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Chapter Two
The sun rose and shone forth brightly on the earth. There was the sound of winged creatures in Robert Nixon’s ears as he once more awoke and gazed languidly around. His first impulse was to attempt to rise, but the anguish he suffered the instant he moved reminded him of the injuries he had received. Vain were his efforts; to stand up was impossible. Although the wolves for the time were gone, they, to a certainty, would return at night, and thus, without ammunition, how could he defend himself against them? He might subsist on the meat of the buffalo for a day or two, but that would soon become uneatable, and as he could scarcely hope to recover from his hurt for many days, even if he escaped the wolves, he must die of starvation. Again he sank into a state of mental stupor, though his eye still remained cognisant of external objects. As the old hunter thus lay on the ground his eye fell on a horseman riding rapidly by. He was a Salteux, or Ojibway Indian, a people having a deadly feud with his friends, the Sioux. The sight roused him. To kill the man and capture his horse was the idea which at once occurred to him. Rousing himself by a violent exertion he levelled his rifle and fired. Not for an instant did he hesitate about taking the life of a fellow-creature. That fellow-creature was a foe of his friends, whose badge he wore, and would, he believed, kill him if he was discovered. He had miscalculated his powers – his eye had grown dim, his arm had lost its nerve; the bullet which once would have proved a sure messenger of death flew wide of its mark, and the Indian sat his horse unharmed. He turned, however, immediately, and galloped towards the spot whence the shot came. The old hunter had expended his last bullet. With grim satisfaction he awaited the Indian’s approach, and the expected flourish of the scalping-knife, or the kinder blow of the tomahawk, which would deprive him at once of life. “Better so than be torn by the fangs of those vermin the wolves,” he muttered, for though he clutched his knife to strike back, he well knew that he was at the mercy of his adversary. The Indian, though a rifle hung at his back, rode steadily up without unslinging it. “A friend!” he shouted in the Salteux, or Ojibway dialect, – “A friend! fire not again.”
“A friend! How so?” exclaimed the old hunter. “Your people and mine are mortal foes.”
“I would be a friend to all the suffering and distressed,” was the unexpected answer. “I see what has happened – you have fought bravely for your life; the remains of the wolves tell me that, but before another sun has risen you would have been torn limb from limb by their fellows. Truly I am thankful that I was sent to save you from death.”
“Sent! Who sent you?” cried the old hunter, gazing up at the strange Indian. The other having just dismounted from his horse stood looking compassionately down on him. “He who watches over the fatherless and widows, and all who are distressed,” answered the Indian. “A generous kind person I doubt not, but I know of none such in this land; he must live far away from here,” said the old hunter. “He lives in Heaven, and His eye is everywhere,” said the Indian solemnly. “He loves all mankind; without His will not a sparrow falls to the ground; and I am sure, therefore, that it was His will that I should come to you.”
“Truly you speak strange words for a redskin!” exclaimed the hunter. “I have heard long ago white men talk as you, but never an Indian. You are one I see; there is no deceiving me. I cannot understand the matter.”
“I will tell you as we go along,” said the Indian; “but we must no longer delay, father; we have many miles to travel before we can reach my people, and I know not how I can restore you to your friends. It would be dangerous for me to approach them, for they could not understand how I can only wish them good.”
“I will go with you, friend,” said the old man. “I would gladly dwell with your people, and hear more of those strange matters of which you have been speaking.”
Without further exchange of words the Indian, having examined the old man’s hurts, gave him some dried meat and a draught from his water-flask, and lifted him with the utmost care on his horse; he then took the hunter’s rifle and horse’s trappings before moving off. He also secured the tongue and hump, and some slices from the buffalo’s back, which he hung to his saddle-bow. “We may require more provision than our own rifles can supply before we reach our journey’s end,” he observed; as he did so, pointing to the north-east. Robert Nixon without hesitation yielded to all his suggestions.
