Yes, I know them all. I have traveled over the mountains, trapped in the rivers and fished in the brooks. But there are no Cahoonshees there now.
Where did they go to?
The last of their braves were scalped by the Salamanques years ago, replied Quick.
At this disclosure, Cahoonshee drew his hand across his eyes and remained motionless. It was evident that he was struggling with his feelings. He swung to and fro, like a tree in a gale.
Did my brother have kin with the Cahoonshees? asked Quick.
Yes, all my kin. Father, mother, brother, sister—I am alone, not even a brother. Better that I had been there and died with them.
No, brother, you wrong the Great Spirit, who does all things well. But you have a brother, we are all brothers. Come, Cahoonshee, go with me to my house, and to-morrow I will go with you to the grave of your fathers.
Cahoonshee stepped into the canoe, and in a few minutes landed at Milford, the home of Quick. Cahoonshee partook of the white man’s hospitality with grace and ease, after which, he related his history from early boyhood, his capture, and subsequent voyage to England, his being made a show of there, his education, and return home. Quick was interested in his history, but what most interested him, was the education and manly appearance of his Indian guest.
After Cahoonshee had finished his story, he placed his hand to the side of his face, and seemed to be absorbed in some deep study from which Quick could not arouse him.