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WILLIAM V. SPENCER,   fa
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                     OR,


THE LAST  DAYS OE THE REPUBLIC.

              TRANSLATED FROM THE


   Italian of Massimo D'Azeglio.

            BY  -A. LAJDY.


'' Videbis fill mi, quam parva sapientia regihtr mundus."

                          Chax. Oxenstiern*.


  The first American edition of Florence Betrayed,
a Novel founded on events in Italian History, is now
ready in a handsome volume of 541 pages, 12 mo.

          PRICE  $1,25.

Copies sent free of postage to any part of the country on receipt of
                 the retail prica.



                PUBLISHED BY
^
        12S Washington St., Corner of Water.

                    BOSTON.
^ ^---—*?*>■>.    ,A4A   ,g^    gyl^  ^ ,fAS.   ,gf^»—■---.adta
X 
SILVER-KNIFE;
CJj* gratters of tjje ^cckj Hlomttahts,,
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
BY
DR. J. H. ROBINSON.
f\jl AAf^-SL^fc • ft-Vrx
       BOSTON:
WILLIAM V. SPENCER,
   128 WASHINGTON STREET.
ni1
   f^nC t xi L
t*^
 
       Entered according to Act of Congreis, In  or y .dr 1854, by
                 WILLIAM  V.  SPEN ^^.t,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of tb. district of Massachusetts.
             STEREOTYPED BY
       HOBART k BOBBINS,
NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
                BOSTON. 
PREFATORY   REMARKS.
  After I haii engaged to  produce the following pages for the pub-
lishers, I was somewhat at a loss for materiel.  I had never travelled
much in the West, and  had seen but a very small portion of that
counter where I wished to lay the scenes of the work I contemplated
prepmhg.   I mentioned this fact to a friend.
  " I think  I can assist you," he said.  " I have no materiel of my
own,  although I have travelled  in the Indian country.   We  got
snagged, steaming down the Missouri, and I lost all my papers ; but I
know a person who has a trunk full of the very matter you need.   He
is rather an eccentric  individual, and whether he can  be induced to
part with his literary treasures, I cannot say.   No harm can be done,
however, by asking him, and I will make the experiment."
  I thanked my friend, and assured him he could do me  no  greater
favor.
  The very  next day, while,  with pen in hand, I sat puzzling my
brains, my door was opened, and a voluminous packet was laid on my
table by a " gentleman from Africa."  It proved to contain the papers
of which my friend  had spoken, and was accompanied by  a note,
although the writer was an utter stranger to me:

  " Dear Sir : Mr. L. has informed me of the embarrassment under
which you labor in preparing a work representing life in the far West.
Do not write fiction, when facts are so abundant and thrilling.  Life on
the prairies is so varied, so full of adventure,  so redolent of  danger,
and, I may add, so startling, that fiction must necessarily fall short of
reality.   I speak from experience.
  " I have been often importuned for the materiel which I now intrust
to you ; but have steadily refused to let it go out of my possession.  I
part with it on the following conditions :
  " All  matters  pertaining to my private personal history, you shall
let alone.  I do not wish to  go before the public as a hero.   I never
liked notoriety.  Whatever relates to the geography and history of the
country, together with the habits, manners and customs, of the differ-
ent tribes, and my adventures with them, are  yours.  I will not stop
to assure you they are facts, because I never deal in fictions.
  " When you have gleaned what you wish from the mass of papers
j ou will receive with this note, return them to me. 
                    w
IV                    ^PREFATOBY REMARKS.

  " They accumulated during a lengthy sojourn  among the Rocky
Mountains, and on the Oregon trail.  They have been my companions
for  many months of vicissitude and peril.  Not one of them has  been
published.   Hoping they may subserve your  purpose, I remain your
very obedient servant,                                    J. T."

  In  five minutes  after reading the above  note, I had the papers
referred  to scattered about my study, and found myself abundantly
supplied with just the materiel I wanted.  The MSS. proved, in  fact,
memoranda made at different times during a pilgrimage of three years
in the Indian country.  But that which interested me most was the
writer's  personal history,— the very thing he forbade me to touch,—
and I confess I was vexed at his fastidiousness.
  Why could he  not permit me to use just as much, or just as little, of
his  materiel, as  I wished ?   Again I had recourse to my friend, and
stated the case to him.
  " I will tell you what you shall do," he said, after a little reflection ;
" go on,  and make use of the papers precisely as you would ifivim had
received no note  with them.   Before you get the work ready rer^publi-
catjon, J. T. will be on his way to Europe.  As soon as  the  book is
published, I will  forward him a handsome copy of the same, bound in
morocco, with a  letter,  in which I will apologize  for you, and take all
the blame  on myself.   By the  time he gets home, his anger will be
dissipated."
  Not without some compunctions of conscience, I adopted the advice
of S.; and the following pages are the result.  Whether a copy of the
same in morocco, with the conciliatory epistle, will appease the justly
excited indignation of J. T., is a matter which the future must decide.
  I have written the tale of Silver-Knife in the  form of an autobiog-
raphy, making the latter  (J. T.) in some measure  the  hero of the
story, using facts when admissible, and drawing upon the imagination
when necessary.
                NOTE  TO  THE  NEW  EDITION.

  While writing the following tale, the author did not entertain the
idea that it would  become so popular with the public, or meet with
such  singular  success.   Several  editions,  in a less  readable form,
were sold with astonishing rapidity, and the calls for the work since
have been  so numerous and  continued, that, after a careful revision
and some important additions, Silver-Knife has been reissued in its
present neat style.
  Grateful for the uncommon favor with which this  production has
been received, the writer would express his thankful acknowledgments
to the reader and the good-natured public.
Boston, April, 1854. 
//
SILVER-KNIFE.
                  CHAPTER  I.

     I                MY Y00TH.

  I was born where the snows lie deep in winter, and where
the winds blow cold from the hills in summer.   I was not the
child of idleness.  I gathered strength from exertion, and my
features were embrowned by exposure to the suns of the vary-
ing seasons.
  I dwelt in a  mountain  home, — faced the cold breath of
the  stormy north, and braved  the  blasts  of icy winter.  I
toiled in the field, and wore the coarse garments of the simple
rustic.
  Indolence could never be  reckoned among my sins ;  but I
disliked exceedingly the  monotonous  life of tilling the soil.
My whole nature revolted at the idea of wasting my youth
and manhood upon a few paternal acres, yielding just enough
for the actual wants of existence.   My inclinations did not
flow in that channel;  for  I  had marked out another  course
for myself.
  Every person could delve in the earth ; but there were some
things  which every person could not  do — which few could
accomplish — deeds which required superior daring or  supe-
rior genius.  I believed I possessed, these requisites, and was
therefore fitted  by nature to perform what  the great herd of
mankind  could not.   I felt a proud and lofty satisfaction in
nursing and encouraging the idea.
  Time, whose foot  is tireless, went on  his way, placing 
6
SILVER-KNIFE :
additional years upon my shoulders, witnessing daily my in-
creasing restlessness.
  My father, though indulgent, was a shrewd man.  He had
watvhed and studied me.  He knew I was unfit for my present
employment, and told me so.  I rejoiced that he had made the
discovery, hoping that it would load to my emancipation from
the farm ; and my hopes were not unfounded.   He resolved
I should  have a profession, and very coolly informed me that
he was about to  send me away to  study medicine.   I was
surprised, and rejoiced — rejoiced that a change  was offered;
though, perhaps, had I been permitted a choice, I might have
decided on something else.  Medicine I had no  great  liking
for  at that time, regarding all  doctors  as solemn, conceited
quacks.  I have since learned to love the study of medicine,
if not the practice.  My  own inclinations, however, were not
consulted.  My respectable parent had decided that I should
become a physician, and he was a man who could not be turned
from his purpose when once resolved.
  I submitted, of  course;  and before a week elapsed my
name was regularly entered with a  physician.   I pass over
the details of my progress in the healing art.   I left all com-
petitors behind, and was  soon  as deep in the mysteries of
" Cullen " and " Wistar " as any tyro could well be.
  I will  now respectfully ask the reader to picture  to  him-
self a tall, not bad-looking young man of twenty-two, with the
omnipotent characters, " M.D." comfortably appended to hia
name, making it read Hartley Ferguson, M.D.
  But this addition did not seem to astonish the world in the
least, and it moved along as usual, insensible,  apparently,
that my importance had been considerably enhanced.
  About two months after my advent as aDoctor of Medicine,
receiving  encouragement from  a friend who  resided in that
portion of the country, I went to St. Louis with the intention
of pursuing my profession.
  It was there that I formed an acquaintance with Baptiste
Leroy, a personage destined to exercise  a strong influence
upon my future career.
   Picture  to yourself a man about six feet three inches  in
height,  with  eyes deep-set  aud piercing, hair, though origi-
nally dark, plentifully sprinkled with gray, while the sharp
features  are  wrinkled  and weather-beaten.  He  has  been a 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
7
hunter and  trapper, for the last  twenty years,  and knowa
every inch of the trail from St. Louis to the head waters of
the Missouri, as well as he knows  his  right hand.   He has,
however, of late years, acted  frequently in the  capacity of
" guide " to parties of  emigrants  seeking  homes in  the far
West.
   He is a man  well acquainted with danger and hardship of
every kind.   He has a family at St. Louis, and is at present
recovering from the effects of a  wound received  in  a foray
with a war party of Sioux.   He had been shot in the leg,  and
the ball  had never been extracted; hence our acquaintance,
for I was called upon to treat his wound.
   He bore the  pain of the operation  without  flinching, and
smiled grimly when I held up the bullet that had given  him
so much trouble.
   " That Redskin's eye never '11 run along the sights  again,"
he said, coolly.
   " And why not ? " I asked as I drew the lips of the wound
together, and thrust a surgeon's needle through the  approxi-
mated edges.
   " He 's gone under," he replied.
   " What does that mean ? "
   "Killed, to  be sure.   I reckon you's never up in the
mountains? "
   " You  are right; I  never was.   You killed the fellow,
then?"
   " Yes, and lifted his top-knot."
   " That is, you scalped him ? "
   " Sartin."
   " It strikes me scalping is a needless piece of barbarity."
   " It's the custom up there."
   " And a savage one, too."
   " Go and live a while on the Oregon trail, and  see.   When
you are among the Romans, you must do as the  Romans do.
I 'm a gettin' to be pretty considerable old now; I 've trapped
a good  many  beaver, and killed a  great  many  buffalo,
and starved on mule-meat as long as any other man, besides
rubbing out a sprinklin' of Injins, and I reckon I know what's
what.   You 've studied medicine, I take  it; and  larnt to
dress  cuts, bruises, fractures, and  gun-shot  wounds, give
calamj,  and all them sorts o' fixin's.  Well, now, I gets shot 
SILVER-KNIFE :
by the Redskins, and employ you to straighten me up ;  but I
don't  undertake to dictate to you how it shall  be done.   I
take it for granted you know best.   Don't you take the force
of it ?"
  I acknowledged  that I did, though by no means  convinced
that it was right for white people to imitate savage customs.
                  CHAPTER  II.

                       MADELEINE.

  Leroy's wife was by no means a bad-looking woman.  She
was a half-breed.  He had wooed and won her somewhere
near Westport; and " Madge," as he honestly affirmed, " had
made him a good wife."
  She was  small in stature, with  coal-black eyes, expressive
of intelligence and  shrewdness.    She had enough  native
blood to lend  her  cheek a deeper blush  than she could well
have borrowed from her French sire.   She was now an indus-
trious, sober matron, the mother of two daughters and a son ;
the latter being the eldest, and now a fine-looking young man
of nineteen.
  The daughters were called Madeleine and Mary; making it
appear that Leroy had a particular  penchant for the initial
M.   There was only the difference of a year and a half in the
ages of Madeleine  and  Mary;  the latter being somewhere be-
tween sixteen  and seventeen, and the  older of the two.   I
shall not be very  particular in describing  them at this time,
hoping to develop their characters as I proceed.
  There was a mild, spiritual beauty about Madeleine, which
baffles my skill to  describe.  Quite tall in person, with figure
full and symmetrical,  features artistically regular, and eyes
dark, restless and flashing, is about all the idea that can  be
conveyed of her tout ensemble.
  Mary was  of smaller stature,  and of a different  style of
beaufy.   She had  hazel eyes, and a  calmer and meeker ex- 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
9
pression than her sister.   Her person was faultless in propor-
tion, and a fit model for a sculptor.
  Basil, the son, was in every  way worthy  of his father;
straight as a reed,  athletic, and  lithe as an  Indian, with a
large share of genuine good sense.
  Leroy's wife and daughters had lived in St. Louis for the
last eight years.  He had removed them thither in order that
the girls might have the advantages of civilization and educa-
tion.   This spoke  favorably for  the  head and heart  of the
trapper, and proved  him infinitely superior to  many  of his
rude brethren who  lived upon the trail.
   In daily attendance upon Leroy, I found much to admire in
his character.  I may also add that  I was pleased with the
restless Madeleine  and the placid Mary.
   I went to St. Louis with but little hope or expectation of
getting into  practice.  My father had provided me liberally
with  means,  and I  had no present fears for the future.
   It is true I took  an office, and  put my name on the door, as
a physician and surgeon ; but I felt little interest in the result.
My thoughts were  tending another way.
   I listened  to the glowing description of Leroy.   He talked
of  boundless prairies, upon which the  sun sets as it sets upon
the sea ; of high mountains which are eternally crowned with
diadems of ice;  of ravines so deep  that day could scarcely
light  them;  of the  exciting buffalo-hunt;  of steeds  that
leaped wide  streams and fallen  trees, and  swam  running
rivers, swift  as the  wind,  and  fearless of  an enemy;  of
dangers incredible  ; of bloody struggles with  the red sons of
the forest; of hair-breadth escapes.
   My  youthful  imagination took  fire.   I  could  think  of
nothing but  the  Oregon trail, and  the Rocky Mountains.
With regret I  saw Leroy making preparations to  leave  St.
Louis ; and  that regret was doubly enhanced when I learned
that his family would accompany him.
   I remonstrated with  him, and with Madge, on the folly of
 taking their  children into the savage wilds of the West.   But
 my eloquence was lost.  They all had enough of the wandering
blood in their veins to make them love the forest, and dare its
 dangers.
    "I drew  breath   away  yonder," said Madge,  pointing
to  the west, " and the graves  of my friends  are  there.  I 
10
SILVER-KNIFE :
have  dwelt here for the sake of  my  children;  but I must
breathe the free mountain air again before I die.  It is  my
Horeb, my ' land of Israel,'  where my bones  must be  laid.
The skies are not high enough here ; there is not room enough ;
there  are  no  prairies,  no mountains, none of my kindred.
Leroy loves the trail; so do I.  I will  follow him to the hills
where the graves of my people are.   I had rather dwell  in
the caves of the earth, or the cliffs of the valleys, with him,
than share a palace here."
   " But your daughters — "
   " The blood of the mother circulates in their veins.   Their
hearts sigh for a mountain home.   The voice of nature speaks
to them, and talks of the wild West.   It is to them as Canaan
was to  the children  of Israel, the  land  of promise, teeming
with milk and  honey; and the Jordan  that  intervenes is a
mere  brook, which they can pass at a bound."
   " Is it so ?" I asked, turning to  Madeleine.
   " It is even so," she replied.   " My Canaan is indeed away
in the West.   I shall seek it,  though  it may be  my lot will
prove worse than Hagar's when she despaired in  the wilder-
ness, and was ready to perish  with hunger and thirst.  Yes,
I shall love the mountains, and hills, and prairies, and forests;
but more than all I shall love to be where my father is.  The
blood  that imparts this darkened  blush  to  my cheeks has a
voice; it whispers  to me forever of  the free  hills.  As my
mother has said, we have no kith and kin here.  No eye glad-
dened our coming, and no eye will  weep for  our going.  Why,
then,  should we stay, when his home, and his (pointing to her
father and brother), is beyond the ' Big Blue ' —

                * Over the hills and far away' 1 "

   I was surprised.  I had not expected  this.   I  had not
imagined that the silent and timid girl cherished such thoughts,
or that she could  clothe them in such language.
   I turned to  the calm Mary; she smiled, and shrank from
my earnest gaze.
   " And do you also sympathize with the free-born notions  of
Madeleine ? " I asked.
   " I  do," she answered.  " I think I  should love to visit the
scenes familiar  to my parents.  My Indian blood won't let me 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
11
rest.  I wish to see something more of life in the wilderness
You will call it a girlish fancy; but with me it is a passion."
  " But you will soon tire of it.  Beside, you are not strong
enough, either of you, to endure the fatigues and dangers of the
long and difficult journey."
  " Women and children innumerable are, at this moment, on
the Oregon trail.   Few  of them  have  experienced  guides,
either;  but that will not be the case with us," replied Mary,
looking at her father.
   " But  even  he and Basil may not be able to defend you
from the  savages.  You may lie down in fancied security at
night, and before morning those dark tresses may grace the
belt of a Blackfoot or a Pawnee," I continued.
   " God  can protect us in all  places.   Does  He not provide
for the sparrows ?  A hair of our  heads cannot fall to the
ground without His  notice.   Have  you no faith in the prom-
ises ? "
   I was silent.   The  daughter  of Leroy was a better Chris-
tian than the son of my father.   I returned to my office  with
my heart full of emotions I could not analyze.   I was  pensive
and melancholy, dissatisfied with myself and  everything else.
The meditated  Hegira of the  Leroys affected me strangely i
for I had unconsciously contracted  a friendship for them, and
I knew their departure would leave  a void in my heart.
                  CHAPTER  III.

                        A LETTER.