The day was already considerably advanced, and the Indian seemed anxious to push on. Keeping up a rapid pace, he walked by the side of his companion, who, overcome by weakness and want of sleep would have fallen off, had not his strong arm held him on. Thus they journeyed hour after hour across the prairie. The Indian from the first employed various devices for rendering his trail invisible. On starting he moved for some distance westward, till he reached the bed of a small stream, on which even the sharp eye of a native could scarcely perceive a trace; then circling round, he commenced his intended course. Many miles were passed over; and the bank of a rapid river was reached, when the setting sun warned him that it was time to encamp. Instead, however, of doing so, he at once led his horse into the stream, and keeping close to the shore waded against the current, often having the water up to his waist, for a considerable distance, then coming to a ford he crossed over and continued along in the same direction till he once more returned to dry ground. The bank was fringed on each side by a belt of trees, which in the warm weather of summer afforded ample shelter from the dew, and concealment from any passing enemy. The chief trees were poplar, willow, and alder; but there were also spruce and birch. Bound the latter lay large sheets of the bark. A quantity of these the Indian at once collected, and with some thin poles which he cut with his hatchet he rapidly constructed a small hut or wigwam, strewing the floor with the young shoots of the spruce-fir. On this couch he placed his injured companion, putting his saddle under his head as a pillow. He then brought the old man some food and water, and next proceeded to examine his hurts with more attention than he had before been able to bestow. Bringing water from the river he fomented his bruises for a long time, and then searching for some leaves of a plant possessed of healing qualities, he bound them with strips of soft leather round his swollen limbs. More than once the old hunter expressed his surprise that a stranger should care so much for him, and should actually feed and tend him before he had himself partaken of food and rested. “I serve a loving Master, and I am but obeying His wishes,” was the laconic answer. “Very strange! very strange!” again and again muttered the old man; “you must tell me something about that Master of yours. I cannot understand who he can be.”
“I will not disappoint you, father, for I love to speak of Him,” said the Indian; “I will come anon and sit by your side and tell you what I know. It will interest you, I doubt not, and maybe you will wish to know more about Him.” Some time passed, however, before the Indian was able to fulfil his promise. He had to tend his horse and to set some traps to catch any small game which might pass, and to search for certain roots and berries for food. He showed, too, by all his movements that he considered himself in an enemy’s country, or in the neighbourhood of an enemy from whom it was necessary to keep concealed. When he came back the old man had fallen asleep. “Let him sleep on,” said the Indian to himself: “our Father in Heaven will watch over and protect us both. I would that I could watch, but my body requires rest.” Having tethered his horse close at hand, strewed the ground with a few spruce-fir tops, and placed his rifle by his side, he knelt down and prayed, not as once to Manitou, to the Great Spirit, the unknown God, but to the true God, – a God no longer feared as a worker of evil, but beloved as the source of all good, of all blessings, spiritual and temporal. His prayer finished, he stretched himself on his couch, and was in an instant asleep.
The silvery streaks of early dawn were just appearing in the eastern sky – seen amid the foliage of the wood, when the Indian, impulsively grasping his rifle, started to his feet. His quick ear had caught, even in his sleep, the sound of a distant shot. It might be fired by a friend, but very likely by a foe, and it behoved him to be on the alert. The old hunter heard it also, but it did not awake him. “Ah! they are on us. No matter, we’ll fight for our lives,” he muttered in his sleep. “Hurrah, lads! Rob Nixon will not yield – never while he’s an arm to strike.” He spoke in English, which the Indian seemed to understand, though the observation he made was in his own language. “Our own arms will do little for us, father, unless we trust in Him who is all-powerful to save.” His voice awoke the old man, who sat up and looked around from out of his hut. Seeing the Indian in the attitude of listening, he at once comprehended the state of matters. “Few or many I’ll stand by you, friend Redskin,” he exclaimed, apparently forgetting his helpless condition; “load my rifle, and hand it to me. If foes are coming, they shall learn that Rob Nixon has not lost the use of his arms and eyes, whatever he may have of his legs.”
“I doubt not your readiness to fight, father,” said the Indian, addressing the old man thus to show his respect for age; “but we may hope to avoid the necessity of having to defend ourselves. Friends and not foes may be near us, or we may escape discovery; or, what is better still, we may overcome the enmity of those who approach us with bad intent.”
“Your talk is again strange, as it was yesterday,” answered the hunter; “I know not what you mean by overcoming enmity. There is only one way that I have ever found answer both with pale-faces and redskins, and that is by killing your enemy.”
“Try what kindness will do, father. Love is the law of the true God,” said the Indian; “but we will anon talk of these things. I will go forth and learn what the shot we heard just now means.”
