University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

A few months ago, the Deer-killer had told Wenona
that Wanska was noisy and tiresome, and that her soft
dark eyes were far more beautiful than Wanska's laughing

ones. They were not at home then, for Wenona had
accompanied her parents on a visit to some relations who
lived far above the village of Shah-co-pee.

While there the Deer-killer came in with some warriors
who had been on a war party; there Wenona was
assured that her rival, the Merry Heart, was forgotten.

And well might the Deer-killer and Wenona have loved
each other. “Youth turns to youth as the flower to the
sun,” and he was brave and noble in his pride and power;
and she, gentle and loving, though an Indian woman; so
quiet too, and all unlike Wanska, who was the noisiest
little gossip in the village.

Often had they wandered together through the “solemn
temples of the earth,” nor did she ever fear, with the warrior
child for a protector. She had followed him when he
ascended the cliffs where the tracks of the eagle were seen;
and with him she felt safe when the wind was tossing
their canoe on the Mississippi, when the storm spirits had
arisen in their power. They were still children when
Wenona would know his step among many others, but
they were no longer children when Wenona left Shah-co-pee's
village, for she loved with a woman's devotion—
and more than loved. She had trembled when she saw
the Deer-killer watch Wanska as she tripped merrily
about the village. Sleeping or waking, his image was ever
before her; he was the idol to which her spirit bowed, the
sun of her little world.

The dance to the giant was to be celebrated at the
village where they were visiting; the father of Wenona
and “Old John” the medicine man, were to join in it.
The maiden had been nothing loth to undertake the journey,

for the Deer-killer had gone on a war party against
the Chippeways, and she thought that in the course of
their journey they might meet him—and when away from
Wanska, he would return to her side. He could not
despise the love she had given him. Hope, that bright
star of youth, hovered over her, and its light was reflected
on her heart.

When they arrived at the village of the chief Markeda,
or “Burning Earth,” the haughty brow of the chief was
subdued with care. He had dreamed of Haokah the
giant, and he knew there was sorrow or danger threatening
him. He had sinned against the giant, and what
might be the consequence of offending him? Was his
powerful arm to be laid low, and the strong pulse to cease
its beatings? Did his dream portend the loss of his young
wife? She was almost as dear to him as the fleet hunter
that bore him to the chase.

It might be that the angry god would send their enemies
among them, and his tall sons would gladden his sight no
more. Sickness and hunger, phantom-like, haunted his
waking and sleeping hours.

There was one hope; he might yet ward off the danger,
for the uplifted arm of the god had not fallen. He hoped
to appease the anger of the giant by dancing in his honor.

“We have travelled far,” said old John the medicine
man, to Markeda, “and are tired. When we have slept
we will dance with you, for we are of the giant's party.”

“Great is Haokah, the giant of the Dahcotahs,” the
chief replied; “it is a long time since we have danced to
him.”

“I had been hunting with my warriors, we chased the

buffalo, and our arrows pierced their sides; they turned
upon us, bellowing, their heads beating the ground; their
terrible eyes glared upon us even in death; they rolled in
the dust, for their strength was gone. We brought them
to the village for our women to prepare for us when we
should need them. I had eaten and was refreshed; and,
tired as my limbs were, I could not sleep at first, but at
last the fire grew dim before my eyes, and I slept.

“I stood on the prairie alone, in my dream, and the
giant appeared before me. So tall was he that the clouds
seemed to float about his head. I trembled at the sound
of his voice, it was as if the angry winds were loosed upon
the earth.

“`The warriors of the Dahcotahs are turned women,'
said he; `that they no longer dance in honor of the giant,
nor sing his songs. Markeda is not a coward, but let him
tremble; he is not a child, but he may shed tears if the
anger of the giant comes upon him.'

“Glad was I when I woke from my dream—and now,
lest I am punished for my sins, I will make a sacrifice to
the giant. Should I not fear him who is so powerful?
Can he not take the thunder in his hand and cast it to the
earth?

“The heart of the warrior should be brave when he
dances to the giant. My wigwam is ready, and the friends
of the giant are ready also.”

“Give me your mocassins,” said the young wife of
Markeda to old John; “they are torn, and I will mend
them. You have come from afar, and are welcome.
Sleep, and when you awake, you will find them beside
you.” As she assisted him to take them off, the medicine

man looked admiringly into her face. “The young wife
of Markeda is as beautiful as the white flowers that spring
up on the prairies. Her husband would mourn for her if
the giant should close her eyes. They are bright now, as
the stars, but death would dim them, should not the anger
of the giant be appeased.”

The “Bounding Fawn” turned pale at the mention of
the angry giant; she sat down, without replying, to her
work; wondering the while, if the soul of her early love
thought of her, now that it wandered in the Spirit's land.
It might be that he would love her again when they should
meet there. The sound of her child's voice, awakening
out of sleep, aroused her, and called to her mind who was
its father.

“They tore me away from my lover, and made me come
to the teepee of the chief,” was her bitter reflection.
“Enah! that I cannot love the father of my child.”

She rose and left the teepee. “Where is the heaven of
the Dahcotahs,” she murmured, as she looked up to the
silent stars. “It may be that I shall see him again. He
will love my child too, and I will forget the many tears I
have shed.”