  The Leroys departed, and I was left solitary and sad.  I
could not banish them from  memory.   At night I dreamed
of the danger  that would attend the long pilgrimage of the
two girls.  I saw every contingency with a feverish trembling.
The tales of the old trapper, too, were  not without effect.  I
resolved  to follow the Leroys.  I was several days in forming
this resolution, but, when once decided, I  lost  no time  in put-
ting it into execution. 
12
SILVER-KNIFE :
  I  procured a  double-barrelled rifle,  bullet-moulds, shot-
pouch, and  ammunition, and, writing a  hurried  note to  my
friends to advise them of my purpose, set out for Westport by
the steamer  " Fire-Fly," intending to finish my outfit after my
arrival.
  As  I  was stepping from  the  levee,  a letter was thrust
into my hand by a man closely wrapped in a Spanish cloak.
His hat  was slouched  over his  eyes, and only  the lower
portion of his face visible, and that was covered with a shaggy
beard.
  When we had swung out into  the  river, and were fairly
under way, I went into the cabin to examine  it.   It proved
to be a curious  document, written in a dashing, legible hand,
and the style was bold and  abrupt.   It read as follows :

" To Hartley Ferguson :
  " Your thoughts are of Madeleine Leroy.  I advise you to
forget her, for sh^e can  never be  anything to you.   She will
be the bride of another, — who, I will not say.  To  follow her
will be a waste of time, and expose you to innumerable dan-
gers.   If you are wise, you will abandon a pursuit  which  can
end only in  madness.  Your hope will be like the deceitful
mirage which tantalizes the thirsty traveller upon  the desert
waste with the sight  of water.   The  object of  your ceaseless
solicitude will vanish as suddenly as  that illusion  sinks from
the vision of the sojourner upon the arid sands.
  " Let the knowledge which this note must assure  you I pos-
sess in relation  to your movements convince you that I shall
still keep myself advised of them.  Of course you understand
me.   I have observed and studied you closely for the last  few
months, and I am vain enough  to think  myself an adept in
the study of human nature.  You please yourself with the
idea that you are a man of courage and  discretion;  but  you
have very little  of either,—just enough of the one to free
you from the charge of cowardice, and of the other  to keep
you out of fire and water.
  " You may possibly pass yourself off upon those who do not
know you as a thorough man of  the world  and a gentleman ;
but pardon me when I honestly  affirm that  I  never shall do
violence  enough  to my feelings to call you either.
  " To use a nautical phrase,you have no ballast; you are all 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
13
on one side.  You will  never succeed in anything, and are
certainly no part of a physician,
   " But I will  not waste words.   I merely wish to show you
that you  are not deserving of Madeleine Leroy.   You have
not sufficient stamina to contend with that influence which will
continually  be  exerted  against you; so abandon the pursuit,
and go home like a good boy.     Yours,    u yIGILANCE»

   Despite  all  my philosophy, I felt  excessively  annoyed  a,t
the cool  impudence of my anonymous  correspondent.   He
certainly had some knowledge of me; that I could not  doubt;
one allusion of his had proved it.
   For a few minutes, I felt like making an assault and bat-
tery on  the first unlucky object  that circumstances  should
throw in  my way; but such feelings soon subsided.  I began
to regard the letter as a thrust from some individual whom I
had offended; and, putting it in my pocket, thought but little
more of it until I reached Westport.
   Great  was my disappointment,  on making inquiries  at that
place, to  learn that the Leroys had gone ; and an old voyageur
informed me they  had started the day before towards the
Kansas.
   They had a good  outfit, and  were amply provided with
horses and mules,  the  latter being used to draw a baggage-
wagon.   The voyageur  assured me it would be an easy thing
to overtake them in a day, if tolerably well mounted.
   I hastened to make arrangements to follow  the trail of my
friends.  It was not difficult  to find  a large,  powerful horse,
fit to bear the fortunes of a prince.   He was a  fine, coal-black,
restless fellow.   I  named  him Wyandot,  in honor  of  his
former owner,  who  was an  Indian of the Wyandot  nation.
My steed  proved,  as  the sequel  will  show,  as  good as  he
looked.   Beside my double-barrelled  rifle, I  had brought  an
excellent pair  of rifle-pistols and a  revolver from  St. Louis.
I now procured a pocket-compass, and such other articles as I
could well carry, and the nature of the case seemed to demand.
I thought of purchasing two horses, one to be employed as a
pack-horse  ; but I renounced this  idea upon reflection,  believ-
ing I should soon overtake Leroy, who  had, in  all probabil-
ity, an ample supply of provisions, and would be glad of the
acquisition  to  his strength: moreover, we should  be passing 
14
SILVER-KNIFE :
through a portion of the wilderness abounding  in game.  In
order to make  my debut  as a hunter and  backwoodsman  in
appropriate style, I encased myself in dressed deerskin pants,
a buckskin coat,  and a Montero of most  approved  pattern.
When mounted upon the impatient Wyandot, with my ritie
Blung across  my  back, my belt profusely ornamented  with
pistols and knives, and my valise, with  other  things, lashed
to the crupper, I imagine I  did not present a very pacific
appearance.
   I attracted  much  admiration, no  doubt, from the mixed
population of Westport, which,  by the way, consisted of Span-
iards,  Frenchmen, Indians, Negroes,  Half-breeds, and  every
shade of human nature, from the darkest to the whitest.
   Leaving the dirty log-cabins  and huts, I  spurred boldly
forward on the trail.  As I did so, I fancied I saw the  same
cloaked figure, the same moustached face, with the hat slouched
over the eyes, that had appeared to  me when  the  paper was
thrust into my hand.   I felt quite confident of it  then ; but
circumstances that have transpired since have put the matter
beyond doubt.
   Whether I really  heard a low, derisive laugh, as  1 passed
him, or whether I imagined it, I am unable to  decide.
   I galloped on, and when an  abrupt turn hid me from view
he was still standing there, like a bird of evil omen
   I am not naturally superstitious, but the sight of  that sin-
ister form, fixed  and statue-like, made me nervous for  hours
sifter.
   Following the Oregon route, I kept  on  toward the Kansas.
 I went forward at a round pace, not fearing but I should soon
 overtake my friends, and surprise them not a little.  It  was a
 bright, beautiful July morning, and a ride  of half a day braced
 up my nerves  and restored my cheerfulness.
                   CHAPTER  IV.
                      SILVER-KNIFE.
  I was not destined to be long without adventures.   I should
have been sorely disappointed had  it been otherwise; for, like
the valorous knight of La Mancha, I had gone forth to seek them. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
15
   The day  passed  without interruption.   The sun was  sink-
 ing  lazily behind the  distant hills.  A feeling of loneliness
 began to steal over me.  I was not yet upon the open prairie.
 My  way thus far had been over a rugged and broken country,
 interspersed  with shrubs  and  trees of various kinds.   The
 trail now led through a thicket of birch and low pine.   Con-
 trary to my expectations, I had reached the Kansas.
   A more gloomy situation cannot  be imagined.  I gave the
 rein to Wyandot, and dashed on  as  fast as possible ; but the
 way was treacherous, and I was glad to moderate my speed.
   The sun said his lingering "good-night," and darkness and
 clouds shut down upon his track.  Wyandot suddenly stopped,
 and snufled  the air.   I knew something was wrong.  Quickly
 leaping, from the saddle, I  put my eyes as near the earth as
 possible;  I was off the trail.   Knowing it would be folly to
 attempt finding it until morning, I began to look about me for
 the most  eligible spot whereon to  pass the  night.  But the
 ground was  swampy and wet, and augured poorly for a. com-
 fortable night's rest.
   Taking Wyandot by the bridle, I led him forward toward
 an eminence on my left, upon which grew a cluster of trees of
 large growth.  The  dumb animal pricked up his  ears as I
 advanced, hung back upon the bridle, and manifested a decided
 aversion to that locality.   As I proceeded, I saw smoke curl-
 ing up through the branches of the trees.
   " So we are to have neighbors," I said, patting the arching
 neck of Wyandot, " and perhaps we shan't  like them."
   Fastening the horse to a tree, I undertook  to reconnoiter in
 Indian style.  Getting  upon my  hands and knees,  I wormed
 myself forward with the greatest caution.   After going on for
 some time in this painful posture, through a vista in the  trees
 I was enabled to see a person cooking meat over  a blazing
fire.   A closer scrutiny convinced me it was not a white  man.
His figure was indeed striking and noble, stately as Saul, tall
as the cedars of Lebanon.
   He might have been forty years of age ;  possibly younger.
His dress  seemed above  the condition of his red brethren.   He
wore a tunic of deerskin  dressed and white, fringed  at the
bottom and about the wrists.  His leggins were of the same
material.  The moccasins were of a stouter fabric, and wrought 
16
SILVER-KNIFE :
with the quills of the porcupine.   His hair was arranged in a
style less fantastic than common with his people.
  But his features  were most remarkable; lofty in  their ex-
pression, yet calm and self-possessed.
  But  little time  was allowed for further observation.   I
caught an imperfect view of a dusky  figure beyond ;  saw sev-
eral" arrows strike the noble-looking  savage ;  heard the report
of a rifle, and  a loud war-whoop.   In an instant, several In-
dians sprang  from  places of concealment, and attacked the
lone warrior.
  Without a  moment's  hesitation, I caught  a revolver from
my belt, and,  with as loud a shout as strength of lungs could
afford, rushed to his assistance.
   Only those  who  have had  experience  in that way can tell
the terrible effects  of a revolver in a determined hand._ Two
strouff bounds took me to the scene  of action.   Thrusting my
" six-thooter " in the face of a grim savage in the act of strik-
ing with a  hatchet, I pulled.  He went down without a cry.
  "Finding himself so suddenly reinforced, the  lone  " brave "
uttered a°defiant war-whoop, and fought like Richard of the
lion heart.  And there  was need, for there were only two to

   i also caught the noisy mania, and yelled like all the fiends.
 And now the revolver showed its qualities, and cracked three
 times in an  incredibly short space, while as many of  the
 enemy acknowledged its fatality by starting off on a spiritual
 tramp  to  the " Happy Hunting-grounds."    The remaining
 three turned their wrath upon my hero, who, though he strug-
 gled manfully, was fast sinking  from loss  of blood.  iney
 approached him  at three  different  points, and that moment
 would have been his last, had I  not interfered in  his behalf.
 Another of the painted rascals died in the  act of striking his
 hunting-knife into the old warrior's shoulders.
    I shot hiin in the lungs; he rolled over and over, bit  the
  dust  and yelled horribly in the protracted death-struggle.
    The other  two,  seeing  the  fate  of their companions, fled,
  but not unscathed.                  #                     .
    Tae crack of  my pistol  upon their  track hastened their
  flight.                               „       „         v
    The lone  Indian and myself  stood face to face, regarding
  each other with a degree of interest which the peculiar circum- 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
17
Btances of the case would well justify.   He held out his hand;
I grasped it, and gave it a hearty shake.
  " Good! " he articulated, in a voice from which all traces
of excitement had fled.
  And that was all he said.   His tall figure  swayed to and
fro for an instant, like the lofty oak that clings tenaciously
to its last fibre, while the axe  is busy at its heart, and then
totters to its fall.
  The next  moment he lay senseless upon the  earth.   I has-
tened to examine his hurts.  The most serious was a gun-shot
wound in the breast, from which the blood streamed in dark-
red torrents.  I was  prepared for  just such  an emergency.
I had a small case of instruments in my pocket.
  It  was not without  a  feeling of deep solicitude that  I
probed  the  wound.   To  my  great satisfaction, it had not
entered the  lungs, but glanced upon the ribs, following their
general course toward the  spine.  In two minutes I held the
bullet in my hand.   I then dressed  the wound  as well as cir-
cumstances  would permit, after which I wet his lips with
brandy, and had the pleasure of seeing my patient revive.
  Taking a  long draught from the bottle held to his mouth,
he appeared wonderfully refreshed.   Knowing I could do no
more for hira at present, I turned  my attention to Wyandot.
Finding an open  spot where  there  was considerable feed,  I
made him fast, giving him rope enough to provide for  his
comfort by nipping the tender grass.
  When I returned, the red man was  sleeping profoundly.
Loss of blood had disposed him to rest.  I put out the fire,
for fear our enemies might return and shoot us  by its light, —
an operation I had no great relish for.
  Wrapping my blanket   around  me, I sat  down to keep
watch  through the dark night.  In about three hours, upon
looking at my patient, I found he was  regarding me atten-
tively.
  He thought it very singular, probably, that a white man
should take  so much interest in one  of his race.  Hia counte-
nance indicated, however,  that he was not wholly at a loss to
account for it;  that he understood something of that great
bond  of sympathy which  reaches  through  every  grade of
humanity.
  My case of instruments  was lying on the ground near him.
He pointed to it, saying the magical words,
                 2* 
18
SILVER-KNIFE :
   " Medicine man."
   I assented.
   " Good! " was the deep response.
   I now proceeded to  inquire how he felt, and whether he
 suffered much.
   He replied, in very good English:
   " Some pain here," putting his hand upon his side.   " Shall
 be better when the sun rises.  The red  man is strong, and his
 blood is good.   The  Happy Hunting-ground is  a long  way
' off.  The Great Spirit has not spoken to Silver-Knife.  When
 he speaks, the red warrior will go."
    " What tribe ? " I  asked.
    " The Nez Perce.  My lodge-fire burns far beyond the Big
 Blue ; and the young braves of Silver-Knife are there.  I left
 the great hills to lead the pale-faces upon the trail.  When
 the sun came up, this morning, I started for  the  home of my
 people.  But the Shawnees are treacherous ; they love blood,
 and hate the Nez Perces.   Silver-Knife owes  his life to the
 pale medicine man.  He will not forget.   AVhite man's mem-
 ory is bad ;  but the red man remembers forever."     _
    " My red brother  has spoken  well.   There  is  no sin like
 ingratitude  and  a bad memory."
    Saying this, I produced a meerschaum, which I had brought
 with me" filled  it in grave silence, took a long  " pull/' and,
 while exhaling the fragrant smoke, passed it to Silver-Knife.
    And thus we  smoked the pipe of peace.
    " Who keeps  the lodge-fire bright, in the absence of Silver-
  Knife ?" I  asked.                    „.■,„,      ,- j
    " The Morning Star and the Singing Bird," he replied.
    " Those are the daughters of my red brother ? "
     Silver-Knife  nodded assent.
     " Has my red friend no squaw, and no sons ? "
     " He has both.  They are upon the buffalo-hunt.  Where
  is my white brother  going ? "
     " Away  to the big mountains  to hunt, and to see the cus-
  toms of his red brothers."
     " Let my white brother turn back when  the  sun has risen,
  or he will  lose  his scalp.   The  red man  is the  enemy  of the
  pale-face."                              ,,  „         ...
     " Is the  pale-face a squaw, that he should fear to meet his
  enemies ?   His heart  is young and  strong,  and his scalp is
  safe.  He  will  not turn back." 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
19
  " Good !  My brother has a big heart.   Our great father
will make him a war-chief."
  Having smoked our pipe, and it being the opinion of Silver-
Knife that the two  natives  would not trouble us again, I
spread my blanket upon the ground, and slept.   In  the dreams
that followed, I saw the " Morning Star " and the " Singing
Bird," fair as the daughters of Rechab, and  dignified  as  the
sons.
                    CHAPTER  V.

                       THE PRAIRIES.

   It was broad  daylight  when I  awoke.  The first object
that met my gaze was Silver-Knife sitting by a blazing fire.
At a short distance from him, suspended from the branch of a
tree, were the scalps of the three Indians we had killed.    '
   He was regarding them with evident satisfaction while the
morning's meal was cooking by the fire.
   I ate  with a good  relish;  and Silver-Knife, despite  his
wounds, had lost nothing of his appetite.
   After smoking a  while  in  silence, it was agreed that we
should go forward in company.   This arrangement was very
agreeable to me, for several reasons.
   I found Wyandot rather restless,  having cropped all  the
grass within reach.
   The horse of Silver-Knife was discovered at a  short dis-
tance,  " hobbled " in true  Indian style.   It had fortunately
escaped the rapacity of the Shawnee visitors.   It was a very
superior animal, in every way fit for a companion for Wyan-
dot.
   We  soon reached the Kansas, and had no difficulty in cross-
ing upon a  raft.   We stopped at Fort Leavenworth only  long
enough to inquire  about Leroy.   He had passed there twenty-
four hours  previously, and I was  doomed to disappointment
once more.
   We  met  several Kansas  Indians  during the  day, and  en-
camped at  night by a small stream.  We kept on  for eight
days without interruption, and reached the Platte river with- 
20
SILVER-KNIFE :
out hearing anything of Leroy.   I grew impatient.  We had
travelled  rapidly, and  must have passed  them on  the way.
We were now, to the best of our judgment, about three hun-
dred miles from Westport; and I began to be sensible of the
error of such precipitate travelling.
  I resolved to wait a day or two where we were, to  give
Leroy time  to  come up,  providing I was correct in my con-
jectures.   To this Silver-Knife made no objections.  We had
seen signs of buffalo during the last  day's  ride, and  were
determined  to have a  hunt, and  lay in a  store of meat for
future use.                                                     '
  For security against the Pawnees and  other roving bands
of Indians,  we  constructed a camp of small cotton-woods.
This could not have been accomplished without  the aid of
Silver-Knife's hatchet, and we were not a  little proud  of our
rude  dwelling, when  completed.   When   this  was  done,
Silver-Knife went  forth to kill  a  buffalo,  leaving  me  to
guard the premises.
  It was near  the night-time.   On  one hand  a boundless
prairie stretched away toward the setting sun, while a thick
growth of cotton-wood was upon the other.  I grew thoughtful.        \
Where were the daughters of Leroy — the restles Madeleine,
and the calm Mary ?   Perhaps  they had already fallen vic-
tims to savage cruelty.   I shuddered at the thought, and felt
that I could not  remain in suspense much  longer without
being positively wretched.
  And why  should I  be wretched ?  Sure enough ?  What
was Madeleine Leroy to me ?   Nothing,  of  course; but, in
common  friendship, I felt  it my duty  to protect her, so far
as it was in my power to exert any agency in her behalf.          .
  I caught Wyandot, and saddling him, mounted and galloped
away over the prairie, without any fixed purpose.  Perhaps I
had a vague hope of meeting Leroy, but no thought of danger.
Well mounted, and well  armed, as I was,  I felt myself equal
to a dozen redskins in fair fight.
  I dashed  on for about half an hour, when I  saw a single
horseman coming down upon me at a pace equal to my own.
  The cause of his haste was soon obvious.   A score of ene-
mies were in headlong  pursuit.   The pursuing  party  were
gaining, their horses being in better plight. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
21
  One, far in advance of the rest, was within twenty yards of
the solitary rider, whom I was  about giving up for lost, when
he suddenly faced about, and I saw a puff  of  smoke curl up,
while, at the same moment, the  pursuer  dropped from  his
horse.
  The pursued  turned  and spurred  on, loading as he came.
It was Silver-Knife.   Wyandot reared and plunged, while his
eyes shot fire.   " He snuffed the battle afar off."
  I gave him the rein, but not the spur ;  he was too eager for
the fray to need that   I never  felt  so  much of the mad
demon in  my  blood before.   With a snort  and a bound,
Wyandot  sprang toward Silver-Knife.    The hoofs of  the
noble^nimal sfurned the ground, as if he disdained to touch it.
   " Good! " exclaimed the brave old  chief,  as I thundered
up  to his side ;  and then he quickly added, " Pawnees."
  " How many ? " I asked.
   " Twenty."
   « Then we will destroy half of them," said  I, firmly.
  The old  man looked in my face with a grim  smile.   The
iron rigidness of the muscles of the mouth told him that  my
purpose was fixed and  dangerous.
   " The white devil  is up," he muttered,  while, at the same
moment, he drew the  driver from his  rifle, turned  in  his
stirrups, and shot down the foremost of the enemy.
   " Another one will soon be in range," he added, coolly, and
sent home a ball.
   I slackened my  speed, and another did  come within range,
and never got out of it.  I aimed right  between his wolfish-
looking eyes, and when my rifle cracked the poor  painted
wretch leaped straight up from his  horse, without a single sound
to tell that the death  agony was upon  him. Quivering an
instant  like a galvanized corpse, he sank down upon  the
waving prairie grass, without a pulse of life or a nut-shell  full
of breath in his body.
   " There's  a scalp  for you,"  I  said  to  Silver-Knife, as
another native bore rapidly down upon us.
   We were now likely to have sharp work of it.  The main
body was close at hand, whooping and howling, as though the
infernal  regions had burst their bounds, and released their
inmates. 
22
SILVER-KNIFK :
  I now spurred forward as fast as I could, to gain  time to
load once more before they got too near for rifle practice.
  Before I had sent home another charge, Silver-Knife fired
for the third  time, and the unearthly yell  that followed told
with what effect.  It did not prove so dead a shot as mine ;
for when I turned in the stirrup to let drive again, an Indian
was rolling about as though he did n't care  but little  how
much he beat down the  tall grass.
  " I shot him  in that way to scare the  rest,"  said Silver-
Knife, who was  the coolest Indian  in fight that I ever  saw
during all my experience among the Rocky Mountains.
  Several of our pursuers were armed with rifles, and bullets
began to whistle about  our  ears.  One gigantic fellow was
preparing to fire as I cast my eye over the prairie in  search
of another victim.
  I did not feel like adopting Silver-Knife's style of killing ;
and so thought I would learn from actual experiment whether
my large friend's os frontis was bullet proof.  But I under-
shot ; the ball took effect in the centre of his proboscis.   He
tried  to utter the war-cry of his people, dropped his gun, threw
up his arms, and fell back over his horse's tail.   That was the
last I saw of that Indian.
  An Indian is a coward so long  as he  sees a  loaded rifle
before him;  but the moment it is discharged witnesses a com-
plete  transformation in  the animal, — he becomes as brave as
the bravest.  It was so  in this case.   I had held three or four
in check with my rifle  before  I fired, but the instant they
heard the discharge they rushed toward me, yelling horribly,
with  up-lifted hatchets.
  I felt a  sort of unnatural joy in thinking of  the surprise
that was in reserve for them.   The  first  one  that was  near
enough acknowledged the superiority of "revolvers" by  tip-
ping  out of his saddle in a very ungentlemanly manner.
  And now the others thought they were  sure of me, seeing
me, as they believed, holding out and menacing them with an
empty pistol, and they laughed in savage scorn.
  A  stout, black-looking fellow, with a profusion of bears'
claws strung about his neck,  several scalps at his  belt,  and
more  profusely bedevilled than any of his companions, thought
it would be a good plan to  impale  me  upon his  long spear,
and thus make me an example  to all other  pale-faces. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
23
  I did not approve of such a procedure, not wishing to be
spitted like a turkey for a Thanksgiving festival.   Because he
had cherished such an  unknightly thought, I passed instantly
over to the stomach-and-lung-shooting system of Silver-Knife,
and let him have it through the sternum, just below his neck-
lace of bear-claws.
  How he howled and tore up the grass !   He was floundering
there when I was too far away to see him, or offer a word of
consolation.
  The third  came to a dead halt.   He  never went forward
again, if I except a lofty tumble over his horse's head.
  There was now a temporary cessation of hostilities.   The
Indians, seeing  the  fate of so many of their warriors,  held
back  and huddled  together on a little eminence, like sheep.
They were probably holding a council.   I looked about for
Silver-Knife; he was scalping the dead.
  This  edifying employment  was  soon completed, for an
Indian will  rid  an enemy of his hair in  an  incredibly short
time.
   I  was differently engaged—reloading my  three empty
barrels.
   " They 're about to charge upon us," said Silver-Knife.   " I
don't feel very strong — sore  from wounds — better run for
it, and get 'em scattered about the prairie."
   This was very good advice, and we scampered away as fast
as our horses would carry us; and that was at a dashing  rate,
for Wyandot was in good condition, and  the chief's horse was
not blown.
   There are many things which a man of action and adventure
meets with which  are  exceedingly hard  to  describe.   In  a
particular maniur is this true of the adventurer  in the Rocky
Mountains.  For instance, it is difficult to convey a correct or
definite idea of a dozen savages, mounted on fleet horses with-
out saddles, and many without bridles, mad with repulse,
ea^er for vengeance, and bedaubed wickedly with war-paint.
To be fully impressed  with the wildness of such a spectacle,
one must  see  with his own eyes.  Mere  ink-drops cannot
picture the scene ;  it is exciting, madly exciting.
   Oar enemies were  again in motion.  If they  had  been
indebted to shouting and howling for their motive power,  they
would have been victors in the race.   When a savage can do
nothing else, he can yell bravely. 
24
SILVER-KNIFE :
  The result of all  this racing was what Silver-Knife had
predicted and wished ;  our foes were soon  scattered over the
plain, although they kept as near together  as they could : but
some were better mounted, and left their less lucky compan-
ions in the rear.   We reached our camp of cotton-woods in
safety, while the savages drew up  at the  distance  of about
three  hundred and fifty or four  hundred yards, to devise
means for dislodging us.  Our horses were taken into camp,
and we prepared to act on the  defensive.
  " I think  I will try a shot  at one  of those fellows while
they are taking counsel together," I said.
  "Too far," replied  Silver-Knife.  " Ball won't hold up —
shoot  the ground."
  "I'll decide that," I answered; and,  stepping  into  the
open air, rested my rifle upon the limb  of a scrubby  birch.
  The Indians laughed in derision, and one of them expressed
his umitigated contempt by some very insulting pantomine.
  " You don't know the mettle of  a Yankee rifle, my gentle-
man," I muttered, as I took  a steady aim at the " brave"
who had figured so conspicuously in dumb show.   I fired, and
never saw a pair of heels fly up into the air any quicker than
did his.   His astonishment  could not have been greater had
he been struck down  by some  electric agency ; at least, that
was my opinion at the time, and I still retain a vivid impres-
sion of it.  Had  he  practised ground and lofty tumbling all
his life, he could not have gone through a  series of gymnastic
exercises with greater expedition.
  The aerial  part of the  performance soon ended,  and  he
finished the whole  by a few spasmodic kicks, as he lay prone
on his back.
  " They did n't expect  that," said Silver-Knife, laconically.
"They think you  one grand medicine."
  " What do you think they will do ? " I asked.
  " If they get courage enough, they will charge upon us ; if
not, they will wait till dark and try to surprise us."
  The opinion of  the Nez Perce seemed  prophetic, for, with
one startling whoop, they all tore away and were soon out of
sight.
  The last streak of  daylight  faded from the darkening west,
as the last of the  painted figures swept from view. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
25
                  CHAPTER   VI.

