University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE WHITE INDIAN.

With his knife still in his hand, and one arm
supporting Isaline, for a few moments Henry stood
irresolute, undecided whether to yield himself a
peaceable prisoner, or defend himself till overpowered
or cut down, or attempt another escape in
the darkness. Though he could see nothing of the
owner of the voice, he doubted not that both himself
and companion had been seen by the speaker, and it
might be that a deadly rifle was at that very instant
bearing upon them. This vague conjecture was the
next moment rendered almost a certainty to his
mind by the guttural words of the unknown:

“Speak who? me shoot!”

“We are two quiet persons who have lost our way
in the forest,” answered Henry, now fully decided to
surrender without resistance.

“Throw gun, tomahawk, knife—me come!” returned
the voice from below, the speaker still remaining
invisible.

“Unfortunately I have neither gun nor tomahawk,
and my knife is at your service, if you insist upon
having it.”

“No un'stand much speak!” rejoined the invisible
unknown.

Henry reasserted, in the most simple language he
could frame, that his only weapon was a knife,
which he would yield up to his, the stranger's, demand.

“T'other one?”

“She is a squaw, and has nothing to fight with.”

“Stand, me come—run, me shoot!” said the unknown.

“We will wait for you,” returned Henry; and
added, in a lower tone: “Because there seems to be
no alternative.”

There was a noise as of some one cautiously
moving up from the black pit, but it was more than
a minute before even so much as the shadow of a
figure became visible to the strained eyes of Henry
and Isaline. First a head dimly appeared, slowly
emerging out of the black gloom, and then a body
gradually followed; but whether or not the dread
form advancing upon them was that of a fierce
savage in his war paint, they could not tell. This
shadowy figure continued to approach, slowly and
cautiously; and when quite near, Henry perceived
that a rifle was held before it in such a position
that it could be discharged at any object in an instant.

“Don't shoot!” said Henry; “we yield ourselves
prisoners at once.”

“Throw fight down!” said the same gruff voice.

Henry understood this to mean that he must throw
down his weapons; and casting his knife on the

ground, under the belief that it could avail him nothing
against the rifle of the unknown, he held up
both hands, with the open palms outward. A word
to Isaline caused her to do the same.

The strange unknown now came close up to both
and peered into their faces. It was light enough to
disclose the general outline of the lineaments at a
distance of six or eight inches, and Henry was surprised
to see, instead of a savage, the face of a white
man. The head was covered with a sort of cap,
made from the skin of some wild beast; and the
garment which inclosed the body, without sleeves,
leaving the arms bare, was likewise of the same
material.

“You are not an Indian?” said Henry, inquiringly.

“Oogh! me no Injun—me white!” was the reply.

“Thank God for that! I was afraid we had fallen
into the hands of a savage!” cried Henry, with an
internal relief that his words only faintly expressed.

“Me white!” repeated the other, in a tone of satisfaction;
“me Injun long time!”

“Ah, I understand! You were born white, but
have spent most of your life with the Indians, which
accounts for your speech being so much like theirs?”

“Oogh! me white—long time Injun—no un'stand
much speak Englee!” returned the other, picking up
and examining the knife which Henry had thrown
down.

“Do you live with the Indians now?” inquired
Henry.

“Me live alone.”

“Where?”

The stranger pointed down the hill.

“Have you a cabin there?”

“Oogh! wigwam!”

“You will not hurt us?”

“Methoto[1] no hurt.”

“Is your Indian name Methoto?”

“Oogh! Methoto me!” he replied, tapping his
breast. “Buffalo you call um.”

“You will give us something to eat, Methoto?”

“Who you?”

“We were travelling through the country, when
the storm overtook us, our horses ran off, and we
have lost our way.”

“Oogh! big storm!”

“Yes, terrible!”

“Want eat?” asked the white Indian, pointing to
his mouth and addressing Isaline.

“Oh, yes, if you will be so kind!” she answered.

“Come!” he said, and at once began to move down
the hill.

