HOW THE THREE TRAVELLERS WENT TO GEORGE CLINTON'S.
This terrible revelation fell like a thunderclap upon the four personages who sat at table. There was for some minutes a silence caused by perfect stupor.
"You are indeed a sinister messenger, chief," said the old man, bitterly; "whence do you get this news?"
"Perhaps you are mistaken," gasped the father.
"Listen," said the chief, sadly, "and you shall hear what has passed in a few words."
"First sit down and break bread," cried the old man; "we are friends and relatives, and this awful catastrophe affects you as well as us."
"You say truly," responded the young chief, seating himself.
"Eat and drink," said the old man; "then we will talk."
The meal continued, to the great astonishment of Oliver. He could not understand the calm and sang-froid of these four men in presence of such an awful event. He was half inclined to accuse them even of coldness of heart.
He knew nothing of that Indian etiquette, more severe than that of any other country, which requires this apparent coldness. He soon, however, discovered how much he was mistaken, and how deeply all these brave and loyal hearts were wounded by the fatal incident.
The repast was sad and gloomy. Nobody spoke. They ate as if it were a duty which must be done.
After the hasty repast was over there was silence.
"You have come, sir," said the old man, addressing Oliver, "at an unfortunate moment; pardon us if we seem rude and inhospitable. But evil has fallen on us."
"You told me, sir," replied the young man, "that I was to become a member of your family. Let me, then, share your sorrows as well as your joys. I feel more on the subject than you think, being Bright-eye's brother."
"Thank you; you are one of us," said the old man.
"You are my second son," cried the father.
"I thank you, and hope to prove myself deserving."
Everybody now rose from table, filled his pipe and lighted it, and then, the repast having in the meantime been cleared away, seated themselves by the fire.
"Chief," said the old man, "the time has come. We are ready to listen to you with the deepest attention."
Rising and bowing to all, the chief, who affected stoical gravity, but who had great difficulty in controlling his voice, spoke—
"Lagrenay's wife was never ill. Evening Dew was carried off by Tom Mitchell from the squatters."
"Are you quite positive?" asked the grandfather.
"I am positive. The news was brought to me just now by a courier in whom I have every confidence. He saw all that happened without himself being seen."
A deep silence prevailed. None interrupted the old man.
"Allow me," he said, "to speak frankly to you, chief. You are my relative; I remember your birth, and love you."
"My father is good, and knows I love him," replied the chief.
"I know it; but pardon me if I speak very plainly. There is a hesitation in your words which alarms me excessively. I am sure you have not told us all you think."
The chief bowed his head.
"I knew I was right," cried the old man; "you know far more than you choose to say."
"No skin covers my heart, my blood runs red and clear in my veins; the Wacondah sees and judges me. Let my father explain himself frankly. I ought only to speak after him. His head is white with the snows of wisdom. He is wise."
"Good, Numank-Charake, you are a great brave, despite your youth. Soon you will be renowned in council. I know the motives which shut your mouth. You love her."
The young man started.
"Do not deny it," said the old man. "I know it, as does my son, and we rejoice both of us. She will be happy with one who is both strong and brave. Not knowing our sentiments towards you, you have nobly hesitated to accuse a near relative. You have acted well. But time presses, and not a moment is to be lost. We know our cousin as well, or perhaps better, than you do. We know also that falsehood never soiled your lips. To keep further silence would be to commit a bad action—to make yourself almost the accomplice of the ravishers. Speak out, then, like a man."
"I obey," replied the young man, respectfully.
"And hide nothing, I pray," added François Berger.
"I will tell you everything," he said, "as you know my heart is given to Evening Dew. I love her; her love is my joy, her voice my happiness. On my return to the village, after my unfortunate expedition, Evening Dew was no longer in her father's wigwam. I asked news of everybody; I even ventured to ask you. Your answer filled me with discouragement. I returned to my hut heartbroken with despair. My grandfather had pity on me. Kouha-hande loves me, and spoke like a wise man. 'Go,' he said, 'find Bright-eye at the spot agreed on; he is the brother of Evening Dew; he will grieve with you, and perhaps give you good advice. During his absence I will watch. If necessary, I will go to the hut of the white man on the Wind River. Adieu, my son, and may the Wacondah accompany you,' I obeyed my father. I put on my travelling moccasins, took my gun, provisions, all that a hunter requires, and started. But my soul was sorrowful; a sad presentiment froze me to the marrow of my bones; Wacondah sent it."
"Courage, child," said the old man, kindly. "Wacondah is powerful and just; He tries those whom He loves."
"Two hours ago I returned to the village of my nation. I was very sad and uneasy. Without a word I left my comrades and friends, and rushed to my wigwam. My father's father awaited me. He was gloomy and thoughtful, and rose as I entered. I guessed at once what I had to expect. This is what I learned. Kouha-hande is a sachem whose words are not to be doubted. For two days, hid in the thickets, he watched the hut of the squatter of the River of the Wind. The second day, before the rising of the moon, there was a sharp whistle near the habitation, and a man appeared. He was very pale, wore the costume of the hunter of the prairies, and carried a rifle. At the distance the sachem could not make out his features. Almost immediately, however, a second person appeared on the scene, coming from the inside of the hut, and this was the squatter himself."
"Are you sure of what you say?" asked the old man.
"Kouha-hande knew him," replied the chief.