                       A  REUNION.

   A feeling of sadness stole over me as I gazed on the track
of the departing foe.  My philosophical speculations in regard
to their claims to an immortal soul were interrupted by hearing
the sound of a woodman's axe.
   " White man," said Silver-Knife.
   " How can you tell ? " I  asked.
   " White man strikes  heavy and regular; axe  bigger than
Indian Ratchet."
   The sounds were close at  hand.  Desirous of knowing who
was camping near us, I led forth Wyandot, and trotted away
in the direction whence they came.
   A great burden of anxiety was lifted from  my mind when
I  saw Basil cutting vigorously into a  tree, and a baggage-
wagon drawn up  a  short  distance in the rear.  He seized
his rifle when he  heard the unexpected tramp of  a horse;
but dropped it insheer amazement when he saw whe came.
 '  " Well, I reckon the  gals '11  be glad  to  see you,"  he said,
giving my hand a hearty shake.   " It beats all! "
   " How are  your father  and  mother ?" I asked, rather
awkwardly.
   " They 're well  enough;  why don't you ask  how the gals
are ? "
   " How do your  sisters do, then, and how do they bear the
fatigues of the journey ? "
   " First  rate; they like  it a heap;  mention your name
every day.   Come, let's find 'em."
   With a trepidation for which I was at a loss to account, 1
followed Basil.
   "Go, and surprise 'em,"  he added, pointing to two figures
reclining upon  the grass at a short  distance.  Before they
had any warning of my  approach, I stood confronting them.
   " Hartley Ferguson!" cried both, with a start of astonish-
ment.
   " The same,"' I replied, bowing with mock formality.   " Did
you expect mei
              3 
26
silver-knife :
  Madeleine blushed.
  " I cannot say that I ever expected to meet you again,"
she murmured.
  At that moment we were joined by Leroy and his wife, and
I was obliged to relinquish the hands of the girls for theirs.
  " Turned adventurer, at last," said Leroy,   " I  always
thought that you  were of that make.  We are glad  to see
you."
  " And we shall  not  consent  for you to leave  us," added
Madge.
  After  asking and  answering questions for some time, I
related the principal events of my journey, and invited  them
to share my camp, for greater security against the savages.
  " I thought the Pawnees were getting civilized.   I  always
know'd the  creturs would steal, and were too lazy to work, but
they have n't given me much trouble lately.  You can't  trust
'em,  though.  They 're desperate deceitful and cunning."
  In half an hour we were all safely at camp.  Felling  some
more cotton-woods, we made a shelter  for the  horses and
mules.  This precaution was rendered necessary by  the prox-
imity of the Indians.
  When we had strengthened our position as much as possible
by every expedient which the experience of Leroy or  Silver-
Knife  could suggest, we sat  down to a cup of coffee  and a
roast of buffalo-meat with  a good appetite.
  Leroy and Basil were soon on the best of terms with the
Nez  Perce  chief.   They had  met before.    It struck me that
they were fitly mated:  well armed and fed, they would be of
themselves  a host,  and might travel the whole  Indian territory
in comparative safety.
  Both had a very accurate knowledge of  the predatory and
vicious habits of the dwellers in the wilderness.  The  noble
figure of Silver-Knife,  his frank and  open  expression, native
dignity of  bearing, and the honest, hardy features, and tall,
sinewy frame of Baptiste  Leroy, could not fail to  produce a
favorable impression upon the thoughtful observer.
   Quite a change had taken place in the  external appearance
of the girls since last I saw them at St. Louis.
   Over their ordinary dresses were tunics of  soft, white  deer-
skin, dressed by a skilful hand.   They wore Indian moccasins
ornamented very beautifully with porcupine-quilJsu  Instead 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
27
          of bonnets,  gypsy hats  were tied beneath  the  chin with
          ribbon.
            They were cheerful and smiling;  and their appearance was
          interesting as well as novel.  My coming  had put them  all
          in good humor.   There was only one damper upon our enjoy-
          ment, and that was the fear of another visit from the Indians.
            " I know the disposition of the varmints well," said Leroy,
          while he proceeded to put his weapons in order.   " They won't
          let us rest long, you may  depend on't.  They burn to avenge
 I        the death of their companions.  We must  keep a sharp look-
          out, or some on us will go under afore morning."
            " Long Rifle" (it was thus Leroy was known among many of
          the Indian  tribes) "has spoken well.  The red-men will  not
          rub the war-paint from their faces.   Their young men have
          fallen, and their  scalps hang in  the wigwam of my whita
          brother.   They will  come  for blood  before  the  sun rises.
          Silver-Knife has spoken.   Let the young medicine man speak."
            " My red brother is wise.   He follows the war-path of  his
          enemies,  and returns  with many scalps.   He  can  hunt  the
          buffalo, trap the beaver, and teach his young men to bend the
*         bow.  He hath spoken well," I answered.
            As soon as the evening meal was despatched, the fire was
          extinguished.  Silver-Knife and Leroy were in earnest council
          together for  some time ;  the latter looked serious.
            When  they had ceased speaking, Silver-Knife took his rifle,
          tightened his belt, and walked quietly away.
            " Where is he going ? " I asked of Baptiste.
             " To reconnoitre.  If there are any varmints round, he '11
          find 'em.   Nobody can follow a trail, or read Injin signs, like
\         that old Nez Perce chief."
             " He is brave, too," I remarked.
             " None bolder.  As a general  thing, I an't fond  o' copper-
          skins : the  best  of 'em will steal your horse and take your
          scalp; but  he's  an  exception.  There's  somethin'  kind o'
          human-like in his countenance.  I 'd trust  that heathen Ingin
          as soon as I would some white men, and a heap sooner."
             " He '11 go under to-night, if he an't careful," said Basil.
          "He and Ferguson have made tearing work with the two-legged
          animals,  and they an't the most forgetful cattle in the world."
             " That Nez Perce was n't born to be rubbed out  in  that
          nr,  He '11 die like a human cretur, in his wigwam.   That's 
28
bilver-knife :
my belief.  Now, Hartley, you  and the women-folks can go
to sleep as soon as you  please,  and Basil and  I will watch.
If there 's any trouble, you '11 be likely to hear on 't."
   To this I objected.   I resolved to watch  also.  I was  too
much interested in the safety of  Madeleine and Mary to lie
down quietly  to  my dreams.  And now, for the first time,  I
noticed they were both armed.   A pistol and a dagger graced
the belts that encircled their  waists.
   From the daughters I glanced to the mother;  she wore the
same weapons.
   " The garison is well armed," I said, with a smile.
   " Of course," answered Madeleine.   " You do not expect,
do you, that we are such useless dolls that we.  cannot  make
even a show of resistance ?  Shame upon the girl who has not
spirit enough to strike a blow in  defence of  those she  loves,
and for the safety of her own person ! "
   " Very well spoken," I replied.
   " Perhaps  I may act well, too, in a  moment of danger.
Females  are not  cowards.  If they grow pale, or sometimes
faint, it is not for themselves; it is for those they love."
   " Who taught  you  such chivalric sentiments ? "  I asked,
still  smiling.
   " Why should you ask such a question, Hartley Ferguson ?
Nature taught me .the feelings  I  have attempted to express
in words.   Don't blaspheme your own  perception of right and
wrong, of high and low, by affecting not to understand me."
   " I do both understand and admire," I  replied.   " I can
picture a woman endowed with the high qualities you  have
spoken of, and something more  than  a doll.  I have  never
cherished the opinion  that  females  are deficient  either in
moral or physical courage.  But we are the slaves  of habit;
circumstances govern, and make us what we are. We natur-
ally  conform  to  those influences by which we find  ourselves
surrounded."
   " Those sentiments are more worthy of you."
   " Now, tell me, how have  you fared thus far, on your way
to the promised land ? "
   " Quite as well as we could expect, and perhaps better than
we deserve.  We have  been menaced with  danger in one or
two  instances; but our lucky  planet has  prevailed.   This
morning we met half a dozen Sioux, whose movements exciflBi 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
29
the suspicion of my father.   He said they were too glad to see
us, and that mischief  was probably intended.  One of the
number, Basil affirmed, looked like  a  white man, despite his
paint and Indian finery."
   When Madeleine spoke of a white  man, I could  not help
thinking of my moustached friend at St. Louis and Westport.
Perhaps he would  do as he threatened.  It would be an easy
thing, for a  person disposed  to mischief, to dog our footsteps.
The present of  a  few beads or  knives, or  a few yards of
gaudy ribbon and  cloth, would  be a sufficient inducement for
the Indians, or half-breeds, to become  his emissaries.
   There was nothing  very exaggerated  in such  an idea.
Some reckless libertine might have seen Madeleine, and loved
her, — if the word  love can be employed in such a connection
without profaning  it.
   She would reject his overtures, of course.   Angry at rebuff,
he would seek some means of retaliation.
   I resolved to question Basil in regard to the supposed white
man.  I sought him;  but he  was gone, and had  not been
missed.  I expressed fears for his safety.   If Leroy felt any
apprehensions, he did  not express them, but smoked  his pipe
in silence.
   After a time, he condescended  to  remark that  the  lad
probably knew what he was about;  but, at the same time, ap-
peared uneasy.
   " Everything  is ordered by  Providence, and  can't be
changed," he went on to say.  " Such as are for the sword, to
the sword ;  such as are for famine, to famine; and such as are
for captivity, to  captivity.   Thus saith the scripter."
   This, I dare say, was excellent philosophy, and very Chris-
tian-like, but under the circumstances was not very consoling.
   Several hours of the  solemn night wore  away.   A few
straggling stars came out, to shed an imperfect light  upon the
scene.  They reminded me of those faint  hopes which  dawn
upon our darkest  prospects.  Their  silvery, delicate beams
were just sufficient to reveal to each an indistinct and dreamy
outline of the ojher.
   All were wakeful and anxious.
   The tall form  of Leroy stood fixed  and motionless by the
camp-door.  His right hand rested upon the muzzle of his long
and deadly  rifle.  It had been  his favorite for many years ;
              3* 
30
silver-knife :
it was his friend, his companion ; he had proved it.   Next to
his wife and children, that weapon was dear to him.  It had
been with him in hours of danger; it had thinned the ranks
of his  enemies; had  brought  down the buffalo, the elk, the
antelope, when he was perishing with hunger.
  What  could supply  the  place of  the  rifle?   Nothing.
Without it  he could not  pursue the wandering life of which
he was so deeply enamored.
                 CHAPTER   VII.

                   AN EVENTFUL NIGHT.

