The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

"Wast thou displeased with the red men O, Manito? Had the children of the Forest offended thee, that thou didst deliver them into the hand of their enemies? See, what thine inconsiderate anger hath done. Thou hast destroyed us, and injured thyself. Where are the offerings that once covered these rocks, the bears' meat and the venison, the wampum, the feathers of the eagle, and sweet-smelling tobacco? Who now honoreth the Manito of the loud voiced Yaupáae? I listen, but I hear no answer."

Thus far the voice of Ohquamehud was low and melancholy, as the wail of a broken heart, and his face sad, as of one lamenting for a friend, but now it changed to a loftier expression, and the words were hissed out with a guttural roughness, without being spoken much louder.

"O, Manito!" he continued, "I alone am left to offer thee the sacrifice of the fragrant tobacco. Behold! I will fill thy pipe many times if thou wilt assist me. Onontio hath done me much mischief. He hath burned the villages of my people, and slain our warriors. Why shouldst thou favor him? Is he not a dog which thou wilt kick away from the door of thy lodge? He cometh, sometimes, and sitteth upon the highest rock, to look down upon thy dwelling-place. It is to nourish the pride of his heart. It is to exult that, as far as his eye can see, it beholds no wigwam, nor one bringing thee gifts. Help Manito! Think upon thine own wrongs,—remember the sufferings of the red man, and give me the scalp of Onontio. Accept my offering."

Having thus spoken, and conciliated by every means that occurred to his untutored mind, the good-will of the tutelary Spirit of the Falls, recounting the generosity of the Indians, and the ingratitude of the whites, remonstrating with the Manito for his supposed anger, and pointing out its folly, trying to stimulate his indignation on account of the neglect of himself, and, to tempt his love of presents by promises, Ohquamehud threw a quantity of tobacco in the leaf, which the Indians were accustomed to raise themselves around their cabins, into the flames. But an incident took place, which, for a time, dashed his hopes to the ground, and covered him with mortification and confusion.

The day, as we have already intimated, was unusually hot, even for the month of June. As the hours advanced, a sultry and slumbrous silence filled the air, which quivered with the heat. Clouds began to collect in the northwest, and to roll up higher and higher towards the zenith, in immense waves, which darkened momently, until half the heavens seemed covered with a pall. The lightning began to play more frequently over the surging blackness, and the mutterings of the thunder became every instant louder. Ohquamehud was not altogether unaware of the approaching storm, but, engaged in the solemn rite, the appearances of the clouds had not attracted as much of his attention as otherwise they would have done. At the instant he threw the tobacco into the fire, the blackness of the clouds was intensest, and a grim silence, as if nature were waiting in anxious expectation of some grand event, brooded over the earth interrupted only by the shout of the cataract; then, a thunderbolt blazed almost in the eyes of the Indian, followed, instantly, by a crash, as if the solid rocks were splintered into fragments, and by a torrent of rain, pouring, not in drops, but, in one continuous flood. For a few moments, the rain continued falling violently, then gradually slackened and ceased. The lightning glittered less frequently; the threatenings of the thunder became less distinct, and the clouds rolled up their dark standards and dispersed, disappearing in the depths of the unfathomable sky.

The Indian, meanwhile, remained immovable, staring at the fire in which the rain hissed as it fell. Thus, like a statue, he stood, until the storm had rolled away; then, recovering from his stupefaction, he turned, despondingly, from the heap of ashes. His offering, then, had been rejected. The Manito either could not or would not assist him. Onontio bore a charmed life. He was a great medicine, beyond the power of his vengeance. Ohquamehud, with a frown upon his brow, dark as the folds of the departing clouds, strode several steps from the rock, when, turning, as if struck by a sudden thought, he commenced searching in the ashes. The surface, of course, was soaked; but, as he penetrated deeper, they were drier, and at the bottom he found unextinguished coals. He carefully searched round, to discover if any portion of the tobacco was unconsumed, but could find none. The offering had not, then, been rejected. The Manito had accepted it. It was not he who sent the storm. Perhaps, some other Manito, who, however, was unable to defeat the sacrifice. The countenance of Ohquamehud brightened, and he began again to collect the brush and scattered sticks. From hollows, in the butts of old trees, and recesses under projecting cliffs, he succeeded in finding enough dry fuel to start the fire anew, and soon it shot up a bright bold flame as before. "O, Manito!" he softly said, "thou art not angry—receive my gift." Again, he threw tobacco into the fire, and, this time, no portent interposed. The greedy flame seized upon the dry leaves, which crackled in the heat, and bore them on its shining billows high into the air. The fire continued burning till all was consumed, and the heap sent up only a spiral of indistinct smoke.

The importunity of Ohquamehud had wrung from the Genius the consent which he solicited. The gratified Indian stretched out his hand, and again spoke—

"O, Manito, thanks! The heart of Ohquamehud is strong. When he journeys towards the setting sun, his feet shall bound like those of a deer, for the scalp of Onontio will hang at his girdle."

He glided into the woods and disappeared, ignorant that any one had been a witness of his actions. But, Quadaquina, from an evergreen thicket, had watched all his motions. As the form of Ohquamehud became dimmer in the distance, the boy could not repress his exultation at the success of his ambush, but gave it vent in a whistle, imitating the notes of the whipperwill. It caught the ear of the Indian, and he turned, and as he did so, the boy threw himself on the ground. The sun had hardly set. It was too early for the bird to be heard, which never commences his melancholy chant until the shades of evening are spread over the dewy earth. The eyes of Ohquamehud sent sharp glances in the direction whence the whistle came, but he could discern nothing. He listened for awhile, but the sounds were not repeated, and wondering what they could mean—for he relied too implicitly on his senses to suppose his imagination had deceived him—he resumed his course homeward. Presently, Quadaquina slowly rose, and, perceiving no one in sight, followed in the same direction.

The boy, at first, walked deliberately along; but, after, as he supposed, a considerable interval was interposed between him and the Indian, he quickened his steps, in order to more at about the same rate as the other. He had cleared the clumps of trees next to the Falls, and crossed the open fields, and advanced some little distance into the belt of continuous woods along the river, when, suddenly, Ohquamehud, starting from behind the trunk of a large tree, stood before him. Quadaquina's heart beat quicker, but no outward sign betrayed emotion.