 | PETE FEATHERTON. The wilderness and the war path |  |
PETE FEATHERTON.
Every country has its superstitions, and will continue to have
them, so long as men are blessed with lively imaginations, and
while any portion of mankind remain ignorant of the causes of
natural phenomena. That which cannot be reconciled with experience,
will always be attributed to supernatural influence;
and those who know little, will imagine much more to exist than
has ever been witnessed by their own senses. I am not displeased
with this state of things, for the journey of life would be dull
indeed, if those who travel it were confined for ever to the beaten
highway, worn smooth by the sober feet of experience. To turnpikes,
for our beasts of burden, I have no objection; but I cannot
consent to the erection of railways for the mind, even though the
architect be “wisdom, whose ways are pleasant, and whose paths
are peace.” It is sometimes agreeable to stray off into the wilderness
which fancy creates, to recline in fairy bowers, and to
listen to the murmurs of imaginary fountains. When the beaten
road becomes tiresome, there are many sunny spots where the
pilgrim may loiter with advantage—many shady paths, whose
labyrinths may be traced with delight. The mountain, and the
vale, on whose scenery we gaze enchanted, derive new charms,
when their deep caverns and gloomy recesses are peopled with
imaginary beings.
But above all, the enlivening influence of fancy is felt, when it
illumines our firesides, giving to the wings of time, when they
grow heavy, a brighter plumage, and a more sprightly motion.
There are seasons, when the spark of life within us seems to
burn with less than its wonted vigour; the blood crawls heavily
through the veins; the contagious chillness seizes on our companions,
and the sluggish hours roll painfully along. Something
mind, and give a new tone to the flagging spirits. If necromancy
draws her magic circle, we cheerfully enter the ring;
if folly shakes her cap and bells, we are amused; a witch becomes
an interesting personage, and we are even agreeably surprised
by the companionable qualities of a ghost.
We, who live on the frontier, have little acquaintance with
imaginary beings. These gentry never emigrate; they seem to
have strong local attachments, which not even the charms of a
new country can overcome. A few witches, indeed, were imported
into New England by the Puritans; but were so badly
used, that the whole race seems to have been disgusted with new
settlements. With them, the spirit of adventure expired, and the
weird women of the present day wisely cling to the soil of the old
countries. That we have but few ghosts will not be deemed a
matter of surprise by those who have observed how miserably
destitute we are of accommodations for such inhabitants. We
have no baronial castles, nor ruined mansions;—no turrets
crowned with ivy, nor ancient abbeys crumbling into decay;
and it would be a paltry spirit, who would be content to wander
in the forest, by silent rivers and solitary swamps.
It is even imputed to us as a reproach by enlightened foreigners,
that our land is altogether populated with the living descendants
of Adam—creatures with thews and sinews, who eat when
they are hungry, laugh when they are tickled, and die when they
are done living. The creatures of romance, say they, exist not
in our territory. A witch, a ghost, or a brownie, perishes in
America, as a serpent is said to die the instant it touches the uncongenial
soil of Ireland. This is true, only in part. If we have
no ghosts, we are not without miracles. Wonders have happened
in these United States. Mysteries have occurred in the valley
of the Mississippi. Supernatural events have transpired on the
borders of “the beautiful stream;” and in order to rescue my
country from undeserved reproach, I shall proceed to narrate an
authentic history, which I received from the lips of the party
principally concerned.
A clear morning had succeeded a stormy night in December;
the snow laid ankle-deep upon the ground, and glittered on the
the animal creation, and called forth the tenants of the
forest from their warm lairs and hidden lurking-places.
The inmates of a small cabin on the margin of the Ohio were
commencing with the sun the business of the day. A stout, rawboned
forester plied his keen axe, and, lugging log after log,
erected a pile on the ample hearth, sufficiently large to have rendered
the last honours to the stateliest ox. A female was paying
her morning visit to the cow-yard, where a numerous herd of
cattle claimed her attention. The plentiful breakfast followed;
corn-bread, milk, and venison, crowned the oaken board, while a
tin coffee-pot of ample dimensions supplied the beverage which is
seldom wanting at the morning repast of the substantial American
farmer.
