THE WHITE BUFFALO.
So soon as Natah Otann emerged from the cabin into which he had conducted the Count, he proceeded towards the hut inhabited by White Buffalo. The night was beginning to fall; the Kenhas, collected round fires kindled at the door of each wigwam, were conversing gaily while smoking their long calumets. The chief replied by a nod of the head, as a friendly sign to the affectionate salutations the warriors made him whom he met; but he did not stop to talk with anyone, and continued his walk with greater rapidity as the darkness grew denser. He at length reached a cabin, situated at the extremity of the village, on the banks of the Missouri. The chief, after taking a scrutinizing glance around, stopped before this hut, and prepared to enter. Still in the act of raising the buffalo curtain that served as a doorway, he hesitated for a few seconds, and appeared to be collecting his courage.
This dwelling, externally, had nothing to distinguish it from the others forming the village; it was round, with a roof shaped like a beehive, made of intertwined branches, with clay stuffed between them, and covered with matting. Still, after a moment's reflection, Natah Otann raised the curtain, walked in, and stopped at the threshold, saying in French—
"Good evening, my father."
"Good evening, child, I was awaiting you impatiently: come, sit down by my side, we have to talk."
These words were uttered in the same language, and in a gentle voice.
Natah Otann took a few steps forward, and let the curtain fall behind him. If, externally, the hut the Chief had just entered was not distinguished from the others, that was not the case with the interior. All that human industry can imagine, when reduced to its simplest expressions, that is to say, when deprived of tools and matters of primary necessity to express its thoughts, had been as it were invented by the master of this house. Hence the interior of this hut was a sort of strange pandemonium, in which were collected the most discordant articles, apparently least suited to be side by side. Differing from the other wigwams, this cabin had two windows, in which oiled paper was substituted for glass; in one corner was a bed, in the centre a table, a few scattered chairs, and armchair by the table, but all these articles carved with an axe, and clumsily. Such was the furniture of this singular room.
On shelves, some forty volumes, for the most part out of their binding; stuffed animals hanging by cords, insects, &c.; in a word, an infinite number of things without name, but classified, arranged, and labelled, completed this singular abode, which more resembled the cell of an anchorite, or the secret den of a mediaeval alchemist, than the abode of an Indian chief; and yet this hut belonged to White Buffalo, one of the first Kenha chiefs. But, as we have said, this chief was a European, and had, doubtlessly, kept up some reminiscences of his past life, the last rays of a lost existence.
At the moment when Natah Otann entered the hut, White Buffalo, seated in the easy chair at the table, with his head resting on his hands, was reading by the light of a lamp, whose smoky wick only spread a flickering and uncertain light around, from a large folio, with yellow and worn leaves. He raised his head, took off his spectacles, which he placed in the book, and, turning the chair half round, the old man smiled, and, pointing to a chair in a kindly way, said—
"Come, my child, sit down there."
The Chief took a chair, drew it to the table, and sat down, without any reply. The old man looked at him attentively for a few moments, and then said:—
"Hem! you appear to me very thoughtful for a man who, as I suppose, has just obtained a grand result so long expected. What can render you so gloomy? Would you hesitate, now you are on the point of success? or are you beginning to understand that the work which, in spite of me, you wished to undertake, is beyond the strength of a man left to himself, and who has only an old man to support him?"
"Perhaps so," the Chief answered, in a hollow voice. "Oh why, my father, did you let me taste the bitter fruit of that accursed civilization, which was not made for me? Why have your lessons made of me a man differing from those who surround me, and with whom I am compelled to live and die?"
"Blind man! when I showed you the sun, you allowed yourself to be dazzled by the beams; your weak eyes could not endure the light; in the place of that ignorance and brutalization in which you would have vegetated all the days of your life, I developed in you the only feeling which elevates man above the brute. I taught you to think, to judge, and this is the way in which you recompense me. This is the reward you give me for the pains I have taken, and the cares I have never ceased to bestow on you."
"My father!"
"Do not attempt to exculpate yourself, child," the old man said, with a shade of bitterness. "I should have expected what now happens, ingratitude and egotism are deposited in man's heart by Providence, as his safeguard. Without those two supreme virtues of humanity, no society would be possible. I am not angry with you; I have no right to be so; and, as the sage says, you are a man, and no human feeling must be alien to you."
"I make neither plaint nor recrimination, my father; I know that you have acted towards me with good intentions," the Chief replied, "but, unfortunately, your lessons have produced a very different result from what you awaited: in developing my ideas, you have, without your knowledge or mine, increased my wants; the life I lead preys upon me: the men who surround me are a burden to me, because they cannot understand me, and I can no longer understand them. As respects myself, my mind rushes towards an unknown horizon. I dream wide awake of strange and impossible things. I suffer from an incurable malady, and cannot define it. I hopelessly love a woman, of whom I am jealous, and who can never be mine, save by a crime. Oh, my father, I am very wretched!"