“Load my rifle, and give it me first, I pray you,” said the white hunter; “I have great faith in my old way of doing things, and am not likely to change.” The Indian loaded the rifle and handed it to him, and without saying a word more set off through the wood, and was soon out of sight. Rob Nixon lay still, with his rifle resting across his body, ready to fire should an enemy appear. Over and over again he muttered: “Strange! strange! that a redskin should talk so. I cannot make it out.” Several minutes passed by, and the Indian did not return. The old man grew more anxious than he would have acknowledged to himself. He had some natural feeling on his own account should his new friend have been cut off, but he was also anxious for that new friend, to whom he could not but be grateful for the service he had rendered him. At length he saw the bushes move, and the Indian appeared and crept close up to him. “There are foes, and many of them,” he said in a low voice; “they are near at hand, but they are not seeking for us; and thus, if they do not cross our trail, we may yet escape discovery.”
The Indian had already concealed his horse in a thicket, and, by carefully surrounding the spot where they lay with boughs, their little camp was completely hidden from the sight of any casual passer-by. The boughs he had cut from the interior part of a thicket, for, had they been taken from the outer side, the eye of an Indian would at once have observed the white stumps which were left. Again, by crossing the river in the mode they had done, there was no trail to lead to their camp. For these reasons the Indian and the white hunter had good cause to believe that they might escape discovery. As their enemies were as yet at some distance it was not deemed necessary to keep altogether silent. The old hunter was the most loquacious. “I would, friend Redskin,” said he, “that I had the use of my legs and half a dozen of my old companions at my back, and I wouldn’t fear as to holding my own against three-score or more of Crees, or Ojibways; no offence to you, friend; for there are not many like you, I guess.”
“Your people fight bravely but foolishly, according to Indian notions,” answered the Indian; “for, instead of advancing on their foes under shelter and trying to take them unawares, they dress themselves in fine clothes, make a great noise when going forth to battle, and expose their bodies to be shot at. I was once esteemed a mighty warrior, and was a man of blood; I have engaged in much fighting, but would now wish to bury the hatchet of war with all the world. I thank you for what you say of me; but things of which I once boasted, I boast of no longer. I am a chief of many people; but instead, as at one time, of wishing to lead them to war, I now desire to lead them to a knowledge of the Lord and Master whom I serve – the Saviour of the world.”
“Every man to his taste, friend Redskin,” said the old hunter; “when I was a young man like you I could not have fighting or hunting enough. Now, I own, I am growing somewhat weary of the work; and, if we get to the end of this journey with our scalps on, maybe I’ll settle down with your people.”
It may seem strange that the old man could not comprehend what was the meaning of the Indian when he spoke thus. If he had a glimmering of the truth, he turned away from it. Many do the same. Felix has numberless imitators. Both the Indian and Rob Nixon were silent for some minutes, attentively listening for the approach of the strangers. Not a sound, however, being heard, they began to hope that their enemies had gone a different way. “There’ll be no fighting this time, I guess, friend Redskin,” said the old man. “It’s all the better, too, considering that you don’t seem much inclined for it; and I’m not in the best trim for work of that sort, or any work, truth to say.”
Rob Nixon had remarked that the Indian had winced more than once when addressed as Redskin, which was certainly not a respectful or complimentary mode of addressing him. The reason of this became still more evident when he spoke of himself as a chief. Chiefs in general would not for an instant have suffered such familiarity. Rob Nixon saw that it was time to apologise. He did so in his own way. “I say, friend, I’ve just a thing to ask you. You’ve a name, I doubt not, showing forth some of the brave deeds you have done, the enemies you have slain, the miles you have run, the rivers you have swam across, the bears you have captured, or the beavers you have trapped. Tell me, what is it? for I’ve a notion the one I’ve been giving you is not altogether the right or a pleasant one.” The Indian smiled as he answered quietly, “The name I bear, and the only one by which I desire to be called, is Peter. It was given me, not for killing men or slaughtering beasts, but at my baptism, when I was received into the Church of Christ, and undertook to love, honour, serve, and obey Him in all things as my Lord and Master.”
“Peter! Peter! that’s a strange name for an Injun,” said the white hunter half to himself. “Why, that’s such a name as they give in the old country to a Christian.”