The breakfast over, Mr. Featherton reached down a long rifle
from the rafters, and commenced certain preparations, fraught
with danger to the brute inhabitants of the forest. The lock was
carefully examined, the screws tightened, the pan wiped, the flint
renewed, and the springs oiled; and the keen eye of the backwoodsman
glittered with an ominous lustre, as its glance rested
on the destructive engine. His blue-eyed partner, leaning fondly
on her husband's shoulder, essayed those coaxing and captivating
blandishments, which every young wife so well understands, to
detain her husband from the contemplated sport. Every pretext
was urged with affectionate pertinacity, which female ingenuity
could supply:—the wind whistled bleakly over the hills, the snow
lay deep in the valleys, the deer would surely not venture abroad
in such bitter cold weather, the adventurous hunter might get his
toes frost-bitten, and her own hours would be sadly lonesome in
his absence. He smiled in silence at the arguments of his bride,
for such she was, and continued his preparations, with the cool,
but good-natured determination of one who is not to be turned
from his purpose.
He was indeed a person with whom such arguments, except
the last, would not be very likely to prevail. Mr. Peter Featherton,
or as he was familiarly called by all who knew him, Pete
Featherton, was a bold, rattling Kentuckian, of twenty-five, who
possessed the characteristic peculiarities of his countrymen—good
announced an ardent temperament; his tall form, and
bony limbs, indicated an active frame inured to hardships; his
piercing eye and high cheek bones, evinced the keenness and resolution
of his mind. He was adventurous, frank, and social—
boastful, credulous, illiterate, and at times wonderfully addicted
to the marvellous. His imagination was a warm and fruitful
soil, in which “tall oaks from little acorns grew,” and his vocabulary
was overstocked with superlatives. He loved his wife—
no mistake about that—but next to her his affections entwined
themselves about his gun, and expanded over his horse; he was
true to his friends, never missed an election day, turned his back
upon a frolie, nor affected to dislike a social glass.
He believed that the best qualities of all countries were combined
in Kentucky; and had the most whimsical manner of expressing
his national attachments. He was firmly convinced that
the battle of the Thames was the most sanguinary conflict of the
age—“a raal reg'lar skrimmage,”—and extolled Colonel Dick
Johnson as a “severe old colt.” He would admit freely that
Napoleon was a great genius—Metternich, Castlereagh, “and
them fellows” knew “a thing or two,” but then they “were no
part of a priming to Henry Clay.”
When entirely “at himself”—to use his own language—that
is to say, when duly sober, Pete was friendly and rational, courteous
and considerate, and a better tempered fellow never shouldered
a rifle. But he was a social man, who was liable to be
“overtaken,” and let him get a glass too much, and there was
no end to his extravagance. Then it was that his genius bloomed
and brought forth strange boasts, and strong oaths, his loyalty to
old Kentuck waxed warm, and his faith in his horse, his gun,
and his own manhood grew into idolatry. Always bold and self-satisfied,
and habitually energetic in the expression of his predelictions,
he now became invested with the agreeable properties of
the snapping-turtle, the alligator, and the steamboat, and gifted
with the most affable and affectionate spirit of auto-biography.
It was now that he would dwell upon his own bodily powers and
prowess, with the enthusiasm of a devotee, and as the climax of
this rhetorical display, would slap his hands together, spring perpendicularly
stoutest Winnebago, swear that he was “the best man in the
country,” and “could whip his weight in wild cats,” “no two
ways about it”—he was “not afraid of no man, no way you
could fix it;” and finally, after many other extravagancies, he
would urge, with no gentle asseveration, his ability to “ride
through a crab-apple orchard on a streak of lightning.”
In addition to all this, which one would think was enough for
any reasonable man, Pete would sometimes brag that he had the
best gun, the prettiest wife, the best-looking sister, and the fastest
nag, in all Kentuck; and that no man dare say to the contrary.
It is but justice to remark, that there was more truth in this last
boast, than is usually found on such occasions, and that Pete
had good reason to be proud of his horse, his gun, and his lady
love.
These, however, were the happy moments, which are few and
far between; they were the brilliant inspirations, playing like
the lightning in an overheated atmosphere,—gleaming over the
turbid stream of existence, as the meteor flashes through the
gloom of the night. When the fit was off, Pete was a quiet, good-natured,
listless soul, as one would see on a summer's day—
strolling about with a grave aspect, a drawling, and a deliberate
gait, a stoop of the shoulders, and a kind of general relaxation
of the whole outward and inward man—in a state of entire freedom
from restraint, reflection, and want, and without any impulse
strong enough to call forth his latent manhood—as the panther,
with whom he often compared himself, when his appetite for food
is sated, sleeps calmly in his lair, or wanders harmlessly through
his native thickets.
