True to the custom “of his fathers,” the Indian himself carries nothing—if we except a long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small hatchet in his belt: rendering him rather a formidable-looking fellow on his way to a market.
Chapter Four.
The Catastrophe of a Kiss.
The log on which the young hunter had seated himself is some paces distant from the path. He has a slight knowledge of this Indian family, and simply nods to them as they pass. He does not speak, lest a word should bring on a conversation—for the avoidance of which he has a powerful motive.
The Indian makes no halt, but strides silently onward, followed by his pannier-laden squaw. The girl, however, pauses in her steps—as if struck by some sudden thought. The action quickly follows the thought; and, turning out of the path, she approaches the spot where the hunter is seated.
What wants she with him? Can this be the she he has been expecting with such impatience? Surely not! And yet the maiden is by no means ill-looking. In her gleaming oblique eyes there is a certain sweetness of expression; and a tinge of purple-red, bursting through the bronze of her cheeks, lends to her countenance a peculiar charm. Add to this, luxuriant black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines—which the sparse savage costume but half conceals—and you have a portrait something more than pretty. Many a time and oft, in the history of backwoods life, has the heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at such a shrine. Is this, then, the expected one? No. Her actions answer the question; and his too. He does not even rise to receive her, but keeps his seat upon the log—regarding her approach with a glance of indifference, not unmingled with a slight expression of displeasure.
Her object is presently apparent. A bullet-pouch of white buckskin, richly worked with porcupine quills, is hanging over her arm. On arriving before the hunter she holds it out, as if about to present it to him. One might fancy that such is her intention; and that the pouch is designed as a gage d’amour; but the word “dollar,” which accompanies the offer, precludes the possibility of such a supposition. It is not thus that an Indian girl makes love. She is simply soliciting the pale-face to purchase. In this design she is almost certain to be successful. The pouch proclaims its value, and promises to sell itself. Certainly it is a beautiful object—with its quills of brilliant dye, and richly-embroidered shoulder-strap. Perhaps no object could be held up before the eyes of Frank Wingrove more likely to elicit his admiration.
He sees and admires. He knows its value. It is cheap at a dollar; besides, he was just thinking of treating himself to such a one. His old catskin is worn and greasy. He has grown fastidious of late—for reasons that may be guessed. This beautiful pouch would sit well over his new hunting-shirt, and trick him out to a T. In the eyes of Marian—