“And I, too, am a Christian, though an unworthy one, father,” answered the Indian humbly. “Never heard before of a Christian Injun!” exclaimed the old man bluntly; “but strange things happen I’ll allow. I don’t doubt your word; mind that, friend. It was strange that when you saw I was a friend of the Dakotahs you didn’t scalp me, without asking questions, and leave me to be eaten by wolves. That’s the true Injun way. It was strange that you should take me up, put me on your horse, walk yourself all these miles, with some hundreds more before you, and risk your own life to save mine. All that is strange, I say; and so, friend, I don’t know what other strange things may happen. Well, if so you wish, I’ll call you Peter; but I’d rather by far call you by your Injun name. It was a good one, I’ll warrant. Come, tell it now. You need not be ashamed of it.”
“In the sight of man I am not ashamed of it, for by most of my people I am called by it still; but in the sight of God I am ashamed of it, and still more am I ashamed of the deeds which gained it for me. How, think you, blood-stained and guilty as I was, could I stand in the presence of One pure, holy, loving, and merciful? I tell you, aged friend, neither you nor I, nor any man, could appear before God without fear and trembling, if it were not that He is a God of love, and that through His great love for us, His creatures, whom He has placed on the world, He sent His only Son, that all who believe in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.”
The young Christian Indian warmed as he went on in his discourse, which was intermingled with many beautiful illustrations and figures of speech, which it would be vain to attempt to translate. Gradually he thus unfolded the fundamental truths of the Gospel. The old white hunter listened, and even listened attentively, but, far from warming, seemed scarcely to comprehend what was said. “Strange! very strange!” he muttered frequently; “and that an Injun should talk thus. Forty years have I lived among the redskins, and never believed that they knew more than their fathers.” Peter, – as he desired to be called, though his heathen name was Aronhiakeura, or otherwise the Fiery Arrow, from the rapidity of his onslaught and the devastation he caused, – now stated his belief that they might venture to proceed without the likelihood of being molested. Scarcely, however, had he emerged from their leafy cover when another shot was fired close to them; and, before he could again seek concealment, three fully armed Dakotahs appeared directly in front of him. The Dakotahs instantly rushed behind the trees, to serve as shields should he fire, but he held up his hands to show that he was unarmed, and in a low voice entreated his companion to remain quiet. That resistance would be hopeless was evident by the appearance directly afterwards of a dozen or more Indians, who were seen flitting amidst the wood, each man obtaining the best shelter in his power. Peter stood fully exposed to view, without flinching or even contemplating concealing himself. Fearless behaviour is sure to obtain the admiration of Indians. Naturally suspicious they possibly supposed that he had a strong force concealed somewhere near at hand, and that they had themselves fallen into an ambush. Had they found and followed up his trail they would have discovered exactly the state of the case. That he had a wounded companion would not have escaped their notice, and that he had but one horse, and travelled slowly would also have been known to them. By his having crossed the stream, however, and come along its bed for some distance they were at fault in this respect. Peter kept his post without flinching; he well knew that the Dakotahs were watching him; indeed, here and there he could distinguish the eye of a red-skinned warrior glimmering, or the top of a plume waving among the trunks of the trees or brushwood. All the time Rob Nixon on his part was watching his preserver with intense anxiety. He had conceived a warm regard for him, and, knowing the treachery so often exhibited by the natives, trembled for his safety. Peter at length waved his hand to show that he was about to speak; “What seek you, friends?” he said in a calm tone; “I am a man of peace, I desire to be friends with all men, and to injure no one; moreover, I would that you and all men had the wisdom and enjoyed the happiness which I possess. See, I cannot harm you;” as he spoke he raised up both his hands high in the air. The Dakotahs, totally unaccustomed to an address of this description, were greatly astonished. Their chief, not to be undone in fearlessness, stepped from behind his covert, completely exposing himself to view. “Who are you, friend? and whence do you come?” he asked; “you cannot be what you seem?”