"Child!" the old man exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders in pity. "What, you are unhappy! Your grief inclines me to laughter. Man has in himself the germ of good and evil; if you suffer, you have only yourself to blame. You are young, intelligent, powerful, the first of your nation: what do you want for happiness? Nothing. If you wish to be so permanently, stifle in your heart that insensate passion which devours it, and follow, without looking to the right or left, the glorious mission you have traced for yourself. What can be more noble or grander than the deliverance and regeneration of a people?"
"Alas! can I do it?"
"What! you doubt?" the old man shouted, striking the table with his fist and looking him in the face; "then you are lost: renounce your plans, you will not succeed; on a road like that you follow, hesitation or stoppage is ruin."
"Father!"
"Silence," he said, with redoubled energy, "and listen to me; when you first revealed your plans to me, I tried by all arguments possible to make you abandon them. I proved to you that your resolves were premature. That the Indians, brutalized by a lengthened slavery, were only the shadow of their former selves; and that to attempt to arouse in them any noble or generous feeling was like galvanizing a corpse. You resisted; you would hear nothing; you went Headlong into intrigues and plots of every description—is it not so?"
"It is true."
"Well! now it is too late to return; you must go on at all risks. You may fall, but you will do so with honour; and your name, cherished by all, will swell the martyrology of the chosen men who have devoted themselves to their country."
"Things are not yet sufficiently advanced, I think, for me——"
"Not to be able to withdraw—you mean?" he interrupted him.
"Yes."
"You are mistaken; while you were engaged in collecting your partisans, and preparing to take up arms, do you fancy I remained inactive?" "What do you mean?"
"I mean that your enemies suspect your plans; are watching you; and if you do not prevent them, will lay a trap, into, which you will fall."
"I?" the chief said, violently. "We shall see."
"Then redouble your activity; do not let yourself be taken unawares; and, above all, be prudent, for you are closely watched, I repeat."
"How do you know it?"
"That I know it, is sufficient, I imagine; trust to my prudence. I am on the watch. Let the spies and traitors fall asleep in a doubtful security; were we to unmask them, others would take their place, and we are better off with those we know; in that way none of their movements escape us, we know what they are doing and what they want, and while they flatter themselves with the idea of knowing our plans, and divulging them to their paymasters, we are their masters, and amuse them with false information, which conceals our real plans. Believe me, their confidence produces our security."
"You are always right, my father. I trust entirely to you. But may I not be permitted to know the names of the traitors?"
"For what end, since I know them? When the time arrives, I will tell you all."
"Be it so."
There was a lengthened silence; the two men, absorbed in thought, did not notice a grinning head over the curtain in the doorway, and which had for a long time been listening to their conversation. But the man, whoever he might be, who indulged in this espial, every now and then gave signs of ill temper and disappointment. In fact, while listening to the two chiefs, he had forgotten one thing, that he could not understand a word of what they said, for they spoke in French, and that was a sad disappointment to the spy. Still he did not despair, but continued to listen, in the hope that they might at any moment revert to his idiom.
"And now," the old man continued, "give me an account of your trip. When you went away, you were happy, and hoped, as you told me, to bring back with you the man you wanted to play the principal part in your conspiracy."
"Well, you saw him here today, my father. He is here. This evening he entered the village by my side."
"Oh! oh! explain that to me, my child," the old man said, with a gentle smile, and settling himself in the easy chair to listen at his ease. By an imperceptible movement, and while seeming to listen with the greatest attention, he drew towards him the heavy pistol that lay before him.
"Go on," he said; "I am listening."
"About six months ago, I do not know if I told you of it then, I succeeded in capturing a Canadian hunter, to whom I owe an old grudge."
"Wait a minute. I fancy I have a confused remembrance of it. A certain Bright-eye, I think, eh?"
"The very man. Well! I was furious with him, because he had mocked us so long, and killed my warriors with extraordinary skill. So soon as he was in my power I resolved he should die by violence."
"Although, as you know, I do not approve of that barbarous custom, you were in the right, and I cannot offer any opposition to it."
"He, too, made no objection; on the contrary, he derided us; in a word, he rendered us so mad with him, that I gave the order for the punishment. At the moment that he was about to die, a man, or rather a demon, appeared all at once, rushed among us, and careless as it seemed of the risk he ran, unfastened the prisoner."
"Hum! he was a brave man, do you know?"
"Yes, but his daring action would have cost him dear; when suddenly, at a signal from myself, all my warriors fell at his feet, with marks of the most profound respect."
