The Prairie Chief Read online

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  THE PRAIRIE CHIEF, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  THE ALARM.

  Whitewing was a Red Indian of the North American prairies. Though not achief of the highest standing, he was a very great man in the estimationof his tribe, for, besides being possessed of qualities which are highlyesteemed among all savages--such as courage, strength, agility, and thelike--he was a deep thinker, and held speculative views in regard to theGreat Manitou (God), as well as the ordinary affairs of life, whichperplexed even the oldest men of his tribe, and induced the younger mento look on him as a profound mystery.

  Indeed the feelings of the latter towards Whitewing amounted almost toveneration, for while, on the one hand, he was noted as one of the mostfearless among the braves, and a daring assailant of that king of thenorthern wilderness, the grizzly bear, he was, on the other hand, modestand retiring--never boasted of his prowess, disbelieved in the principleof revenge, which to most savages is not only a pleasure but a duty, andrefused to decorate his sleeves or leggings with the scalp-locks of hisenemies. Indeed he had been known to allow more than one enemy toescape from his hand in time of war when he might easily have killedhim. Altogether, Whitewing was a monstrous puzzle to his fellows, andmuch beloved by many of them.

  The only ornament which he allowed himself was the white wing of aptarmigan. Hence his name. This symbol of purity was bound to hisforehead by a band of red cloth wrought with the quills of theporcupine. It had been made for him by a dark-eyed girl whose name wasan Indian word signifying "light heart." But let it not be supposedthat Lightheart's head was like her heart. On the contrary, she had agood sound brain, and, although much given to laughter, jest, andraillery among her female friends, would listen with unflaggingpatience, and profound solemnity, to her lover's soliloquies inreference to things past, present, and to come.

  One of the peculiarities of Whitewing was that he did not treat women asmere slaves or inferior creatures. His own mother, a wrinkled, brownold thing resembling a piece of singed shoe-leather, he loved with atenderness not usual in North American Indians, some tribes of whom havea tendency to forsake their aged ones, and leave them to perish ratherthan be burdened with them. Whitewing also thought that his betrothedwas fit to hold intellectual converse with him, in which idea he was notfar wrong.

  At the time we introduce him to the reader he was on a visit to theIndian camp of Lightheart's tribe in Clearvale, for the purpose ofclaiming his bride. His own tribe, of which the celebrated old warriorBald Eagle was chief, dwelt in a valley at a considerable distance fromthe camp referred to.

  There were two other visitors at the Indian camp at that time. One wasa Wesleyan missionary who had penetrated to that remote region with alonging desire to carry the glad tidings of salvation in Jesus to thered men of the prairie. The other was a nondescript little whitetrapper, who may be aptly described as a mass of contradictions. He wassmall in stature, but amazingly strong; ugly, one-eyed, scarred in theface, and misshapen; yet wonderfully attractive, because of a sweetsmile, a hearty manner, and a kindly disposition. With the courage ofthe lion, Little Tim, as he was styled, combined the agility of themonkey and the laziness of the sloth. Strange to say, Tim and Whitewingwere bosom friends, although they differed in opinion on most things.

  "The white man speaks again about Manitou to-day," said the Indian,referring to the missionary's intention to preach, as he and Little Timconcluded their midday meal in the wigwam that had been allotted tothem.

  "It's little I cares for that," replied Tim curtly, as he lighted thepipe with which he always wound up every meal.

  Of course both men spoke in the Indian language, but that being probablyunknown to the reader, we will try to convey in English as nearly aspossible the slightly poetical tone of the one and the rough Backwoods'style of the other.

  "It seems strange to me," returned the Indian, "that my white brotherthinks and cares so little about his Manitou. He thinks much of hisgun, and his traps, and his skins, and his powder, and his friend, butcares not for Manitou, who gave him all these--all that he possesses."

  "Look 'ee here, Whitewing," returned the trapper, in his matter-of-factway, "there's nothing strange about it. I see you, and I see my gun andthese other things, and can handle 'em; but I don't know nothin' aboutManitou, and I don't see him, so what's the good o' thinkin' about him?"

  Instead of answering, the red man looked silently and wistfully up intothe blue sky, which could be seen through the raised curtain of thewigwam. Then, pointing to the landscape before them, he said in subduedbut earnest tones, "I see him in the clouds--in the sun, and moon, andstars; in the prairies and in the mountains; I hear him in the singingwaters and in the winds that scatter the leaves, and I feel him here."

  Whitewing laid his hand on his breast, and looked in his friend's face.

  "But," he continued sadly, "I do not understand him, he whispers sosoftly that, though I hear, I cannot comprehend. I wonder why this isso."

  "Ay, that's just it, Whitewing," said the trapper. "We can't make itout nohow, an' so I just leaves all that sort o' thing to the parsons,and give my mind to the things that I understand."

  "When Little Tim was a very small boy," said the Indian, after a fewminutes' meditation, "did he understand how to trap the beaver and themartin, and how to point the rifle so as to carry death to the grizzlybear?"

  "Of course not," returned the trapper; "seems to me that that's afoolish question."