Our hero was a farmer, or as the very appropriate phrase is,
“made a crap” on his own land—for besides making a crop he
performed but few of the labours of the husbandman. While
planting his corn, tending it, and gathering in the harvest, he
worked with a good will; but these, thanks to a prolific soil, and
a free country, were all his toils, and they occupied not half of
the year, the remainder of which was spent in the more manly
and gentlemanly employments of hunting, attending elections,
and officiating at horse races. He was a rare hand at a “shucking,”
worked like a young giant, and it was worth while to hear the
gladsome tones of his clear voice, and the inspiring sound of his
loud laugh; while the way he handled the axe, the beauty and
keenness of the implement, the weight and precision of the blows,
and the gracefulness of the action, were such as are not seen except
in the “wilderness,” where chopping is an accomplishment
as well as the most useful of labours.
It will readily be perceived, that our hunter was not one who
could be turned from his purpose by the prospect of danger or
fatigue; and a few minutes sufficed to complete his preparations.
His feet were cased in moccasins, and his legs in wrappers
of dressed deerskin; and he was soon accoutred with a powder
horn, quaintly carved all over with curious devices,—an
ample pouch with flints, patches, balls, and other “fixens”—and
a hunter's knife,—and throwing “Brown Bess,” for so he called
his rifle, over his shoulder, he sallied forth.
But in passing a store hard by, which supplied the country
with gunpowder, whiskey, and other necessaries, as well as with
the luxuries of tea, sugar, coffee, calico, calomel, and chandlery,
he was hailed by one of the neighbours, who invited him to “light
off and take something.” Pete said he had “no occasion,” but
“rather than be nice,” he dismounted, and joined a festive circle,
among whom the cup was circulating freely. Here he was soon
challenged to swap rifles, and being one of those who could not
“stand a banter,” he bantered back again, without the least intention
of parting with his favourite weapon. Making offers, like
a skilful diplomatist, which he knew would not be accepted, and
feigning great eagerness to accede to any reasonable proposition,
while inwardly resolved to reject all, he magnified the perfections
of Brown Bess.
“She can do any thing but talk,” said he. “If she had legs
she could hunt by herself. It is a pleasure to tote her—I naterrally
believe there is not a rifle south of Green river, that can
throw a ball so far, or so true. I can put a bullet in that tree,
down the road, a mile off.”
“You can't do it, Pete—I'll bet a treat for the whole company.”
“No”—said the hunter. “I could do it—but I don't want to
strain my gun.”
These discussions consumed much time and much whiskey—
for the rule on such occasions is, that he who rejects an offer to
trade, must treat the company, and thus every point in the negociation
costs a pint of spirits.
At length, bidding adieu to his companions, Pete struck into
the forest—it was getting late, and he “must look about pretty
peart,” he said, to get a venison before night. Lightly crushing
the snow beneath his active feet, he beat up the coverts, and
traversed all the accustomed haunts of the deer. He mounted
every hill, and descended into every valley—not a thicket escaped
the penetrating glance of his practised eye. Fruitless labour!
not a deer was to be seen. Pete marvelled at this unusual circumstance,
as the deer were very abundant in this neighbourhood,
and no one knew better where to look for them than himself.
But what surprised him still more, was, that the woods were
less familiar to him than formerly. He knew them “like a book.”
He thought he was acquainted with every tree within ten miles of
his cabin; but now, although he certainly had not wandered so
far, some of the objects around him seemed strange, while others
again were faintly recognized; and there was, altogether, a singular
confusion in the character of the scenery, which was partly
familiar, and partly new; or rather, in which many of the
component parts were separately well known, but were so mixed
up and changed in relation to each other, as to baffle even the
knowledge of an expert woodsman.
The more he looked, the more he was bewildered. Had such
a thing been possible, he would have thought himself a lost man.
He came to a stream which had heretofore rolled to the west, but
now its course pointed to the east; and the shadows of the tall
trees, which, according to Pete's experience and philosophy,
ought at noon to fall towards the north, all pointed to the south.
He looked at his right and his left hands, somewhat puzzled to
know which was which; then scratched his head—but scratching
the head, though a good thing in its way, will not always get a
man out of a scrape. He cast his eye upon his own shadow,
phenomenon presented itself. It was travelling round him
like the shade on a dial—only a great deal faster, as it veered
round to all the points of the compass in the course of a single
minute. Mr. Peter Featherton was “in a bad fix.”