"Go on," gloomily remarked old Berger.
"The two men approached each other, spoke for a long time in a low tone, and then separated, after exchanging one phrase, which the sachem heard distinctly. This phrase, which seemed to summarise their conversation, was—"
"'You swear upon your honour that she will be quite safe and respected in every way,' said the squatter."
"'As if she were my own sister or daughter, I swear unto you,' replied the hunter."
"The two men then parted. That was all. Two hours passed away. Just about the time when the blue jay begins its first song, the sachem, who had remained still in his hiding place, his eye and ear on the strain, heard a noise approaching rapidly, like that of a number of people who, fearing no surprise, thought it useless to take any precautions. They soon came in sight. They were no less than thirty palefaces, armed with rifles. They surrounded the hut and attacked it on all sides."
"The squatter and his servants defended themselves like people taken by surprise—that is, feebly."
"The assailants soon entered the hut. My grandfather now heard a great tumult inside. But he was alone, could do no good, and therefore remained in his hiding place. At the end of an hour the men came out, escorting a fainting female, who was wrapped in a frazada. Satisfied with the result of their expedition, they went off without even closing the doors behind them. Kouha-hande waited some little time, and then, convinced that the assailants had departed, went into the wigwam."
"All was in disorder. The furniture was overthrown and broken; the squatter, his wife, and servants, tied and gagged, lay on the floor. The sachem hastened to stir up the fire, then he lighted some torches, after which he set all the people at liberty. Even then for some time they were unable to move or speak."
"The squatter's wife wept, wrung her hands, and bitterly reproached her husband with his cowardice, which had been the cause of the abduction of her niece."
"And what did he say?" asked Berger.
"Nothing," said the chief; "he was overwhelmed, appeared struck by stupor, remaining utterly motionless. Presently he seemed to recover his spirits. Kouha-hande then offered to start in pursuit of the ravishers, but the squatter refused, alleging that the trail was no doubt by this time so cleverly concealed as to render pursuit impossible. He left the punishment of the villains in the hands of God. The sachem, seeing plainly that he was not wanted, went away. But Kouha-hande was determined to reach to the bottom of the dark scheme; instead of returning to his village, he followed the abductors."
"These, having apparently no fear of pursuit, had left ample traces of their passage in the forest, and took not the slightest precaution to conceal their route in a straight line through the forest. It led direct to the Missouri. The sachem at once saw through the whole thing. These hunters, the sachem declared, could only be the redoubtable outlaws commanded by the extraordinary chief before whom all trembled, white and red, in the prairie."
"Tom Mitchell," groaned the old man.
"Himself," said the chief. "The sachem, after exploring the two banks of the river for many miles, came back to the village of his nation, and told me what he had seen. This is my story. Have I well said?"
"You have," cried François Berger; "but let me speak. I am the only one person in fault. I should never have separated from my daughter. It is my duty to go in search of her. I will find her or perish in the attempt."
He attempted to rise, but Oliver checked him.
"Pardon me, sir," he said, gently, "if I interfere in so delicate and grave a matter. The friendship I bear your son, the cordial way in which you have received me, compel me to feel as if I were personally concerned in the matter. May I therefore be allowed to speak a few words?"
"Speak," said the old hunter.
"Sir," replied the young man, modestly, "I have listened to every word as recorded by the chief, and I believe every word as recorded by him. It appears to me, therefore, in examining the facts, that the attack of the hunters, arranged with the squatter himself, his repugnance and refusal to pursue them, point either to treachery or a strange mystery, which it would be wise to clear up."
"Unfortunately," said the old man, "we share your opinion. The treachery is too flagrant to be doubted."
"You believe in treachery," urged Oliver.
"Base and cowardly treachery," cried Berger, striking the table.
"Be assured, then," continued Oliver, "and you will be a better judge of the correctness of my opinion than I am, your enemies, whoever they may be, have spies around you, spies employed to watch your movements, and to report them at once. You Will not have been ten minutes on the trail of the ravishers ere they would be on your track."
"Quite true," said the old man; "what is to be done?"
"A very simple thing, and one which I am very much surprised you have not thought of before. We have only reached the village two hours ago; I, as a stranger, am unknown to anybody, nobody troubles himself in any way about me. Whither I go matters to no one. With your permission, at nightfall I will start in company with Bright-eye. If our early departure is noticed, we can easily give some reason. It is you who are watched, and no one else. None, knowing the indomitable energy of your character, will believe that you have allowed anyone else to go in search of your daughter. We shall be three men, two of whom know the desert well. The trail of one man is easy to follow, but not of three wary hunters ever on their guard, at all events, without the spies be discovered and killed. This is my opinion, and, frankly, I think it good."
"You have spoken well," repeated the grandfather; "what you say is just. We are proud to have you for a friend, and we thank you. It is not necessary to reflect long without owning you are right. It would be folly to contest the matter, my son, and I, therefore, gladly confide to you the task of finding our child. Go, as you propose, this evening at the setting of the moon, my grandson, the chief, and yourself."
"And you will succeed," said the father.
"I hope so, sir," responded the Frenchman; "rely upon it, I shall do all I can for my new sister."
"My son was fortunate to meet you. God bless you all."
The two young people simply thanked Oliver by looks. It was eleven o'clock at night when they started, without being noticed. We already know how they met the outlaw.