Sketches of Aboriginal Life / American Tableaux, No. 1

by V. V. Vide

At length the fatal day arrived, and every thing was ready for the sacrifice. The whole Pawnee tribe was assembled to witness and take part in the solemnities. From every side, they were seen emerging from the thick forest, or gliding noiselessly over the bosom of the silver stream, leaping from cliff to cliff of the distant hills, or winding down their steep passes and narrow defiles, to meet in the great central village, around the grand council fire of the nation. The whole tribe was there—the chiefs in all their gaudy array of bead-work, feathers, and paint, their embroidered moccasins, their gaily wrought tunics and belts, their polished rifles, and glittering tomahawks—the women and children, and the rank and file of the people, in all the finery and gewgaws they could command. It was a brave sight to those accustomed to the barbaric finery and wild sports of the Indian, but fearful and hideous to one unused to the rude painted visages and half naked forms of the warriors.

The awful hour of those dreadful orgies was announced by all those discordant shouts and hideous yells, which, with those primitive races, serve the purpose of trumpet, drum and bell. The stake was set, and the faggots made ready, in the centre of the great opening. The priests stood at their post, and the vast multitude of eager excited witnesses thronged around, waiting in terrible expectation for the consummation of that horrid rite, and kindling into phrenzy in view of the mad revelry that would follow. Presently, the outer ranks of that crowding circle made way, and opened a passage to the ring within. Through this living avenue, a company of chiefs marched in, singing, or rather shouting, a wild song, and dancing in fantastic measures. At their head was the captor of Monica, leading the timid girl by the hand. She was arrayed in the most showy and expensive style of Indian costume, the various decorations of her person comprising all that was beautiful and rare in ornament, according to the uncultivated taste of that people. Unconscious still of the doom that awaited her, and hoping, perhaps, that this was to be the festival of her freedom, when she would be sent away in peace to her home, she entered the circle with a cheerful face, and an elastic step, smiling on her young companions as she passed, and wondering at the cold look, or sometimes averted eye, with which her salutation was answered.

It was not until she was led quite up to the stake, and saw the fearful faggots piled around it, that she comprehended the meaning of these mysterious preparations. Her awful doom flashed upon her, like a bolt from heaven. With one loud, piercing, heart-rending shriek, she fell to the earth, and called upon her mother. She was lifted up by the stern priest, placed upon the pile, and bound to the stake. With wild incantations, and horrid yells, the dread orgies were commenced. The torch was lighted, and ready to be applied. At that instant, a shrill whoop burst from the adjoining wood. A brave young warrior, leaping into the midst of the circle, rushed to the stake, cut the cords that bound the helpless victim, tore her away from the pile, and, dashing back through the panic-struck crowd, flung her upon a fleet horse which he had prepared for the occasion, sprung himself upon another, and was soon lost in the distant windings of the wood.

It was the act of a moment. Even the Indian warriors, who are not easily surprised, or put off their guard, were confounded and paralysed. Before they could comprehend the object of this sudden phantom, this rash interruption of their festival, their victim was gone. The bare stake, and the useless heap of faggots were there. The proud chief, who furnished the victim, and the fierce-looking priests, who were to officiate in the dark rites of the sacrifice, stood in blank astonishment around, as if a bolt from the cloud had smitten them. A momentary silence prevailed among that mighty throng. A low murmur succeeded, like the distant moans of a coming storm: then, like the tempest, bursting in all its wrath, fierce cries of vengeance from a thousand flaming tongues, furious discordant yells and shouts, accompanied with frantic gestures, and looks of rage, such as would distort the visage of a fiend. Some of the fleetest started off in hot but vain pursuit. Those who remained, promised themselves a day of terrible retribution. The mothers secretly rejoiced in the escape; while those of the young girls who had been the chosen companions of the captive, gave vent to their joy and gratitude in wild songs and dances.

In this manner, that turbulent assembly broke up. Without the usual feast and its accompanying games, they scattered to their several homes, coolly meditating revenge, and darkly foreboding the famine that should ensue from the absence of the accustomed sacrifice.

Meanwhile, the fugitives held on their way, with the speed of the wind. Not a word was spoken. It was a race of life and death, and every faculty of the rescuer as well as of the rescued was absorbed in the one idea and effort to escape. Over hill and plain, and shallow stream, those foaming steeds flew on, pausing not even to snuff the breeze, till they had cleared the territory of the Pawnees, and reached a sheltered nook within the precincts of a neutral tribe. Here, as among all the Indian tribes the woman is considered competent to take care of herself in all ordinary emergencies, her deliverer left her, giving her ample directions for the way, and cautioning her to use the utmost diligence to avoid pursuit.

“But, tell me first,” she cried, tears of grateful joy standing in her eyes, “tell me to whom I am indebted for this miraculous escape—that, in all my prayers to the Great Spirit, I may call down his blessing upon your head.”

“I am Petalesharro,” replied the youth, modestly. “My father is Latalashaw, the chief of my tribe. We do not believe, with our people, that the Great Spirit delights in the sacrifice. He loves all his red children, and they should all love one another.”

“But, will not your chiefs revenge upon your head this interference with their solemn rites? If any national calamities follow, will they not charge them all to your account? I could not bear that my generous deliverer should be struck down by those terrible hands, in the prime of his youth, as the reward of his heroic benevolence. Better that I should return and submit to the fate they had prepared for me.”

“Fear not for me, Monica. Petalesharro fears not to meet the assembled council of his nation. Not a brave among them all will raise a hand to hurt him. He will make them know that the Great Star needs not the blood of the captive. And never again shall the fires be kindled for that cruel sacrifice.”