It was very evident too, from the dryness of the snow, and the
brittleness of the twigs, which snapped off as he brushed his way
through the thickets, that the weather was intensely cold; yet the
perspiration was rolling in large drops from his brow. He stopped
at a clear spring, and thrusting his hands into the cold water,
attempted to carry a portion of it to his lips; but the element recoiled
and hissed, as if his hands and lips had been composed of
red hot iron. Pete felt quite puzzled when he reflected on all
these contradictions in the aspect of nature; and began to consider
what act of wickedness he had been guilty of, which could
have rendered him so hateful, that the deer fled at his approach,
the streams turned back, and the shadows fell the wrong way, or
danced round their centre.
He began to grow alarmed, and would have liked to turn back,
but was ashamed to betray such weakness, even to himself; and
being naturally bold, he resolutely kept on his way. At last, to
his great joy he espied the tracks of deer imprinted on the snow;
they were fresh signs—and, dashing upon the trail, with the alacrity
of a well-trained hound, he pursued, in hopes of soon overtaking
the game. Presently he discovered the tracks of a man,
who had struck the same trail in advance of him, and supposing
it to be one of his neighbours, he quickened his pace, as well to
gain a companion, which in the present state of his feelings he so
much needed, as to share the spoil with his fellow hunter. Indeed,
in his present situation and condition of mind, Pete thought
he would be willing to give half of what he was worth, for the
sight of a human face.
“I don't like the signs, no how,” said he, casting a rapid glance
around him; and then throwing his eyes downwards at his own
shadow, which had ceased its rotatory motion, and was now
swinging backward and forward like a pendulum—“I don't like
the signs, no way they can be fixed.”
“You are not scared, are you, Pete?” he continued, smiling
at the oddity of such a question.
“Oh no, bless your heart, Mr. Featherton, I'm not scared—I'm
not of that breed of dogs—there's no back out in me—but then I
must say—to speak sentimentally—that I feel sort o' jubus—I do
so. But I'll soon see whether other people's shadows act the fool
like mine.”
Upon further observation, there appeared to be something peculiar
in the human tracks before him, which were evidently made
by a pair of feet which were not fellows—or were odd fellows—
for one of them was larger than the other. As there was no person
in the settlement who was thus deformed, Pete began to doubt
whether it might not be the devil, who in borrowing shoes to conceal
his cloven hoofs might have got those that did not match.
He stopped, and scratched his head, as many a learned philosopher
has done, when placed between the horns of a dilemma less perplexing
than that which now vexed the spirit of our hunter. It
was said long ago, that there is a tide in the affairs of men; and
although our good friend Pete had never seen this sentiment in black
and white, yet it is one of those truths, which are written in the
heart of every reasonable being, and was only copied by the poet,
from the great book of nature, a source from which he was a
great borrower. It readily occurred to Pete on this occasion;
and as he had enjoyed through life an uninterrupted tide of success,
he reflected whether the stream of fortune might not have
changed its course, like the brooks he had crossed, whose waters,
for some sinister reason, seemed to be crawling up-hill.
He stopped, drew out his handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration
from his brow. “This thing of being scared,” said he,
“makes a man feel mighty queer—the way it brings the sweat
out is curious!” And again it occurred to him, that it was incumbent
on him to see the end of the adventure, as otherwise he
would show a want of that courage, which he had been taught to
consider as the chief of the cardinal virtues.
“I can't back out,” said he, “I never was raised to it, no how;
and if the devil's a mind to hunt in this range, he shan't have all
the game.”
Then falling into the sentimental vein, as one naturally does
for me, and marked the two first letters of my name on it—
P. for Pete and F. for Featherton—would she do the like of that
for a coward? Could I ever look in her pretty face again, if I
was mean enough to be scared? No—I'll go ahead—let what
will come.”
He soon overtook the person in advance of him, who, as he had
suspected, was a perfect stranger. He had halted and was quietly
seated on a log, gazing at the sun, when our hunter approached,
and saluted him with the usual hearty, “How are you, stranger?”
The person addressed made no reply, but continued to
gaze at the sun, as if totally unconscious that any other individual
was present. He was a small, thin, old man, with a grey
beard of about a month's growth, and a long sallow melancholy
visage, while a tarnished suit of snuff-coloured clothes, cut after
the quaint fashion of some religious sect, hung loosely about his
shrivelled person.
