University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

A more magnificent day never dawned than the one which succeeded
the night of the irruption of the immense herd of buffalo.
The valley was bathed in the golden glory of an unclouded autumnal
sun, and the gentle breezes wafted from the forest the mellifluous
songs of happy birds. But yet the scene was one of death and
destruction, as contemplated from the tower, whither most of the
inmates of the mansion repaired after breakfast.

“See—they are coming already,” said William, drawing the attention
of the rest to the flocks of crows, ravens, and buzzards, approaching
from the forest. “They always follow these large droves
of wild cattle,” said he, “for they know that even if they escape
the hunter's aim, they are constantly fighting among themselves,
and trampling the weaker ones to death. Every day, and perhaps
every hour, some of them are left inanimate on the plain, the prey
of ravenous beasts and birds.”

“And the wolves will come next,” said Glenn, “if they be not
here already, hid in the bushes. And, from the great number of
the slain, no doubt they will fare sumptuously. I think hundreds
have been left behind. I see them every where. The gorge at
the lower end of the valley is blackened with them. Let us not
neglect our share of the booty—and after a few days' hard work,
we may repose with a full assurance that it must be a long time before
starvation can stare us in the face.”

This was assented to; but befere they descended from the tower,
little Charley, who had been amusing himself gazing through the
telescope at distant objects, made an exclamation which attracted
attention.

“Let me see,” said William, taking the glass. “It is,” said he,
a moment after.

“Is what?” asked Glenn.

“The Camanches; and I see Red Eagle. They stand afar off,
on a rise in the prairie, and gaze in this direction. I will mount
my horse and go to them. Your fire works last night must have
been seen by them. They cannot comprehend such a display, and
they are filled with terror.”

“There is a pretty large body of them,” said Glenn.

“Yes,” replied William, “several hundred. A hunting party
must have been following the buffalo, and fell in with their head
chief. If your fire had not dismayed them, we should have heard
their whoops all round the valley, when the buffalo were here; for
by frightening the beasts into such a place as this, they would have
been enabled to secure as much meat as they wanted.”

“You are correct, William,” said Mr. Roughgrove, who had been
silent. “The advantages of such a position as this would never
have escaped the knowledge of the Camanches; and their first impulse
would have been to create a panic among their victims. But
they have been panic-stricken themselves. Go, William, and invite
them to join us in securing the fruits of the victory. There
will be enough for all.”

“Yes, indeed,” said La-u-na, “and they will do the work for us
better than we could do it ourselves. They can preserve the meat
so that it will be good for a whole year.”

William, soon after, mounted his steed and sped to the high hills
overlooking the valley. La-u-na, who had gone to the tower,
watched his progress with the telescope; and she smiled with delight
when she beheld her uncle bestow an affectionate greeting on
her husband.

Red Eagle called around him some of the subordinate chiefs,
and explained, as William had explained to him, the innocent nature
of the strange exhibition of fire which they had witnessed
from a distance, and which had alarmed them greatly. He then
directed them to have the buffalo meat prepared and dried in the
usual manner. He informed William that this party consisted of
nearly two hundred of the flower of his young men, who had been
in pursuit of the buffalo for some days. They had already killed

many—and hence they would cheerfully yield the greater proportion
of the meat and hides to the white family. Then, to the
great delight of William, he announced that he would accompany
him to the mansion, and abide there as a guest while his young
men were at their work.

La-u-na understood it all when she saw William and Red Eagle
depart together from the rest and ride towards the pass at the
head of the valley. When they descended from the hill and disappeared
from sight, she beheld the dispersion of the band of
hunters, who prepared immediately to execute the work assigned
them.

Soon after, the great chief and William were seen approaching
the main entrance of the palisaded enclosure, and La-u-na descended
from the tower and requested Glenn to go out and meet
them. He did so with alacrity, and welcomed the chief with the
hospitality so congenial to his nature.

Red Eagle was conducted into the house, and embraced La-u-na.
He was surrounded by the family, and even the children evinced
their delight at seeing him again.

