, his peculiarities were
probably magnified to my excited fancy.
“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 cannot 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,
no how, to be talking of one's neighbours; and Monson, as I said
before, is a good neighbour.”
“But a bad man, as I understand.”
“No—far from it—the man's well enough—”
My companion hesitated here, as gossips of both sexes are apt
to do, when conscious of a strong inclination to tell all they know
on a delicate subject; but my laudable thirst for useful knowledge
had, I suppose, awakened a benevolent desire to gratify it,
and the worthy man added, in a low tone, and looking cautiously
around:
“—Except—The folks do say he are 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's still rather too keen on the track of a moccasin.”
“I do not exactly understand you, my dear sir.—The Indians
are now quiet, I believe, 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. There's
not many of them in these parts, and they live a good piece off.”
“They are civil and harmless, are they not?”
“Yes, sir, quite agreeable—bating the killing of a hog once in
a while—but that we don't vally—it is but just nateral to the
poor savage to shoot anything that runs in the woods. They
have a honing in that way, and you can't stop them, no way you
can fix it.”
“In what way, then, does this Monson interfere with them?”
“I did not say, stranger, that Monson done it. No, no; I
would'n't hurt no man's character; but the fact and the truth
and then one are found dead in the range;—and folks will have
their notions, and their talk, and their suspicious about it—and
some talk hard of Monson.”
“But why charge it upon him?”
“Well, if you must have it out, stranger,—in this country we
all know the bore of every man's rifle. Monson's gun carries
just fifty to the pound. 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 in the range, 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. No mistake in Sam Monson. He
likes a skrimmage with them. He goes off sometimes, and is
gone for weeks, and people reckon 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—no
how.”
“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 to be what we
profess, as a Christian people!”
“Well, stranger,—as to the matter of that—it is not exactly
permitted; we don't know for certain who does it, and it's not any
particular man's business to inquire into it, more than another.
There's no love for the Indians among us, no how. Many of the
people have had their kin murdered by the savages in early
times; and all who have been raised in the back woods, have
been learned to dislike them, and fear them. Then Monson is an
honest fellow, works hard, pays his debts, and is always willing
to do a good turn, and it would seem hard to break neighbourhood
with him for the matter of a few Indians. People don't think the
Indians of much account, no how!”
“But the wickedness of such unprovoked murder—the shame—
the breach of law, the violation of hospitality!”
“Well, so it is. It are a sin; and sorry would I be to have it
on my conscience. But, then, some think an Indian or so 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 business of the Indians,
and that our state laws won't kiver the case—so they allow it's
none of our business. Some folks, you know, go in heavy for
state rights, and don't believe in meddling with any thing that belongs
to Uncle Sam; and withal Monson keeps his own counsel,
and so among hands he goes his own road, and no questions
asked.”
All this seemed very strange to me. Border wars, we all
know, are productive of feuds, which are implacable and lasting.
Predatory incursions, which hardly attract the notice of the government,
bring carnage and devastation, ruin and sorrow, to the fireside.
Private property is wasted, and the war is against individuals,
rather than the public. The actors in each scene are
identified; men and families feel the sense of personal injury,
and hatred and revenge are the consequence. But I was not
aware that such a state of feeling existed on our own frontier.
While these thoughts passed through my mind, we rode forward
in silence, which was broken by my inquiring what injury this
individual had suffered from the Indians, which could justify him
in thus destroying them with impunity.
“Injury enough!” replied my companion: “to tell the plain
sentimental truth, he has cause enough 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 him; for few of us could lay our
hands upon our hearts and say 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
joined us, in accordance with the gregarious habits of the country,
which induce men to prefer a larger company to a smaller,
on all occasions; and my companion being 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
separate, and although my friendly fellow-traveller, with the
usual hospitality of the country, invited me to take up my lodgings
at his house for the night, 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 attract the attention of settlers,
and contained but few inhabitants. Delighted with this beautiful
wilderness, unspoiled by art, and retaining all its native loveliness,
and wishing to explore the lands lying between this tract and the
Wabash, I determined, on my return, to strike directly across,
through a district of country in which there were as yet no settlements,
of about one 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 I had heretofore seen were comparatively
small; both are unique, and highly attractive, but as
they differ in their features and scenic effect, I shall endeavour to
describe them separately.
The smaller prairies, or those in which the plain and woodland
alternate frequently, are the most beautiful. 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
plains, varying from a few hundred acres to 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, and fringed with a rich border of
forest and thicket. Deep recesses in the edge of the timber resemble
the bays and inlets of a lake; while occasionally a long
and refresh itself, with the calm beauty of a distant perspective.
