PART SECOND.

At the distance of fifteen miles from the encampment of the Saukies, and on the same stream, was a small post, belonging to the Canadian North-West Company of that day. As was usual in that region, it was surrounded with a stockade, as a protection against any sudden attack of the Indians. The force within consisted principally of voyageurs, trappers, hunters, and, in fine, of men of such avocations as were connected with the fur trade, then in its highest stage of prosperity. The gentleman in charge was a Mr. Hughes, for many years subsequently, and even at this day, one of the British superintendents of Indian affairs. Besides the buildings which composed the post, there was a good deal of spare ground, which had been alloted for the security of horses and cattle, embraced within the picketings. Around this place the ground was denuded of trees, and nothing but a mass of shapeless stumps was to be seen extending for nearly half a mile in every way, except toward the front, which was bounded by the stream which divides it from the woods on the opposite bank.

One evening, late at night, an Indian was seen approaching and driving before him a number of horses, tied by strings of bark, and so disposed as to keep up the order of what is called the Indian file. Three stout Canadians were sitting on a sort of elevated platform, which served as a look-out over the stockade, one cutting with a great clasp knife a piece of fat pork upon his bread, that served him as a substitute for a plate; a second puffing a cloud of smoke from a long handled black stone pipe; and the third lying on his back with his knees drawn up, and singing one of those plaintive boat songs which were peculiar to the Canadian voyageur of the commencement of the present century.

“I say, Baptiste, cease that refrain of yours and listen,” said the man who was eating his supper of pork, and who evidently was at that moment on duty as look-out. “I am sure I hear the tramp of horses—and sure enough it is them. See how they come, in file, like a string of dried peaches. I’ll bet the best beaver I shoot or trap to-morrow, that scoundrel Filou, the Chippewa, has been at his old work again and stolen a lot.”

Baptiste finished his singing, as directed, jumped to his feet, and looked in the direction in which his companions had turned their gaze. There was a mass of something moving, but whether men or horses the night was too dark to enable him to distinguish with accuracy.

“Parbleu!” said the man who was smoking, “we had better tell the master. The Saukies are not over friendly to us, and it may be a party of them stealing upon us, in the hope of catching us napping.”

“Bah! Latour,” returned the man of the watch, “the Saukies don’t make so much noise when they move. It’s horses’ hoofs we hear, and not the feet of men. A bottle of whisky to a blanket it’s Filou with a fresh prize.”

“The odds are certainly long you give,” said Le Marie, after he had delivered himself of a prolonged puff; “but, sure enough, it is a gang of horses, and that’s devilish like the Chippewa, who rides the first and leads the remainder.”

All doubt was soon at rest, by the well-known voice of the Chippewa asking for admission for himself and horses into the stockade.

“Comment!” said Le Marie, “do you take me for a blancbec, to suppose I shall do any thing of the sort? You have stolen those horses, Filou, and no good will ever come to us if we let them in here.”

“Ask captin,” said the Chippewa, in a tone that denoted he expected his application to be made known to that responsible officer.

The moment was a critical one. The Saukie Indians, as has been before stated, had manifested a hostile feeling toward the inmates of the post, and the avoidance of offense had been strictly enjoined, as a matter of policy, upon the people of the establishment. Filou, more than all the others, knew of the position and means of defense of the stockade, and therefore it became particularly a matter of precaution not to offend him.

“Take the rascal’s message to the chief, Baptiste, and know if he is to be admitted or not.”

In a few minutes Captain Hughes, in no very good humor, made his appearance at the look-out, and seeing the large train of horses which the rascal had stolen, told him, decidedly, that he himself might come into the fort if he chose to leave his plunder behind him; but that the latter must remain without.

The Chippewa grumbled a good deal at this decision, told him that he had lost a good horse, and finally decided on remaining without himself and keeping watch over the animals.