  Suddenly a lofty figure darkened the door.   It was Silver-
Knife.
  " Any signs ? " asked Leroy, in a low voice
  "Yes."
  " Where ? "
  " Away toward the sunset."
  " How many ? "
  " Perhaps twenty-five, perhaps thirty."
  " How soon before they '11 be down upon us, do you think?"
  " In half an hour you will  hear their war-cry, and see the
paint upon  their faces."
  " Well, let 'em come.  There  won't many go back  again.
This bit of old iron '11 speak a word to  'em they  don't  like.
You may put it down as  sartin that they won't stay  long
arter they 've found out old Ironsides is here."
  By " old Ironsides" he meant his rifle, which he had named,
very appropriately, as he believed, after the ship Constitution,
upon the theme of whose  exploits he  was  sometimes  very
eloquent.                                 •
  " I an't the man that loves to kill human creturs, because
life 's precious,  and they may n't be prepared exactly for the
change :  but when I rub out one o'  them painted  heathen, I
don't feel  as though I 'd committed a  crime, that's  sartin. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
31
         But, Silver-Knife, you an't like the rest of'em.   I can hai,
         you as a feller-cretur.  You 're what I call a true man, and
         I 'm the old hoss what would stick by ye to the last.  Here 's
         my hand on 't."
            Silver-Knife took the proffered hand, and shook it gravely.
         Then, after a pause, said :  " There are pleasant lands beyond
         the big hills.  #hey  abound with game.  The Indian's corn
         and the white man's grain  will grow there.  The Great  Spirit
         has given  those fertile valleys and wide prairies to the Nez
 .       Perces.  They find it a  goodly place to dwell in.   There is
         room enough for my  white brother.   He shall go  there and
         fulfil his days in peace.  His  wife, and his son, and the Pale
         Lilies, shall go with him;  and the great medicine man shall
         not  tarry  behind.  My  people will give them  the hand  of
         friendship.  They will build lodges for  them near  the  pleas-
         ant  hunting-grounds.   The colds of winter  shall  not  freeze
         them, and the suns of summer shall not burn them.  There is
         wood  to  make the  lodge-fire bright, and  grateful  arbors
         formed by the branches of trees,  to ward off the fervid suns
         of summer.  When they are  hungry,  they can go forth and
i        hunt;  when they are  thirsty, they can drink from the running
         streams.   What says  Long  Rifle, and the pale  medicine
         man ? "                                        Sfk
            For a time we  were silent, touched with the magnanimity
         of the chief.  A smile played over the features of Madeleine.
         Even the calm Mary  gathered a spark of enthusiasm from the
         war-chief.
            Old  Baptiste Leroy passed the back of  his  rough hand
         across his  face, as if  to brush away the clouds and make his
 t        vision clearer.
            " Long  Rifle has heard  the words of his red brother.  They
         have sounded to him like the pleasant murmuring of waters
         when one  is thirsty," answered  Leroy.   "Silver-Knife has
         a great heart.  The heart of Long Rifle says, Go to the  pleas-
         ant lands.   Let the others speak."
            " I love the counsels of the war-chief," said Madge. " I will
         follow him beyond the big hills."
            " Good," said 3Iadeleine, with comic gravity, while she held
         out her hand to the  chief.   " The  Pale Lilies will go with
         him.  Their lodge-fire shall  burn  near his.  I give you my
         hand, — henceforth we are friends."
            Silver-Knife laid the fair hand of Madeleine upon his heart. 
32
SILVER-KNIFE .
   " The daughter of Long Rifle is comely.   The heart of her
red brother is toward her. The Morning Star and the Singing
Bird shall welcome  the  Pale Lilies.   Women speak better
than the rough war-chief."
   " The Morning Star and the Pale Lily shall sing together,"
I added.
   " You are perverting  Scripture,"  answered  Madeleine,
archly.   '• But  you  have not said you shall go with us be-
yond the hills."
   She  stood very near me — I could feel her breath on my
cheek while she spoke.   I could  not resist taking her hand,
and pressing it in mine.
   "I shall not leave you — I will go with you, wherever it
may be  your destiny to wander."
   My voice was low and deep; for the words were not " the
words of poor, common  courtesy," which  are  such  a " very
mockery."
   The  little hand seemed  to shrink and wither as it  lay
in mine; and the next moment  it  was  withdrawn.  What
did it mean ?   Years of life appeared to be  placed upon my
head in  a moment of time.
   I was moody  and dissatisfied.  All  anxiety in regard to
surrounding danger faded away, as "a minor consideration.
   Mary srole cautiously to my side,  and said she feared for
the safety of Basil.
   Silver-Knife warned us to silence and watchfulness.
   Leroy had been observing some moving object for the last
few minutes,  which  proved  to be the  object of our  solic-
itude— Basil.  He crept in with the  noiseless  tread of an
Indian.  He had news for us; a party of savages were creep-
ing slowly toward the camp on our right.
   We now disposed ourselves about the  camp according to
the advice of Leroy.  Our cotton-woods had been so arranged,
one upon the other, that rude loop-holes had been left for  an
emergency.  We thrust  our  rifles through these upon  each
side  of  the camp, Leroy and myself being upon that where
the attack was first expected.
   We  had not been long in this belligerent attitude when
my companion  solicited  my  attention,  by a touch  upon the
arm.  He directed my gaze with his finger.  At no great dis-
tance I  could plainly see some object in motion.   It did not 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
33
 require much stretch of imagination to determine it an  In-
 dian brave.  His  movements were  as stealthy  as  a  cat's,
 proving him an adept.
   " He expects to find us sleeping," whispered Baptiste.
   The scout  was  soon within  a  few yards  of  the  camp.
 Seeing that all was dark and still, he grew bolder, — arose to
 his feet, and advanced.
   Imitating Silver-Knife and Leroy, we  stretched ourselves
 upon  the  ground  and  feigned sleep; but the lids were  not
 quite closed, for all felt the necessity of sleeping with one  eye
 open.
   It would seem  that  the scout was bent on a piece of bra-
 vado.   With noiseless  tread, he came to  the camp door and
 looked in.
   The tall, gaunt figure stood there nearly a minute.   Per-
 haps he thought seriously of coming in, and  taking  a  scalp,
 and thus  immortalizing his name.   It  was not  very  light
 within, and I do not imagine he could tell our numbers  accu-
 rately.  He stalked away, at length, as silently as he came.
   " Good! " exclaimed  Silver-Knife, with that peculiar gut-
 tural sound that characterizes his race.
   " He will soon be  back with more," said Leroy, in answer
 to my  look of inquiry.   " They will come up  boldly,  thinking
 to surprise and  slay us  without resistance ; but old Ironsides
 '11 have a word  to say about that.  They '11 come down  upon
 us on this side.   Don't fire till they get close to the muzzles
 of our rifles.  Don't waste any powder — let every shot tell.
 Aim at the eyes.   Gals, keep back there, out o'  the way  of
 the balls.  Them varmints don't stand for shooting women, or
 children either.  Now, let every one shut his mouth, and  keep
 his tongue between his teeth."
   We  were well prepared for an enemy,  armed to the teeth,
 beside  being fortified.  I had a double-barrelled rifle, a revolver,
 and a  brace of  common pistols.  The  latter I lent to Silver-
 Knife,  as he needed them more than myself.
  Leroy had regular  horse-pistols of astonishing calibre, and
 they had seen service  as well as old Ironsides.   This was not
all.  He had two double-barrelled shot-guns, carefully loaded
 with ball.
  I  felt but little  anxiety in regard to  tho  result,  for five
times our number could not well dislodge us. 
34
S1LVER-KN1VE :
 . What Leroy  had predicted proved sooth.   First, the spy
showed his painted visage, and then another and another of hia
brethren, until we could not count them.
  There never was a finer opportunity for an  effective shot.
As they advanced they covered just enough ground to allow
each of us to single out his victim.
  They came on in silence.  There was no misgiving,  no hesi-
tation, no  doubts in their  minds in  regard to the results*
They considered us sure game — had already  counted  our
scalps.  Soon were they undeceived.                               fc,
  When they were so near that the whites of their eyes were
visible, we fired.
  It was truly a deadly volley, followed by a shriek of agony,
and  a prolonged cry  of rage  and disappointment.   I  dis-
charged both my barrels simultaneously, and have good reason
to suppose they took effect.
  To our consternation, the cries of the savages were met  by
answering  yells  upon  the  opposite quarter.  We  sprang to
ineet them.   A volley from our pistols and the smooth-bores
repulsed them.   It  was now one continued scene  of attack
and repulse.  Wherever a copper visage revealed itself, a rifle-          V
ball  found its owner.
  They attempted to fire the prairie grass, and  the wood  upon
our left, but both were too green to burn.   It was a fortunate
circumstance, for it would  have driven us from our covert,
when  we should  have been  exposed to a  destructive volley.
The females did not fail to perform  their share in the night's
exploits.   They reloaded our empty weapons with a coolness
and  dexterity worthy of emulation.
   After the first onset the enemy took shelter  in the cotton-         |j)
woods, from whence they poured upon us a continual shower
of balls;  but we were protected by our little fort, upon which
the harmless lead kept pattering incessantly.
   In  their several  attempts to storm us, they^were glad to
scamper back to the shelter of the trees.
   " Old Ironsides " was fearfully busy.   When that cracked,
a fiercer yell rang out upon the night air.
   " I told you they know'd this bit of iron,"  said Baptiste,
wiping the burnt powder from the pan.   " They've  been  ac-
quainted with  it goin' on  twenty years, and  they  know its
 voice  as well as I know Madge's.   It's spoken to a heap  on 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
85
'em, and the heathen creturs are ready to jump  e'enamost out
o'  their skins when  they hear it.  I've  made longer  shots
with old Ironsides than has ever been made  on the prairies
afore or since.  I can fetch down a buffalo  at  four hundred
yards;  but when it comes to them  red Injuns, I pepper 'em
at six.   I can crease one on 'em two  hundred  yards further
than I can a buffalo or a wild hoss. But three hundred yards
is  about the  right thing, as it gives a feller a  chance to dis-
play a  little more science like.  I shoot 'em in the eye at that
distance, and  the gentile creturs don't  like  that style of
finishin'.  It's rayther my opinion, if you should go out and
turn over some of the varmints in the  morning, you'd find a
hole in their greasy featurs right where an eye ought to be.
That's  my mark.  I 'm sure to make it in the  day-time, and
they know it.  I never knew but one chap that  could do that,
and that was an old hoss from  Texas, and he 'd do it every
time.  He said there was a heap o' fun in it.   He come  all
the way up here to practise, and thought no more  of rubbin'
out a  heathen than you  would of knockin' down a  turkey-
buzzard."
   When the first beam of daylight reddened the west, with a
loud whoop the savages left us.  They had gained nothing in
the encounter;  but, on the contrary, lost many of#their num-
bers.   They had  carried away but  few of their dead, and we
found them stark and stiff, scattered  in all directions.   The
spy laid on his face near the camp.
   " I '11 wager my traps that that  Injun cretur is  shot in the
eye," said Leroy.
   With his foot Basil turned him  over.  It was even so; the
ball had entered  the organ  of vision, and found its way out
the back of the head.   His exit had  been  sudden and easy.
Many Christians die harder deaths than did that poor Indian.
   Silver-Knife relieved him of his  scalp with remarkable dex-
terity ;  and that interesting operation he  performed for sev-
eral that morning.
   " Does no good,"  he said, in  a  moralizing way,  " but it's
the custom  of my  people.  Old  habits  strong.   Red men
can't get civilized  all  at once, as the pale  medicine man
thinks."
   We  did not think  proper to move forward that day, as we
might fall into an ambush*. Those with us were precious, and 
36
SILVER-KNIFE :
we did not wish to expose them unnecessarily.   I would have
faced death any day for Madeleine, although I felt there was
an insuperable barrier between us.
  What that barrier was, I knew not;  but I  feared the
worst — that she could not regard me as other than a friend.
Nothing had been said of love, it is true; but she could not
help knowing that she was more to me than a friend.
  But my friendship was not selfish.   I felt as deep solicitude
for  her safety as I should have done had  she lavished upon
me all the wealth of her affections.
  We ventured  out but little during the  day.   Basil brought
in a finger that  had evidently been shot off during the skir-
mish.   Silver-Knife examined it.
  " That grew upon a white man's hand,"  he  said, passing it
to Leroy,  with a shake of the  head.
  The old guide scrutinized it closely.
  " That  bjt o' human flesh never come off o' one  of them
Injun creturs.  It growed on as white a hand as mine, or the
doctor's.  Pity it had n't been his renegade head.  I 'd  kinder
like  to bring old Ironsides to bear on him once.   If the truth
was  known, I've  an idee he an't much  better  than them
copper-skin individooals,  nor hardly so good."
  It was %tow my turn to look.  It was indubitably a white
man's property.   But what  was he doing with the Indians ?
  This was a question which would bear several construc-
tions.   To me it was another  link in the chain of evidence 1
had  been collecting of a lurking enemy.
  If my thoughts and suspicions were tending to the right
point, every step we took in the Indian  country would be
attended with some new danger.  I felt the need  of counsel.
Silver-Knife was cautious and discreet.
  I  took him aside, read him the letter, and told him my sus-
picions.   I did  not forget  the  fact that Basil had seen, or
thought he had seen, a white  man with  a party of warriors,
which, taken in conjunction with  the  letter, the man  I had
seen at Westport, and the severed finger, tended to make out
quite a caf■■'_■.
  The  war-chief heard  me without  interruption.  After a
long silence he shook his head gravely, and said,
  " White man  very bad.   He loves the Pale  Lily.  Let
the  pale  medicine man  beware.  If  serpents went upright, 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
37
we could see them; but they crawl in the grass, and no sound
gives warning  of their  approach.  Very dangerous is the
snake in the grass."
   In the afternoon Silver-Knife went out to reconnoitre.   The
night closed in before he returned.   He had seen no enemies.
The hours  of  darkness  passed unmolested, and  we were on
the " winding way " early in the morning.
   I will not dwell with tedious minuteness upon every step
of our march.  It would tax the patience  of  the reader fto
severely.   After six days' travel  from our camp of cotton-
woods, we reached the North Fork of Platte river.  Nothing
worthy of notice  occurred during this time.
   It was  now the 20th of July.  Upon looking over my
papers, I found the following in my diary :
   " July  20th. — I have now sojourned twenty  days in the
wilderness.   And for what ?   I  cannot tell.  Danger  lurks
in every step, and yet I go on,  and cannot turn back.
   " Is Madeleine Leroy the  magnet that attracts me hither ?
No, it  cannot be.  But she is  very comely  to  look upon;
yes, more than comely — beautiful.   And there  is music  in
her voice,  too.   When  she speaks,  I wish to hear no  other
sound.  There is a restless light in her eye which flashes out
at times like sunlight.   I  am  always  near her — never tire
of riding at her side.  She  is a  skilful horsewoman, and never
looks more graceful than when in the saddle.   A charming
girl on horseback is a pleasant  sight, and dangerous also.
   " 21st. — I must think no more of Madeleine.   I must fly
from her.    It is dangerous to  linger longer at her side; but
I am happy only  there;  yet I talk more with the placid Mary
than with her.   I feel  a reserve  in her presence, which in-
creases daily.  There is a native  dignity about her that awes
me.  I believe I  really blush in her  presence.   I cannot ap-
proach the subject nearest my heart.
   "22d. — This  is unmanly.  I was  never abashed in the
presence of ladies of the highest refinement. I  do  not tremble
to meet an  enemy; and yet  am  awkward  and silent beside
this child  of nature — this demi-savage. *=#=**  *
   " Silver-Knife  is still with us.   He is the noblest specimen
of his race.   He  says we are now in the Sioux country.   We
travel with great weariness.  This  morning  I saw a horse-
man far away in the distance.  He has hovered about us
                   4 
88
SILVER-KNIFE :
ever since.   My telescope tells me he is not an Indian.  He
seems an accomplished horseman, and is well mounted.  What
can  he be  doing alone in this hostile region ?   1  cannot
imagine."    ^^f^^^^^^^f
   Upon the afternoon of the 23d the horseman mentioned in
the diary was seen slowly approaching.   As he advanced, he
was  an object of much interest.  He maintained his seat in
the saddle with  ease  and dignity.  In person he was  some-
what above the  ordinary size.   His  expression was grave to
moodiness.   His features could  not justly be called  hand-
some ;  but  they were noble, notwithstanding the  deepened
color which the  prairie suns had lent.  In his dress there was
no attempt at gaudiness or show.  If he had any peculiarity
in this respect, he went to the opposite extreme.
   His  buck-skin frock was without any pretensions to orna-
ment;  but it had  strength  and  durability.  The  same  will
apply  to his deer-skin breeches, and moccasins.  His head
was  covered  by  a light foraging-cap.  A rifle, the workman-
ship of which proved it a costly one, was slung across his back.
He wore side-arms also, according to the custom of  the back-
woodsmen.   The animal which  bore  him was of an iron-gray
color,  ef the largest  proportions, and obviously a steed of
spirit and bottom.
   There  was something like hauteur in his manner when he
returned  our salutations, and  I  felt that  he was  a  proud,
moody man.  He  seemed startled when he perceived there
were females with  us,  and I thought his eyes rested  longer
upon Madeleine and  Mary than was absolutely  necessary.
My brow contracted.  Perhaps he noticed it, for  his  finely-
chiselled lips curled  as if in scorn.   Wyandot evidently ex-
cited his admiration, for he proved a connoisseur  in  horse-
flesh.
   "  Where is your camp, stranger ? " asked Leroy.
   " Where the night finds me," he answered. •
   " Where 's jour companions ? "
   "  I have none."
   "  I reckon you don't mean to tell  this old hoss that you 're
all alone among  these heathen creturs."
   " I meant as I said, sir.   I have no companions, — a brave
man needs none."
   " Good ! " exclaimed Silver-Knife.   " Thewhite brother has
a big heart." 
AN AUT0BI0ORAPHY.
39
   " What keeps you from being shot by the varmints ? " asked
Leroy.
   " He who keeps  the  universe.  During the time I have
been a  pilgrim in these wilds, I have learned wisdom by ex-
perience.   I seldom pass a night very near the trail left by
emigrants and  adventurers.  The Indian  naturally looks for
his human game  there.  I seek  haunts untrodden.   When I
lie down for the night in  places of peril, I kindle no fire, unless
it is very cold.   Many  prefer  comfort  to  safety,  and are
scalped by the light of their own fire.  I do not, but am  no
coward ;  no man dare call me such.   I value life but lightly,
and it would cost  me scarcely a  regret to relinquish it; but
I would not die by the knife of a savage."
   This  was^.id in a voice neither condesending nor haughty,
but quiet,   if  Leroy had been a man of  any pretensions, he
would not have said so much.   I read enough of his nature
to know that.
   " Have you  been  long a wanderer in this wilderness ? "  I
interrogated.
   The  sound-of my voice seemed to awaken him from  a
dream.   For a moment  his eyes dwelt upon my  face  in
earnest scrutiny,  and then that  inexplicable change in his
expression passed away, leaving  his visage stern, dark and
moody, as before.
   I had to repeat the question before  he appeared to hear it.
   " Longer than I care to name," he replied.
   " You are well acquainted, then, with the vicissitudes of
an adventurer's life."
   " I am, doubtless."
•   " And this life has its charms for you ? "
   " Quite as many, probably, as  the desert had for Ishmael,
or as the land of Nod for Cain.  No matter where,  or  in
what, I  find the elements of my happiness.  It  pleased me to
come here, — I came."
  I understood well  the hint contained in  this rejoinder ; but
I was not disposed to let  him off thus.
  " You  had no  particular object in  quitting the haunts of
civilization,  and coming hither ? " I said, looking him  steadily
in the face.
  " Yes, I had an object in coming here.  You will ask me
next what that  object was." 
40
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " That is the very point toward which  I was verging," I
answered.
  " And that is the very thing I shall not  tell you," replied
he, firmly.   " Were I, in turn, to ask you all the questions you
have put to me with so much ease and assurance, what import-
ant facts should I become the possessor of?" he added, after
a little hesitation, and in rather a sneering tone.
  " You would  learn, sir, that you  are in the society of a
gentleman ;  that his name is Hartley Ferguson ; and, further-
more, that he is on a tour to the Rocky Mountains."
  " And for what ? " exclaimed the stranger, with more inter-
est than he had hitherto exhibited.
  " That is a subject upon which I cannot be very explicit."
  " For the good reason that you don't know^pourself,"  re-
torted the stranger.
  " Exactly.  But perhaps  you can .tell  me,"  I  said, ironi-
cally.
  " Yes, I could tell you more of your own heart than you
dream of, and  of your  objects also.   But I will not.   Go
and  see how you '11  prosper.  Imagine, if you will, that  no
one can penetrate your motives (if you have any); that you
have no enemies, no obstacles to overcome ; that the future is
spread out smooth before you, like this prairie."
  The stranger said this in a more serious tone.
  " I like the ' plain  language.'  I was never good at enig
mas.   I am too well taught to allow any person to gain  an
ascendency  over me by mysticism, and the  assumption  of
knowledge which cannot in the nature of things be his," I  re-
joined.
  The stranger's face grew darker.  The heavy brows gathered   '
a deeper frown.
  " Young man, you don't know what you are saying, or whom
you are addressing.   I am  not in the humor for jesting, and
I seldom jest;  badinage will do for fools, but not for men.  I
have said nothing but what you have provoked me to say ;  and,
I will add, nothing but the truth.  I did not question you —
you questioned  me;  and now you coolly denounce me as a
pretender—an impostor."
  He paused.   Then, drawing his fine figure erect in the sad-
dle, and fixing  his eyes sternly upon me,  added, in a deep
voice, 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
41
  "Look at me;  scan  me from head to foot;  do I look like
the miserable charlatan you have called  me ?   Can you  read
impostor in a single line of my face ?   If you say you  can,
you utter a vile calumny.   Do you suppose a man created in
God's image, gifted with a living soul, and breathing  the free
air of these vast  plains,  prairies  and mountains, could be-
come the petty pretender you have represented me to be ? "
  The bold, noble bearing of the man, his dignified  yet im-
petuous language, all  combined to  produce  an  effect in his
favor.
  " I confess," I answered, " that you have the seeming of a
man of honor; and, were it not for the  knowledge you  have
assumed to possess  in regard  to myself, I would make  your
quarrel my own against any odds."
   " Well, wVwill not  bandy words.  It is  of little moment
to me that you believe, or disbelieve ; but with you  it is not
so.    It is important  for you to believe  what  I tell you;
that is, if I see fit to tell you anything.   I said I knew more
of you  than you dreamed.   I  do.'  Whether the knowledge
I possess will  he of any use to  you, let the future reveal.   I
do  not wish to alarm you, but----"
   " I am not  alarmed."
  The stranger bit his lips, and proceeded,
   " I do not wish to alarm you, but there is danger near, the
nature of which is unknown to  you.  I  doubt  if  you  have a
knowledge even of its existence.   I fear I am  speaking to
faithless ears ; but time determines all things,  — let it decide
this.   I shall see you again.  We shall meet often—often
when least expected  by you.   Perhaps  you will  lay aside a
portion of your pride, and feel that you need  me.  Whether
I am  a friend to you or an  enemy, I shall not tell.  Be
assured I  am one or the other.   I am an earnest  man.   I
am either  hot or cold.   Upon any subject  worthy of my
thoughts, I am  never  indifferent.    There  are but  very few
things in this world which I meddle with.  I am not within
the pale of the world you have  just  left.   I care nothing
about  it, because I am cut off therefrom, and don't wish to
mingle  with it again.  I ask no  questions in regard to the
lives  of other people, and wish them to observe the  same
silence  in relation to myself.  I think I render myself intel-
ligible.  I warn you to look to your safety and the safety of 
42
silver-knife:
those with you.  We part now.  You will not have  time  to
forget me before we meet again."
  The  stranger bowed, and before I had well recovered from
the surprise occasioned by his words, he was far away.
  On the evening of the 23d, the following was written  in
my journal:
  " Evening. — We are encamped on the North Fork of the
Platte.   On one side the prairies, with their countless acres,
stretch out like the open sea.  The winds come creeping softly
over them  to  play solemn dirges in the low pines and the
stunted oaks that grow by the water.  The music is low and
wailing, and fills my heart with memories of the olden time.
I am dreary, restless, and my thoughts are  incoherent; they
wander away,  and then return, — return to Madeleine Leroy.
Yes, my heart is full  of Madeleine.   I can conceal it  no
longer  from myself; but I will not write the word that trem-
bles  in the  ink-drop upon my pen.   For the present let it  be
unwritten.   It is enough that it is written in my  heart.
  "But this  stranger!   Who is he — whence came he, and
what is he to me ?   This  is another mystery !  Who may say
it shall not make another chapter in my history ?  But this is
absurd ;  my curiosity is  too easily aroused.  I  am growing
weak,  credulous-------.   But I will  forget.   The  human
will is  omnipotent (so they say), and I will away my memory.
  " He said something of danger.  I must look to it;  no evil
must come  upon these maidens.  Would that I had questioned
him, as oracular as he  seemed.  But  I was too proud to  do
that.   To-night I must be wakeful.   Yonder I see the object
of my  solicitude; she smiles, she beckons to me,  and I go."
     JJs     M,      U-      Jf.     Ji.     AL.     J»»     m,
     *iT-     tt-      "75"      *7v*     -A"     *7v-     v"r     tt
  The  evening passed pleasantly in the society of Madeleine.
A portion of her reserve appeared to have been dissipated.
I was also more  like my true self than  usual.  I tried hard
to make myself agreeable, and succeeded.  I did not  take
her  hand, for  I  remembered how she withdrew it, and how it
shrank and trembled in mine.
  As I sat by the fire,  I noticed Silver-Knife sitting  by him-
self.  His  countenance was gloomy and sad.  I  touched him
upon the arm, but he did not heed me.
   "The thoughts of the war-chief  are  away in the big hills,
with the Morning Star  and the Singing Bird," I said. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
43
          " The pale medicine man is wrong.  The thoughts of the
        red chieftain are here.   He has read the signs of the Great
        Spirit.   The howl  of the prairie-wolf  tells  him of danger
        near."
          " The  prairie-wolf howls  because he is hungry.   Why
        should the heart of  my brother be heavy? " I said, in reply.
          " The  medicine  man  is  young.  He is fresh  upon the
        prairies.   He cannot interpret the  signs which are plain to
        the red man.   Not so with  Silver-Knife.   He  has  dwelt in
 t       the wilderness  from infancy to age.  He knows  when the
        prairie-wolf speaks of  an enemy,  or when  the boding owl
        tells of disaster.  'T is thus  the Great Spirit reveals  himself
        to his red children.  He speaks to the white man in written
        books.  The Indian cannot  read  the  books, and He makes
        himself known to  him  in a different way.  He has a  lan-
        guage for all  people.   He  talks with  them through things
        familiar;  and in this he  shows his wisdom."
           "It may.be  thus:  I will not  presume  to  say  how the
        Great Spirit shall  communicate with  his  red children.  He
        knows best how to speak to the different tribes and kindreds
i       of the earth," I answered.
           " The  prairie-wolf has told the war-chief that an enemy is
        lurking near.   The cry of the boding owl has warned him of
        trouble.   This  is why his heart is heavy."
           The Indians  have many such superstitions  as  these, and I
        did not try to shake-his belief in omens, knowing it was  use-
        less ; and, truth  to tell, I was  a  little  tinctured  with  that
        leaven myself.
           Pondering upon these things, I  wrapped myself in my
 I       blanket, and, placing my saddle  for  a  pillow, resolved to be
        wakeful.
           I remember keeping my eyes open for a time, and gazing
        upon the stars;  finally, the  stars  seemed  to twinkle dimly,
        and go  out  like an exhausted candle.  Then  the figure of
        Silver-Kniie sitting by the blaze appeared  to grow indistinct
        and fantastic, until it was a dark, undefined object, having uo
        outlines but darkness.
           I remember being aroused from a pleasant dream by the
        discharge of fire-arms, and loud shouts.  I have a  confused
        recollection of springing to  my feet, of a terrible shock, and
        nothing more.   When the  dark, dense shadows rolled back 
44
SILVER-KNIFE :
from  the  brain, the sun  was shining.   My obscured sight
grew clear.   I put my hand to my head.  My hair was satu-
rated with blood.   I raised myself slowly to a sitting posture,
and looked about me.   No person was in sight.  I was alone.
Scattered  around me were tokens  of fight — an  arrow-head,
a  hatchet, a splintered ramrod, a  pistol broken  from the
stock, and a savage stark and stiff.
   With a vague idea of the calamity that had befallen me, I
arose to my feet.   The baggage-wagon was where I  last  saw
it, but most of its valuables were gone.  One of the mules
I saw grazing at a short distance, and, a little further, Wyan-
dot.
   Where  were my friends ? was the query that pressed itself
upon me with overwhelming force.  Alas! the  answer  was
but too evident.
   I  threw  myself  upon  the earth,  and a full  sense  of my
wretchedness and desolation came home to my soul.  All my
buoyancy  of spirit,  all  my hopes of th^. far-stretching future,
all the freshness and  elasticity of  youth, seemed gone.  I
begged for tears, but they would not come.  0, no!  I could
not weep,  though my eye-balls were burning.  There is solace
in tears, though it be unmanly to weep.
   The breezes that floated  in  wavy  undulations over the
green prairie-grass  came  like  accusing  spirits, to mock me
with  the  utter hollowness of all  human expectations.   The
flutter of the leaves, as they turned themselves joyously toward
the smiling sun, was to me as the last note of a funeral dirge,
which tells us we  shall see the face of  the loved  no more.
The  monotonous dash of the waters, in their pilgrimage to the
sea and the haunts  of civilization, told  me that I also was to
be a wanderer, seeking the rest I was never to find.
   I  heard the birds sing  in the  branches of the pines; but
there was no more  melody in their notes.   The breath of the
balmy West, laden  with the  perfume of  the  fern,  the wild
sage, and  the thousand flowers, was no longer grateful  to my
nostrils.   The senses were closed against every gentle artifice
of nature to beguile me  of grief.   I was only alive to one
consciousness — that of having lost  something which had be-
come so dear to me that I could not exist without it.  I was
selfish — I confess  it.   My thoughts,   my fears, my agony,
were only for Madeleine.   Even the good Mary was forgotten
in the greater solicitude which I felt for her sister. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
46
                        CHAPTER VIII.