"Oh! what are you telling me now?"
"The strictest truth: on looking this man in the face, I perceived on his face two extraordinary signs."
"What?"
"A scar over the right eyebrow, and a black mark under the eye, on the same side of the face."
"That is strange," the old man muttered, pensively.
"But what is still more so, this man exactly resembles the portrait which you drew, and which is in that book."
"What did you do then?"
"You know my coolness and rapidity of resolution. I let the man depart with the prisoner."
"Well! and afterwards?"
"I pretended as if I did not wish to meet him."
"Better and better still," the old man said, with a nod of his head, and with a movement swift as thought, he cocked the pistol he held in his hand, and fired. A cry of pain was heard from the door, and the head disappeared suddenly under the curtain. The two men jumped up, and rushed out, but saw nothing, except that a rather large pool of blood clearly indicated that the shot had told.
"What have you done, my father?" Natah Otann exclaimed, in astonishment.
"Nothing. I have merely given a lesson, rather a rough one, to one of those spies I mentioned to you just now."
And he went back coolly, and eat down again. Natah Otann wished to follow the bloody trail left by the fugitive, but the old man checked him.
"Stay! what I have done is sufficient; continue your story, which is deeply interesting. Still you can see you have no time to lose, if you wish to succeed."
"I will lose none, father, you may be assured," the Chief exclaimed, wrathfully, "but I swear that I will know the scoundrel."
"You would do wrong to seek him. Come, proceed with your narrative."
Natah Otann then described in full detail his meeting with the Count, and in what way he had made him consent to follow him to his village. This time no incident interrupted his story, and it seemed as if the lesson read by White Buffalo to the listener was sufficient for the present. The old man laughed heartily at the experiment with the matches, and the Count's surprise when he perceived that the man he had hitherto taken for a coarse and half-idiot savage was, on the contrary, a man endowed with an intellect and education at least equal to his own.
"And what shall I do now?" Natah Otann added, in conclusion. "He is here; but with him is Bright-eye, in whom he places the greatest confidence."
"Hum!" the old man answered, "all this is very serious. In the first place, my son, you did wrong to let him know you as you really are: you were much stronger than he, so long as he merely fancied you a stupid savage: you allowed your pride to carry you away through the desire to shine in the eyes of a European. It is a great fault, for now he doubts you, and keeps on his guard."
The young man looked down, and made no reply.
"However," the old man went on, "I will try to arrange matters; but I must first see this Bright-eye and have a talk with him."
"You will obtain nothing, my father; he is devoted to the Count."
"The greater reason, child. In which hut have you lodged them?"
"In the old council lodge."
"Good! they will be convenient there, and it will be easy to hear all they say."
"That is what I thought."
"Now, one last remark."
"What is it?"
"Why did you not kill the She-wolf of the Prairies?"
"I did not see her. I was not in the camp; but I would not have done so."
The old man laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Natah Otann, my son," he said to him, in a stern voice, "when a man like yourself is intrusted with the fortunes of a people, he must recoil before nothing. A dead enemy makes the living sleep quietly. The She-wolf of the Prairies is your enemy. You know it; and her influence is immense over the superstitious minds of the Redskins. Remember these words, uttered by an old, experienced man:—As you would not kill her, she will kill you."
Natah Otann smiled contemptuously.
"Oh!" he said, "a wretched, half-mad woman."
"Ah!" White Buffalo replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, "are you ignorant that a woman lurks behind every great event? They kill men of genius for futile interests, and paltry passions cause the finest and boldest prospects to fail."
"Yes; you are, perhaps, right," Natah Otann said; "but I feel I cannot stain my hands with that woman's blood."
"Scruples, poor child," White Buffalo said, with disdain; "well, I do not insist; but be assured that scruples will ruin you. The man who wishes to govern others must be made of marble, and have no feelings of humanity, else his prospects will be nipped in the bud, and his foes will ridicule him. That which has ever ruined the greatest geniuses is, that they would not comprehend this fact; but worked for their successors and not for themselves."
In speaking thus, the old man had involuntarily let himself be carried away by the tumultuous feelings that still agitated his mind. His eye sparkled; his brow was unwrinkled; his glance had an irresistible majesty; he had returned, in thought, to his old days of struggling and triumph. Natah Otann listened to him, yielding to the dominating ascendency of this prostrated giant, who was so great even after his fall.
"What am I saying? I am mad! pardon me, child," the old man continued, sinking in his chair despondingly. "Go, leave me; tomorrow, at sunrise, I may, perhaps, have some news for you."
And he dismissed the Chief with a sign. The latter, accustomed to these outbursts, bowed, and departed.