His carriage was graceful and dignified, and his features noble
in expression. Mr. Roughgrove and Glenn remarked that he did
not exhibit the looks of wonder and curiosity so generally observable
in ordinary Indians upon entering the dwellings of the white
people. His form was symmetry itself, and his face a model of
manly beauty. He smiled benignantly on the children, and accepted
with condescension and politeness the refreshments Mary
set before him.

Then, while William acted as his interpreter, he said that he had
visited the White Spirit after the fall of the Apache spy, and communicated
to him the fact of the discharge of the arrow—a declaration
of war—before the gun was fired. Then the White Spirit
had consulted the Great Spirit over all the earth, and over all the
hunting ground of the future existence; and announced that it
was his will and pleasure that the king of the Camanches should
be in friendship and alliance with the white people who had taken
up their abode in the valley. And if war should be preferred to

peace, he was permitted I to fight wherever the whites might be assailed
by their enemies.

Here Mr. Roughgrove interposed the remark that the whites
preferred peace.

“Joe,” said Sneak, “I'm afeared it'll be peace.”

“So am I, too,” said Joe. “I'm keen for war with the Apaches;
and I killed one of 'em—and that's more than you can say.
I'm glad I spilt the first blood.”

“Silence!” said Roughgrove, “and learn that it is an offense to
utter a word while a great chief is speaking. Proceed, William.”

William continued, rendering the words of Red Eagle, who said
there was only one alternative—only one means of averting the
war—which was to surrender the man who slew the Apache, to be
tomahawked and scalped.

“Oh, goodness gracious!” cried Joe, springing to his feet, and
forgetful both of the rule just mentioned, and the boast he had so
recently uttered—“Oh, Mr. Roughgrove,” he continued, “I will
take my solemn Bible oath the gun went off accidentally—and it
was Sneak's fault—he made the trigger go so easy, it was the jar
set it off. Oh, don't give me up to 'em.”

The chief, when informed of the nature of Joe's case, smiled,
and directed William to say it made no sort of difference whether
the killing of the Apache was the result of design or accident—to
appease the family of the spy it was necessary for the one in whose
hands the gun was held to be delivered up for sacrifice.

“Oh, Mr. Red Eagle,” cried Joe, falling on his knees before the
chief, “do'nt let 'em make peace, and I'll fight as bravely as any
man in the world.”

“You be dod rot!” said Sneak, contemptuously. “I don't want
peace, but I'd take it, jest to see you sculped.”

“Be silent, Sneak,” said Roughgrove. “It is a matter for grave
consideration. But, it seems to me, man of peace as I am, that
whether the shot was fired accidentally or not, Joe was guarding
our lives and property, and had been aimed at with an intent to kill
by the Indian. Therefore—and I am reluctant to pronounce it—

it is my opinion—be the consequences what they may—we cannot
justly deliver up Joe to the Apaches.”

“Good!” cried Joe. “Now I'll kill a hundred of 'em.”

William informed Joe that Red Eagle was surprised at the conduct
of the white chief who had slain a grizzly bear; because,
among the Camanches, the man who killed another was always
anxious to be delivered up, so that his people might be saved from
the horrors of war. And thus, by the loss of one life, hundreds,
and perhaps thousands, might be saved. Such voluntary sacrifices
were always made or offered by brave men—and a coward even the
children and dogs despised.

“Oh, Lord!” said Joe, “if there's war, all parties will be against
me, and if there's peace, I'm to be tomahawked. Please, Mr. William,
don't tell him I don't want to be given up.”

“It matters very little, Joe,” said Glenn. “what you want or
don't want. This is one of the matters to be decided in council.
It must be put to the vote. You will be entitled to vote—provided
you are in favor of being delivered up to the Apaches—”

“But I aint, Mr. Glenn—I aint—I'll swear—”

“Oh, you need'nt swear to it,” said Glenn; “among Indians
there are no such things as oaths—they are altogether different
from the whites. I thought you knew that, Joe. Go, now, and
prepare for your fate, whatever that may be. To-morrow, or next
day, a runner must be sent to the Apaches, announcing our determination.
This necessity might have been obviated if the companion
of the Indian you killed had succeeded in killing you on
the same night. The arrow that grazed the head of Cæsar was
meant for you—”

“Oh, Lord!” cried Joe. “But he would'nt have known the
difference.”

