AN INDIAN LEGEND.

The Indian race is rapidly becoming extinct; even now some tribes that once numbered their thousand warriors no longer exist, and those that still have a name are degraded and debased both in mind and body, and are fast vanishing away, “like snow-wreaths in a thaw.” Not three centuries have elapsed since the white man landed on our shores, and begged as a gift, or bought for a trifle, from the rightful owners of the soil, a small tract of land; and now he owns it all, and noble cities and thriving villages stand on the loved hunting-grounds and burial-places of the red man. In a few years more the race will have passed away, and the place that once knew them will know them no more forever.

Yet we shall never forget them, for our country is full of monuments to their memory; we have Indian names for our towns, villages and rivers—and there are Indian legends attached to almost every high hill, every dark, dismal cave, or bold, bare rock. These legends are always thrilling, and often painfully so, for they show vividly the strongly marked characteristics of the Indian race, their endurance and contempt of hardship, their stoical indifference to suffering and death, their lasting remembrance of kindness received, and, above all, their deadly revenge of injuries.

In the present county of La Salle, and state of Illinois, there is a rock some forty or fifty feet high, standing out boldly from the bank of the Illinois river. The summit is level, perfectly destitute of vegetation, and is attained only by a narrow and difficult foot-path. In that prairie land, the rock is very notable, as being the only elevation for miles around; its bold, jagged and nearly perpendicular lines on the river-side seem to swell its height and increase its frightfulness, while the dull gray color of the rock itself, and its scathed appearance, contrast strangely with the “smoothness and sheen” of the river and the verdant prairie.

That rock was, in days long gone by, the scene of an Indian tribe’s extinction, and is called in reference to the event, the “Starved Rock;” and the white settlers of that region believe and tell the legend as it has been gathered from Indian tradition.

In the vicinity of “Starved Rock”—so the legend runs—there once lived two small tribes of Indians, the Coriaks and Pinxies. They were friendly toward each other, and often leagued together for mutual defence, or to destroy some common foe. On the return of the warriors of both tribes from an expedition in which they had proved victorious, and had taken an unusual number of prisoners, a feast was given by the Coriaks, to celebrate the event; and the braves of each tribe met to dance about their victims, to throw with unerring aim their sharp-pointed arrows into their defenceless bodies, and to drown the death-song of expiring foes in unearthly shouts and loud boasts of their own bloody deeds. At this feast Canabo, one of the Pinxie braves, saw and loved the beautiful Anacaona, who was to be the wife of Wyamoke, a chief of her own (the Coriak) tribe, as soon as he had with his own hand obtained deer-skins enough to furnish his wigwam, and a sufficient number of scalps to ornament his girdle.

Anacaona, or the “Golden Flower,” as her name signified, was tall, graceful and dignified—her dark, brilliant eyes were shaded by drooping lids and long silken lashes—her long, black, glossy hair fell over her smooth neck and shoulders; indeed the stream that flowed past her wigwam door never reflected from its bright bosom so lovely an object as it did when the “Golden Flower” looked in its depths and dressed her hair. Canabo joined in the feast, the wild song and the dance, but he thought only of the beautiful Anacaona; his keen eye soon detected the love glances that passed between her and Wyamoke—he saw the color deepen in her cheek when that brave approached—he saw that her eye flashed and her head was thrown back with pride when he sang of the victims he had slain, and the captives he had made; and there sprung up in his heart, and grew side by side, the deadly night-shade of hate and the sweet flower of love—hate, never ending hate, of his rival; and love, deep and wild, for the Indian girl.

Canabo felt that it would be in vain to try and win away her love with daring deeds or soft winning words, for Wyamoke was bold and brave as himself, and his voice was gentle and sweet as the sighing wind when he spoke to Anacaona, and called her his wild rose-bud, or his gentle fawn.

The feast was ended, and Canabo, who with true Indian cunning had refrained from the mention or exhibition of his love or his hate, returned with his tribe to their own camp.