Both Henry and Isaline followed, winding down
among the rocks and through the bushes for several
minutes, till at last the stranger opened the door
into some kind of a hovel, and in his gruff way
bade them enter. There was a sort of rude chimney
and fireplace on one side of the habitation, with a

few smouldering embers on the hearth, and by the
dim light of these our unfortunate friends could see
that the dwelling was small, probably only contained
one room, and furnished with only a kettle or two, a
slab bench, and a pallet of skins.

A large piece of fresh venison was depending
from the antlers of a stag in one corner; and this
Methoto immediately took down and laid on the
bench before his guests, at the same time returning
Henry his knife and making signs that he was to
cut off what he needed for himself and companion.
He then set about kindling a fire; and Henry, with
a feeling of cheerfulness he had not experienced for
many a long hour, said to Isaline:

“Our seemingly worst disasters are, by the goodness
of Providence, turned into blessings!”

“For which I am more thankful than I can express!”
she replied, with tearful eyes.

The fire was soon started, and by its cheerful
blaze the weary guests for the first time had a fair
view of the appearance of their strange host. As
before remarked, he was dressed altogether in skins,
with the hairy side out, and looked almost as much
like a beast as a human being. A skin, rudely
sewed together at the back, with two arm-holes
through it, covered his body, and was belted around
his waist, and reached down nearly to his kness,
where it was met by leggins of the same kind; but
his arms were bare, and, from long exposure to the
weather, had become of a dirty tan-color. He had

put aside his rifle and powder horn; but in his belt,
ready to his hand, were a tomahawk and hunting
knife. About the face he was not particularly ill-looking,
though evidently with a nature somewhat
brutalized by the life he had lived. His eyes were
of a cold, grayish hue, and set wide apart, with
heavy, shaggy brows meeting over a short, flat nose.
His mouth—a feature in which so much of character
is usually denoted—was large and sensual—though
the peculiar stare of the eyes, and general immobility
of the whole countenance, indicated a dull,
sluggish, phlegmatic temperament. Without being
instinctively wicked or cruel, you could see he was
a man to be feared whenever his worst passions
should be aroused. In stature he was short, but his
frame was heavily built, and he evidently possessed
great strength. He appeared to be of German extraction
and quite young, or at least under five-and-twenty
years of age.

It was not easy to converse with this strange being,
owing to his limited use and understanding of
the English tongue; but Henry managed, by a
series of simple questions, to ascertain that he did
not know his own name, parentage, or place of nativity—that
he had been captured by the Indians
when a mere child, if not an infant, and been adopted
and brought up by his captor, who was the only
father of whom he had any knowledge.

A year or two before the date of our story, he and
his Indian father, and two Indian brothers, had

crossed the Ohio and entered Kentucky, with the
view of getting a few white scalps, stealing some
horses, and carrying off what plunder they could.
One night they had come upon a solitary cabin, occupied
by three women, (apparently mother and
daughters,) and a blind negro boy. Admittance
having been refused them, they had cut away the
door and murdered three of the parties—one of the
girls making her escape by leaping through a back
window and running into the forest. He made
Henry understand that the girl they had killed
was in his eyes very handsome, and that he had felt
so badly about what had been done, that he had at
once resolved to leave the Indians and return to his
own race. He had soon found an opportunity.
After they had plundered the house of such things
as they could carry with them, and had fired it,
they had started on to hunt up new victims; but
when they had got well into the forest, again, he
had given the others the slip, and had made his way
to a neighboring station, where, in the best manner
he could, he had disclosed the startling facts. A
number of the garrison had at once set off in pursuit
of the savages, taking him along as guide. He had
gone unwillingly, for the idea of seeing his friends
destroyed, (and, whatever their deeds, they had ever
been friends to him,) had been a terrible one; but
he had been told that a refusal to comply with their
commands would subject him to instant death. The
result of the whole affair was, that the Indians had
been followed, found, and slain; and that, after
their death, he had himself narrowly escaped being
hung by the infuriated whites. Not wishing to
return to the Indians, and finding nothing congenial
among those of his own race, he had wandered about
in the depths of the forest for a time, and had finally
fixed his abode in the solitary place where he now
was, and where his hovel had been built by himself
without assistance from any one. In fact he was almost
certain it had never been seen before by other
eyes, for our friends were the first guests that had
ever entered it.