                              WICKLIFFE.

         I arose and looked to the sky.   The sun  had performed
      three hours of his diurnal journey.  I  had given way to un-
      manly weakness, and sat down to lament, when I should have
      girded my loins for action.
         I went down to the river's bank, drank  deeply of its  cool
      waters, and  washed the red stains from  my  matted hair.
      My thoughts took a more natural tone.  Something  tangible
      in relation to what I ought to do stood  out before me.
         I now looked about for something to  strengthen and invig-
      orate my outward man;  not that I felt the gnawings of ap-
      petite, but  because I had a purpose to fulfil, and wished for
      strength to accomplish it.
         I found enough  dried  buffalo  to  answer my purpose,  and,
»      having swallowed with some effort my simple fare, I  was sit-
      ting upon the earth indulging yet one  moment longer in the
      luxury of sorrow, when a sound caused me to look up.
         The stranger, whom I had met and parted with the night
      before, stood near.   He was  holding his horse by the bridle,
      having approached unheeded.
         " I told you we should meet again before you had time to
      forget me,"  he said,  calmly.
         A sudden thought crossed my brain, and I acted upon  it as
I     suddenly.
         Approaching the  unknown, I laid my hand quietly upon
      his  shoulder; but my quietness was significant  of a fixed
      purpose.  With my  right hand I pointed to the  smouldering
      camp-fire, and the deserted camp.
         "Do you  know aught of this?" I asked,  looking  him
      sternly in the eye, while  my voice was thick and hoarse  with
      contending emotions.
         " I see what you see," he answered.         9
         " Do not evade  me.   To-day  I am not  in a  mood to be
      trifled with.  It would have answered yesterday, but it will
      not  now.   Your language of last eve leads me to suspect
      you-" 
46
SILVER-KNIFE:
  " Of what ?"  asked the unknown,  in the  same unmoved
tone.                                                  , .
  " Of foul play,"  I answered, tightening my grasp upon  his
shoulder.                                          ,     .
  " In short, that I incited the Indians to  attack and  scalp
your friends, I suppose you mean," he added.
  " I do mean that."
  " Then you wrong me, for I did not." »
  There might have been something of bitterness in the man-
ner in which he uttered  this, but there was also much  of
earnestness, and something else which I could not understand
at the time.                                  .
  With  an exclamation of contempt, I pushed him from me,
and turned away.
   " Stay! " said the unknown.
   I paused.
   " What do you intend to do ? " he asked.
   "You say you  understand my movements; why do  you
ask?   You are the very man, of all other men, who ought to
know  all about it," I retorted, with  a sneer;  but  he stood
calm  and quiet.
   " You probably intend to find the Indian trail and follow
it.   Did you ever follow an Indian trail ? "
   " No, I never did," I answered, mechanically.
   " How, then, can you expect to succeed ? "
   This  was by no means an  unreasonable  question, and I
 made no reply.
   " And, providing you  should follow the  trail, and come up
 with the Indians,  what Vould you  do then ? " the  stranger
 continued.
   I was still silent.
   "You would probably be killed and scalped before you  had
 time to  say your prayers."
   " What would you have me do ? " I asked, doggedly.
   " I would have you be a man.  Be prudent, cool, resolute,
 and by  no means refuse the help of  a strong arm and a prac-
 tised eye."
    " Where *all I find the strong arm and the practised  eye,
 you speak of?"
    " Both are here," replied the stranger, pointing to himself.
    " But I care not to trust  you.   I am suspicious of you. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
47
Where  the  intention is good, there need  be no mystery.  I
hate mystery."
   " No matter if you do.   Get your horse and prepare to go
on the long  and dangerous trail."
   " Then you really intend to bear me company ? "
   "I do, although it is likely to prove a thankless piece of
business.  See! your fine  animal is grazing quietly yonder,
and the sun is far up.  Remember, every moment  spent in
inaction is a moment lost."
   " First tell  me your name," I replied.
   " Wickliffe; you may know me  by that name.   Now get
your horse."
   I am naturally a reflective  person.   The  storms  which
crush the spirit, and bow the stout heart, pass quickly over,
leaving me calm as a statue,  and unflinching as iron.   Could
one look into  my  soul, he would still find traces of  the tem-
pest ; but upon the brow, and in the eye, he would  discover
no sign.
   It was thus with me at that crisis.   The sudden evil that
had befallen me and my friends had prostrated me  at first,
but two hours of reflection  restored  my manhood.   I  was
strong,  if not hopeful,  and  I will not say I was not even
hopeful; for hope clings to one in every extremity.  I was
now ready to  act,  as well as think.
   It  was evident (to  me)  that the catastrophe  had been
brought about, not by the Indians solely, but by the instiga-
tion of a white man.
   I had several reasons for this belief.  If  it  had been the
work of savages  alone, my friends would have been killed,
and scalped on the spot; or,  at  least, such would  have been
the fate of some of them.
   The females possibly might have been spared, but that was
extremely doubtful, as they did  not scruple to imbrue their
hands in the blood of both sexes.                     4
   Where were Silver-Knife, Leroy, and Basil ? If they were
slain, where were their bodies ?  If they were living, why
did they desert me ?  The Indians might have commenced the
attack so suddenly that the females had been captured before
a  blow had  been  struck, and I  had been awakened by the
first alarm.  My friends, seeing  me fall, and supposing I had
already departed on the trail  of  death, pursued the flying foe 
48
BILVER-KNIFE :
to rescue  the  captives.   All this looked reasonable.   1 felt
quite sure the whole affair had been planned and executed by
a white man,  with  a view to get Madeleine  and Mary into
his power. "
   A white man had undoubtedly participated  in  the other
night attack, as the severed finger would attest.
   The next query that  arose was, who is Wickliffe ?  Can
he be trusted ? If he had not had the usual number of digits,
I  should  have said  no; but he was not 'deficient  in that
particular.
   Although there was something about the man which marked
him  superior  to deceit, I resolved to watch him.  Wickliffe
looked like a true man,  and I  could  not  but  confess it to
myself.
   Influenced by motives which  I could not fathom, he had
volunteered to guide me on the Indian trail — a very difficult
and dangerous mission.
   He took the lead, as if he was to be the principal actor, as
a matter of course.   The trail, at first, it required no great
sagacity to find, for the imprint of horses' feet upon the prai-
rie-grass was very legible, bearing away to  the  right  of the
Platte.
   Our progress was  not very rapid, as Wickliffe had  to dis-
mount often, and  lead his horse  by the bridle, in order to be
certain that we were on the trail.
   " Some of your friends  are  on the  trail,  for  a certainty,"
said he, as he  examined attentively the horse-tracks.
   " How can you tell ? "  I asked.
   " By the iron hoofs," he replied.
   I  examined the ground, and  the  imprint of a horse-shoe
was distinctly  visible.
   "It is evident, at any rate,"  added Wickliffe, " that your
friends' horses have  gone this way, whether they were in  the
sadAes or not.  But it  is  my impression that they went of
their  own  accord, and  as free  men; for  in  many places  x
notice that the iron tracks are not on  the trail, as they would
naturally be had  they been prisoners.   Instead  of following
its windings, they take a straight course, and come upon it at
the next sweep.   No person but  an old trapper could do that,
or, rather, would  run the risk  of doing it, for one  inexpe-
rienced might  lose the trail altogether." 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
49
  This  was chejring news  to  me.  If Silver-Knife, Leroy,
or Basil, or all of them, were  inf^ursuit of  the victorious
party, I had much to hope.  In that case, cunning and ability
were  happily united.  Few backwoodsmen could hope to suc-
ceed where they had  failed.  We traversed  the wide prairie
during  the day, and  encamped  upon it when it became  too
dark to see the trail.   Our  preparations for  camping did not
require much  time.   We gathered a  few dry limbs, kindled
a fire, ate  our hunter's fare, and wrapped ourselves in  our
blankets.   Our beasts fared better  than ourselves, for  the
grass was abundant.
  A night on  the open  prairie  is  lonely enough under ordi-
nary  circumstances,  but in the  situation in which  I was
placed  it was  rendered doubly so.  The hours rolled  solemnly
away, and sleep refused to visit my eyelids.
  The one idea of Madeleine in danger was ever present with
me.   I pictured her in every variety of suffering.  I saw her
in the power  of savages, toil-worn and bleeding.  I saw her
dragged forth  for the torture.   I saw the lurid flames licking
up her blood.  And then I beheld her in the power of a disap-
pointed and   remorseless libertine, perhaps  the very person
I had seen at  St. Louis and Westport.
  You  can easily  imagine, with all  these fancies  crowding
through my brain, my dreams were few.   About two o'clock
I sank into one of those slumbers in which  the mind  loses but
half its consciousness.
  I was aroused by Wickliffe, who-»hook me by the  shoulder.
  " i'ou have been groaning in your sleep  for the last hour,"
he said.  " The  sun is rising.   It  is time  we were on  the
way."
  Our  breakfast of  buffalo-meat was soon  despatched.   A
smart ride of  three hours took us off the prairie into a coun-
try  broken by hills and  ravines, studded with oak, cotton-
woods, birch, and walnuts.
  The difficulties of the trail now commenced.   The Indians
had probably  covered  their horses' feet  with buffalo-skins;
and the iron hoofs of my friends' animals  could be no longer
seen.
  We were now at fault.  The trail lost its individuality,
and scattered  in all directions.   This was a device of the  In-
dians to avoid pursuit.
                   5 
50
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " Your friends lost the trail here, or  adopted the Indian
plan,  and wrapped the^horses' feet in bmfalo-skins,"  said
Wickliffe, who never appeared at a loss to account for every-
thing he saw.  It was now that he evinced his deep knowledge
of Indian character.   No object escaped his attention.   A
stone displaced,  a spire of grass trodden down, a bent twig,
were  sufficient  to  mark  the trail.   But at first, with  me,
these things passed unnoticed.  By noon we reached  a  spot
where the Indians had evidently camped.
  " I think they  must be  a war-party of  Crows,"  said my
companion.   " The place which they selected for'their lodge,
and the manner of building a fire, makes me pretty certain on
this point.   If I am right in  my conjectures, their course  is
towards the Big Horn river."
  The cautions of the pursued party increased at every step.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, after  toiling up a long
hill, we  descended into a deep valley, traversed by a brook of
considerable width.  The  trail had been growing fainter for
the last hour, and we now lost it altogether.
  For a moment Wickliffe was at a loss; but when he  per-
ceived the brook his countenance cleared up.
  " Ah! I see how it is," he said.  " They have  taken to
the water."
  He now informed me that this was a stratagem frequently
adopted by war-parties to baffle pursuit, and that they often
walked  in the  bed of a  brook, or shallow stream, several
miles, being careful not to disturb the  stones or weeds at the
bottom,  or splash the water upon the banks.  I  had  read of
such things, but did not really think they were true,— now  I
was convinced.
  Wickliffe directed me to  cross, and follow upon the oppo-
site bank, while he went forward  upon the other.   By ob-
serving  the signs, we hoped to discover when the trail left the
bed  of  the brook.  We  dismounted,  led  our horses,  and
walked  on in silence for an hour, without finding any signs of
a trail.   Wickliffe now crossed the  brook.
  " Here is grass," he  said.  " Our beasts  are  hungry.
Let them feed  here, and  I will  go  forward while you watch
them." 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
51
                          CHAPTER  IX.

                               A PANTHER.

          I hobbled the horses, and sat down beneath  a sycamore,
       while Wickliffe went  «n.   I was very weary, and my eyes
       were heavy for want of sleep.   The monotonous murmur  of
 '      the brook, the leaves sighing in the soft wind, the birds  sing-
       ing  in  the trees, soothed my senses, and  lulled me into a
       slumber.
          What a pity that, when the overwrought mind thus forgets
       its burden of misery, the  spell could not last  forever — that
       the weary soul might sleep out the years of its eternity with-
       out one interval of waking !
          Why  had  it not been appointed that  when  the worldly
       struggle is over, the aching lids should close in death, as the
       tired child drops its playthings and  falls to sleep  in  some
i      sunny spot.
          Why must we feel

                        " The sickness, the nausea,
                          The pitiless pain,"
       and that
                       " Horrible, horrible throbbing " !

