The Lost Hunter. John Turvill Adams
he was, and whithersoever he turned his eyes, there was the young man, seeming to be, and yet not to be Holden, and haunting him like a shadow. As these imaginations possessed themselves more and more of the Indian's mind, he began to fancy himself the victim of some incantation, with which he naturally connected the Recluse as the cause; and, finally, by continual brooding on the subject, both his appetite and sleep deserted him. His moodiness at length attracted the attention of Peéna. Ohquamehud was lying on the floor of her hut, his head resting on his hand, and he had been for some time gazing in the fire. The simple noon-day meal had barely been tasted, and that in silence.
"Have the hands of Peéna," she said, "forgot how to prepare his food, that the eyes of my brother turn away from it with displeasure?"
"The hands of my sister have not lost their skill, but Ohquamehud is not hungry."
"Ohquamehud is a warrior, and Peéna is but a weak woman, and he will not be angry," she added, hesitatingly.
The Indian waved his hand, with dignity, as if inviting her to proceed.
"Ohquamehud sees the heart of his sister, and he knows that it loves him, for he is the brother of Huttamoiden. Why does he cover up his face from her, and hide his grief? Is she unworthy," she added, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking affectionately in his face, "to listen to his voice?"
He turned towards her, and paused before he said—
"The stone in the path of Ohquamehud is very small, and will not hurt his feet."
"Peéna, then, will try to remove it. She has strength to move small stones."
She ceased, and continued looking at him, without adding a word, as if she had said enough, and awaited a reply.
"Why should Ohquamehud speak?" he said, at last; "the breath of the
Long Beard will blow away his words."
A look of vacancy overspread the face of the squaw, as if she failed to apprehend his meaning.
"My brother's words are dark," she said.
"Has not the powawing of the Long Beard brought back the spirit of Huttamoiden's cub from the happy hunting-grounds, and does not, therefore, the face of Peéna turn to him as the sun-flower to the sun?"
"The Great Spirit loves the Long Beard, and the Long Beard loves his red brethren."
"What! a Yenghese love an Indian? Yes, as a wild-cat loves the deer when he sucks his blood, as the water loves the fire it extinguishes. The lips of Peéna speak foolishness."
"If Peéna feel grateful to the Long Beard, why should that anger her brother? Could he look into her heart, he would see his face as in a clear stream."
It was not in human nature to withstand the soft voice and pleading looks of the woman. The momentary fierceness passed away from the countenance of the Indian, a milder expression assumed its place, and, in a gentle tone, he said—
"Peéna shall hear. She is like a stone which, when spoken to, repeats not what is said, and not like a brook that sings an idle song. My words shall enter her ears, but they will not descend to her tongue. Listen! the Manitou has troubled my thoughts, and sent a bird to tell me, that the hands of the Long Beard are red with the blood of my brothers."
"It was a lying bird," she exclaimed vehemently; "it was an owl that hooted untruth from the dark. When lifted the Long Beard a hatchet against my tribe?"
"The voice was as the voice of the waterfall," he continued. "It spoke indistinctly, and I understood but half."
"Why should not Ohquamehud talk with the Long Beard? The words of each shall be sweet to the other, and they will learn to have one heart."
"It is well," said the Indian, "Peéna is a wise woman, and Ohquamehud will speak with the white man."
It needed only the suggestion of the squaw to carry into effect a resolution already more than half adopted.
The Indian rose, and proceeding to the river, which was but a dozen rods distant from the hut, unloosed a canoe, and directing its course up the stream, was lost, in a few moments, from her view.
The appearance of Ohquamehud indicated no hostility when he presented himself before the Recluse, whom he found weaving baskets in front of his cabin, nor did his visit seem to surprise the latter. For an instant the Indian looked with disdain upon an employment which his wild education had taught him was fit only for women; but suppressing the expression of a sentiment that might have interfered with his purpose, with a quiet dignity, and, as if in answer to a wave of Holden's hand, he seated himself on a large stone by his side. For a time he was silent, as if either out of deference to the superior years of the other, or because he wished to collect his thoughts before he began the conversation. Finding, however, he could obtain from the Solitary no further sign of recognition, he spoke in his own language.
"My brother has a big heart. He is making gifts for the beautiful women of his nation."
"Indian," replied Holden, "think not to deceive me. At this moment thou considerest this an occupation unfit for a man."
"My brother has very long eyes. They can see the woodpecker on the rotten tree across the river, but they reach not here," laying his hand upon his breast. "The Holder of the Heavens loves not to see things alike. He therefore made the leaf of the oak to differ from that of the hickory, and the pine from both, and also the white race from the red. And, for the same reason, he taught the white man to make big lodges of wood, and brick and stone, and to swim over the waters in large canoes with wings: while to the red man he gave the forests and prairies, with the deer, and bear, and buffalo, and caused him to dwell in very small wigwams made of bark. And so, also, he taught my white brother to weave beautiful baskets, but denied the skill to my father's son."
The Indian must have supposed he had seriously offended his new acquaintance, to induce him thus elaborately to attempt to avert his suspicions. However that might be, the Solitary resumed the conversation as though he felt no resentment.
"There is wisdom in thy speech. The Great Spirit loves variety, and it is he that maketh men to differ. But there was once a time many moons ago, when thy ancestors builded great houses and dwelt in cities, and sailed over the seas in winged-canoes."
The Indian cast a quick, sharp glance at the Solitary, as if he wished to read his very soul. For a moment he looked as though he doubted the evidence of his senses. But recovering his composure, he said:
"The thoughts of my brother are very high, and his voice like the sound of a great wind."
"Thou comprehendest me not. Know then, Indian, that innumerable years ago, there lived far towards the rising sun, twelve tribes, called the 'Children of Israel,' whom the Master of Life greatly loved. And they had wise and brave Sachems, who led them to battle, and their feet were red with the blood of their enemies. But they became wicked, and would not hearken unto the words of the Great Spirit, and He turned his face away from them. So their enemies came upon them, and despoiled them, and drove them from the land. Two of the tribes still linger near the rising sun, but ten wandered far away into distant countries, and they are thy fathers."
The Indian listened with great attention, and upon the other pausing, said:
"Has the Manitou told all these things to my brother?"
"No, Indian; the Great Spirit speaks not now to his people as he did when the world was young. But," he added, as if struck with the folly of continuing a conversation of this character, "the path is long that led me to this truth, and it would weary thy feet to travel it."
"My brother is wise, and cannot lie, and I am a child. My ears drink in his words. The legs of my brother are long, and he has been a great traveller. Was it near the rising sun he learned the language of the red man?"
"Indian, I have never been nearer the rising sun than thou. But tell me the object of thy visit. Why dost thou seek me now, when but a few days since thou didst chide the squaw for her willingness to oblige me?"