“No—if Cæsar had fallen, it might have been the salvation of
this Republic—and no doubt Cæsar would have cheerfully given
his life to save yours, and mine, and the lives of the children. He
would have been proud to do it. And the Apaches might never
have known it was Joe, and not Cæsar, who had done the wrong.
Go, and prepare yourself for the ordeal that awaits you.”

Joe, who had approached the door by degrees, now vanished.

“What's the matter, Misther Back?” said Biddy, who met him
in the broad hall. “You're waaping, aint you?”

“Biddy,” said he, “won't you help save my life?”

“Yes—Och, what is it?”

“The cursed Indians demand my life for the one I killed by accident.”

“Accident! And was it only a accident afther all, Misther Back?
I thought you was the bravest man—”

“Hush, Biddy,” said he, “you know a man killed by accident
is'nt murdered. When I'm cleared I'll tell you more about it.
And Biddy, you can help to clear me. It's to be put to the vote.
And when I'm free, Biddy, I'll be a hero in the war, and then I'll
marry you.”

“But then I won't have anything to do wid a coward, Misther
Back. There'd be no war, if you was brave enough to give yerself
up.”

“But then there would be no Joe to marry you, Biddy. Won't
you vote to save my life?”

“Och, Misther Back, I'd scorn to vote to take yer life, if you
won't give it up yerself.”

“Thank you, Biddy.”

Joe ran to the kitchen—but was told Cæsar, and Pompey, and
Hannibal, were at the stables and sheds attending to the animals.
He found them standing over the grave of the Indian—and some
how or other the feat of Joe had become known throughout the
entire household. This fact, which was hugely enjoyed by Joe,
before the arrival of Red Eagle, was now the terror of his life.

“Massa Joe,” said Pompey, “you is de brave man—we's found
you out. De spades was full ob fresh dirt, and den we found whar
de grass had been cut, and den we dug down to de moccasin—and
den—”

“Oh, Pompey,” said Joe, with tears, “my grave's to be dug
next.”

He then related his case, while the eyes of the negroes winked

and blinked, and his appeal to them for their votes was so earnest
and so eloquent, that they pronounced unanimously in his favor.

“Dod rot it!” cried Sneak, joining them just in time to hear
the last words; “you niggers mus'nt make up your minds till you
hear my great speech in the council room. And nobody must say
beforehand how he's going to vote. That's the law. And it's the
meanest and the cowardliest thing in the world for Joe to be electioneering
among the niggers to vote on his side. 'Taint fair, Joe,
and I've a half a mind to take the stump agin you.”

“But, Sneak,” said Joe, “my life's in danger—and it's my duty
to struggle to save my own life.”

“Do'nt believe him, niggers; it's no duty at all. If he gets
clear, maybe your lives, and my life, and all the lives of the family
may be taken.”

“Dar 'tis! I see it now,” said Pompey.

“I begins to see sumfing, too,” said Cæsar.

“Oh, my gracious!” cried Joe; “everybody's hand 'll be against
me. Sneak, I thought you was a friend.”

“So I am, Joe; but, dod rot it, you would'nt have all your friends
to die, would you, to save your life?”

“No, Sneak—but we can whip the Indians.”

“You're mighty brave now, Joe.”

“I'll be as brave as Cæsar, Sneak.”

“Hear dat, Pompey?” said Cæsar.

“I hear, but 'taint you he meant,” said Pompey.

“Ef I did'nt think you was a coward, Joe,” said Sneak, “I'd
vote agin your bein' sculped. Now you see a coward's always in
more danger than a brave man; and you are the only Irishman I
ever saw who was a coward. But I 'spect you aint a full blood.”

“Sneak, come aside with me,” said Joe, with an emphatic jesture.
“Now, Sneak,” he continued, “don't be making a joke of
so serious a matter, for it's life or death. Don't you see the valley's
full of Camanches, skinning and drying buffalo meat? Who knows,
when they get done, that they won't take me off to the Apaches,
if it's believed a majority of our people's in favor of giving me
up?”

“I don't know it, Joe, for one; and if I vote to have no war,
and to save the lives of the rest of us, dod rot it, it's the very thing
I want.”