          I have thought of it nights and nights,  and wondered why
       a living, breathing creature,  called man,  was invoked into
 •      life  to writhe and die like a wretched worm.
          From my deep sleep I was aroused by a noise at  my side.
       Upon  opening my  eyes, the two horses  were crowding  close
       to me, as if for protection, while they trembled in every joint.
       I looked about me, but could see  no cause for alarm, and
       concluded they had been frightened by  some animal while
       feeding at a distance, and had not yet recovered  their spirit.
          The sun had just settled away behind the  blue ridges  of
       the distant Sierra, and the time of twilight had come ; and a
       soft, dreamy, mellow twilight it was.  It was to me just what
       I had  pictured an  Italian  sunset.   But little time was
       allowed  me  to please myself with  such an illusion, for my 
52
SILVER-KNIFE:
attention  was  again called to the  strange conduct of the
horses.               A                •
   They pressed as near me as possible, while their expanded
nostrils, glowing eyes, trembling limbs, and low neighs, attested
extremest fear.
   I now began to be sensible there* must be a cause for such.
demonstrations,  and mechanically followed  the  direction  of
their fixed eyes with  mine,   lieavensj   I saw a sight which
sent the  blood  tingling through  my  veins as if it had been
commingled with atoms of ice.   Standing upon a branch of a
large sycamore which grew on the opposite side of the brook,
was one of those animals so dreaded by all, and so terrible to
Indians, — a panther, large as a tiger, fierce  as a hyena.
   It will  be  impossible for me to forget the sensations that
overpowered  me at  that  moment, though they were not of a
nature to  explain and dilate upon.
   The eyes met my gaze like two living coals set in a seal  of
darkness,  and  emitted  burning sparks.  I  saw the  hissing
jaws open, and a tongue like a heated iron thrust out.   There
was that peculiar fury and malignity leaping  from the cat-like
visage that tells of a purpose  too fixed  and deadly to  be
diverted or delayed.
   I tried to  summon all my firmness, to look back his hate
without flinching.   The  power of my eye appeared to arrest
him in the act of springing.  He turned and  walked back and
forth on the limb, with quick, nervous, restless motions, lashing
his sides with his long tail, and uttering low, threatening growls.
   At length he came out on the  limb toward me as far as
possible,  and stood still, save a slight  wavy motion of the tail,
and a quivering of the lips.   I knew enough  of the nature  of
the animal to be aware that he was preparing to  spring upon
me.  It was a fearful moment, and the poor dumb Wyandot
participated  keenly in the intense  interest thereof;  but the
panther  did  not make the  fearful  leap.   He turned and
walked back  once more on the limb, as  if on purpose  to tan-
talize and keep me  in horrible suspense.   After this  act  of
bravado, he assumed his former attitude, looking  more threat-
ening, if possible,  than  before.   His back was  gracefully
curved, and every hair appeared to stand erect, while he grad-
ually and slowly settled  back  upon  his haunches.   I knew
what that meant, and brought my double-barrelled rifle delib- 
^          AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                 53
erately to my shoulder.  There was a single white spot upon
his breast.   It was  a beautiful  mark, and I levelled  the
" sights " down to it with a calm hand.
   1 fired,  and the next  instant was prostrated by  a huge,
hairy body, which came against me like a .gigantic ball. With
loud snorts, the horses ran away as fast as their hobbles would
permit.  Though  somewhat stunned,  and confused  by  the
shock, I gathered mvself  up as quickly as possible.  The
panther  lay at my fe^in  the  last spasm of death.   I was
standing beside the quivering mass of flesh when Wickliffe
made his appearance.
   " That was well done," he remarked, in his usual unmoved
manner.   " You  exhibited nerve worthy of an old trapper."
   " What makes you think  so ? " I asked coolly, quietly blow-
ing the smoke from the empty barrel, as though  nothing more
than ordinary had happened.
   " Because  I saw it all.   My rifle has been levelled on that
animal for the last three minutes.  If you had not fired when
you did,  I should have  saved you the trouble.   The  panther
is the  most fearful  animal on  the prairies, save a Camanche
or a Blackfoot,"  replied Wickliffe.
   Upon  measuring the animal with my ramrod, he was found
to be about thirteen feet from the tip of the  snout to the end
of the tail.
   jjlTickliffe assured me it was one of the largest-sized Ameri-
can panthers.
   " Well, what success ?" I asked.  " Have you found the
trail ? "
   " No,  but  I have  killed a  buffalo, and brought away his
hump  in triumph; so, with your consent, we will kindle a fire,
and test  our gastronomic powers."
   We soon  piled a heap  of fagots,  and  a cheerful blaze
leaped up.  I ate with a  better appetite than I had  felt for
the two  preceding days; for  a  buffalo  hump  is a delicious
morsel for a hungry man.
   Wickliffe was more companionable than usual.  A portion
of the chilling reserve which had characterized  him hitherto
seemed forgotten; but he was still dignified, mysterious, and
self-possessed.
  That was one thing I had against him — he was  too  self-
possessed.  It was annoying, and gave  me a feeling of infe-
                 st 
54
SILVER-KNIFE :
•
riority, to see a man so calm and self-reliant on all occasions.
It appeared like one's seating himself up for more than he was
worth.
   But that night Wickliffe was modified and  mellowed down
to something  like  an equality; and that, too, without any
effort.   In short, nothing, apparently, cost him an effort.
   I was desirous of knowing more of him ; what brought him
to the desert;  whence he came; who^hc was; what he had
been, &c.; but such questions he eva^ra, and considered im-
pertinent.
   What on earth could induce  him  to take such  an interest
in me ?  for in me he obviously  did take an interest.  Though
he had not declared himself my friend, I no  longer felt sus-
picious  or  fearful  of him.   His actions had done more to
reassure me than his words; for of words, those playthings so
cheap with everybody else, he was chary.
   " I wonder you never took to a profession,"  I remarked, as
we sat by the blazing fire.
   " What  are  professions ?" he said, with a sneer.   " They
are solemn lies.  The majority of professional men are mis-
erable quacks.   An honest man among them  is a black sheep
in the flock.  It is so with the three learned professions —
Medicine,  Divinity, Law.  All stuff—the profession of an
honest man is worth them all."
   " Remember, sir, that I am a professional man," I rejoupd,
with some  asperity.
   " Know that  1 am something of a professional man  also,
or at  least was; but  I disclaim the whole  of it now, and
hourly strive to forget what I learned years ago."
   " And wherefore ? " I asked.
   " I could tell you," he replied, contracting his brows darkly,
" but what would  it avail.   Medical  students are vampire* ;
they have  no fixed principles  of right; they do  not respect
the dead.  Go into those horrible shops of human butchery,
and  see what I have seen ; go and see miserable tricks played
upon the  dead; go  and see  them insulted, till  their  dead
hands seem ready to lift up and protest against  the living;
go and hear the remorseless gibes, obscene jests and revilings,
that are poured forth daily  in those festering  shambles."
   "You forget that I  have been through  the mill,"  I re-
torted, with a forced laugh.  " You wanted nerve, man.  You 
        £          AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                  55*

would  never  have answered for a resurrecticnist.  The  first
touch of the cold human clod would have sent you shuddering
away," I added.
  " Not so,  sir,"  he replied, sharply.   " To  my everlasting
regret, I once performed that most terrible of all midnight
operations — the  raising of  a  body.  I was  not afraid; I
never was afraid  of the dead.   I  can take hold of a dead
man's hand as calmly^s I can take yours.  If there was  not
a higher and holier ppiciple involved, I could unearth a hu-
man body as calmly as I can eat my supper.   But there is
something  that whispers  to the  inward consciousness,  and
says, ' Let the  dead rest.'   I have  heard  it ever since, and
cannot turn therefrom."
   " Tell me the story.   It will serve to beguile the long night
hours before us.  Anything is better than bad dreams."
   " I will," he answered, " in. the hope  that  it  may forever
deter you from such practices.  Do  not think I take a pleas-
ure in telling you ; it is anything, everything but that.  Like
Cardenio, I cannot bear interruption ; therefore do not say a
word after I commence."
   It was quite dark; for the  moon and stars shone  dimly.
A deep stillness settled down  upon  the woody wilds,  broken
only at long intervals by the distant bark of the prairie-wolf.
The  bright fire burned fitfully, and, leaping upward in forked
jets, seemed feeding upon air; but, as the fagots that gave it
life crumbled and grew smaller and  smaller, it took a steadier
and  more solemn  mood, and  varied  as Wickliffe's story
varied.
                    CHAPTER X.

                  wickliffe's  adventure.

   " I waited several days for a dark, rainy night," said Wick-
liffe.   " But no dark, rainy night came.  The sun set without
a cloud.   The moon came up serene and beautiful, and shone
clown upon the new-made grave.   The girl  had slept longer
than  Lazarus; for  she had been shrouded and earthed a 
56
silver-knife :
4
week. .  I knew well where she lay;  I saw  them when  they
placed her  there, and flung the clods  upon her; and after-
ward I saw them go there at  mild  eventide to weep.  The
mound had been raised with great care. Green  turf had been
cut, and laid over it, with mechanical nicety. Love could do
no more than. this;  for the weepers were  poor.   Affection
would have reared a column of marble, but poverty sternly
forbade it.   The  name of  the slecper^was written only in
tears, and her memory embalmed only gloving hearts.
   " I was thirsting for knowledge.  My  sharp scalpels had
never tasted human  gore; I had never imbrued my fingers
in human mortality.  I  longed  to  look  into the organs of
mind, to trace aqueducts of the heart wherein courses the subtle
principle of animal life, and examine the infinitude of nervous
expansion and ramification.   I had waited long for an oppor-
tunity,  and struggled with my better nature.  An  ' oppor-
tunity ' was now offered.
   " It had been whispered to me that she was wasting away,
and dying.  The thought flashed through my mind with  the
rapidity of  lightning — the  thought  which some will call
fiendish — to  wrest her from  the grave when she was  given
over to  the worm.  The suggestion seemed too cool and  delib-
erate, and I strove to banish it; but it was  in vain.   I  found
myself  almost involuntarily maturing and carrying  out  the
idea.  At first there was something terrible in it.   It was
too  much  like waiting  for Death, and encouraging him to  a
deed which he was  in  no haste to  acccomplish.  At length
the idea became familiar.  I inquired daily of the villagers
if she was dead.
   " The struggle  was over at length.  The spirit went back
to its origin, and the earth to its kindred  clods.
   " The slow, solemn pealing of the bells startled me.  I seemed
to have had  some agency in the death of the .girl.   There
was something reproachful in the woe-begone  appearance of
the  humble mourners as they passed  me with  their  stricken
heads low bent.  I followed the funeral  cortege.  I  saw the
 body lowered to  what they destined  to  be its final resting-
 place.
   " The prayers said for the poor are brief; and those were.
 The mourners tottered away  from  the sound  of the falling
 earth, more crushed in appearance than before.   I was ready 
4
                            AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                  57

        to forego  my purpose; for those sobs and those tears  were
        directed at me.
           " An hour over ' Wistar ' and ' Bell'  restored me to my-
        self and my purpose.  But time did not favor me.  I wanted,
        as I have said, a dark night; for the church-yard was in the
        heart of the village, and I could not perform  the deed with-
        out a mantle of darkness around me.
           " Several times it clouded up in the morning, and I flattered
        myself that a favoraole  night  would  set  in.  But no; the
0       clouds lifted,  the fine misty rain  ceased to distil, and the sun
        went down leaving  a clear* sky and starry nights; and the
        benign  moon still looked upon the new-made grave.   For
        a week the shrouded girl waited for the worm.
           " The seventh night was propitious.   Dark clouds coursed
        across the heavens, and a drizzling  rain came down.  With
        the necessary  implements  for exhuming the body, I awaited
        the hour  of midnight in  my office.  Various  emotions  filled
        my bosom, as I  paced impatiently up and down, and across
        my  room.  Melancholy sounds  crept through the keyhole.
        Chilly gusts of wind sighed fitfully through the window-case-
•        ments, and made spiteful dashes at my lamp.  The fire burned
        with a sort of moody solemnity, and made uncouth shadows
        upon the wall, which danced about like living things.
           " I  tried to sleep in an arm-chair until  the  hour aidfeed;
        but  I heard*the clock tell all the hours, and, though I closed
        my eyes,  the shadows on the wall flitted  before me, while my
        ears were open to the dirges the wind seemed singing for  the
        departing minutes.
           " I  was conscious of mysterious influences, hitherto unfelt,
I       unknown, and unfeared.
           " Reason came to my aid.   I thought of the course I had
        marked out for myself,  the great arcana of science which
        it was mine to explore;  and strove to  brush away the illu-
        sion I had conjured into life, as I would brush away cob-
        webs.
           " The clock struck twelve, at last, and T made preparations to
        go forth.   First I drew on a large overcoat (borrowed for the
        occasion), which covered me from  head to heel.  Tlirough the
        handle of the spade I passed a handkerchief, which was made
        fast about  my  neck.   Over this  I buttoned the  capacious
        coat, which effectually concealed it from view.  Then taking 
•
58                    SILVER-KNIFE :

a chisel and mallet in my hand, and a large coffee-sack under
my arm, I opened  the door and stepped out into the dark
midnight.  The gusty breath of the dreary storm  met  me
with a mysterious chilliness, as if to warn me back.
  " Slouching my hat over ray eyes, and grasping my imple-
ments  tighter,  I  directed  my  steps to the grave-yard.  I
crossed a long bridge, keeping assiduously in the middle, in-
stead of on the walks at the  sides, for fear  the wind, in a
sudden fit of anger, might lift me up arid dash me down into
the tumbling waters beneath.
  " A thousand whimsical and  exaggerated ideas and fears
rushed into my brain at once,  to deter me from the contem-
plated deed;  but  I  was nerved up to it.  My thirst  for
knowledge  had  become a  mania,  an  impulse  capable of
bearing down anything in its way.
  "My own footfall upon the bridge had an indescribably hol-
low, sepulchral  sound', — something like the first clods falling
upon a coffin in mid-winter, when  the ground is frozen.  I
quickened my pace, and felt relieved when I could no longer
hear  the sullen roar of the waters, and the solemn echoes.
No lights were gleaming in the streets, and none  from the
windows, save where friends kept untiring vigils by  the sick..
The whole village, as I caught dim and  shadowy outlines
the^^f, took on the air and aspect  of some  ancient  burial-
place.  I looked about me for the ghouls and gnomes that flit
mournfully about uncanny places.
  " As I neared the last  home of mortality, I felt a sickly
coldness  at  my heart, as though an  icy hand  had  been laid
thereupon, checking its free and healthful motions.   I passed
the old church where  prayers had been said over the  girl  be-
fore they laid her away to sleep.  In fancy I heard  the  sub-
dued  tone ,of the  man  of  God, and saw the bereaved ones
pressing close to the coffin as they came out.
  " Without pausing, I clambered over the gate which opens
only at the  approach of death.  When would it make space
for  me to  enter ?   The Maker of the world only could  an-
swer, and He was silent; for why should He commune with
the earthly born ?
  " I stood among the .graves—I who hoped one day for a
peaceful  grave.   How dismal  that  night was!  what awful
whispers came  on the wings of the wind !   I groped along
cautiously,  stumbling oyer the graves. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
59
            " Strange sensations are experienced in walking among the
         graves at midnight — an  undefinable creeping of the flesh,
         which it is utterly out of my power to  describe.   Few have
        • the coolness and^courage equal  to the nameless terrors of
         such a situation.
            " I fell upon a mound, and, by a rapid operation of the mind,
         measured it, and knew it to be  precisely my own extended
         length.   There was something  revolting in the consciousness
         that my length corresponded with that of the grave. I sprang
t        from the wet ground as though  a  deadly serpent had fastened
         his fangs upon me.
            " 1 stood beside her grave, at last.  I  knew it  by the new
         turf that had been laid thereon.
            " It was the year's Autumn. The earth was slightly stiffened
         with frost which the misty rain had  not  yet thawed.   This
         circumstance was against  me, for the cut and approximated
         edges of the turf were frosted together, and could not be re-
         placed so as  to assume their present appearance, and would
         not until cold nights had again exerted their influence.
            " I hesitated ;  but it was for  a moment only.   Throwing
         off— or, more properly, striving to — the superstitious fears
         that assailed me, as I threw off my overcoat, I strove to im-
         agine myself as calm as the marble monuments  about  me, or
         as those who slept beneath them.
            " Upon my knees, and bending over the grave until my face
         nearly touched the earth, I examined it as well as the intense
         darkness would permit.   A  flat  stone,  vertically placed,
         marked the head.  With my hands I carefully removed  the
         turf about one-third the  length of the grave.   Fortunately,
         the sods clung together so tenaciously that the piece was not
         broken,  but retained its peculiar and original form.
           " Grasping the spade with a kind of desperation, I forced it
         into the ground with my foot.  How loud  the harsh, grating
         noise sounded!  How it jarred upon my nerves!   I threw out
         spadeful after spadeful, until out  of breath.  Reeking with
         perspiration, I paused to rest.  As I stood there a-large mas-
         tiff, belonging to one of the nearest dwellings, came out, and
         putting  his  fore-paws upon the fence,  barked and howled
         furiously.   He was large enough to tear  me limb from limb,
         and the idea occurred to me that such was his intention.
           " But I had met the fellow several times in the village, and 
60
BILVER-KNIFE :
he had always recognized pie with a good-natared leer of the
eye, a friendly wag of the tail, and a manifest desire to cul-
tivate my friendship ; what, then, ailed the dumb creature, and
why such demonstrations of hostility?
   " Did  he know I had no business there ?  It would seem so,
for he kept up such a fierce barking and growling that  I be-
gan to  fear  for  the  safety  of my enterprise.   I sat  down
upon the grave and remained perfectly motionless, in a frame
of mind  which no living creature could envy — not even the
dog who  bayed at me.
   "After what appeared an interminable age of suspense, the
savage mastiff ceased his noise. Congratulating myself there-
upon, I recommenced operations with an energy almost  super-
human.
   " An  agonizing fear of discovery, and its terrible  conse-
quences,  together with a feverish wish to succeed, and certain
unaccountable,  nameless terrors, were sufficient incentives to
such exertions.   Imprisonment and disgrace would be the
inevitable results of detection.  I knew all this; and what a
blow it would be for  me!   But,  happily, it was very dark.
A.t that  moment I looked "up, and, to my consternation, the
rain had ceased to fall; the clouds had lifted, and the round,
full moon was looking  down  upon  the  grave I stood in.   I
dropped  the spade in  sheer vexation and alarm.   A score of
the villagers  might look out of their windows and see my
operations.  My ruin  seemed inevitable.  What should I do ?
Should I steal from the grave-yard and leave my work unfin-
ished, or should I risk all by staying to accomplish it ?
   " I quickly decided on the latter course.  The very desper-
ateness of the undertaking gave me strength, and an irresist-
ible desire to succeed.  My nerves grew firm, and my mind
became calm.   I weighed all the chances for  and against me,
and looked the danger in  the face without flinching.   If I
succeeded, — exhumed a  body in the middle of a  populous
village on such  a night, within  a stone's  cast of a  dozen
dwellings, — I  should accomplish a deed of  daring no other
person would  have thought  of.  I  grasped the spade, and
worked  as I have never done before  or since, save on one
occasion, when I worked for  life at a pump, with a sinking
ship beneath me.
   " I had soon heaped the cold, damp earth all around ine.  A 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
61
         nauseous odor, oozing through the porous earth, came from a
         neighboring grave, the occupant  of which had been longer
         with the worm and winding-sheet.   O, what a sickly savor of
         jnortality!  Poor human nature,  to what vileness dost thou
         sink at last!
            " A sound  indescribably hollow and  disagreeable  assured
         me that my spade had struck upon the  coffin.  I scraped it
         bare as far as the lid turned back.  Friends had taken  their
         last look of the dead face by means of  that same lid.
 I          " This done, I commenced cutting through with the chisel
         and mallet; but here another difficulty excited my alarm —
         my blows might  attract too  much attention, and lead to my
         detection.  To avoid this, I wrapped my handkerchief about
         the mallet, which deadened the resonance of the blows.  This
         expedient answered my expectation.  In a short time I had
         effected my object, and removed the movable portion of the
         lid.   I involuntarily started as I caught a glimpse of the
         winding-sheet — the dress of Death.
            " But a  more terrible sensation crept  over me when, stoop-
         ing, I put my hand into the coffin, and  laid it upon the cold,
*        cold face of  the dead girl.   Merciful  Father!  would my
         body ever become as icy in its coldness ?
            " With a half-expressed wish that God would pardon what
         I was  doing,  I wound  my fingers  into  the long  black hair,
         lifted her  head from her hard pillow, and dragged her forth.
         The aperture I had made was small, and it required  all my
         strength to wrest the body from the grave.   Once I  thought
         I should not succeed; but, throwing my arms about the corpse,
         I wrenched it  away with a sudden effort.
»           " I laid her down  by the desecrated  grave, and the quiet
         moon  and the twinkling stars threw their pale beams upon the
         wasted face.   How white and  ghastly it was, with  the con-
         trasted hair lying disordered upon  the cheeks!
            " Conscience-smitten  and awe-struck, I stood  irresolute,
         and gazed  upon her who  came  forth ' bound in her  grave-
         clothes,' though not as Lazarus.  But it was no time for nice
         reflections.  Thrusting the body into  the sack, I  turned my
         attention to other matters.  The  grave was to be re-filled,
         and all traces of my work obliterated.   Adjusting the lid  as
         well as I  could, I threw back the  earth as fast  and with
         as  little noise  as possible.  I was not long in accomplishing 
62
SILVER-KNIFE :
this; then, laying aside the spade, I scraped up the loose earth
with my hands, and replaced the turf I had removed, with
the greatest  care.   This part of the transaction  required
patience and  coolness, and the exercise of no little ingenuity.
It was accomplished at length, and I breathed easier.  I  ex-
amined what  was so recently a grave from every point, and
straightened up the grass I had trodden down.
   " I  had  still  a  dangerous part of the business to perform
— carry the subject through the village upon my back.  Put-
ting on the overcoat which had answered my purpose so well,       ^
I arranged my implements  as at first, and then, lifting that
strange burden,  threw it across my shoulders.
   " How heavy mortality is! — how the living  flesh shrinks
from it!   I have  carried many burdens, but never one like
that.   It was thin and wasted too ; but the laws of gravita-
tion seemed to act upon it in a wonderful degree.   1 asked
myself with a shudder if the ' spirits that walk  in darkness,'
and the vampires that suck up human  gore, were not seated
on my shoulders, to weigh down and tantalize me.
   "That  load of mortality chilled  me;  and  I constantly
changed its position, the sensation was so unpleasant.
   " Once,  when I stumbled  and  came near dropping it, by
some  ' cantraip art'  the bony arms  appeared  to grasp and
cling  to  me.  I instinctively quickened my pace, as for fear
the uncanny beings who had power  there at midnight,  and
who had been beholding my work, and menacing me, would
not permit me finally to escape.
   " I  reached  the  bridge  without   interruption.    To  my
alarm, I saw  a man pacing back and forth upon it like a sen-
tinel.  Laying down the ' subject,'  and crouching by it,  I
observed him for  some time. Once he came within ten  feet
of me, aud I was obliged to lie flat upon my back, and  mo-
tionless as  stone.
   " When  nearest, I recognized him.   It was S----, an ac-
quaintance, who had evidently had his suspicions excited by
some   of my movements, probably by "seeing  a fire in  my
office  so late.   Perhaps  the fellow  saw me go toward  the
grave-yard, and was congratulating  himself in the  idea of a
grand discovery, and a fright.
   "Now,  as good luck would have  it, there was another
bridge, about a quarter  of a mile - below, by  which I could 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
63
          reach my office.  When S----turned on his heel and walked
          from me,  I  availed myself of the opportunity to  walk off
          toward the other bridge.
            " A cold sweat stood on my forehead when I reached my
          office, and I felt a weary ache in my eyes.  I deposited the
          body in a box prepared for the occasion.   Strange sensations
          came over me  as I  stood there  alone with the dead, in the
          dim lamp-light.
            " Often since that  night, in  the  illusions of dreams, and
 f        the  delirium of fever, the vision of that pale, wasted face,
          and the dishevelled waves of contrasted hair, has been present
          with me.  I could not forget them;  they  were always at
          my pillow — ever pictured on the field of mental vision.   I
          have seen her  everywhere.   Yesterday I met  her in the
          street;  last  night I  saw her in  dreams;  and I  shall to-
          night.  She  never speaks; but her look tells me, ' You have
          broken my rest.'
            " I  never  meet those who wept for her, when  I can avoid
          it.   I shun  them as  I shun my enemies.  They are my ene-
          mies, and  their presence seems to accuse me of some crime.
♦         One of those who went to the grave, ' to  weep there,' had her
          eyes, and her face, and I never look at her.  I feel reproved,
          guilty, unhappy, when she is near.
            " But I will dwell  no longer upon this picture.  I will not
          write of  the weary,  dreary nights  I  spent over that poor
          body.   Deeply the features became engraved upon my memory.
          For many weeks I was alone with her  and the scalpel.   I
          sacrificed  my best feelings  to  my thirst for knowledge;  I
          hardened  myself to the work; but I shall  never do it again —
 »         never wrest  the dead from  the ' still house,' where  loving
          hearts  have  laid them.   I will not say  it is a crime; but it
          is revolting.
            " When I sleep, like Lazarus, in the ' cave' of death, and ,
          the ' great stone ' (which is affection) is rolled up to its mouth,
          let me rest there with my sleep unbroken, save by the bright
          dreams which eternity may reveal."