The traveller, as he rides along over 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
tastefully embellished productions of art. The fairest pleasure-grounds,
the noblest parks of European noblemen and princes,
where millions have been expended to captivate the senses with
Elysian scenes, are but mimic representations, on a reduced
scale, of the beauties which are here spread by nature; for here
are clumps and lawns, groves and avenues, the tangled thicket,
and the solitary tree, the lengthened vista, and the secluded nook,
and all the varieties of scenic attraction, but on a plan so extensive,
as to offer a wide scope, and an endless succession of
changes, to the eye.
There is an air of refinement here, that wins the heart,—even
here, where no human residence is seen, where no foot of man
intrudes, and where not an axe has ever trespassed on the beautiful
domain. It is a wilderness shorn of every savage association,
a desert that “blossoms as the rose.” So different is the
feeling awakened from anything inspired by mountain or woodland
scenery, that the instant the traveller emerges from the
forest into the prairie, he feels no longer solitary. The consciousness
that he is travelling alone, and in a wilderness, escapes him;
and he indulges in the same pleasing sensations which are enjoyed
by one who, having lost his way, and wandered bewildered
among the labyrinths of a savage mountain, suddenly descends
into rich and highly cultivated plains, and sees around him the
delightful indications of taste and comfort. The gay landscape
charms him. He is encompassed by the refreshing sweetness and
graceful beauty of the rural scene; and recognises at every step
some well-remembered spot, or some ideal paradise in which the
fancy had loved to wander, enlarged and beautified, and, as it
were, retouched by nature's hand. The clusters of trees so fancifully
arranged, the forest outline so gracefully curved, seem to
have been disposed by the hand of taste, for the enjoyment of intelligent
beings; and so complete is the illusion, that it is difficult
grove conceals a splendid mansion.
Widely different was the prospect exhibited by the more northern
and central districts of the State. Vast in extent, the distant
forest was either beyond the reach of the eye, or was barely discernible
in the shapeless outline of blue, faintly impressed on the
horizon. As the smaller prairies resembled a series of larger and
lesser lakes, so these boundless plains remind one of the ocean
waste. 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 lonely region, my sensations were similar to
those of the voyager, when his bark is launched upon the sea.
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 nothing to please the eye but the
carpet of verdure, which began to pall upon the sense, a feeling
of dreariness crept over me—a desolation of the spirit, such as
one feels when crossed in love, or when very drowsy on a hot
afternoon, after a full dinner. 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 under the vague hope of meeting
a traveller, and in following the deer with my eyes as they galloped
off—their agile forms growing smaller and smaller as they
receded, until they shrunk into nothing. 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 sail in
the distant speck which floats on the ocean. When such an object
happened to be in the direction of our path, I watched it with interest
as it rose and enlarged upon the vision—supposing it at one
moment to be a solitary horseman, and wondering what manner
of man he would turn out to be—at another supposing it might be
a wild animal, or a wagon, or a pedestrian; 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 Pottowottomie
guide proved to be both intelligent and good-humoured; and
although his stock of English was but slender, and his habit of
taciturnity somewhat confirmed, his conversational powers, when
was extensive and accurate, so that he was able, not only to choose
the best route, but to point out 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. He considered himself
my companion; not only responsible for my safety, as a matter
of contract, but kindly interested for my comfort. A genuine
integrity of purpose, a native politeness and manliness of deportment,
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 huge trees,
whose limbs were hung with immense grape vines, and 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 overgrown with hazel bushes, vines, and
briars, while a few tall, leafless trunks, once the proudest oaks
of the forest, weather-beaten and blackened by fire, 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, and indicated the spot where a cabin
had stood, the residence of human beings—but all else had been
homestead, but many years seemed to have rolled away since it
had been inhabited. The clearing had been of small extent;
it was now covered with a rank vegetation, which was fast restoring
it to the dominion of the wilderness. One spot only, which
had probably been the yard in front of the little dwelling, and
had been beaten hard, was covered with a smooth green sward.
unmixed with weeds or brush; and here we stood gazing at this
desolate spot, and that beautiful river. It was but a moment,
and neither of us had broken silence, when the crack of a rifle
was heard, and my guide, uttering a dismal yell, fell at my feet.
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, exclaimed—“Bad—bad, white man!—take care”—
and expired. The aim had been unerring—the bullet had penetrated
deep in a vital spot, and life was extinguished in a moment.
