University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

At the moment I saw a man pass the window.
The curtain was presently lifted, and he entered.
He was a low slight figure, apparently about
twenty-five years of age, with an olive complexion;
long, lank, black hair; small, keen, jet-black eyes;
and diminutive and rather handsome features.
He was clothed from head to foot in half-dressed
in buckskin; hunting shirt, leggins, and moccasins,
all glazed with grease and mottled with
blood. A fillet of bearskin, of three fingers'
breadth, tied around his head, served for a cap.
His long hair partly escaped through this, and hung
down his cheeks, and part fell over the top of it.
He carried in his hand a formidable rifle, and wore
a butcher knife stuck in a leather case at his belt.

“You are a good fellow, John,” said Balcombe,
holding out his hand without rising; “I sent for
you to come with the speed of light, and you are
here with the speed of thought.”

“Why, colonel,” said he, “I went out last night,
just at sunset, and killed an amazing fine buck;
and I heard you had company; so as soon as it
slacked raining, I thought I'd bring you the hind
quarters. So you see I met Tom just at the bars,
and he told me you wanted to see me.”

“Are you going to court to-morrow, John?”

“No, sir.”

“I wish you were. Are you going to the
camp meeting?”

“I did not mean to go; but if you have any
business for me to do I will go to the camp meeting,
and to court too.”

“To tell you the truth, John, I do not know
that I shall have anything for you to do. But I
am going there to-morrow, and I think it likely
enough that things may turn up so, that I would
rather have you by me than any other man in the
world.”

“I should be mighty sorry, colonel, if ever that
should be the case, to be anywhere but right by
you; because, you see, you have stood by me
when nobody else would.”

“We have stood by each other, John, in ticklish
times. A man who will take a turn through the
prairies, from here to Mexico, will have a chance
to know the value of one who will stand by him.
Do you know where Billy John and Black Snake
are camped just now?”

“I fell in with them yesterday, but I did not ask
them where their camp was.”

“Could you find them to-morrow?”

“I have not a doubt of it, sir.”

“Well, there's no knowing what may happen,
nor what sort of men I may want. I shall not
want you sooner, at all events, than Wednesday;
and if you will all be about there, I'll contrive to
let you know when I do want you, and what for.”

“We'll be pretty sure to be there, sir; I can
make business anywhere, you know, so that my
me is never lost.”

“Well, John, I wish you to understand, that I
do not want you to say anything about this matter.
You can keep a still tongue, and so can the Indians;
and with you there, there are few things I'd under
take but what I think I could do.”

“If it just depended upon wit, or manhood
either,” said John, “I am sure I don't know what
it would be we couldn't do.”

“Do you remember that night upon the Arkansas,
John?”

“Maybe I do,” said John, laughing. “Ah, Lord!
that was a spree.”

“Pray, what was it?” said I.

“Tell it, John,” said Balcombe.

“Why, you see, sir,” said Keizer, “we were
going away out, through the prairies, towards the
Spanish country, the colonel, and I, and them two
red devils; and one evening, just towards sunset,
we came down upon the Arkansas. We knew the
Pawnees were about, because we saw horse tracks
everywhere; and as there were no colt tracks

among them, we knew it wasn't wild horses. So,
you see, we took care to march in Indian file.
The colonel, he went ahead, and Billy John was
about one hundred yards behind him, and then
came Snake, about as far behind Billy John, and I
brought up the rear. So when the colonel got in
about a quarter of a mile of the timber of the river,
there they were, sure enough. The Lord knows
how many of them there was: maybe a hundred,
maybe five hundred; all on horseback, with guns,
and bows, and arrows, and shields; and such a
yell they raised as you never heard. So the colonel
pulled up and cocked his rifle, and sat as still upon
his horse as if he had been at a stand for a deer.

“As soon as they came near enough, he let
drive, and downed one of them, that was before
the rest; and that minute he laid whip, and rode
away to the rear, till he got a hundred yards behind
me, and then he stopped and loaded. Indians
do not like to lose a man, especially a chief, and
the fellow the colonel dropped looked like a chief,
for he had a feather in his hair.[1] So, when he
fell, they made a sort of stop, and then rushed on
again. Then Billy John dropped one, and then
Snake took his turn, and then I, and then the colonel
again; and so we had it till we had three shots
apiece. By this time it was getting dark, and they

got to be rather shy; and after a while they hauled
off, and we came back into the settlements. I do
not know how many we killed; but you may be
sure we did not waste much powder.”

“And were none of you hurt?”

“Lord! no, sir; they cannot shoot. Besides,
their guns were not so good as ours, and would
not bear up so far; and how could they take aim,
when they were just riding helter-skelter, whooping
and hallooing, and trying to scare us. Lord
bless you, sir, a real bush-fighting Shawnee, like
these here, don't mind a hundred such as them. A
man that is half scared, stranger, cannot fight a
man that cannot be scared.”

“Oh John,” said Balcombe, “I beg your pardon
for not introducing Mr. Napier to you. My good
friend Mr. Keizer, William.”

The fellow got up, made an awkward bow, and
extended his hand. I had tact enough to give him
mine, and Balcombe went on:

“My friend Napier must not be a stranger to
you, John. I have often got you to serve my
friends, and now I want to bespeak your good
offices for him, if ever you see occasion. He is a
good man and true, John, and whenever you can
do him a service, charge it to me. If ever he
wants your help, you may just take for granted
that, if I was there, I would help him, and call
upon you to help me; and I know you would not
fail me.”