            I was silent for a moment after Wickliffe had ceased.
            " And  you renounced  the profession of medicine," I said,
          at length.
            " I did, and have never taken a scalpel in my hand since. 
64
SILVER-KNIFE :
I am sick of the traffic  in  human bodies.  I wish to think
and  hear of it  no more.   Never  mention it  again to me,
especially within hearing of an Indian."
  " And why not before an Indian ? "
  " They would shun  me as they would  the pestilence  that
walketh  in  darkness.  They dread and hate a man who has
violated  a grave."
  " This," added Wickliffe, after  a  pause, " you may con-
sider rather a melancholy story, and, if you do  not yet feel
disposed to sleep, I will relate  another, of a different  char-
acter.
   I signified that I should  like to  hear, being  too  restless to
think of slumber.   Having  heaped fresh fagots on the fire,
 Wickliffe proceeded as follows in the next chapter.
                  CHAPTER  XI.

                      A BEAR  STORY.

  " I was once," he resumed,  " encamped in a deep ana
thickly-wooded dell, near the head waters of Ice river.  On
either side, high mountains reaTed  their cloud-defying  heads.
Large rivers and small streams with  difficulty found  their
way into a more open and less broken country, through lonely
passes  and rocky ravines, known and  accessible only  to the
forest-born, or the daring foot of the hardy free-trapper.
  " I had wandered many weeks  in  that wild and savage re-
gion, dared its  gloomiest  solitudes, and  scaled  its  loftiest
cliffs.  I  had not turned  aside for  red men and beasts of
prey, and had met both.
  " Hitherto game had been abundant, and I had not found
it difficult to supply all the demands of appetite; but for the
past few days I had seen no signs of buffalo, or other game,
and, as I seldom prepared anything for future use, I began to
be in want of the common  necessaries  of  life.  My ammuni-
tion was also exhausted, the last  charge of powder and ball
being then in my rifle.  I was  far from any civilized  beings 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
65
who could  or  would  supply  my wants,  Fort Walla-Walla
being the nearest trading-post.
   " To a man who  felt himself bound to ^e earth by strong
and endearing  ties, this would have been certainly a dismal
prospect;  and  even to me, as  misanthropically as flowed my
blood, it was far from cheering.
   "But I  am not  a man to be  discouraged  when  aught
depends on my own exertions;  difficulty and  danger give
me strength, and my position must  indeed be perilous when I
cannot  modify  the  adverse circumstances  by  which  I am
surrounded.
   " I resolved to meet boldly the  difficulties which now pre-
sented themselves.
   " Without food  I could not  lead  the wandering life  that
suited my mood, and without ammunition how  was I to pro-
cure the flesh of the buffalo, the deer, or the mountain sheep ?
   "Already I felt the gnawing tooth of hunger, for  I had
fasted twelve hours,  and during  that time travelled many
 miles over prairies, across hills, and through  lonely  gorges
 in the mountains.  My faithful  steed, exhausted and covered
 with  foam, was  feeding  near  me,  in  not  much  better
 plight than myself; but his troubles would soon be over, for
 the banks of the river were green with grass of a  luxuriant
 growth.
    " My horse turned loose to help himself, my arrangements
 for camping were soon made; for I  had  learned  from the
 free-trappers, as well as by experience, that  the most  simple
 preparations were the best  in a  country where white men are
 considered lawful prey.
    "The slight shelter, designed more for protection against the
 night-dews than for anything else, being completed, I shoul-
 dered my  rifle and walked away in quest of game.
    "It was one of those mild,  still days in August, when there
 is not a breath of wind afloat.  The  sun was at that point in
 the heavens which indicates that but  an  hour  more of day-
 light remains.
    " With  considerable  difficulty, for I was weak with long
 fasting, I  clambered from  the bottom of  the  dell, and gained
 the higher lands that hemmed it in.   From the elevation
 which I had now attained  little could be seen save  the rough
 sides of the Blue Mouutains, the summits of which were lost
                    6* 
66
SILVER-KNIFE :
in clouds.  Look upward which way I would,  naught but
wild mountain  scenery met  my view;  while  down  below me
were valleys, goraip, running rivers, and ravines.
  "The  Baunecks, Eutaws, Shoshonies, Skynses, Flatheads,
Nez Perces, and occasionally predatory hordes of Blackfeet,
frequented these sterile  regions as hunting-grounds.   Here
also came the white trappers, during certain  months, to  take
peltries.
  " Woe to those so unfortunate as to be surprised  by the
Blackfeet warriors! and they sometimes were, in spite of all
their vigilance.
  " I strained  my eyes in  every direction, but  saw no signs
of game.  I put my ear to the ground and listened ;  the neigh
of the elk, and the  lowing of the buffalo,  I heard not.  Dis-
appointed in  my expectations, I began to ascend the mountain
at the base of which I was standing, in the hope of getting  a
shot at a species of mountain  sheep  called the Big-horn, or
ahsahta, which frequent those latitudes.
   "As  I  was urging my way upward, a deep, threatening
growl arrested  my steps.  I had reached a small spur of the
mountain  covered with  a stunted growth  of  shrubbery, with
here and there a small pine or  sycamore, to  relieve the mo-
notony.  I glanced warily about me to learn whence the men-
acing sound proceeded.   I could see nothing  to excite alarm.
I made  a few steps  forward, when my ears were hailed  a
second time  by the same ominous  growl,  and it was  nearer
and more  distinct than before.  I knew  it  did not proceed
from a wolf,  for wolves  are  cowardly, and  run at the first ap-
proach of danger.   The animal that flies not from the  pres-
ence of man is to be dealt with with caution.  Directly before
me was a birch of considerable size.  I stepped a few paces
to the right,  in order too look beyond it.
   "As little as I cared for  life, and as worthless as the world
seemed, a  feeling of dread crept over  me  as I perceived, full
in my path, at about  the  distance of twenty  yards, a  grizzly
bear of enormous growth.  He stood in  a  defiant attitude,
and greeted me with a growl of still fiercer meaning.   I had
presence of mind enough to meet his eye boldly, without any
signs of shrinking.  He regarded me with a  cool,  inquisitive
look, by no means satisfactory; and, putting forth a large, red
tongue, tasted  my flesh and blood in  perspective.   My posi 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
67
tion was a most embarrassing one.   To  fly would be folly, to
fire would be the signal for my destruction; for what is a single
rifle-ball in  the  shaggy hide of a griz^ bear ?  My only
safety,  then,  was  in  maintaining  my ground, and looking
Bruin out  of countenance — certainly  a very discouraging
and unpromising task, in this case.
   " A movement on the part of my antagonist called back my
attention to him, and, as my eyes wandered to meet his once
more, they fell upon a painted face, and eyes that glittered
like a serpent's.  I comprehended the extent of my danger at
once.  The red visage was  that of a savage, but  of what
tribe I could not then determine;  nor did it matter much, so
long as it was obvious that his presence boded no good.
   " If I escaped the teeth of Bruin, I was doubtless fated to
fall by the hand of the Indian.  Here was  indeed a dilemma
which  required much coolness and considerable philosophy.
To be eaten by the beast  was at variance with all my notions
of ' coming to an  end,'  and to be scalped  by a  savage was
equally repugnant  to  my feelings;  for I had a mortal aver-
sion to those free-born rovers, of whatever name.  In my deal-
ing  with  the red-skins, I had  experienced but  little  save
treachery and deceit; although, in one or two instances, I had
been befriended by the Shoshonies and  Skynses.   To deter-
mine what course to  pursue was the work of a few seconds
only.  I resolved to give the savage the  benefit  of my last
charge, and  take my chance with the bear, let  the conse-
quences be what they would.  I raised my rifle  slowly and
levelled it at Bruin, who testified  his disapprobation of the
act by a threatening  display of teeth, and sundry ill-natured
snarls.
   " During this movement I was careful to keep my eye on
the Indian, who, perceiving that I was about to fire, stretched
his long neck from  behind the tree that concealed  the greater
part of his body, to watch  the  result, anticipating,  unques-
tionably, race diversion.   In his eagerness to see the sport,
he  stepped entirely from his  hiding-place.   Now was  the
favorable  moment.   Wheeling suddenly, I brought my rifle
to bear upon him, and fired.
   "The Indian staggered  a few steps, and fell.
   " The bear reared savagely upon his hinder feet, opened his
mouth to a frightful width, and emitted a long, angry growl. 
68                    SILVER-KNIBE :

  " Dropping my rifle  before the smoke  had ceased  curling
from the barrel,  I grasped the lower branches of the tree
which I have alludal to, and climbed  with such vigor that I
was soon perched upon the highest limbs capable of sustaining
my weight.
  " This demonstration on my part put Bruin in a towering
passion.  Two or three clumsy bounds took him to  the foot
of the tree, the  bark  of which he tore off with  his teeth,
while with his sharp claws he dug up  the earth, and sent
the dirt rattling among the leaves.
  " I began to congratulate myself on my lucky manoeuvre,
while Bruin attempted to climb the pine.   This put a new face
on the aspect of things, and I ceased  to  glory in my good
fortune.  But  my enemy was a little out  of his  sphere  at
this business.   He was too heavy and clumsy an  animal to
climb a tree,  like  the common black bear; and  the limbs
would  have prevented his ascent, even  if he had  sufficient
agility to climb at all.   So, after  making  himself ridiculous
for some ten minutes by his awkward exertions, he desisted,
and laid  himself  quietly down, like a dog, beneath the tree,
as much as to say, 'I'm in no particular  hurry;  I can eat
you just as well in the morning, and I dare say my appetite
will be better.'
  " I now considered myself in a  state of siege,  and never
was a poor fellow in a worse condition to sustain a  siege than
I.  I had neither food nor water, and if my adversary kept
his ground, I should eventually be obliged to capitulate, and,
in fact, surrender unconditionally, trusting wholly to the mag-
nanimity of my conqueror.
  " I disposed of myself as well as I could amid the  boughs,
expecting it would  be my lot to pass  the night there.  The
rays of the setting sun gilded but faintly the mountain peaks.
The  owl had  already  commenced his nightly hootings,  and
the dismal  notes of the wolf went echoing through the  darken-
ing gorges.  The stillness of the air was broken by gentle
winds  from the  west, that put  the leaves in motion,  and
made a mournful  sighing through the trees.  These  sounds,
coupled with my  own unpleasant situation, awoke no comfort-
ing reflections.
  " But all these things  were disregarded by the besieging
party  He seemed measuring my size and weight,  and calcu- 
AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                 69
         lating how long I might last with careful economy, providing
         he took late breakfasts and hearty dinners.  Not sympathiz-
         ing greatly with the gastromancy of Bruin, I turned my eyes
         toward the spot where the Indian had fallen.   From my ele-
         vated position I could see him distinctly.  The wound had not
         proved mortal, and, with much exertion, he had succeeded in
         raising himself from the ground, and getting upon his  hands
         and knees.  Strange as it may  seem,  the 'grizzly' did not
         look toward him, or honor him with any attention.
»           " With a slow and difficult motion he dragged himself along,
         the blood oozing from a wound in his chest at  every effort.
         The  object of this  movement  was soon  obvious.  Near the
         foot  of the tree where he had  been concealed  lay his gun,
         and he was working himself gradually towards it.
            " What if he should have life and strength enough to reach
         it ?   Would he shoot me or the bear ?  Having a knowledge
         of Indian character, it required but little shrewdness to de-
         termine this somewhat important question.  He would follow
         my  example — leave  Bruin unmolested, and  shoot me as I
         had shot squirrels in my boyhood.
            " I had a good opportunity to observe the motions  of the
         wounded savage, and  I did so with feverish interest.   Every
         inch  of ground  he went over cost him a pang.   Fierce hate
          and intense pain were expressed upon his face with an energy
          I shall never forget.   Once he paused, and the agony that
          shook  his stalwart frame,  I  flattered  myself, was the last
         struggle  of his robust heart with  death; but  it was  not so.
          Resting  upon  his  knees, with  tremulous  hands  he unloosed
         the girdle at his loins, brought it upward over his chest, and
*         drew it tight over the wound, to stay the bleeding.
            " There was  something sublime, yet terrible, in the strength
          with which he conquered his pain  to perform this operation,
         in order to treasure each sand of life for an act of vengeance.
         At first he seemed a little faint from the effect of  this rude
          application; but the  momentary sickness and dizziness of the
          brain,  produced  by  the sudden  stanching   of the  blood,
          passed away, and he  appeared stronger and more dangerous
          than before.
            "Lost  to everything but the thought of vengeance and
         the torture of his wound, with his  burning eyes fixed intently
         upon  his charged  weapon, he  wormed   himself along  and 
70
BILVER-KNIFE :
reached it.  He threw back the  lock, took off the old cap,
and replaced it  by another;  this done, he  attempted to lift
the gun to  his shoulder, but he  could not; his  hands were
too weak and unsteady to hold it.
   " The disappointment consequent upon this discovery was
terrible, and he gnashed his  teeth in the  fury of his  rage.
He now worked  his way close to the root of the tree, dragging
his gun after him by the muzzle.  When he had reached the
spot that suited best his purpose, he stretched  himself on the
ground upon his face, and with  considerable labor placed the
barrel of his piece upon  a small  limb about two  feet from
the root of the tree.
   " His grim features, despite the pain he suffered, lighted up
with fiendish joy.  I endeavored  to  screen my body behind
the trunk of the pine, but it was impossible to  protect one
part without exposing another.  I had already fastened my-
self to a stout limb by means of a leather strap I wore about
my waist, so that, if I were mortally or dangerously wounded,
I should not fall and be torn in  pieces by my choleric friend
beneath.  All I  could do now was to ' stand fire'  as best  I
could.
   " The idea of a tumble of some twenty feet, and the recep-
tion I was  likely to meet with after my  advent, filled  me
with  emotions far from  enviable, and  such as I sincerely
hope you may never experience.  I  like  a joke as well  as
any man, and can give and take one with considerable grace;
but to be shot like a barn-yard fowl  by an Indian, whom I
had  considered   ' as  good as dead,' and  then to be eaten
(without sauce)  by an ill-tempered beast whom I had never
seen before, struck me as being  a very beggarly, absurd, and
scurvy joke. To suppose that my mother had reared me for
such' an end was an insult to my better feelings and my pride !
But a truce to pleasantry on a subject like this.
   " I felt that my hour had come, and saw no possible means
of averting my fate.   I saw the  Indian adjust his piece most
carefully, and take deliberate aim. I looked  to see no more;
but screened my head as well  as I was able behind the tree.
A moment of breathless silence  followed.  The wind seemed
to die away, and the owl and wolf ceased their clamor.   The
Indian fired; the bark and splinters flew about my head, and
the ball grazed my right temple. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
71
  " I was not so ungrateful and sick of life as to be unthankful
for this escape, and I doubt not but I uttered  some words of
heart-felt thanksgiving.
  " Relieved of a  dreadful anxiety, I turned my attention
once more toward  the savage.  He was glaring at me with
the malignancy of tne fallen one himself, and, with a trembling
and eager hand, commenced reloading.
  " The sun had set, and pale twilight prevailed.  I now hoped
that it would be too dark for him to see me before he finished
the — to him — painful  and laborious task of charging his
gun;  or that his  fast-wasting  energies would  fail  altogether
before he had accomplished that object.
  " Old Bruin had  started up  at the sound of the discharge,
uttered a few discontented growls, and then quietly resumed
his former watchful attitude.
  " The shadows of night fell rapidly; but through the dark-
ening  atmosphere  I plainly saw the  persevering  Indian pour
the powder into his brawny palm, and thence  into  his  piece,
then place a ball  upon the muzzle  and attempt to  drive it
down with the  'driver;' but his strength did  not seem  equal
to the task, and  when the  dense darkness finally hid him
from view, he was still laboring, with  the  feeble remnant of
his powers, to send the bullet ' home.'
  "  The night that ensued was to me a long and cheerless one.
Sleep  I  did not wish to;  but before morning my drowsy eye-
lids  closed, and my imagination ran wild in dreams, not much
preferable  to a waking state.
  "  It was broad day-light when I  awoke.   Bruin was no
longer in sight, and had probably thrown up the siege.  The
Indian's gun, ball-pouch and powder-horn, were lying on.the
ground;  but I looked for his  body in vain.  I  reconnoitred
carefully, fearing the absence of the beseiging  party might be
merely a ruse de guerre; but, seeing nothing to justify this
suspicion, I descended.  I found my rifle where I  had dropped
it after firing  my last charge.  I now walked  to the spot
where  the savage had fallen.   His gun, which  proved to be  a
smooth-bored rifle, lay upon the earth with the rammer in the
barrel, and the ball about one-third  of the way down.  The
powder-horn and ball-pouch I took possession of without cere-
mony,  believing they would be more useful to me than to their
former owner, whose lifeless body I doubted not, I should find 
72
SILVER-KNIFB :
in the vicinity,  unless  he had  been dragged  awaj  by the
bear.
  " Loading my  rifle, I followed the blood-spots which marked
the way he had gone.  I  was  somewhat  surprised,  after
going some distance, at not finding him.   He had evidently
crept  away on  his hands  and knees;  for  the leaves  were
stained with blood.  I  kept on, and traced him until I reached
the Fourche de Glace, or Ice river, a distance of half a  mile,
when  nothing more could be  discovered.   He had doubtless
thrown himself into the water, in order  that  I might not be
permitted the triumph of seeing his body."