He now lived a wild, solitary life, his time being
chiefly employed in hunting, fishing, and raising a
small patch of corn on an opening about a mile from
his dwelling. His shanty was cleverly concealed
among rocks and bushes on the bank of the Licking.
He owned a canoe, which he had fashioned himself,
after the manner of the Indians, from the bark of a
tree and the skin of a deer, and this was so light that
he could put it on his shoulder and carry it a mile
without stopping to rest. He held no communication
with his fellow-beings except when compelled by
necessity to visit some station for the purpose of exchanging
his skins for powder, lead, fish-hooks, and
such things as he could not do without, and then he
only stayed barely long enough to transact his business,
and was always glad to get safely back to his
hermit-like home.

Such, in brief, was the story and life of this strange

being, which Henry drew from him, little by little,
while occupied in preparing something for his fair
companion and himself to eat.

The fire itself was a very cheerful thing to see
and feel after such a gloomy drenching; and as Isaline
sat on the bench drawn up before it, and warmed
herself and dried her wet garments, she thought she
could not be too thankful to that kind Providence
which had not only preserved her through the most
fearful perils, but had led her steps to a place of such
comparative comfort.

Henry toasted several slices of the venison, and
the host brought forward a horn-cup filled with salt,
and a hard cake, made of pounded corn mixed with
water and baked in the ashes. The world has unquestionably
produced many a better meal than our
friends feasted on that night, but it would have been
a difficult matter to have made them believe so then,
and it is probable that they never in their lives ate
anything with a sharper appetite and a keener
relish.

“There,” said Isaline, when she had finished her
supper and washed down the last morsel with a cup
of cold spring-water, which the strange host brought
expressly for his guests, “I feel like a new being,
and more thankful for all God's mercies and goodness
than I can find words to express. But while I
thank Him, let me not forget our kind entertainer,
who, whatever his past deeds and sins, is at least deserving

of my poor gratitude for what he has done
for us to-night!”

The latter had thrown himself down, in Turkish
fashion, near one corner of the fireplace, and, with
his back partly turned toward his guests, appeared
for the time to be wholly absorbed in looking at the
bright coals. Isaline went up and touched him on
the shoulder. Perhaps his revery, whatever it was,
had carried him into some dreadful peril—for no
sooner did her hand rest upon him, than, with a
bound, that drew from her a startled cry, he came
full upon his feet, and faced round, like a tiger at
bay, with his tomahawk gleaming above his head,
ready to fall with a fatal stroke. Quick as lightning
Henry sprung forward to snatch Isaline from the
impending blow, and at the same instant the white
Indian discovered his mistake and cast his weapon
from him, with an exclamation that showed he condemned
his own foolish act.

“Me 'fraid white man catch Methoto for hang!”
he said, by way of explanation. “Oogh! me fool!
No hurt squaw!”

Reassured by his words and manner, Isaline,
though still somewhat nervous from her sudden
fright, again approached him, but more timidly, and,
holding out her hand, said:

“I want to thank you, Methoto, for all your kindness
to us!”

The white savage took the proffered hand in one
of his, and then she regretted she had so particularly

called his attention to herself, for he fixed his cold,
gray eyes upon her, with a look that expressed more
admiration than she wished to excite.

“Squaw much handsome—big heap!” he said.

He stared at her, with a look that made her afraid;
and when she would have withdrawn her hand and
shrunk away, he would not let her go.

“Squaw like Methoto?” he asked.

“You have been very kind to us, and I wanted
to thank you, that is all!” she answered, changing
color.

“Oogh! good wigwam!” he said, moving his other
arm majestically, and casting his eyes around him,
as if to show that in that single word he comprehended
his entire possessions. “Me like squaw
keep wigwam, big heap!”

This was certainly a rather sudden and novel
mode of courtship, and, under different circumstances,
might have amused both Isaline and Henry;
but now it only excited a feeling of annoyance, allied
to fear—for there was no telling to what extremes
such a strange being might be carried by his whims
and passions. Isaline, frightened and embarrassed,
glanced appealingly at Henry, who said, very quietly,
but firmly:

“Squaw girl is too young to be Methoto's wife
now.”

Instantly the cold, gray eyes of the host were
turned and fastened searchingly upon him.

