The Prairie Chief. Robert Michael Ballantyne
of this brief address, and the old chief again rose up.
“My braves,” he said, “have listened to the words of wisdom. Let each warrior go to his wigwam and get ready. We quit the camp when the sun stands there.”
He printed to a spot in the sky where the sun would be shining about an hour after daybreak, which was already brightening the eastern sky.
As he spoke the dusky warriors seemed to melt from the scene as if by magic, and ere long the whole camp was busy packing up goods, catching horses, fastening on dogs little packages suited to their size and strength, and otherways making preparation for immediate departure.
“Follow me,” said Whitewing to Little Tim, as he turned like the rest to obey the orders of the old chief.
“Ay, it’s time to be lookin’ after her,” said Tim, with something like a wink of one eye, but the Indian was too much occupied with his own thoughts to observe the act or appreciate the allusion. He strode swiftly through the camp.
“Well, well,” soliloquised the trapper as he followed, “I niver did expect to see Whitewing in this state o’ mind. He’s or’narily sitch a cool, unexcitable man. Ah! women, you’ve much to answer for!”
Having thus apostrophised the sex, he hurried on in silence, leaving his horse to the care of a youth, who also took charge of Whitewing’s steed.
Close to the outskirts of the camp stood a wigwam somewhat apart from the rest. It belonged to Whitewing. Only two women were in it at the time the young Indian chief approached. One was a good-looking young girl, whose most striking feature was her large, earnest-looking, dark eyes. The other was a wrinkled old woman, who might have been any age between fifty and a hundred, for a life of exposure and hardship, coupled with a somewhat delicate constitution, had dried her up to such an extent that, when asleep, she might easily have passed for an Egyptian mummy. One redeeming point in the poor old thing was the fact that all the deep wrinkles in her weather-worn and wigwam-smoked visage ran in the lines of kindliness. Her loving character was clearly stamped upon her mahogany countenance, so that he who ran might easily read.
With the characteristic reserve of the red man, Whitewing merely gave the two women a slight look of recognition, which was returned with equal quietness by the young woman, but with a marked rippling of the wrinkles on the part of the old. There still remained a touch of anxiety caused by the recent fight on both countenances. It was dispelled, however, by a few words from Whitewing, who directed the younger woman to prepare for instant flight. She acted with prompt, unquestioning obedience, and at the same time the Indian went to work to pack up his goods with all speech. Of course Tim lent efficient aid to tie up the packs and prepare them for slinging on horse and dog.
“I say, Whitewing,” whispered Tim, touching the chief with his elbow, and glancing at the young woman with approval—for Tim, who was an affectionate fellow and anxious about his friend’s welfare, rejoiced to observe that the girl was obedient and prompt as well as pretty—“I say, is that her?”
Whitewing looked with a puzzled expression at his friend.
“Is that her—the girl, you know?” said Little Tim, with a series of looks and nods which were intended to convey worlds of deep meaning.
“She is my sister—Brighteyes,” replied the Indian quietly, as he continued his work.
“Whew!” whistled the trapper. “Well, well,” he murmured in an undertone, “you’re on the wrong scent this time altogether, Tim. Ye think yerself a mighty deal cliverer than ye are. Niver mind, the one that he says he loves more nor life’ll turn up soon enough, no doubt. But I’m real sorry for the old ’un,” he added in an undertone, casting a glance of pity on the poor creature, who bent over the little fire in the middle of the tent, and gazed silently yet inquiringly at what was going on. “She’ll niver be able to stand a flight like this. The mere joltin’ o’ the nags ’ud shake her old bones a’most out of her skin. There are some Redskins now, that would leave her to starve, but Whitewing’ll niver do that. I know him better. Now then”—aloud—“have ye anything more for me to do?”
“Let my brother help Brighteyes to bring up and pack the horses.”
“Jist so. Come along, Brighteyes.”
With the quiet promptitude of one who has been born and trained to obey, the Indian girl followed the trapper out of the wigwam.
Being left alone with the old woman, some of the young chief’s reserve wore off, though he did not descend to familiarity.
“Mother,” he said, sitting down beside her and speaking loud, for the old creature was rather deaf, “we must fly. The Blackfeet are too strong for us. Are you ready?”
“I am always ready to do the bidding of my son,” replied this pattern mother. “But sickness has made me old before my time. I have not strength to ride far. Manitou thinks it time for me to die. It is better for Whitewing to leave me and give his care to the young ones.”
“The young ones can take care of themselves,” replied the chief somewhat sternly. “We know not what Manitou thinks. It is our business to live as long as we can. If you cannot ride, mother, I will carry you. Often you have carried me when I could not ride.”
It is difficult to guess why Whitewing dropped his poetical language, and spoke in this matter-of-fact and sharp manner. Great thoughts had been swelling in his bosom for some time past, and perchance he was affected by the suggestion that the cruel practice of deserting the aged was not altogether unknown in his tribe. It may be that the supposition of his being capable of such cruelty nettled him. At all events, he said nothing more except to tell his mother to be ready to start at once.
The old woman herself, who seemed to be relieved that her proposition was not favourably received, began to obey her son’s directions by throwing a gay-coloured handkerchief over her head, and tying it under her chin. She then fastened her moccasins more securely on her feet, wrapped a woollen kerchief round her shoulders, and drew a large green blanket around her, strapping it to her person by means of a broad strip of deerskin. Having made these simple preparations for whatever journey lay before her, she warmed her withered old hands over the embers of the wood fire, and awaited her son’s pleasure.
Meanwhile that son went outside to see the preparations for flight carried into effect.
“We’re all ready,” said Little Tim, whom he met not far from the wigwam. “Horses and dogs down in the hollow; Brighteyes an’ a lot o’ youngsters lookin’ after them. All you want now is to get hold o’ her, and be off; an’ the sooner the better, for Blackfoot warriors don’t take long to get over scares an’ find out mistakes. But I’m most troubled about the old woman. She’ll niver be able to stand it.”
To this Whitewing paid little attention. In truth, his mind seemed to be taken up with other thoughts, and his friend was not much surprised, having come, as we have seen, to the conclusion that the Indian was under a temporary spell for which woman was answerable.
“Is my horse at hand?” asked Whitewing.
“Ay, down by the creek, all ready.”
“And my brother’s horse?”
“Ready too, at the same place; but we’ll want another good ’un—for her, you know,” said Tim suggestively.
“Let the horses be brought to my wigwam,” returned Whitewing, either not understanding or disregarding the last remark.
The trapper was slightly puzzled, but, coming to the wise conclusion that his friend knew his own affairs best, and had, no doubt, made all needful preparations, he went off quietly to fetch the horses, while the Indian returned to the wigwam. In a few minutes Little Tim stood before the door, holding the bridles of the two horses.
Immediately afterwards a little Indian boy ran up with a third and somewhat superior horse, and halted beside him.
“Ha! that’s it at last. The horse for her,” said the trapper to himself with some satisfaction; “I knowed that Whitewing would have everything straight—even though he is in a raither stumped condition