On the first night, our little camp was placed upon a high bank of the Saline river, which flows through the prairie until it empties into the Platte. During the spring of every year moisture exudes from the soil near its source, covering the prairie for the distance of many miles. This is dried up by the heat of summer, and leaves in its place a thick incrustation of salt. This is in turn dissolved by every successive rain, and carried off into the Saline river, giving to its water the brackish taste, from which it has derived its name. There is a barrenness around the stream, contrasting strongly with the other rivers that grace the prairie. Around them is always a rich forest of the deepest, rankest green. Every thing marks the luxuriance of the soil, and the nourishment yielded by the streams to the lofty trees which hang like guardians over their waters.
But the Saline is far different. There are no groves to fringe its banks. Here and there the huge grey forms of a few dead trees may be seen leaning with a melancholy grandeur over its surface, or lying prostrate in the river, while its waters gurgle with a mournful sound around the branches of these fallen giants. There is a cheerless look about it. It winds its way through the prairie with a withering influence, blighting every green shrub; and seems to bear an ill-will to all the bright beauties of creation.
I strayed some distance down the stream, pattering my rifle bullets on the water, to the great annoyance of several ducks who were quietly dozing upon its surface, and some sprawling old terrapins who were floating down the stream, enjoying an evening sail.
A loud hail from the camp, and the voice of Mordecai announcing that supper was ready, recalled me to the spot. The roasted shoulder and ribs of a large buck were impaled upon a stake of dogwood, planted in the ground in front of the mess. They had already commenced their meal, with knives of all sizes and descriptions, and the mass of meat disappeared like magic before their reiterated attacks. Though at all times very well qualified to act a conspicuous part in a warfare of that description, they were now more than usually fitted for the task, owing to their eating only two meals a day—one at sunrise and one at sunset—the rest of the time being occupied in journeying over the prairie. By the time that we finished, the sun had sunk in the west, and the stars were glimmering in the sky. Our party collected round the large fire of blazing logs, and our guide having lighted his Indian pipe, related to us an Indian tale, of which the following is the purport.
“About forty miles above the spot where we are now encamped, lie the great salt plains, which cause the brackish taste of the Saline river. In one part of these plains, is a large rock of pure salt of dazzling whiteness, which is highly prized by the Indians, and to which is attached the following story.”
CHAP. XII.
THE LEGEND OF THE SALINE RIVER.
Many years since, long before the whites had extended their march beyond the banks of the Mississippi river, a tribe of Indians resided upon the Platte, near its junction with the Saline. Among these was one, the chief warrior of the nation, celebrated throughout all the neighbouring country, for his fierce and unsparing disposition. Not a hostile village within several hundred miles, but wailed for those who had fallen beneath his arm; not a brook, but had run red with the blood of his victims. He was for ever engaged in plotting destruction to his enemies. He led his warriors from one village to another, carrying death to the inhabitants, and desolation to their homes. He was a terror to old and young.
Often, alone and unattended, would he steal off, to bathe his hands in blood, and add new victims to the countless number of those whom he had already slain. But fearful as he was to the hostile tribes, he was equally dreaded by his own people. They gloried in him as their leader, but shrank from all fellowship with him. His lodge was deserted, and even in the midst of his own nation he was alone. Yet there was one being who clung to him, and loved him, in defiance of the sternness of his rugged nature. It was the daughter of the chief of the village; a beautiful girl, and graceful as one of the fawns of her own prairie.
Though she had many admirers, yet when the warrior declared his intention of asking her of her father, none dared come in competition with so formidable a rival. She became his wife, and he loved her with all the fierce energy of his nature. It was a new feeling to him. It stole like a sunbeam, over the dark passions of his heart. His feelings gushed forth, to meet the warm affection of the only being that had ever loved him. Her sway over him was unbounded. He was as a tiger tamed. But this did not last long. She died; he buried her; he uttered no wail, he shed no tear. He returned to his lonely lodge, and forbade all entrance. No sound of grief was heard from it—all was silent as the tomb. The morning came, and with its earliest dawn he left the lodge. His body was covered with war paint, and he was fully armed as if for some expedition. His eye was the same; there was the same sullen fire that had ever shot from its deep sunk socket. There was no wavering of a single feature; there was not the shrinking of a single muscle. He took no notice of those around him; but walked gloomily to the spot where his wife was buried. He paused for a moment over the grave—plucked a wild flower from among grass, and cast it upon the upturned sod. Then turning on his heel, strode across the prairie.