“Oogh! guess white brave want squaw girl wife
himself!” he said.

“She is going home to her father,” returned
Henry, in the same quiet tone, “and will not be
anybody's wife at present.”

Methoto looked at him steadily for some moments,
then turned and stared at Isaline till her eyes fell,
and then let go of her hand and drew a deep sigh.

Now really afraid of him, Isaline drew as far back
as she could and out of the light of the fire. Methoto
followed her with his eyes, as one might
mechanically do while thinking of something else,
and then turned and fixed his gaze upon the bright
coals as before.

“After all, I would rather be in the forest than
here!” Isaline now whispered to Henry.

“I do not think you have anything more to fear,”
he answered. “It was probably a whim that came
upon him at the moment and is already forgotten.
Act as though nothing had happened and leave me
to manage him. I want you to remain here and get
what sleep you can, so that you can start refreshed
at the first streak of day. I will keep watch over
you, dear lady; and believe me, with so precious a
charge in my care, I will not neglect my duty!”

“No, my dear friend, I know you would not,”
replied Isaline; “I had no fear of that; but if this
whim, as you call it, should return to him again,
there is no knowing but that he might murder you
to get entire possession of me!”

“Do not be alarmed, dear Isaline!” smiled Henry.
“I am not one to be easily put out of the way. If
the worst should come to the worst, we are simply
man to man, and the scouts would tell you I am not
an adversary to be despised.”

“But he is so much stronger than you!”

“The battle is not always to the strong, nor the
race to the swift, dear lady!”

“But he is well armed!”

“I at least have my knife, with the chances of
getting hold of his rifle if I should need it. No, no,
dear Isaline, give over your fears, I beg of you, and
sleep as safely here as if under the roof of your
honored father.”

“Oh, my dear father! would to Heaven I were
under his roof this night indeed!” she sighed. “But
I will do as you think best, Henry—I will put my
whole trust in you.”

“Thank you, dear Isaline! and may Heaven so
guide me aright that you may always feel you can
safely put your trust in me! Now then say nothing,
but let me arrange everything with our strange
host.”

He turned to the figure before the fire, which now
had the motionless attitude of a statue, and in a low
tone spoke the name of Methoto. He had to repeat
it twice, and the last time quite loudly, ere the
strange being seemed to hear him. Then he looked
around, but in a rather stolid manner.

“The squaw girl is very tired and would like a

place to sleep for the night,” said Henry, pointing to
Isaline, and accompanying his words with such signs
as made their meaning perfectly clear.

“Oogh!” grunted the white Indian.

He then went to the corner where his own couch
of skins was spread, and, selecting three of the best,
one of bear and two of deer, returned and laid them
carefully down before the fire, with the remark:

“Much wet—fire heap good!”

He then went out and brought in some more wood,
with which he started the blaze afresh; after which
he barred his door, (there appeared to be no windows,)
handed Henry a couple of skins for his own
use, and, with merely a grunt for a good night,
threw himself down on his own rude bed, and
seemed immediately to fall asleep.

“There,” said Henry to Isaline, in a low tone, “you
see our host sets us an example of confidence, by
putting himself completely in our power; and now
that you have nothing to fear, I trust you will be
able to get a refreshing sleep.”

“But have we nothing to fear, Henry?” whispered
Isaline, with a suspicious glance toward their apparently
slumbering host. “Is this strange being really
putting good faith in us and actually slumbering? or
is this all feigned for some purpose?”

“Whether real or false,” answered Henry, who
had his own suspicions, “it will make no difference
in my vigilance, dear Isaline; and as you have
promised to put faith in and be guided by me, I

must now insist upon your lying down and getting
what rest you can!”

Isaline, without further demur, complied with his
request; and with the bear-skin spread on the
ground, and the two deer-skins for a pillow, she laid
herself down before the fire, which, except for her
still wet clothes, would have rendered the place uncomfortably
warm for her without other covering,
but which, under the circumstances, produced a very
pleasurable sensation.

Not to seem to be on the watch, Henry also cast
himself down between the host and herself, with
his face turned toward the former, so that every
movement could be seen, firmly resolved not to
close his eyes for a single moment throughout the
night.