  "But," continued the Indian, "you came to know it at last?"

  "I should just think I did," returned the trapper, a look ofself-satisfied pride crossing his scarred visage as he thought of thecelebrity as a hunter to which he had attained. "It took me a goodishwhile, of course, to circumvent it all, but in time I got to be--well,you know what, an' I'm not fond o' blowin' my own trumpet."

  "Yes; you came to it at last," repeated Whitewing, "by giving your mindto things that at first you _did not understand_."

  "Come, come, my friend," said Little Tim, with a laugh; "I'm no matchfor you in argiment, but, as I said before, I don't understand Manitou,an' I don't see, or feel, or hear him, so it's of no use tryin'."

  "What my friend knows not, another may tell him," said Whitewing. "Thewhite man says he knows Manitou, and brings a message from him. Threetimes I have listened to his words. They seem the words of truth. I goagain to-day to hear his message."

  The Indian stood up as he spoke, and the trapper also rose.

  "Well, well," he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "I'll go too,though I'm afeared it won't be o' much use."

  The sermon which the man of God preached that day to the Indians wasneither long nor profound, but it was delivered with the intenseearnestness of one who thoroughly believes every word he utters, andfeels that life and death may be trembling in the balance with those wholisten. It is not our purpose to give this sermon in detail, but merelyto show its influence on Whitewing, and how it affected the stirringincidents which followed.

  Already the good man had preached three times the simple gospel of Jesusto these Indians, and with so much success that some were ready tobelieve, but others doubted, just as in the days of old. For thebenefit of the former, he had this day chosen the text, "Let us run withpatience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus." Whitewinghad been much troubled in spirit. His mind, if very inquiring, was alsovery sceptical. It was not that he would not--but that he could not--receive anything unless _convinced_. With a strong thirst after truth,he went to hear that day, but, strange to say, he could not fix hisattention. Only one sentence seemed to fasten firmly on his memory: "Itis the Spirit that quickeneth." The text itself also made
a profoundimpression on him.

  The preacher had just concluded, and was about to raise his voice inprayer, when a shout was heard in the distance. It came from a man whowas seen running over the prairie towards the camp, with the desperatehaste of one who runs for his life.

  All was at once commotion. The men sprang up, and, while some went outto meet the runner, others seized their weapons. In a few seconds ayoung man with bloodshot eyes, labouring chest, and streaming brow burstinto their midst, with the news that a band of Blackfoot warriors, manyhundred strong, was on its way to attack the camp of Bald Eagle; that hewas one of that old chief's braves, and was hasting to give his tribetimely warning, but that he had run so far and so fast as to be quiteunable to go another step, and had turned aside to borrow a horse, orbeg them to send on a fresh messenger.

  "_I_ will go," said Whitewing, on hearing this; "and my horse is ready."

  He wasted no more time with words, but ran towards the hollow where hissteed had been hobbled, that is, the two front legs tied together so asto admit of moderate freedom without the risk of desertion.

  He was closely followed by his friend Little Tim, who, knowing well thered man's staid and self-possessed character, was somewhat surprised tosee by his flashing eyes and quick breathing that he was unusuallyexcited.

  "Whitewing is anxious," he said, as they ran together.

  "The woman whom I love better than life is in Bald Eagle's camp," wasthe brief reply.

  "Oho!" thought Little Tim, but he spoke no word, for he knew his friendto be extremely reticent in regard to matters of the heart. For sometime he had suspected him of what he styled a weakness in that organ."Now," thought he, "I know it."

  "Little Tim will go with me?" asked the Indian, as they turned into thehollow where the horses had been left.

  "Ay, Whitewing," answered the trapper, with a touch of enthusiasm;"Little Tim will stick to you through thick and thin, as long as--"

  An exclamation from the Indian at that moment stopped him, for it wasdiscovered that the horses were not there. The place was so open thatconcealment was not possible. The steeds of both men had somehow gotrid of their hobbles and galloped away.

  A feeling of despair came over the Indian at this discovery. It wasquickly followed by a stern resolve. He was famed as being the fleetestand most enduring brave of his tribe. He would _run_ home.

  Without saying a word to his friend, he tightened his belt, and startedoff like a hound loosed from the leash. Little Tim ran a few hundredyards after him at top speed, but suddenly pulled up.

  "Pooh! It's useless," he exclaimed. "I might as well run after astreak o' greased lightnin'. Well, well, women have much to answer for!Who'd iver have thowt to see Whitewing shook off his balance like that?It strikes me I'll sarve him best by lookin' after the nags."

  While the trapper soliloquised thus he ran back to the camp to get oneof the Indian horses, wherewith to go off in search of his own and thatof his friend. He found the Indians busy making preparations to ride tothe rescue of their Bald Eagle allies; but quick though these sons ofthe prairie were, they proved too slow for Little Tim, who leaped on thefirst horse he could lay hold of, and galloped away.

