“He will scarcely reach the opposite bank,” said Reginald; “the river is muddy and swollen with melted snow, and his horses seem disposed to be unquiet passengers.”
They had now approached near enough to enable them to distinguish the features of the Indian in the boat: the guide scanned them with evident surprise and interest; the result of which was, a noise which broke from him, something between a grunt and a whistle, as he muttered, “What can have brought him here?”
“Do you know that fine–looking fellow, then?” inquired Reginald.
“Know him, Master Reginald—does Wolf know Miss Lucy?—does a bear know a bee tree? I should know him among a thousand red–skins, though he were twice as well disguised. Tête–bleu, master, look at those wild brutes how they struggle; he and they will taste Muskingum water before long.”
While he was speaking one of the horses reared, another kicked furiously, the shallow flat boat was upset, and both they and the Indian fell headlong into the river. They had been secured together by a “laryette,” or thong of hide, which unfortunately came athwart the Indian’s shoulder, and thus he was held below the water, while the struggles of the frightened animals rendered it impossible for him to extricate himself. “He is entangled in the laryette,” said the guide; “nothing can save him,” he added in a grave and sadder tone. “’Tis a noble youth, and I would have wished him a braver death! What are you doing, Master Reginald?—are you mad? No man can swim in that torrent. For your father’s sake—“
But his entreaties and attempts to restrain his impetuous companion were fruitless, for Reginald had already thrown on the ground his leathern hunting shirt, his rifle, and ammunition; and shaking off the grasp of the guide as if the latter had been a child, he plunged into the river, and swam to the spot where the feebler struggles of the horses showed that they were now almost at the mercy of the current. When he reached them, Reginald dived below the nearest, and dividing the laryette with two or three successful strokes of his knife, brought the exhausted Indian to the surface. For a moment, he feared that he had come too late; but on inhaling a breath of air, the red–skin seemed to regain both consciousness and strength, and was able in his turn to assist Reginald, who had received, when under water, a blow on the head from the horse’s hoof, the blood flowing fast from the wound. Short but expressive was the greeting exchanged as they struck out for the bank, which one of the horses had already gained: another was bruised, battered, and tossed about among some shelving rocks lower down the river; and the third was being fast hurried towards the same dangerous spot, when the Indian, uttering a shrill cry, turned and swam again towards this, his favourite horse, and by a great exertion of skill and strength, brought it to a part of the river where the current was less rapid, and thence led it safely ashore.
These events had passed in less time than their narration has occupied: and the whole biped and quadruped party now stood drenched and dripping on the bank. The two young men gazed at each other in silence, with looks of mingled interest and admiration: indeed, if a sculptor had desired to place together two different specimens of youthful manhood, in which symmetry and strength were to be gracefully united, he could scarcely have selected two finer models: in height they might be about equal; and though the frame and muscular proportions of Reginald were more powerful, there was a roundness and compact knitting of the joints, and a sinewy suppleness in the limbs of his new acquaintance, such as he thought he had never seen equalled in statuary or in life. The Indian’s gaze was so fixed and piercing, that Reginald’s eye wandered more than once from his countenance to the belt, where his war–club was still suspended by a thong, the scalp–knife in its sheath, and near it a scalp, evidently that of a white man, and bearing the appearance of having been recently taken.
With a slight shudder of disgust, he raised his eyes again to the chiselled features of the noble–looking being before him, and felt assured that though they might be those of a savage warrior, they could not be those of a lurking assassin. The Indian now moved a step forward, and taking Reginald’s hand, placed it upon his own heart, saying distinctly in English, “My brother!”
Reginald understood and appreciated this simple expression of gratitude and friendship; he imitated his new friend’s action, and evinced, both by his looks and the kindly tones of his voice, the interest which, to his own surprise, the Indian had awakened in his breast.
At this juncture they were joined by the guide, who had paddled himself across in a canoe that he found at the ferry, which was two hundred yards above the spot where they now stood. At his approach, the young Indian resumed his silent attitude of repose; while, apparently unconscious of his presence, Baptiste poured upon his favourite a mingled torrent of reproofs and congratulations.