Propound the latter question to this Indian gentleman, venerable hunter; he is of a reddish tint himself, and his opinion may be said to make us masters of the two sides of the disputed point.”
“Do you think a Pawnee is a reader of books, and a believer of printed lies, like the idlers in the towns?” retorted the old man, laughing. “But it may be as well to humour the likings of the man, which, after all, it is quite possible are neither more nor less than his natural gift, and therefore to be followed, although they may be pitied.
What does my brother think? all whom he sees here have pale skins, but the Pawnee warriors are red; does he believe that man changes with the season, and that the son is not like his father?”
The young warrior regarded his interrogator for a moment with a steady and deliberating eye; then raising his finger upward, he answered with dignity—
“The Wahcondah pours the rain from his clouds; when he speaks, he shakes the lulls; and the fire, which scorches the trees, is the anger of his eye; but he fashioned his children with care and thought.
What he has thus made, never alters!”
“Ay, ‘tis in the reason of natur’ that it should be so, Doctor,” continued the trapper, when he had interpreted this answer to the disappointed naturalist. “The Pawnees are a wise and a great people, and I’ll engage they abound in many a wholesome and honest tradition.
The hunters and trappers, that I sometimes see, speak of a great warrior of your race.”
“My tribe are not women.
A brave is no stranger in my village.”
“Ay; but he, they speak of most, is a chief far beyond the renown of common warriors, and one that might have done credit to that once mighty but now fallen people, the Delawares of the hills.”
“Such a warrior should have a name?”
“They call him Hard-Heart, from the stoutness of his resolution; and well is he named, if all I have heard of his deeds be true.”
The stranger cast a glance, which seemed to read the guileless soul of the old man, as he demanded—
“Has the Pale-face seen the partisan of my people?”
“Never.
It is not with me now, as it used to be some forty years ago, when warfare and bloodshed were my calling and my gifts!”
A loud shout from the reckless Paul interrupted his speech, and at the next moment the bee-hunter appeared, leading an Indian war-horse from the side of the thicket opposite to the one occupied by the party.
“Here is a beast for a Red-skin to straddle!” he cried, as he made the animal go through some of its wild paces. “There’s not a brigadier in all Kentucky that can call himself master of so sleek and well-jointed a nag!
A Spanish saddle too, like a grandee of the Mexicos! and look at the mane and tail, braided and platted down with little silver balls, as if it were Ellen herself getting her shining hair ready for a dance, or a husking frolic!
Isn’t this a real trotter, old trapper, to eat out of the manger of a savage?”
“Softly, lad, softly.
The Loups are famous for their horses, and it is often that you see a warrior on the prairies far better mounted, than a congress-man in the settlements.
But this, indeed, is a beast that none but a powerful chief should ride!
The saddle, as you rightly think, has been sit upon in its day by a great Spanish captain, who has lost it and his life together, in some of the battles which this people often fight against the southern provinces.
I warrant me, I warrant me, the youngster is the son of a great chief; may be of the mighty Hard-Heart himself!”
During this rude interruption to the discourse, the young Pawnee manifested neither impatience nor displeasure; but when he thought his beast had been the subject of sufficient comment, he very coolly, and with the air of one accustomed to have his will respected, relieved Paul of the bridle, and throwing the reins on the neck of the animal, he sprang upon his back, with the activity of a professor of the equestrian art.
Nothing could be finer or firmer than the seat of the savage.
The highly wrought and cumbrous saddle was evidently more for show than use.
Indeed it impeded rather than aided the action of limbs, which disdained to seek assistance, or admit of restraint from so womanish inventions as stirrups.
The horse, which immediately began to prance, was, like its rider, wild and untutored in all his motions, but while there was so little of art, there was all the freedom and grace of nature in the movements of both.
The animal was probably indebted to the blood of Araby for its excellence, through a long pedigree, that embraced the steed of Mexico, the Spanish barb, and the Moorish charger.
The rider, in obtaining his steed from the provinces of Central-America, had also obtained that spirit and grace in controlling him, which unite to form the most intrepid and perhaps the most skilful horseman in the world.
Notwithstanding this sudden occupation of his animal, the Pawnee discovered no hasty wish to depart.
More at his ease, and possibly more independent, now he found himself secure of the means of retreat, he rode back and forth, eyeing the different individuals of the party with far greater freedom than before.
But, at each extremity of his ride, just as the sagacious trapper expected to see him profit by his advantage and fly, he would turn his horse, and pass over the same ground, sometimes with the rapidity of the flying deer, and at others more slowly, and with greater dignity of mien and attitude.
Anxious to ascertain such facts as might have an influence on his future movements, the old man determined to invite him to a renewal of their conference.
He therefore made a gesture expressive at the same time of his wish to resume the interrupted discourse, and of his own pacific intentions.
The quick eye of the stranger was not slow to note the action, but it was not until a sufficient time had passed to allow him to debate the prudence of the measure in his own mind, that he seemed willing to trust himself again, so near a party that was so much superior to himself in physical power, and consequently one that was able, at any instant, to command his life, or control his personal liberty.
When he did approach nigh enough to converse with facility, it was with a singular mixture of haughtiness and of distrust.
“It is far to the village of the Loups,” he said, stretching his arm in a direction contrary to that in which, the trapper well knew, the tribe dwelt, “and the road is crooked.
What has the Big-knife to say?”
“Ay, crooked enough!” muttered the old man in English, “if you are to set out on your journey by that path, but not half so winding as the cunning of an Indian’s mind. Say, my brother; do the chiefs of the Pawnees love to see strange faces in their lodges?”
The young warrior bent his body gracefully, though but slightly, over the saddle-bow, as he replied—
“When have my people forgotten to give food to the stranger?”
“If I lead my daughters to the doors of the Loups, will the women take them by the hand; and will the warriors smoke with my young men?”
“The country of the Pale-faces is behind them.
Why do they journey so far towards the setting sun?
Have they lost the path, or are these the women of the white warriors, that I hear are wading up the river of ‘the troubled waters?’”
“Neither.