At noon they reached the spot where, a fortnight before, Kumshakah brought down the eagle, which, stripped of its plumage and still bleeding, Burl had found on the trail a few hours after. Here a spring of clear, cool, sparkling water gurgled out from underneath a moss-grown rock in the hill-side, and here they halted. They quenched their thirst from the spring, then seating themselves on the moss-grown trunk of a fallen tree that lay near by, Burl and Kumshakah lighted their pipes and sat for many minutes smoking in thoughtful, even melancholy, silence. For, strange as it may seem, though neither had spoken a word intelligible to the other since the beginning of their acquaintance, a decided and cordial friendship had sprung up between the Fighting Nigger and his Indian captive, insomuch that they were now very loath to part. But the feeling which had arisen between the young Indian and the little white boy was of a far more tender nature, each beholding in the other the preserver of his life, and with a mutual gratitude heightened by mutual admiration. Such is the power of instinct, which can discover what words might try to reveal and fail. Their pipes smoked out, they broke their fast on some jerked venison and buttered johnny-cakes, which Burl, hospitable to the last, had brought along in his hunting-pouch. By the time they had finished their simple repast and smoked another pipe, the forest shadows had slowly shifted round from west to east, and were now beginning perceptibly to lengthen, admonishing them that the hour was come when they must part and go their separate ways.
But something more remained yet to be done. Taking the white stone pipe which he had carved for Shekee-thepatee and filling its virgin bowl with tobacco, Kumshakah lighted it, and slowly, with great solemnity, drew a few whiffs therefrom, then offered it to Mish-mugwa. This the young Indian did in token of his earnest wish that the peace and friendship now existing between them should endure from that day forth, let come what might, and that the sentiment, thus consecrated, should be cherished as in some sort a solemn and religious duty. Poor Burl did not know that Indians had any ceremonies at all; nor, until his acquaintance with Kumshakah, that they had any thing in common with the human race, excepting the art of fighting, and, to a limited degree, as it seemed to him, the power of speech. So, till he had gone home that night and told the white hunters of the circumstance, he could but vaguely guess at the sentiment to which this simple ceremony of smoking the peace-pipe gave expression. Nevertheless, with that facility at entering, for the time being, into the feelings, thoughts, and ways of others peculiar to his race, and which is due to self-unconscious imitation rather than to self-determined adaptability, Mish-mugwa took the proffered symbol of peace and friendship, and with a solemnity that would have seemed ludicrous to any one but a black man or a red man, gave just as many whiffs as he had seen Kumshakah give, then, with the air of one who knew as well as anybody what he was doing, returned the pipe to Kumshakah.
The peace-pipe emptied of its ashes and returned to its owner, the young brave rose at once and silently extended his hand. Burl seized it with a huge, devouring grip that would have made any one but an Indian wince, and with a big, round, stag-like tear in either big, round, ox-like eye, thus bid farewell: "Good-by, Kumshy. De good Lord go wid you all yo' days. Come an' see us ag'in—Miss Jemimy an' Mishy-muggy an' Sheky-depatty; Mishy-muggy's me, you know, an' Sheky-depatty's Bushie. Come an' see us all ag'in. Good-by."
Then going up to Bushie, Kumshakah shook him, likewise, by the hand; the dear little fellow, without saying a word, gazing up wistfully into the young Indian's face, his blue eyes brimming over with tears. But when he saw his red friend going at last, then did the affectionate Shekee-thepatee lift up his voice and weep aloud.
"Come back, Kumshakah!" he cried; "come back, and live with us, and never leave us, Kumshakah!"
The young Indian wheeled about and returned, took the chubby hand again in his, and with tender gravity shook it gently, very gently. As he did so, a mistiness came over his bright, wild eyes, which, when he had turned again to go, must—if ever Indian warrior weeps—have gathered into a tear. With wistful eyes, Burl and Bushie followed the swiftly receding form of their red friend, who never turned to look at them till he had gained the crest of a distant hill to the north. Here he faced about and remained for many moments gazing back at them; his graceful figure, his wild dress, and his rifle in sharp relief against a patch of blue sky, gleaming through an opening in the forest beyond. In final farewell Burl waved his cap. Kumshakah answered with a wide wave of the hand; then, turning, quickly vanished behind the hill, to be seen no more. With sorrowful hearts, Burl and Bushie turned likewise, and retraced their steps to Fort Reynolds.
From that day forward, never again did Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa, lay the bloody hand on the scalp-lock of a fallen foe.
Chapter XVII.
How the Glory of His Race Figured in His Rising.