Our bold backwoodsman, somewhat awed, now coughed, threw
the butt end of his gun heavily upon the frozen ground, and, still
failing to elicit any attention, quietly seated himself on the other
end of the log occupied by the stranger. Both remained silent
for some minutes—Pete with open mouth, and glaring eyeballs,
observing his companion with mute astonishment, and the latter
looking at the sun.
“It's a warm day, this,” said Pete, at length, passing his hand
across his brow, as he spoke, and sweeping off the heavy drops
of perspiration that hung there. But receiving no answer, he
began to get nettled. He thought himself not civilly treated.
His native assurance, which had been damped by the mysterious
deportment of the person who sat before him, revived. “One
man's as good as another”—thought he; and screwing up his
courage to the sticking point, he arose, approached the silent
man, and slapping him on the back, exclaimed—
“Well, stranger! don't the sun look mighty droll away out
there in the north?”
As the heavy hand fell on his shoulder, the stranger slowly
turned his face towards Pete, who recoiled several paces,—then
rising without paying the abashed hunter any further attention,
when the other turning upon him with a stern glance, enquired:
“Who are you tracking?”
“Not you,” replied the hunter, whose alarm had subsided
when the enemy began to retreat; and whose pride, piqued by
the abruptness with which he had been treated, enabled him to
assume his usual boldness of manner.
“Why do you follow this trail, then?”
“I trail deer.”
“You must not pursue them further, they are mine!”
The sound of the stranger's voice broke the spell, which had
hung over Peter's natural impudence, and he now shouted—
“Your deer! that's droll too! who ever heard of a man claiming
the deer in the woods!”
“Provoke me not,—I tell you they are mine.”
“Well, now—you're a comical chap! Why stranger,—the
deer are wild! They're jist nateral to the woods here, the same
the timber. You might as well say the wolves and the painters
are yours, and all the rest of the wild varments.”
“The tracks you behold here, are those of wild deer, undoubtedly—but
they are mine. I routed them from their bed, and am
driving them home.”
“Home—where is your home?” inquired Pete, at the same
time casting an inquisitive glance at the stranger's feet.
To this home question no reply was given, and Pete, fancying
that he had got the best of the altercation, pushed his advantage,
—adding sneeringly—
“Could'nt you take a pack or two of wolves along? We can
spare you a small gang. It is mighty wolfy about here.”
“If you follow any further it is at your peril,” said the stranger.
“You don't reckon I'm to be skeered, do you? If you do, you
are barking up the wrong tree. There's no back out in none of
my breed, no how. You must'nt come over them words agin,
stranger.”
“I repeat —”
“You had best not repeat—I allow no man to do that to me”—
like of that. I'm Virginy born, and Kentucky raised, and drot
my skin, if I take the like of that from any man—no, Sir!”
“Desist, rash man, from altercation—I despise your threats!”
“The same to you, Sir!
“I tell you what, stranger!” continued Pete, endeavouring to
imitate the coolness of the other, “as to the vally of a deer or
two—I don't vally them to the tantamount of this here cud of tobacco;
but I'm not to be backed out of my tracks. So keep off,
stranger—don't come fooling about me. I might hurt you. I
feel mighty wolfy about the head and shoulders. Keep off, I say,
or you might run agin a snag.”
With this the hunter “squared himself, and sot his triggers,”
fully determined either to hunt the disputed game, or be vanquished
in combat. To his surprise, the stranger, without appearing
to notice his preparations, advanced and blew with his
breath upon his rifle.
“Your gun is charmed!” said he. “From this day forward
you will kill no deer.”
So saying, that mysterious old man, with the most provoking
coolness, resumed his way; while Pete remained bewildered;
and fancied that he smelt brimstone.
Pete Featherton remained a moment or two lost in confusion.
He then thought he would pursue the stranger, and punish him
as well for his threats, as for the insult intended to his gun; but
a little reflection induced him to change his decision. The confident
manner in which that singular being had spoken, together
with a kind of vague assurance in his own mind, that the spell
had really taken effect, so unmanned and stupefied him, that he
quietly “took the back track,” and strode homewards. He had
not gone far, when he saw a fine buck, half concealed among the
hazel bushes which beset his path, and resolved to know at once
how matters stood between Brown Bess and the pretended conjurer,
he took a deliberate aim, fired,—and away bounded the
buck unharmed!
