Groping along in the darkness, with lowly-bent form, and step light as the snow-flake’s fall, the Indian woman examined the face and dress of each sleeper. At length she kneels and touches with gentle fingers the fringed leggins and quill-worked hunting-shirt of a chief, who lay somewhat separated from his companions. The garments were dripping with wet, but she knew them. Then her hands are pressed over her beating heart, as if to still the wild outcries that struggled for utterance, or to subdue the terrible pain throbbing there. Her own fingers had woven the mystic emblems she was tracing on the chief’s garments. She had herself dressed the tough deer skin, embroidered, the curiously-woven ornaments, colored the gaudy horse-hair fringe—and all for whom?
Memory is busy within her inmost soul now. She sees a painted wigwam, at whose base the sleeping waters of the Spirit Lake ripple. The form of one, praised as the beauty of the tribe, sitting and singing as she weaves the sparkling beads into designs of grace and beauty. A manly step falls upon her ear, and her song is hushed, but to drink in far sweeter music to a maiden’s ear, the words of affection from the lips of the chosen one who already owns her heart. Then the happy bridal, and the wild, sweet bliss of a love-marriage—the resting of a soul fully satisfied—the low cooing of the dove that has folded its silver wings in its pretty nest, and pours out heart music all the day long! That was a true picture of the past—but now?
Lower bends the lithe form, until the fringe upon her robe mingles with that with which she has adorned her once lover. Even the long locks of her hair, unbraided now, disheveled, wet and heavy, fall upon his face and startle him. Muttering in his sleep, he turns on the earth, throwing his strong arms on either side, and fully exposing the broad breast, heaving with the deep pulsations of a busy heart.
Was there a truer mark for knife or hatchet? Did murder ever gaze upon a surer target for its venomed shafts?
The woman drew back, until all again was still, and then her cold hand searched that broad chest until she felt the throbbing heart beneath. Quick as thought, a slender knife leaps from the concealment of her dress, and flashes like a silver thread in the gloom. The arm is raised on high, the form drawn to its perfect height, the lip compressed, and the nerves braced, and then!
Warrior of the wilderness, if around thy path a good spirit ever flitted—if a white-robed angel ever fanned thy swarthy forehead, or took thee in its holy keeping, now—now, let it guard thee from sudden death. Let the broad shield of mercy be held above thee, and that cruel knife be turned aside in the hand of thy wronged wife.
The poised knife descends, cutting the air like the flash of a star-beam. It is driven by a desperate hand. Let the canoe be waiting on the hither shores of the river of time, to ferry that savage soul to that farther bank that angels call “here after.”
No, thank God! She was a savage, but could not stain her innocent hand in blood, wronged though her love had been. The pure, womanly gold triumphed over the base alloy of passion. Once she had loved him; once he had been kind to her; once—it was gone now—all gone; but holy thoughts of those days came back, and she flung the knife from her with a shudder, bowed herself beside the sleeping man, and wept piteously. Ah, triumphant love, undying devotion! Alike in the civilized and savage soul—the last at the cross and the first at the tomb.
As one suddenly awakes from a fearful dream, that poor, sorely tried and tempted woman pressed both hands to her throbbing temples. Then the old deep love surged up through all her wrongs, and asserted its dominion once more. All the wild adoration of her heart in other days came back, baptizing her soul afresh. No, no, she could not murder him sleeping. That head, lying so dusky and massive in the star-light, had been pillowed upon her breast. The heart her knife menaced had beat against her own. He had been kind, very kind, once. But it was death to her to be found near him. She refrained from using her power, but would he prove equally merciful if he awoke. And he was going—whither? There was madness in that thought. Going to seek another and a fairer bride—to put her, the true wife, from his wigwam forever.
Bending still lower, softly, gently, as a mother would caress a sleeping babe, she kissed the full lips, then in silence left the encampment. It was the last kiss—the last—she should ever press upon that false mouth. All the world now was utter darkness to her, the road she traveled uncared for. To flee—flee, as it were, from herself—was the only object she had in view. Swift as a hunted deer she dashed down the mountain side, and away into the wilderness.