The Prairie-Bird

by Sir Charles Augustus Murray

Not so were those around him. His stern warriors stood in sad, unbroken silence; the features of the hardy guide worked with an emotion that he strove in vain to conceal, for he knew that the Delaware would not have retained his sitting posture by the carcase of the bear had not his wounds been grievous and disabling; Reginald Brandon held the hand of his friend, unable to speak, save a few broken words of affection and gratitude: while Prairie–bird found at length relief for her oppressed heart in a flood of tears. So much engrossed were they all by their own feelings, that none seemed to notice the anguish of Lita, who still lay in a pool of blood at the feet of him whom she had long and secretly loved, giving no further signs of life than a succession of smothered wailings and groans that escaped from her unconscious lips.

The only countenance among those present that retained its unmoved composure was that of the chief himself; and a bright ray shot from his dark eye when one of the bravest of his warriors laid down before him the claws of the huge bear and her cub, which he had cut off according to custom, and now presented as a trophy of victory.

Baptiste and Pierre having conferred together for a few minutes, the former whispered to Reginald Brandon that Prairie–bird and Lita should be withdrawn for a short time, while War–Eagle’s wounds were examined, and his real condition ascertained. Agreeably to this suggestion, Reginald led his betrothed weeping from the spot. Some of the Delawares and hunters removed Lita; but not without difficulty, as she still clung with frantic energy to the torn garments of the chief; and, as they bore her away, they now for the first time observed that she had received some severe scratches in her fruitless endeavour to rescue him from the struggles of the dying bear.

When all had retired to some distance, and there remained only by the Delaware the oldest of his warriors, Pierre and Baptiste, the latter gently lifted the blanket from the shoulders of the wounded man, saying, “Let my brother allow his friends to see the hurts which he has received, that they may endeavour to relieve or heal them.”

The chief nodded his assent, and no sign, save the dew that stood upon his brow, betrayed the agony and the sense of exhaustion that he endured. When the tattered remnants of his hunting dress were removed, a spectacle so terrible was presented to the eyes of the guide, that even his iron nerves could not endure it, and, covering his face with his hands, he groaned aloud, while the exclamation, “Dieu de la miséricorde!” broke from his lips in the language that they had first been taught to speak.

The left arm of the chief was bitten through and through, and so dreadfully mangled that no skill of surgery could restore it; the shoulders and chest had been lacerated by the fore–paws, some of the wounds being wide and gaping, as if made by a saw or hatchet; these, however, might possibly yield to time and careful treatment; but the injuries that he had received in the lower part of the body were such as to leave no hope of recovery, for the bear, in her last dying struggles, had used the terrible claws of her hind feet with such fatal effect, that the lacerated entrails of the sufferer protruded through the wound.

Baptiste saw at a glance that all was over, and that any attempt at closing the wounds would only cause additional and needless pain. War–Eagle watched his countenance, and reading there a verdict that confirmed his own sensations, gave him his hand and smiled. The rough woodsman wrung it with ill–dissembled emotion, and turned away his head that his Indian friend might not see the moisture that gathered in his eye.

A brief consultation now ensued, during which it was arranged that the carcases of the bears should be carried away, and the wounded chief gently moved to a soft grassy spot a few yards distant, where his wounds might be so far dressed and bandaged as to prevent further effusion of blood. It was also agreed that the tent and the lodges should be brought to the spot, so that he might receive all the care and attention that his desperate case admitted.

These arrangements having been made, Baptiste walked slowly towards the place where the rest of the party awaited in deep anxiety the result of his report. As he drew near with heavy, lingering steps, and his weather–beaten countenance overspread with gloom, they saw too well the purport of his message, and none had courage enough to be the first to bid him speak. Prairie–bird clung to the arm of Reginald for support; the Delawares leaned upon their rifles in silence; and even the rough hunters of the prairie wore an aspect of sadness that contrasted strongly with their habitual bold and reckless bearing.

Recovering his composure by a powerful effort, the guide looked gravely around him as soon as he reached the centre of the semicircle in which they stood, and addressing himself first to Reginald and the white men, said, “There is no cure for the wounds of the Delaware; were the Black Father himself among us, his skill and his medicine would be in vain.” Then turning to the Delawares, he added in their own tongue, “The sun of the Lenapé Chief is setting. The Great Spirit has sent for him, and he must obey: let his warriors gather round him to smooth his path through the dark valley.”