The night passed away, and it was about an hour before dawn when the report of a rifle was heard, and soon afterward a second, from a greater distance. Aroused from their slumbers, Captain Hughes and his people instantly rose and repaired to the look-out, where the drowsy sentinel was just awakening from his sleep, and were accosted from without by the Chippewa, who told them, with an alarmed air, that the enemy were stealing upon them, and earnestly craved admittance for himself and horses. This request, after some little hesitation on the part of Captain Hughes, was granted. His people were kept on the alert during the remainder of the night, but nothing was to be seen that could justify an alarm. Toward morning, however, Captain Hughes resolved to go forth with a party and reconnoitre. He insisted that the Chippewa, who was extremely unwilling to move, should accompany them, and point out the direction whence the firing proceeded. In vain he pleaded that he was tired and wanted rest. They compelled him to lead the way.

Until the day began to dawn, every thing was dark in the extreme—so much so, indeed, that the undenuded stumps which, scorched and blackened by fire, had been left to complete their natural decay, were scarcely visible; but as the mists of night cleared away, the opening of the forest, about a mile distant from the stockade, was distinctly seen, and all eyes were turned toward it, as though to a place of danger.

“Hush!” said Le Marie, who the next after the Chippewa headed the party, making a sign for them at the time to stop. “There is no enemy there,” he said, “but one, and him I should very much like to put a bullet into. Look! don’t you see that white bear?”

The whole party looked attentively, and distinctly saw the skin of a white bear, but its actions were so erratic that none could account for the singular attitudes into which it appeared to throw itself.

“I’ll soon stop his dancing,” said Le Marie, as he raised his ride, “and if I don’t finish him, Baptiste, you can follow my shot on the instant.”

“Stop!” said Captain Hughes, striking down the leveled rifle; “pretty eyes for voyageurs and hunters, you have. Don’t you see that it is only the loose skin of a white bear, and that there is some one waving it toward us as a signal?”

“Parbleu, so it is!” said Le Marie, doggedly, for he was annoyed, priding himself, as he did, on his keenness of sight as a hunter, that the captain should have noticed his mistake.

As they drew nearer, they could make out, just within the skirt of the wood, an Indian, reclining against a tree, and waving toward them, as a signal, the skin of a grizzly bear. Close at his side, and leaning her head upon her hands, was a woman.

The party approached, still headed by the Chippewa. When they had arrived within a few yards, the stranger Indian drew up his body, seated as he was, to his full height, and looking indignantly at the Chippewa, said:

“That is the man who shot me. The eye of Wawandah is good, and he can tell his enemy even in the dark.”

“How is this?” asked Captain Hughes, turning to the horse stealer. “You, then, fired the shot which you pretended to me was that of an enemy approaching the fort.”

The Chippewa for a moment was confused, but soon he replied, sullenly:

“He came to steal my horses; he had taken two of them, and was going off when I fired. He fired again, but his ball went into a stump at my side. Was I right?”

“Never come near the fort again,” said Captain Hughes, angrily, for he was interested in the condition of the noble featured youth. “You are a black-hearted villain. You steal horses in droves; and because another deprives you of one or two, you take his life.”

The eye of Wawandah brightened as he listened to the words of Captain Hughes, which were, of course, spoken in Indian. “Wah!” he exclaimed, “I did not steal—I only exchanged horses. Those I left were better than those I was going to take. They were fresher than my own—I wanted them. But,” he added, fiercely, “I am not going to die by his hand—he shall not dance over my scalp. Sunflower,” he asked, after a moment’s pause, “do you love me still, now that I am going to die and leave you without a home?”

Deep sobs came from the bosom of the unhappy and guilty woman. She bent her head over him, and said, gently:

“Oh, should I be here did I not love you, Wawandah?”

“Good!” he answered, pressing her vehemently to his heart. “It is sweet to me to hear the Sunflower say that she loves the dying Wawandah. The white chief will take care of you when I am dead.”

“If Wawandah dies, the Sunflower will die too. She cannot live without him. Her heart is too full to live alone.”