“I am a man like yourself, friend, and I am truly what I seem – a native of this land, and of a tribe unhappily constantly at enmity with yours,” answered Peter firmly; “but know, O chief, that I differ from many of my people; that I love you and your people, and all mankind. Will you listen to the reason of this? Let your people appear, there is no treachery intended them; I am in your power – why doubt my word?” One by one the Dakotahs crept from behind the trees which had concealed them, and a considerable number assembled in front of the Indian, who spoke to them of the Gospel of love, and of the glorious scheme of redemption. They listened attentively; most of them with mute astonishment. Now and then one of the chief men would give way to his feelings by a sound signifying either approbation or dissent, but not a remark was uttered till the speaker ceased. For a time all were silent, then with gravity and deliberation one of the chiefs waved his hand and observed, “These are strange words the man speaks – he must be a great medicine man.”
“Truly he has the wisdom of the white-faces,” said a second; “has he their treachery? Can he be trusted?”
“The things he says may be true, but they concern not us,” remarked a third. “Wisdom is wisdom whoever speaks it,” said a grave old warrior who had shown himself as active in his movements as the youngest of his companions. “What the stranger tells us of must be good for one man, as for another. Rest is good for the weary; who among my brothers, too, would not rather serve a powerful and kind chief than an inferior and merciless one. He tells us of rest for the weary; of a great and good chief, who can give us all things to make us happy, – I like his discourse, my brothers.” The last speaker seemed to be carrying several with him, when another started up exclaiming, “What the stranger says comes from the pale-faces – it may be false; there must be some treacherous design in it. Let us rather dance this night the scalp-dance round his scalp than listen to his crafty tales. See, I fear him not.” The savage as he spoke lifted his rifle and was about to fire it at Peter, when the rest drew him back, crying out, “He is a medicine man – a great medicine man, and may work us ill; interfere not with him; though we do not listen to his counsel, let him go free. Even now, while we are speaking, we know not what injury he may be preparing to do us!” Thus the discussion went on for a considerable time, Peter waiting patiently for its result. Although the speakers had retired rather too far off for him to hear all that was said, he gathered sufficient to know the tenor of the discussion; still, no fear entered his bosom, he knew that his life was in the hand of One mighty to save. While he stood waiting the result he prayed for himself certainly, but yet more earnestly that the truth might be brought home to the dark hearts of his countrymen.
North American Indians are deliberate in their councils. Peter knew that his fate would not be decided quickly; but neither by word, look, nor action, did he show the slightest impatience. The old white hunter, meantime, had made up his mind to risk everything rather than allow any injury, which he could avert, to happen to his new friend. That they would recognise him he had no doubt; and the fact that he was found in company with a member of a hostile tribe would be considered so suspicious, that they would possibly put him to death without stopping to ask questions. However, should Peter be killed or made prisoner by the Dakotahs, he would be left to perish; so that he felt, indeed, that his fate depended on that of his friend. From where he lay he could see amid the branches the Indians holding their council. His trusty rifle was by his side, and noiselessly he brought it to cover their principal chief. His purpose was to fire at the first hostile movement, hoping that on the fall of their leader the Indians, fancying that they had got into a trap, would take to flight. At length the Dakotahs’ leader advanced a few steps. He little thought that the lifting his hand with a menacing gesture might cost him his life. “Stranger, with you we would gladly smoke the pipe of peace,” he began; “but your ways are not our ways, or your notions our notions – we have nothing in common. Go as you came, we wish to have no communication with you. We desire not to desert our fathers’ ways as you have done; yet, undoubtedly, the Spirit you serve will protect you – go – go – go.” In vain Peter entreated the savages to hear him once again, assuring them that he would tell them only what was for their good. One by one they quitted the spot where the council had been held; the first walked off with becoming dignity, but as more departed, the pace of each in succession increased, till the last scampered off almost as fast as his legs would carry him, fearful lest he should be overtaken by the strange medicine man, whose supposed incantations he dreaded. Peter was less astonished than a white man would have been at the behaviour of his countrymen. Still, he had gained an unexpected triumph. The Dakotahs did not stop, even to look behind them, but continued their course towards the west, through the wood and across the prairie, till they were lost to sight in the distance. The old hunter, to his surprise, saw Peter fall on his knees, on the spot where he had been standing, to return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance from a danger, far greater than it might appear to those unacquainted with Indian customs; for seldom or never do two parties of the Dakotahs and Ojibways encounter each other, without the stronger endeavouring to destroy the weaker with the most remorseless cruelty. Mercy is never asked for nor expected. The scalping-knife is employed on the yet living victim, should the tomahawk have left its work unfinished.