It was the close of a beautiful summer day when Anacaona left her lodge, and with stealthy steps took her way through the tangled wood; now and then she paused in a listening altitude, as if she expected to hear some other sound than the humming of the insects or the singing of the birds. At last a slight sound reached her ear—it was as if a withered branch broke beneath the tread of a foot. Her own loved Wyamoke had been absent three days—he was to return that night. Anacaona was sure it was her lover’s step, and with a wild silvery laugh that rung through the forest, and which the echoes caught up and repeated, she bounded forth to meet him. It was indeed a step she heard, and soon, alas! too soon, she was clasped, not in the arms of Wyamoke, but in those of the wily Canabo. Instantly he placed one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and raised her lightly in his arms, and picking his way carefully, stepping only on things that revealed no foot-print, till he gained the bank of the river, he removed the blanket from the now insensible girl, and threw it into the stream, and then stepping into the water himself, commenced walking rapidly but cautiously up the river. The next morning Anacaona’s blanket was found, but there were no traces of her, and her lover and tribe mourned her as dead. Canabo reached his own camp late at night—no one saw him come in—no one knew aught about the girl he had brought with him save his brother, whom he had trusted with his secret. He placed Anacaona in his lodge, and though he would not force her to be his wife, he kept her alone day after day, in hopes she would weary of her solitude and consent. At length the autumn hunting season came on, and Canabo, as chief of his tribe, was obliged to accompany them to the hunt; and after giving his brother strict charge to guard the young girl with his life, he departed.

All was quiet and still in that Indian camp—the smoke curled gracefully but slowly up from the almost extinguished fires of those who remained to guard the village of the Pinxies; some few children were playing about, and one or two old squaws were weaving baskets beside their huts, but there was only one man visible, and he might easily have been mistaken for a statue, so motionless did he lie stretched out before the door of one of the principal lodges of the camp. The clear note of a whippowil sounded through the wood, and the Indian moved—again it sounded, and he half rose from his recumbent posture; it sounded nearer and clearer and the young Indian sprung to his feet, just as the laughing face of a girl peered out from the side of the lodge. She was slight and childlike in her form, and her hair, which was fastened back with a wreath of bright red flowers, fell almost to her feet; she held her bow and arrows in one hand, and in the other a dead bird. She called him in a sweet, musical voice to come and see the bird, but he pointed to the door of the lodge before which he stood, and shook his head. Nainee was vexed, and turning her back to him, she began to shoot her arrows at every thing she saw, and finally tossing her little head, and throwing back her hair, she moved away; but curiosity conquered pride, and just as her lover began to wish he had detained her, she returned, and taking a flower from her hair, pressed it to her lips and threw it on the ground before her lover. He moved from his post to get the flower, and as he bent down, Nainee placing her hand on his shoulder, bounded by him, and ere the astonished Indian could prevent her, she had lifted the skin that served for a door, and passed into the lodge. A low laugh escaped from the Indian; he knew that Nainee could be trusted; that the secret was still safe—and he was pleased with her daring and cunning; she could hit a bird on the wing—she could outrun the deer, and now she had cunningly foiled him. “Yes, Nainee was indeed worthy of a brave Indian’s love.”

Anacaona was reclining on a pile of furs, her face buried in her hands, and so engrossed in her own sad thoughts that she was unconscious of the entrance of the visiter, until Nainee uttered an exclamation of surprise. She looked up—the sight of her beautiful face filled Nainee with jealousy, and her eyes flashed with unnatural brilliancy; but Anacaona sprung up eagerly, and leading her to the place she had vacated, compelled her to be seated. Then she told her who she was, and the story of her capture, and begged her in soft, plaintive tones to aid her, and restore her to her lover and her tribe. All jealousy vanished from Nainee’s heart, as she listened, and throwing her arms about Anacaona’s neck, when she had ended the story, she promised to help her, and kindly kissing her hand, drew aside the deer-skin door and in a moment stood without at the Indian’s side. But he seemed not to heed her presence, and she threw herself down beside him, and taking some long grass in her hand, she commenced braiding it together, while the words of an impromptu song burst from her lips. She sang of Anacaona’s desolate home—of her broken-hearted mother and brave lover who mourned her loss—of the lone captive girl who longed to look once more on the greenwood, and whose proud spirit pined to be free. Nainee paused a moment to note the effect, and then commenced a low recitation of the former noble bearing and brave deeds of Canabo: He had been called “magnanimous,” and his name was the “Eagle,” but, alas! he had wronged his friend, disgraced his tribe, and had, like the hawk, stolen a dove from its nest; then, turning suddenly to the young Indian, Nainee raising her voice said,

“You will save Canabo—send the girl away—bid her swear by the Great Spirit never to tell where she has been, and let her go to her own people. Canabo will soon forget her, and you will have kept your brother from dishonor.”

But the Indian was true, and would not betray his trust.

