joining their skill to provide remedies for the wounded one, young Santiam, acting from the precepts of his people, had hurried back to the battle-ground, and, with his cluchman’s help, soon stripped the pelt from the dead beast, and brought it to the home of his white rival, and then the “medicine man,” with faith based on tradition’s usage, bound up the wounds therewith.
The days went slowly by, until the danger was passed. Santiam went not to the chase, unless for choicest food for his friend, but waited beside the couch of his comrade for his recovery; sometimes joining with the sick man’s sister in watching his slumbers, or, may be, touching hands in ministering to his wants.
She, with missionary spirit, sought to teach Santiam words, and the history, too, of her people, their ways, and higher life than he had known. He was apt at learning, as my reader may discover by his speech, recited in this book, made in council years after. His dark eye kindled as some new knowledge found way to his understanding, and his heart grew warmer at the sound of voice from pale-faced cluchman. If history be true, her eye kindled too, at the coming of the quiet step of the young comrade of her brother, and her heart felt a new, strange fire, that sent its flame to her cheeks in tell-tale roses.
Novice though he was in civilized ways, he was a man, and with quick perception made the discovery that he now cared more for his comrade’s sister than for him; and that even the sister thought of her brother in the third person.
This Missouri man had not yet recognized the
growing love between his daughter and young Santiam; and the mother, too, without recalling the youthful days of her own wooing,—perhaps she had none, but years before, in obedience to a custom of her own people, had listened to a proposal, and accepted, because she might “do no better,”—did not recognize the signs of coming trouble to her household, in the rustic courtship going on. Why do parents so soon forget their wooing days, and hide the history from their children, when so nearly all that human nature endures of woes, or enjoys of bliss, comes through the agency of the emotions and affections of the heart?
This guileless girl, cut off from association with her own people by action of her father, and in gratitude for the young chief’s kindness to her brother, had, under the prompting of the richest emotions that God had given, opened her heart in friendship first and invited the visitor to share so much; little dreaming that, when once the guest was there, he would become a constant tenant, against whose expulsion she would herself rebel.
The young chief himself did not realize that the finest, warmest feelings of the human heart are supposed by greater men to be confined to the same race or color. Perhaps he thought the Great Spirit had made all alike, not fixed the difference in the hue of the skin. He was a free man; did not know that civilization had raised a barrier between the races. He had, without knowing what he did, found the barrier down, and passed beyond in natural freedom, and, without thought of wrong, had given full freedom to his heart.
The winter passed, and spring had sprinkled the
hill-side with flowers. The wilder herds had fled from the huntsman’s horn, and climbed again to pleasure-grounds, where the tender grasses cropped out from retreating snow-fields. The rival hunters had again resumed the chase, and spent whole days in telling stories of the past, or living over the battle of the preceding autumn. Each rehearsal made them better friends, and confidence grew mutual. Santiam, with freedom, spoke to his white brother of the “fire in his heart,”—so these people speak of love,—of the sister whom he loved. Who ever told a fellow that he loved his sister without making friendship tremble for the result?