I was so much surprised and shocked at this fatal catastrophe,
that I stood immoveable, thoughtless of my own safety, mourning
over the stout Indian, my kind and worthy guide, who lay weltering
in his gore, when I was startled by a slight rustling in the
bushes close behind me, and as I turned with an involuntary
shudder, a backwoodsman, rifle in hand, issued from the covert.
Advancing hastily, 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. It was
Monson! The fierce and gloomy picture, which had been impressed
so indelibly upon my memory, stood before me in living
presentation, his hand imbrued in blood, and his soul freshly
steeped in murder.
“There's another of the cursed crew gone to his last account!”
he exclaimed. “He is not the first, and he shall not 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
gruffly,
“May be, stranger, you don't like this sort of business.”
“Wretch — miscreant—murderer! begone! Approach me
not,” I exclaimed, shrinking back in disgust and terror, and
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 proceeded:
“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's 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,
no more than yourself; you mistake, you do not know me.”
“Murderer!” repeated I, “for such I know you to be. My
life is in your power, but I dread not your vengeance! If I live,
this bloody deed shall not go unpunished!”
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, proceeded deliberately
to 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 cannot
provoke me to it. I never harmed a Christian man, to my
knowledge!”
But although his habitual command of his temper enabled him
to treat the matter thus coolly, he was evidently under high excitement,
and as he finished loading his piece, he exclaimed,
“See here!” Then pointing to the ruins of the cabin, 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.”
His voice became choked; he paused, as if overcome by the
with the simple and vehement eloquence of passion:
“I am a rough man, stranger, but I have feelings like other
men. My blood is up now, and I will tell you a tale that will
explain this deed. One night—it was in the fall—just at this
season—I had gathered my corn, ready for shucking, the labour
of the year was done, and I was sitting by the fire with my
family, with the prospect of plenty and comfort around me—when
I heard the Indian yell! I never was a coward, but I knew that
sound too well; and when I looked round upon the women and
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 vile varments then set fire to the roof,
and we saw the flames spreading around us. What could I do?
“Stranger, you never were in such a fix, and you don't know
how a man feels. Here was my poor old mother, and my wife,
and my little children, unable to fight, or to escape. I burst open
the door, and rushed madly out; but they pushed me back.
The yelling wretches were determined to burn us in our house.
The blazing timbers came falling among us—my wife hung on
my neck, and called on me to save our children—our pious old
mother prayed—the savage butchers roared, and laughed, and
mocked us. They caught my dog, that we loved as one of the
family, hung him, and then threw his carcass among us.
“I grasped my axe, and rushed out again—hoping to beat
them back, until the neighbours could be alarmed, and come to
our assistance. I killed several of them; but they overpowered
me, bound me, and led me up to witness the ruin of all that was
dear to me. Wife—children—mother—all, all perished here in
the flames before my eyes. They perished in lingering torments
—screaming with terror—racked with pain. I saw their agonies
—heard their cries—they called on my name. Tied hand and
foot, what could I do? Oh Heaven, can I ever forget it!”
The man of sorrows paused in his tragical narrative, overcome
looked wildly around. Tears came to his relief—that hard, ferocious
misanthrope, the fountains of whose tenderness seemed to
have been long since broken and dried up, melted at the recital
of his own griefs. Nature had resumed her sway over him.
The pause was but brief; when, brushing the tears from his
rough visage, he 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 strings they had bound me with, and escaped from
them in the night. I thought that God had spared me to be a
scourge to the savage. The war with the Indians broke out soon
afterwards, and I joined every expedition—I was foremost in
every fight; but I could not quench my thirst for the blood of
the miscreants. I swore never to forgive them, and when peace
came, I continued to make war. I have made it a rule to kill
every red-skin that came in my way; my revenge is not yet
satisfied, and so long as I have strength to whet my knife on a
stone, or ram a ball into my rifle, I shall continue to slay the
savage!
“As for this fellow,” he continued, “I would not have troubled
him, any where else, if I had seen him in your company.
I would not harm nor trouble any christian man, especially a
stranger. But when he came here, setting his cursed feet on this
soil—stepping over the ruins of my homestead, and the ashes of
my family—when he intruded upon me as I sat here alone, thinking
over the fate of my poor wife and children, it was not my
nater to spare him—I couldn't do it.
“Let us part friends, young man, I have done you no harm;
if I have hurt your feelings, I ask your pardon. Pursue your
own way, and leave me to mine. If you have a grey-headed
mother that prays for you, a wife and children that love you—
they will welcome you, 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, by
hellish ruffians, condemn me if you can: but not till then.—That
path will lead you to a house.”
| THE INDIAN HATER. The wilderness and the war path | |