The shadows of evening gathered thick about that Indian camp, and the rippling of the river, and the occasional bark of some watchful dog, were all the sounds that were heard, as Nainee took her way to Anacaona’s lodge. Soon the two beautiful girls, followed by the young Indian, were walking side by side along the banks of the Illinois, the moon and the bright stars lighting their way. Anacaona knew that the same stream flowed past her own loved home, and she broke off a branch from one of the trees near by, and throwing it upon the water, bade it take her farewell to her lover. It was late ere they returned. Nainee had brought some bark and paints—these she gave to Anacaona to amuse herself with, and promising to come again the next evening, she took her leave. All the next day Anacaona busily employed herself in making a small bark canoe, on the bottom of which she painted a rude picture of herself, with her hands bound, in token of her captivity; and on the side there was an eagle’s feather, the badge of Canabo’s tribe. At night she went forth again to walk, and under her blanket was hid the little canoe. She watched the moon, and when a cloud shut out its light, she bent down to the river, as if to bathe her face, and slid her canoe into the stream; her heart beat almost audibly—she feared the Indian might see and get it, and then, she knew, her only hope of escape would be blighted; but he did not notice it, and soon it was carried so far down by the current that in the pale moonlight it could not be seen.

On their return, Nainee entered the lodge, and told Anacaona that she would come the next night and engage the Indian’s attention, and while thus engaged, Anacaona could push aside a log of the lodge that was loose, and escape—“The heart of the Golden Flower is strong,” said Nainee, “and to her the night and the lone woods have no terrors; her heart, too, is true and kind, and she will not seek revenge, or cause harm to fall on Nainee’s tribe.”

Anacaona pressed the girl to her bosom, and vowed for her sake to remember only the kindness and forget the wrong. Love, deep and pure, for each other had sprung up in their hearts, and they grieved that they were to part—but they were Indian girls, and no tears were shed, no words wasted; the deep waters of the heart were troubled, but the surface was calm and unruffled, and seemingly unmoved they parted forever.

The next night Anacaona made her escape, and for hours she fled, following the banks of the river. As morning began to dawn, the weary girl threw herself down on the grass, and fell asleep. She knew not how long she slept, but when she awoke, it was with a cry of terror, for the wild whoops of the Indians were ringing in her ears, and she knew that the tribe of her captor were on her track. She listened a moment, but there were no friendly sounds mingling with the savage yell. She looked around, but there was no aid, no refuge near—and on she fled. A huge rock was before her; she saw at a glance that the ascent was difficult, but nothing daunted the fearless girl, and up its steep and rugged side she pushed. The horrid yells of the savages fell more and more distinctly on her ear, and when she reached the summit of the rock, they were close behind. There was no escape, and Anacaona stretching out her arms to heaven, uttered a shriek of despair, and leaped off into the foaming river beneath. Alas! for the unfortunate Anacaona! Had she delayed one moment, she would have heard her father’s and her lover’s loud cry. Her little canoe had fulfilled its mission, and the wild wood was full of armed braves thronging to deliver or avenge her. Wyamoke and his tribe from afar had seen Anacaona’s fatal leap, and all the fierce passions of their nature were stirred within them. Canabo and his warriors were between them and the rock, and were driven up on to it with terrible slaughter. The Coriaks posted themselves at its base in force, and for days and days besieged their foes. Every sortie was successfully opposed, and individual attempts at escape foiled. Cooped up on that rock, starvation stared the Pinxies in the face—despair reigned among them; some of the warriors, resolving both to end their lives and take revenge, rushed down the rock—notwithstanding their efforts they were slain; others sang their death-song, and threw themselves off into the river and perished; others, with Indian calmness, laid themselves down to die of starvation.

On the evening of the fourth day, a young Indian girl came to Wyamoke. She told him she had been kind to Anacaona, and assisted her to escape, and in return she only asked to join her lover on the rock. Way was made for her to pass, and Nainee wound her way up the difficult path, amid the dead and dying of her tribe. Her young lover saw her coming, and met her. They looked over the sad scene and talked mournfully together, she leading him toward the edge of the rock; the brave hesitated a moment—then clasping her in his arms, leaped off into the stream; and the two beautiful Indian girls, Nainee and Anacaona, slept beneath the same bright waters.

Days passed away, and one by one Canabo’s tribe, parched by thirst, wasted by famine, or self-destroyed passed into the spirit-land, till none were left but one old man. He, the last of his tribe, as the Coriaks crowded up the rock to finish their work of revenge, raised his shout of boasting and defiance, and died. No remnant of the tribe was left, even their name is lost, except in the terrible tradition that commemorates their extinction at Starved Rock.

M.