“Hear me, Sneak—if you come on my side I'll give up
Biddy.”

“You will?”

“Hanged if I don't.”

“But 'taint fair,” said Sneak. “Ef they was to sculp you, you'd
have to gin her up any how.”

“Sneak, Mr. Roughgrove's on my side, and all the ladies, of
course—and just think, if they clear me, what a pitiful and popular
man I'll be.”

“That's so. You'll gin her up for my vote?”

“Your vote and your influence. You know, Sneak, how greedy
you are for war—”

“Starvin! I'm achin all over to be at the snarvilerous savages.
It's a bargin, Joe—I'll go and 'lectioneer for you. Now, you niggers,”
said he, as he passed by them, “must keep quiet. They
won't let you vote agin a white man, and they had'nt ought to.”

“Dar 'tis,” said Pompey.

“I 'spected as much,” said Cæsar. “But all's right—dey knows
best.”

“Dat's colored people's equality,” said Hannibal.

“You hush,” said Pompey, “you's nuffin but a molatto.”

Sneak led the way, Joe following, to where Mr. Roughgrove,
Glenn and William were now standing, examining the place where
the Indian had mounted to the summit of the palisade, his head
enveloped in the skin of a skunk. William was explaining some
of the infinite variety of devices resorted to by the children of the
forest to compass their ends. He said there could be no doubt the
Apache had ascertained the fate of his companion, for blood had
flowed from the wound on the grass.

In the house La-u-na was left alone with her uncle, who seemed
fond of her.

“Daughter of my sister,” said he, “you were the gayest and
prettiest of all the children of the wild-wood—and now you are as

beautiful as ever in the house of the white man. Are you
happy?”

“Oh, yes, brother of my mother,” said La-u-na, “the Young
Eagle is ever kind to me.”

“But, Trembling Fawn, do you never sigh for the running
brooks, the silent forest, the singing birds, and the warm sunshine
of your early haunts?”

“Red Eagle,” said La-u-na, “the dancing waters of the laughing
brooks run round me here, and the birds sing in the forest in
view of my window. Behold now the bright and glorious sunshine
streaming upon us. No, uncle—I can never sigh for anything
when my husband is near, and the voice of my dear little boy is
sounding in my ears. They are the sunlight and the music of my
existence—I ask no more—nothing better—until we all shall meet
again in the happy hunting grounds which are to last forever.”

“La-u-na,” said he, “I would not have you leave your husband
and your child; but if it should ever be your lot to wander an outcast
from the lodges of the white people—come to me—come to
Red Eagle—and he will swoop down upon them. He can command
many thousands of warriors, and he can pursue his enemies
from the mountains to the sea.”

“Uncle, the white people will not be your enemies.”

“I know the good will not; and the White Spirit says these
with whom you live are good. And I would be good. But bad
makes bad—and there are many bad people among the whites.
La-u-na, your father was a French Colonel—a brave man—and
once a terror to the Apaches—but they killed him.”

“Uncle, I never knew this before. But they told me in the
country of the whites, where there are no Indians, that one of my
parents must have been of the race who came from beyond the
broad water. I never saw my father—and he was killed?”

“By the Apaches. And that is the reason I have made war on
them. More than a thousand warriors have died for that act. But
enough. I go to the mountain. When the wolves of the South
are prowling in the valley, the Red Eagle will come again, like
the ravens, to pick their bones. Farewell!”

Soon after the tall chief strode through the area towards the
men at the palisade, while the little negroes were peeping at him
from the door of the kitchen. Then, after a brief adieu, he
mounted his steed, bearing a rifle, which Glenn had given him,
and rode briskly away to the head of the valley, where some of his
principal chiefs awaited him.

During the remainder of the day the party of Camanche hunters
prepared and divided the meat and the robes of the buffalo—more
than a hundred having perished—to the entire satisfaction of the
inhabitants of the mansion. Then, after receiving some slight but
valued mementoes from the hands of Glenn, they departed upon
the trail of the game they had been previously pursuing.

The council, to decide the fate of Joe, was indefinitely postponed,
much to his satisfaction; and before night he was devising means
to evade his contract with Sneak, who, however, more than once
intimated an intention to hold him to the bargain.