  Meanwhile Whitewing ran with the fleet, untiring step of a trainedrunner whose heart is in his work; but the way was long, and as eveningadvanced even his superior powers began to fail a little. Still he heldon, greatly overtaxing his strength. Nothing could have been moreinjudicious in a prolonged race. He began to suspect that it wasunwise, when he came to a stretch of broken ground, which in thedistance was traversed by a range of low hills. As he reached these hereduced the pace a little, but while he was clambering up the face of arather precipitous cliff, the thought of the Blackfoot band and of themuch-loved one came into his mind; prudence went to the winds, and in amoment he was on the summit of the cliff, panting vehemently--so muchso, indeed, that he felt it absolutely necessary to sit down for a fewmoments to rest.

  While resting thus, with his back against a rock, in the attitude of oneutterly worn out, part of the missionary's text flashed into his mind:"the race that is set before us."

  "Surely," he murmured, looking up, "this race is set before me. Theobject is good. It is my duty as well as my desire."

  The thought gave an impulse to his feelings; the impulse sent his youngblood careering, and, springing up, he continued to run as if the racehad only just begun. But ere long the pace again began to tell,producing a sinking of the heart, which tended to increase the evil.Hour after hour had passed without his making any perceptible abatementin the pace, and the night was now closing in. This however matterednot, for the full moon was sailing in a clear sky, ready to relieveguard with the sun. Again the thought recurred that he acted unwiselyin thus pressing on beyond his powers, and once more he stopped and satdown.

  This time the text could not be said to flash into his mind, for whilerunning, it had never left him. He now deliberately set himself toconsider it, and the word "patience" arrested his attention.

  "Let us run with patience," he thought. "I have not been patient. Butthe white man did not mean this kind of race at all; he said it was thewhole race of life. Well, if so, _this_ is part of that race, and it_is_ set before me. Patience! patience! I will try."

  With childlike simplicity the red man rose and began to run slowly. Forsome time he kept it up, but as his mind reverted to the object of hisrace his patience began to ooze out. He could calculate pretty well therate at which the Blackfoot foes would probably travel, and knowing theexact distance, perceived that it would be impossible for him to reachthe camp before them, unless he ran all the way at full speed. The verythought of this induced him to put on a spurt, which broke him downaltogether. Stumbling over a piece of rough ground, he fell with suchviolence that for a moment or two he lay stunned. Soon, however, he wason his legs again, and tried to resume his headlong career, but feltthat the attempt was useless. With a deep irrepressible groan, he sankupon the turf.

  It was in this hour of his extremity that the latter part of thepreacher's text came to his mind: "looking unto Jesus."

  Poor Whitewing looked upwards, as if he half expected to see the Saviourwith the bodily eye, and a mist seemed to be creeping over him. He wasroused from this semi-conscious state by the clattering of horses'hoofs.

  The Blackfoot band at once occurred to his mind. Starting up, he hidbehind a piece of rock. The sounds drew nearer, and presently he sawhorsemen passing him at a considerable distance. How many he could notmake out. There seemed to be very few. The thought that it might behis friend the trapper occurred, but if he were to shout, and it shouldturn out to be foes, not only would his own fate but that of his tribebe sealed. The case was desperate; still, anything was better thanremaining helplessly where he was. He uttered a sharp cry.

  It was responded to at once in the voice of Little Tim, and next momentthe faithful trapper galloped towards Whitewing leading his horse by thebridle.

  "Well, now, this is good luck," cried the trapper, as he rode up.

  "No," replied the Indian gravely, "it is not _luck_."

  "Well, as to that, I don't much care what you call it--but get up. Why,what's wrong wi' you?"

  "The run has been very long, and I pressed forward impatiently, trustingtoo much to my own strength. Let my friend help me to mount."

  "Well, now I come to think of it," said the trapper, as he sprang to theground, "you have come a tremendous way--a most awful long way--in anuncommon short time. A fellow don't think o' that when he's mounted, yesee. There now," he added, resuming his own seat in the saddle, "off wego. But there's no need to overdrive the cattle; we'll be there in goodtime, I warrant ye, for the nags are both good and fresh."

  Little Tim spoke the simple truth, for his own horse which he haddiscovered along with that of his friend some time after parting fromhim, was a splendid animal, much more powerful and active than theordinary Indian horses. The steed of Whitewing was a half
-wild creatureof Spanish descent, from the plains of Mexico.

  Nothing more was spoken after this. The two horsemen rode steadily onside by side, proceeding with long but not too rapid strides over theground: now descending into the hollows, or ascending the gentleundulations of the plains; anon turning out and in to avoid the rocksand ruts and rugged places; or sweeping to right or left to keep clearof clumps of stunted wood and thickets, but never for a moment drawingrein until the goal was reached, which happened very shortly before thebreak of day.

  The riding was absolute rest to Whitewing, who recovered strengthrapidly as they advanced.

  "There is neither sight nor sound of the foe here," murmured the Indian.

  "No, all safe!" replied the trapper in a tone of satisfaction, as theycantered to the summit of one of the prairie waves, and beheld thewigwams of Bald Eagle shining peacefully in the moonlight on the plainbelow.