“No, no!” he replied. “The white chief will go with you to the White Bear. He will say that I am very sorry for the wrong I have done him, and that the last prayer of Wawandah, who has been so ungrateful to him, is, that he will take back his wife—the sweetest flower of the Saukie tribe.”

The Sunflower raised her drooping head, and looked Wawandah steadily in the face for some moments. She made no remark, but resumed the same desponding attitude.

Summoning all his remaining strength—for life was fast ebbing away—the Indian now stretched himself to the utmost tension of his body, and, shouting out the war-cry of his tribe, drew his knife and plunged it into his heart—then fell back and expired.

For some moments the Sunflower lay as one unconscious on the bleeding body of the ill fated Wawandah; then raising herself up, she revealed her face, the extreme paleness of which was visible even beneath the dark hue of her skin. She asked the Chippewa to come near her, that she might communicate to him a message for the White Bear, offering her silver arm bands as the price of his service.

The cupidity of the Chippewa, more than any remorse he felt, or desire to assist the Sunflower, induced him to approach and receive the trinkets and the message; but while he was busily engaged in securing that which was on her left arm, the Sunflower suddenly drew the knife from the body of her husband and plunged it into the heart of the Chippewa, to whom she owed all the bitterness of her fate. He fell dead at the feet of Wawandah, and before Captain Hughes, or any of his party, had time to prevent her, or even to understand her intention, she raised herself to her feet with the reeking knife in her hand, and killed herself with a single and unfaltering blow.

Deeply shocked and pained by this lamentable catastrophe, Captain Hughes caused his men to cut litters with their axes and carry the bodies to the fort. No one felt regret for the just punishment of the Chippewa; but the fate of the unhappy lovers created a deep sympathy in the hearts of all—the more so from the surpassing personal beauty of both. Two graves were dug—one inside and the other on the outside of the stockade. In the first was placed a rude coffin, lined with a buffalo skin, which Captain Hughes had substituted for that of the grizzly bear, were placed the bodies of Wawandah and the Sunflower. A sort of mound was then raised over it, and at the head was stuck a short pole, the top of which, for about twelve inches, was painted red. The Chippewa was thrown unceremoniously, and without coffin, into the grave that had been dug for him outside.

Some time afterward Captain Hughes, having occasion to visit the encampment of the Shawnees, on a subject connected with the differences then existing between them and the North-West Company, took the opportunity of communicating to the White Bear all that he knew relating to the flight and death of the unfortunate Sunflower and Wawandah; adding to the detail the account of the sepulchral rites he had caused to be accorded to them.

The chief, a good deal emaciated and of much sterner look than when last introduced to the reader, at first heard him with grave and imperturbable silence. But when he came to that part of his narrative which described the remorse of Wawandah for the injury he had done him, a tear, vainly sought to be hidden by a sudden motion of the head, stole down his cheek.

“Will my brother smoke?” he said abruptly, handing him his pipe, while he, with the disengaged hand, pressed that of Captain Hughes with the utmost cordiality.

“Listen, my brother,” he said, after a pause. “You have done well to the White Bear. His wigwam is empty without the Sunflower, who used to shed light upon his hearth. Joy no more can enter it. The White Bear is alone among the rest of his tribe, like a blasted pine in the midst of a green forest; but it does good to his heart to hear the son of his friend—the broken-hearted one that he took into his lodge to soothe and to heal—was sorry that he stole the flower of his heart, and left but a thorn in its place. The White Bear is sorry for them both; but they were young and foolish, and dearly have they been punished. I forgive them, brother,” again extending his hand, “and I love the white chief, who did not leave their bodies to be devoured by the wolves, but buried them as the White Bear would have them buried. I am glad too that you treated the Chippewa as a dog, without any sign to mark where he lays. I feel that many moons will not pass over me; but while they do, I will live less unhappy at my loss, and ever love the white chief.”

Thus terminated their interview; and Captain Hughes heard, not one month later, of the death of the White Bear.