With a heavy heart, our mortified forester re-entered his own
dwelling, and replaced his degraded weapon in its accustomed
berth under the rafters.
“You have been long gone,” said his wife, “but where is the
venison you promised me?”
Pete was constrained to confess that he had shot nothing.
“That is strange!” said the lady, “I never knew you fail
before.”
Pete framed twenty excuses. He had felt unwell—his gun
was out of fix—it was a bad day for hunting—the moon was not
in the right place—and there were no deer stirring.
Had not Pete been a very young husband, he would have
known that the vigilant eye of a wife is not to be decived by
feigned apologies. Female curiosity never sleeps; and the love
of a devoted wife is the most sincere and the most absorbing of
human passions. Pretty Mrs. Featherton saw, at a glance, that
something had happened to her helpmate, more than he was willing
to confess; and being quite as tenacious as himself, in her
reluctance against being “backed out of her tracks,” she determined
to bring her inferior moiety to auricular confession, and
advanced firmly to her object, until Pete was compelled to
own, “That he believed Brown Bess was, somehow—sort o'—
charmed.”
“Now, Mr. Featherton!” remonstrated his sprightly bride,
leaning fondly on his shoulder, and parting the long red locks on
his forehead—“are you not ashamed to tell me such a tale as
that? Charmed indeed! Ah well, I know how it is. You have
been down at the store, shooting for half pints!”
“No, indeed—” replied the husband emphatically, “I wish I
may be kissed to death, if I've pulled a trigger for a drop of
liquor this day.”
Ah, Peter—what a sad evasion was that! Surely the adversary
when he blew his breath—sadly sulphureous of smell—upon
thy favourite gun, breathed into thee the spirit of lying, of which
he is the father. Mrs. Featherton saw farther into a millstone
than he was aware of—but she kept her own counsel.
“I believe you, Peter,—you did not shoot for it—but do now—
that's a dear good soul!—tell me where you have been, and what
has happened? You are not well—or something is wrong—for
never did Pete Featherton and Brown Bess fail to get a venison
any day in the year.”
Soothed by this well-timed compliment, and not unwilling to
have the aid of counsel in this trying emergency, and to apply to
his excited spirit the balm of conjugal sympathy, Pete narrated
minutely to his wife all the particulars of his meeting with the
mysterious stranger. The lady was all attention; but was as
much wonder-struck as Pete himself. She had heard of spells
being cast upon guns, and so had Peter—often—but then neither
of them had ever known such a case, in their own experience;
and although she had recipes for pickling fruit, and preserving
life, and preventing various maladies, she knew of no remedy
which would remove the spell from a rifle. As she could give no
sage advice, she prescribed sage tea, bathing the feet, and going
to bed, and Pete submitted passively to all this—not perceiving,
however, how it could possibly affect his gun.
When Pete awoke the next morning, the events which we have
described appeared to him as a dream; indeed, he had been
dreaming of them all night, and it was somewhat difficult to unravel
the tangled thread of recollection, so as to separate the
realities of the day from the illusions of the pillow. But resolving
to know the truth, he seized his gun, and hastened to the
woods. Alas! every experiment produced the same vexatious
result. The gun was charmed! “No two ways about that!”
It was too true to make a joke of; and the hunter stalked harmlessly
through the forest.
Day after day he went forth, and returned with no better success.
The very deer became sensible of his inoffensiveness, and
would raise their heads, and gaze mildly at him as he passed; or
throw back their antlers, and bound carelessly across his path.
Day after day, and week after week, passed without bringing any
change; and Pete began to feel very ridiculously. A harmless
man—a fellow with a gun, that could not shoot! he could imagine
no situation more miserable than his own. To walk through the
woods, to see the game, to come within gun-shot of it, and yet to
be unable to kill a deer, seemed to be the height of human
wretchedness. He felt as if he was “the meanest kind of a
white man.” There was a littleness, an insignificance, attached
to the idea of not being able to kill a deer, which, to Pete's mind,
was downright disgrace. More than once, he was tempted to
and the recollection of former exploits, restrained him; and he
continued to stroll through the woods, firing now and then at a fat
buck, under the hope that the charm would expire some time or
other, by its own limitation; but the fat bucks continued to treat
him with a familiarity amounting to contempt, and to frisk fearlessly
in his path.