“You may say that, colonel; if ever I fail you,

it will be when I cannot stir hand or foot. You
never said so much to me for anybody else; and
if ever I fail Mr. Napier, it shall be when I forget
you, and that will never be.”

“Thank you, John, thank you,” said Balcom be
with some emotion; “I am sure of that; and now
my good fellow, to business. It is a stirring time
Napier and I have many things to arrange; you
have some of your own matters to fix, and then
you have to find the Shawnees. So Tuesday
night, or Wednesday morning at farthest, I shall
expect to hear your whistle. You have not lost
it?”

“No, sir. I never expected to have any more
use for it, except to call my dog; but it has stood
my friend so often, I should hate to lose it.”

“Well, here is mine,” said Balcombe, showing
a little rifleman's whistle, made of ivory, about as
large as the last joint of a man's thumb. “I always
wear it about my neck, with the same old thong of
dressed squirrel's skin. It is better than riband
or a gold chain. Do you remember that squirrel,
John?”

“I reckon I do,” said Keizer. “God! the sight
of that squirrel did me more good than many
herd of buffalo that I have seen.”

“What does that mean?” said I.

“Famine,” said Balcombe, carelessly. “What
does this signify, John?”

He sounded a succession of short toots on the
whistle.

“It just means that I am about, sir,” said
Keizer.

“And this?”—a long sharp note.

“Danger, sir.”

“Good; you remember the signals. And now,
John, another drink, and to business.”

“Thank you, colonel, not another drop; I must
have other things in my head now besides
whiskey.”

“You see,” said Balcombe, as Keizer left the
room, “that he knows the value of the Indian
maxim. The game we play at in this wild region
is so intricate, and the stake so deep, (for it is
rarely less than life or death, affluence or beggary,
honour or infamy,) that every man is obliged to
keep his wits about him. It is like Indian fighting
—every man to his tree. The eye must never
wink, the mind must never doubt, the nerves must
never shake. The lungs must play freely and
equably, and the very pulse of the heart must be
held in check.”

“Yours,” said I, “must have been a life of high
and strange adventure, well worth hearing.”

“Perhaps,” said he; “but not worth telling.
Something occasionally to stir the blood, but nothing
strange. Besides, we have other matters
on hand just now. I am apt enough to talk about
myself; and if we are as much together as I hope,
you will probably learn all about my adventures
worth hearing. But I cannot give them to you in
a bound book. You must take the sibyl's leaves

as the freakish gusts of fancy or humour bring
them in your way.”

“I observed,” said I, “that Keizer called you
colonel; do you hold a commission of any sort?”

“No; and never did. It is a sort of nom de
guerre, conferred with a corresponding authority
in a time of common danger, by those who sought
safety under my guidance. It is a title I am not
ashamed of.

Honours may descend, and offices may be conferred
on the unworthy; but instinct makes no
such blunders; and men, when environed by peril,
do not put themselves under the command of fools
or cowards. No; I hold no commission of any
sort. I take no part in the scramble for office,
which is now going on at the seat of government,
where they are at this moment enacting the game
of sovereignty, and putting the new state of Missouri
into its first breech. Much such a figure it
will cut as you did. I wish it may get into no
worse scrape. I shall not be the man to help it
out. I am nothing to this people, and they are
nothing to me. I suppose I might have some
office, if I would, and reign a sort of King Cockroach
in this commonwealth of insects. But my
heart is in Virginia, and my home would be there
too, if there were a spot in the state I could call
my own. But enough of myself! Let us call
another cause.”

He threw himself back in his chair, and spent
some minutes in silent musing. I did not interrupt
his thoughts, but occupied myself in tracing
their shadows as they flitted across his speaking
countenance. He was a weatherbeaten man, of
about five-and-thirty, who never had been handsome.
A bright gray eye, high sharp features, a
sandy complexion, and sandy hair, were the particulars
that would strike a careless observer. But
the character of the face was in a high prominent
forehead, a flat compressed mouth, and in the
peculiar setting, and varying expression of the eye.
It corresponded with his style of conversation,
which, always serious, but never grave, found a
moral in the most frivolous subjects, and enlivened
his most sober thoughts with whimsical illustrations,
and unexpected combinations of ideas. It
was like

and, in truth, this association was by no means
rare, either in his face, or in those of his auditors.
But the paradox did not stop there. I had never
seen a man more entertaining, and never listened
to one whose conversation was so fatiguing. My
mind became jaded with continued excitation and
exercise; while his reminded me of a mischievous
romping boy, whose animal spirits will never flag,
and who will never let his companions rest. I
was, in truth, not sorry when he ceased to speak.
I wanted an opportunity to fall into my own jog-trot
gait of reflection on the new aspect of my
affairs, and dreaded the recommencement of his
discourse. At length he sat erect, and fixed his
eye on me, as if to speak. I suppose he marked
the lassitude of my countenance, for he suddenly
changed his manner, and said, “Not now—not
now—another time. You are weary, and need
rest of body and mind. So throw the one on your
bed, and the other on a book, and I will not disturb
you.”

I took his advice; the letters presently began
to crawl over the page, and I was soon asleep. I
awoke to coffee, and felt quite refreshed by a cup
or two.