So,—these are the Indians! This is a specimen of the princely race which once peopled the wilds of America, from the silent wilderness which still borders the Pacific, to the now humming shores of the Atlantic! We were disappointed, and did not reflect that we were looking only upon the dregs of that people; that these were but members of those tribes who had long lived in constant intercourse with the whites, imbibing all their vices, without gaining a single redeeming virtue; and that the wild savage could no more be compared with his civilised brother, than the wild, untamed steed of his own prairie could be brought in comparison with the drooping, broken-spirited drudge horse, who toils away a life of bondage beneath the scourge of a master.
Upon their departure we urged our horses forward; for the creaking of the prairie insects warned us of the approach of night, and the place of our destination was yet some miles distant. A rapid and silent ride of an hour brought us to the wished-for spot.
It was a single log cabin, built in the edge of the wood, and inhabited by a white man, the blacksmith appointed by the United States to take charge of, and keep in repair, the arms paid as an annuity to the Shawnee tribe; a measure of government highly pleasing to the Indians, who detest labour of all kinds, and would willingly travel a hundred miles to get another to perform some trivial job, which they might themselves accomplish with but a few hours’ labour.
The house of the blacksmith bore all the marks which characterise the backwoodsman. It consisted of two small cabins, formed of rough unbarked logs, and united to each other by a covered shed. One or two heavy vehicles were standing in front of it. At about a hundred yards’ distance was a large field of Indian corn. Two cows, two horses, and a cozy bevy of pigs, who were snuffing and grunting from a deep mud-hole a few yards from the house, made up the live stock of the establishment, and were all that were considered necessary for the comfort of a backwoodsman.
CHAP. II.
THE RANGERS.—INDIAN HABITS.—CROSSING THE KANZAS RIVER.
It was daylight on the following morning when we commenced our journey towards Cantonment Leavenworth. It is situated in the Indian country, about forty miles beyond the line which separates the State from the Territory of Missouri. Our guide took the lead, and struck into a narrow foot-path which led through the forest, while the rest of us followed in Indian file.
There is a deep silence in a western wilderness. No sound is heard, not even the note of a bird, to break the deathly stillness.
Occasionally a spectre-like raven would flit across our path, saluting us with his ill-omened croak; or poising himself upon his wings, to take a more minute survey of the strange beings who had invaded his secluded haunts.
The silence was thrilling. Our voices echoed beneath the leafy canopy with a sound that rendered them strange even to our own ears. Even the crackling of the dry twigs, as they snapped beneath the hoofs of our horses, had a strange and solemn sound: but, as we grew familiarized with it, this feeling wore off, nor was it long before the jest and merry laugh went on as usual; and, I imagine, many a long day had passed since those aged forests had rung to such sounds of boisterous merriment as burst from the lips of the band, as we galloped towards the prairie, which lay but a few miles beyond.