At length Pete bethought him of a celebrated Indian doctor,
who lived at no great distance. We do not care to say much of
doctors, as they are a touchy race—and shall therefore touch
upon this one briefly. An Indian doctor is not necessarily a
descendant of the Aborigines. The title, it is true, originates
from the confidence which many of our countrymen repose in
the medical skill of the Indian tribes. But to make an Indian
doctor a red skin is by no means indispensable. To have been
taught by a savage, to have seen one, or, at all events, to have
heard of one, is all that is necessary, to enable any individual to
practise this lucrative and popular branch of the healing art.
Neither is any great proficiency in literature requisite; it is
important only to be expert in spell-ing. Your Indian doctor is
one who practises without a diploma—the only degree his exhibits,
is a high degree of confidence. He neither nauseates the stomach
with odious drugs, nor mars the fair proportions of nature
with the sanguinary lancet. He believes in the sympathy which
is supposed to exist between the body and the mind, which, like
the two arms of a syphon, always preserve a corresponding relation
to each other; and the difference between him and the regular
physician—called in the vernacular of the frontier, the marcury
doctor—is that they operate at different points of the same
figure—the one practising on the immaterial spirit, while the
other grapples with the bones and muscles. I cannot determine
which is right; but must award to the Indian doctor at least this
advantage, that his art is the most widely beneficial; for while
your doctor of medicine restores a lost appetite, his rival can, in
addition, recover a strayed or stolen horse. If the former can
bring back the faded lustre to a fair maiden's cheeks, the latter
remove the spell from a churn or a rifle. The dyspeptic and the
dropsical may hie to the disciples of Rush and Wistar, but the
who professes to follow nature.
To a sage of this order, did Pete disclose his misfortune, and
apply for relief. The doctor examined the gun, and looked wise;
and having measured the calibre of the bore, with a solemnity
which was as imposing as it was unquestionably proper on so serious
an occasion, directed the applicant to come again.
At the appointed time, the hunter returned, and received from
the wise man two balls, one of pink, the other of a silver hue.
The doctor instructed him to load his piece with one of these bullets,
which he pointed out, and proceed through the woods to a
certain secluded hollow, at the head of which was a spring. Here
he would see a white fawn, at which he was to shoot. It would
be wounded, but would escape, and he was to pursue its trail, until
he found a buck, which he was to kill with the other ball. If
he accomplished all this accurately, the charm would be broken;
but success would depend upon his having faith, keeping up his
courage, and firing with precision.
Pete, who was well acquainted with all the localities, carefully
pursued the route which had been indicated, treading lightly
along, sometimes elated with the prospect of speedily breaking
the spell, and restoring his beloved gun to usefulness and respectability—sometimes
doubting the skill of the doctor—admiring the
occult knowledge of men who could charm and uncharm deadly
weapons—and ashamed alternatively of his doubts and his belief.
At length he reached the lonely glen; and his heart bounded with
delight, as he beheld the white fawn quietly grazing by the fountain.
The ground was open, and he was unable to get within his
usual distance, before the fawn raised her delicate head, looked
timidly around, and snuffed the breeze, as if conscious of the approach
of danger. Pete trembled with excitement—his heart palpitated.
It was a long shot and a bad chance—but he could not
advance a step further, without danger of starting the game—and
Brown Bess could carry a ball farther than that, with fatal effect.
“Luck's a lord,” said he, as he drew the gun up to his face,
took a deliberate aim, and pulled the trigger. The fawn bounded
aloft at the report, and then darted away through the brush, while
the hunter hastened to examine the signs. To his great joy he
confidence of success, he stoutly rammed down the other ball, and
pursued the trail of the wounded fawn. Long did he trace the
crimson drops upon the snow, without beholding the promised victim.
Hill after hill he climbed, vale after vale he passed—searching
every thicket with penetrating eyes; and he was about to renounce
the chase, the wizard, and the gun, when lo!—directly
in his path, stood a noble buck, with numerous antlers branching
over his fine head!
“Aha! my jolly fellow! I've found you at last!” exclaimed
the delighted hunter, “you are the very chap I've been looking
after. Your blood shall wipe off the disgrace from my charming
Bess, that never hung fire, burned priming, nor missed the mark
in her born days, till that vile abominable varment blowed his
brimstone breath on her! Here goes—”
He shot the buck. The spell was broken—Brown Bess was
restored to favour, and Pete Featherton never again wanted venison.
| PETE FEATHERTON. The wilderness and the war path | |