  Wickliffe having finished his story, I wrapped myself in my
blanket, and soon slept.
                 CHAPTER  XII.

                    A NEW CHARACTER.

  When I awoke, Wickliffe was standing near, regarding me
with an expression so singular, that I  could  not but observe
it.  The habitual frown had softened down into  sadness, and
traces of emotion were visible upon his face.
  He turned quickly away when he perceived I was conscious
of his scrutiny, and his usual sternness returned.
  " Then  he is not  a man of iron," I exclaimed to myself.
" He has his moments of relenting and human weakness.  But
why that strange look — why that softening of the hardened
lines upon the brow ? "
  I  asked these questions, but there was no person but my-
self to answer  them.  That I could not do, and the mystery
remained.
  My journal of the 20th has the  following note:
  " To-day we have  followed  the trail with much difficulty.
It has required  all  the sagacity of my new friend to  distin-
guish it at all.   The savages have scarcely disturbed one blade
of grass in their flight.
  " Wickliffe seems dubious, and thinks  we  may be  nearer
the war-party than we really imagine ;  but I am  not back- 
                   AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                  ' °

woodsman  enough to  determine.  My heart is  full of  the
image  of Madeleine.   How madly I  have loved her without
being conscious of it!  I know now why I came hither.  I did
not understand my own impulses; but now all is plain as sun-
light.
   " It was the magic of her voice and her eye that attracted
me; and I still hear and see them.   The voice speaks to me
at night  in dreams, and, though soft as the tones of the  harp,
it tells me I  am pursuing a phantom — a vision  that will
fade.   I take her hand in mine  as  on that  night when hope
was present with me, and  sunny thoughts had life; but it
shrinks from me again, and I feel desolate as a leafless forest.
Strange the human heart takes its sunshine from the eyes  and
smiles of another! strange there is  no  such thing as happi-
ness in the abstract!
   " I  am  impatient of this slow march; it is but a snail's
pace  at  best, and I cannot brook  it.  I sometimes imagine
that Wickliffe  is lagging on purpose — that he does not mean
I shall rescue Madeleine.
   " Once  I was on the point  of telling him so; but  I  met
those calm  eyes  of his, and forgot  my purpose.  He- smiled
too, as if divining my  thoughts."
   On the night of the 26th we built our  fire at the base of  a
long ridge of hills.  We had strained every nerve to get  for-
ward, but probably had not travelled over twenty miles thaf
day.   Being so well mounted, and having no  baggage to en-
cumber us, we could have  made  twice that distance, had we
given ourselves no trouble  about the trail.
   Scarcely had our fire begun to blaze, when a visitor unex-
pectedly made his appearance.   He  came stalking  up to us,
with his rifle on his  shoulder,  with a swagger and a noncha-
lance worthy of a prize-fighter.
   His figure is worthy of some description.  In stature he
was very short, but was amply  indemnified  for that oversight
rn  nature by thickness. His shoulders and chest were remark-
able for breadth.
    His head was set  upon said shoulders without regard to
neck; and, probably,  a trapper in that wild country .could get
along just as well without  a neck.  He was certainly a greasy,
hairy-looking  specimen of human  flesh.  He wore a greasy
fur cap, a greasy buck-skin coat, greasy leggins, greasy moc- 
74                    silver-knife:
casins, to which you may add a greasy mouth and beard, and,
in short, greasy everything.
   He was just the  man to  subsist on raw flesh; and, when
necessitated, could eat an Indian without salt.  Such, at least,
was the impression his appearance was calculated to make.
   The rifle  which  he  carried  had  the  same greasy look in
which  he  luxuriated — was  very heavy,  and of  the  largest
calibre; it would carry a half-ounce ball.  His  hunting-knife
was very long, and its edge was sharp enough, no doubt.
   " Wah!"  he articulated,  bringing the breech of his  rifle
violently to  the ground, and  peering at us through his shaggy
eye-brows;  then  added immediately,
   " Any grub ? "
   Wickliffe  signified that we had, and produced a portion of
the buffalo he had shot the night previous.
   The  adipose man seated  himself coolly by the fire, cut a
stick  from a  fagot, and sharpened the end.   Slicing off a
monstrous piece  of the  meat, he thrust the stick into it, and
held it over  the blaze, with  great  apparent satisfaction, and
perfect self-possession.
   When about half done, or, to speak more to the point, when
about warmed through, he commenced eating it voraciously,
without a word.   The secret of his greasiness was soon evi-
dent.
   When he had satisfied, in  some degree, the demands of his
gastric region, he began  to show premonitory symptoms of so-
ciability, by wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve, and sundry
startling yawns.
   " How  are you, white folks ? " he said, looking at  us  with
the air of a man  who suddenly and unexpectedly finds  him-
self better.
   Wickliffe  assured him that we were in  the enjoyment of
good health, which fact seemed to relieve him very much.
   •' Got any of the weed ? " he asked.
   " Don't use it much, but always carry it," replied Wick-
 liffe, offering a generous quantity of the filthy drug.
   " That's said like a Christian," replied the greasy man, pro
 ceeding in silence to fill  a villanous-looking pipe.
   " How's peltries ? "
   " Don't  know — care nothing about peltries," said Wick
 Uffe. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
75
           " Ugh!"
           Here a vast column of smoke curled out of the greasy man's
        mouth.
           " How is bufferlers ?"
           " Care nothing about buffalo."
           More smoke.
           " Sent  out into these parts by Government ? "
           " Care nothing about Government, either.
           " How's Injins ? "
           " Can't find them — am on the trail."
 '          " Been stealin' ? "
           " Yes."
           " Horses and mules ? "
           " No,  women."
           " Old women ? "
           " No,  very young."
           " Harnsum ? "
           " As handsome as ever the sun shone on."
           " Con-sarn their  red skins! " cried the  stranger, grasping
        his rifle  in one hand, and his ruffianly knife  in the  other.
«       " May I  be trodden to death by wild bufferlers, if some  of
        'em don't lose their fakilties for that before  the Injin corn gets
        growed !   Young and harnsum gals !  Confound the red nig-
        gers !   If it had  been old women, whose sands was e'namost
        run out,  it would seemed a little  kinder  different like; but
        young gals is another thing.   Them's jest my feelin's.   Con-
        cam  'em!"
           " You  speak like a philosopher," replied Wickliffe.
           " You 're sure they 're young gals ? " continued the trapper,
I       without heeding the  remark of Wickliffe.
           " I know it," said Wickliffe.
           " My  dander's risin' like a yeast cake; and them sort is so
        scarce here, too.  I  don't  know but I shall exterminate the
        whole race o' painted niggers from  the face of  the airth.   I
        have been vegetatin' in these  diggins  a  little  more than a
        long time, and I reckon I 've rubbed  out more  on 'em  nor I
        have  bufferlers, — and bufferlers are mighty plenty hereabouts.
        You  can't scarcely stir a step without startin' more nor less.
        A good sprinklin' of the varmints in  this here region call me
        the ' Grizzly Bear,' and I reckon  they '11 call me more nor
        that  afore they see  the last on me, unless I stick my toes  up
        sooner than I kalkilates." 
76
BILVER-KNIFE :
   " What does he mean by sticking his toes up ? " I whispered
to Wickliffe.
   " Dying," he replied.   " It is a  cant phrase often  used by
such people."
   Perceiving  the " Grizzly Bear," though rough in exterior,
was  a man to be trusted, I related to him all that  had hap-
pened to my friends and myself.   His interest increased when
he heard the name of Leroy. •
   " I 've knowed that man for these dozen years.  His heart's
bigger than a  bufferler's.   It'll jest about break  up  his con-
stertution to lose his gals in that unchristian way.  Now, I'm
a  rough man and a great sinner;  but I an't intirely without
nateral feelin'.  I know that my ways an't altergether pleas-
in' and  perlite, and all  that;  and I am a great deal like  a
wild Injin, that's a fact;  and there is considerable grease and
stuff of that natur' on my huntin'-shirt;  but may-be there is
a leetle good  left  in me yet.   When  I sees a feller-cretur  in
distress, or  knows  he's  in distress,  there an't  a  man  on the
trail that would put out his hand to help him  quicker  nor  I
would,  although I  says it  myself, when perhaps I  had n't
oughter.   I would n't valley sendin' a half-ounce ball through
sev'ral of the nateral varmin of this uncultivated sile, for old
acquaintance'  sake."
   " Which way are you from ? " asked my friend.
   " From the nor'-west."
   " Seen any signs of Indians,  or  whites either, in that direc-
tion ? "
   " Reckon I have.  I  crossed the trail  of  some of my color
no longer ago than this mornin'.   Yesterday I see one of the
varmin, an' if he  had n't a-taken himself out o' range mighty
sudden, he 'd been likely to have lost his fakilties — his mem'ry
in perticerler.   And, come to think on 't, I picked up this bit
of cloth and  put  it in  my pocket,  because it looked kinder
femernine like."
   Here  the trapper produced  a small strip of stuff, of a cu-
rious fabric, which I recognized as being a piece of a dress I
had seen Madeleine wear.
   I snatched it hurriedly from the hand of the stranger, and
would have pressed it to my lips, had I not seen the eyes of
Wickliffe fastened upon me.
   " Prehaps you 's in a  great hurry to git that piece of figured 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
77
 stuff,  mister;  you an't a  goin' to swaller it, I  presume."
 And then he added, addressing himself to Wickliffe, " I hope
 he does n't allers take things in that onharnsum way.  I '11 bet
 all my peltries that that youngster's got a hankering arter the
 gal as used to wear that strip of stuff."
   " A  pretty strong one too, old  fellow," rejoined my friend. "
   " Where did you find this? ".I asked.
   " Away in that direction, about  half a  day's  travel," an-
 swered the trapper, pointing to the north-west.   " That is to
 say, about half a day's journey for  Camanche."
   " Camanche is your horse, I suppose ? "
   " Yes, I  call him Camanche,  because  he used to belong to
 a Camanche brave, who suddenly lost his fakilties and tumbled
 off  his back.   Fine  animal  — tougher nor a  bufferler —
 swifter nor an  antelope.   If  I  whistle, he '11 leave his grass
 and come directly.  It's my opinion you don't often catch a
 free trapper without a hoss."
   " Take us to the spot where you found this piece of stuff,
 and I will reward you handsomely," I said.
   For  the  space  of a minute the  trapper smoked  away
 fiercely, without reply.
   " Prehaps you don't know me," he said, at  length, " and
 prehaps you don't want to.  A great -many people  in this
 world judge a  person  by the way he looks outside.  If he's
 got  on an  old  coat, and  leggins rather the worse for wear,
 they set him down as nobody;  but, on the contrary, if he
 looks slick and nice, they say |e 's somebody.  But that an't
 my way.  I don't mind how  a man looks, providin' allers he's
 all right inside.   It's the intarnal arrangement that makes the
 man.   That's my religion;  and it's a  kind o' religion which
 you think I don't know nothin' about.  I don't  believe in
 hiring  a  chap  to  do  his duty;  and  it kinder goes agin the
 grain to have a person offer to  reward me harnsumly for tryin'
 to rescue a  feller-cretur from the savages, especially when
 that feller-cretur is a femernine.   Them 's my feelin's."
   I perceived at once  I had  made a great mistake.  Instead
 of the unfeeling and unprincipled man I had expected to find
 hidden in those soiled and unseemly garments, I had stumbled
 upon a  real  diamond, though rough and unpolished.  How we
deceive  ourselves by judging by appearances !  I hastened to
repair my error.
                 7# 
78
SILVER-KNIFE :
  "Pardon me," my friend," I said;  "I have  done you some
injustice.   As  you say, it is not right to judge one by the
cut of his coat, or the  quality of its material.   I perceive
that your heart is precisely where it ought to  be.   The senti-
ments you have uttered are worthy the proudest potentate."
  " I don't know nothin' of potentates; I  should n't know
one from a pcrtater ;  but I do know  somethin' about nateral
honesty, and the nateral religion of the heart.  So, don't talk
no more about hirin' me to go arter Leroy's darters, that are
dearer to  him nor  all the world beside.   I '11 stake all I 'm
worth, —  and that an't much, — that  there an't an hour in the
day when  his  heart  an't ready to break; and he  stands six
feet and two inches in his stockin's."  .
  " Enough — here's my hand.  We will be  on the trail be-
fore the morrow's sun has shone upon it five minutes."
  " Here  's a hand on that, and prehaps it an't a very smooth
one; but  it's  seen  real sarvice in  its time,  notwithstandin',
and is allers ready to grow rougher in a  good  cause."
                CHAPTER  XIII.

                      THE UNKNOWN.

  My journal of the 27th discourses as follows :'
  " The  strange  trapper  has kept us company all day.   His
name is  Sutler, and he  is perfectly at  home in these wilds.
Wickliffe  seems to puzzle him, and he is obviously at a  loss
what to make of him.  It is quite evident he did  not expect
that a person who appeared so  much a gentleman as Wick-
liffe  possessed  such  an accurate knowledge  of  the country
and Indian practices.   He had  thought to find a  man fresh
upon the prairies, whereas Wickliffe is not.   When we set out
this morning, Sutler  took  the lead, and issued his  orders  like
an old general; now, things begin to change their aspect; he
consults Wickliffe, and gives his opinion with more  caution.
  " Sutler has designated the spot where he found the piece 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                 79
        of stuff.  Both he and Wickliffe affirm that there are two
        trails, which occasionally intersect each other.   One of them,
        we believe, must have been made by our  friends; and to me
        there  is joy in the thought.   To-morrow we are Resolved to
        follow what we suppose to be the white trail.
          " Wickliffe is calm and distant, as usual.  Nothing appears
        to work any change  in him;  he  is either above the common
        whims of mankind, or scorns to acknowledge them.
          " How inexplicable are some men! — how deep is the study
»       of human character!  But Wickliffe is one of those characters
        which baffle study.  I have considered him from every point,
        and from every altitude of my intellect, and he is an enigma
        still.                   r
          " My impatience  to*get forward increases hourly.  I mur-
        mur at the darkness of night, because it retards our progress.
        But  I suppose we must eat and sleep,  and our weary beasts
        must  rest; yet it  is  hard to lose a moment when so much is
        at stake.
          "It is twilight;  we have taken our evening meal.  I feel
        an irresistible  desire to be alone, where I can think freely,
        without  the searching eyes of  Wickliffe  being fastened  upon
        me.    I  shall take my rifle and walk quietly away."

          A few stars twinkled in the skies, as  I walked slowly from
        the  camp, and the moon came up lazily,  lending a  softer hue
        1x> the night.
          Leaving the ravine where our fire blazed, I ascended a long
        hill, which, rising in gentle swells, attained, at last, a consid-
        erable altitude.   The black walnut, the poplar and the maple,
        grew in clusters upon its sides ; but a  liberal growth had been
        denied them, for the soil was  not  favorable to  their full de-
        velopment, or the prevalent fires of that region had scathed
        them.
          I did  not pause in my walk until I  had attained the  sum-
        mit  of the hill.  With a feeling of freedom,  for which I am
        at a loss to account, I stood there alone i^hat solitude.  I
        could now commune with myself, undisturbed  by the strange
        gaze of Wickliffe.   But why should I commune with myself?
        What new hope should I teach my heart to feel ?   What un-
        known philosophy  could I  gather  from  the breath of the
        mountain  air ?  Could I  think  of Madeleine more calmly, 
80
B1LVER-KNIFE :
with less distraction, with more stoicism ?   Would my spirit
feel more of the " touch of joy," or le^s of the agony of woe ?
  I turned my fevered eyes upon the newly-risen moon, which
as it lifted itself from the prairie, seemed rising  from the bed
of the ocean.  There is something tranquillizing in the influ-
ence of the moon,  when it looks clown  upon us  with its full,
round  face.  A whisper  is borne upon the mild, mellow rays
of its light, which  bids the earth-wanderer be calm.   Like the
spirit which answers prayer, its voice is audible in every land.
It is heard by the  dweller upon the prairies, as well as.by the
inhabitant of the crowded city.
  In  that  moment  of dreaminess, I strove to  bow my head
and  be calm.  And  then  I  strove, to think of  Madeleine as
one dead, and lost  to me  forever.  Bu^it is very hard  to give
up  those we love, even when hope  has  waned  until  it  has
ceased to  cast a  shadow upon our pathway.  It  costs  the
heart a bitter pang to  part  with  the loved, even  with  the
hope of meeting again; but when there is little  hope of a re-
union, and the fate of the  darling  object is a  mystery deep
and painful, how much is that  bitterness enhanced!   In that
struggle to forget,  my spirit turned to Madeleine, as  the mag-
net to the pole.  The idea which I had nursed and encouraged
had grown too strong to combat with.
  With a sigh I averted my eyes, and the revery passed.  As
my gaze sank down and rested upon  the broad,  open prairie,
stretching out from the base of the hill, extending I knew not*"
how far, I  saw a  slender, white column of smoke  spring up,
and  mount against  the  sky; and soon a bright blaze leaped
after it, and  shadowy human figures were visible.   In the
state of mind I was then in,  I knew no such word as danger;
— I  had  forgotten  it; my thoughts were raised  infinitely
above it.   I scorned the thought of peril;  was as careless of
the future  as I was dissatisfied with the  past.   With feelings
like these,  I threw my rifle across my arm, descended the hill,
and stalked  moodily toward the dim outlines of the men, re-
vealed by the lighA of the fire.  My movements were silent,
like the ghosts  of the  departed, when  they flit  among the
graves at midnight.   No inadvertent step gave warning of my
propinquity: and, at  the  distance  of a few yards, I stood
erect, and looked  into the faces of the strangers.  There were
two — one an Indian, but the other belied his  garb, and was
not. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                  81
  I knew his features — they were too deeply impressed upon
memory to be  forgotten,  however much they were  changed
with paint and  Indian  finery; it was the  same sinister face
I had seen at  St. Louis  and Westport, though shorn of its
hair.   For a moment I stood stupefied with  this strange and
unlooked-for discovery.   My first impulse was to raise my
rifle and  shoot  him through  the  head, and I never had a
steadier hand than when I brought the sights to bear  upon his
frontal bone ; but I changed my purpose, even when my finger
was upon the trigger.  What should  I gain by killing him,
was the question that pressed itself home upon my conscience,
and stayed my hand.   Nothing, — and  perhaps  I may lose
much, was the answer jyhich reason gave.
  A knowledge of hjjpiovements would benefit me more than
his  death; a single  moment's reflection convinced me of this,
and I brought my rifle once more to  the hollow of my flexed
arm, with  an  inward regret that I  could not carry my first
impulse  into execution.   His right   hand was wrapped in a
cloth; and, if I had doubted before  in regard to the severed
finger, I doubted no longer.   The lurking enemy, the author
of my misfortunes, was before me, without question.  With a
strong effort, I walked away to a considerable distance  from the
fire, and traced, as well as I was able by moonlight, the fol-
lowing lines upon a blank  leaf in my pocket-book.
  " Unmanly  schemer ! your movements are watched;  you
^annot stir a step without  the knowledge of  one who  only de-
lays your punishment for purposes of  his own.  Do not think
to escape, or flatter yourself with success.  You know what
this means, and why you deserve to die.  When you lay down
you may be sure that the pull of a trigger  may send you to
your  last  account.  An unerring barrel has been levelled at
your head this very night, and may be at the precise  moment
when you are reading these lines.  I could have slain you much
easier than I have sent  you this note of warning; but your
time is not yet — it will come sooner  than you will be ready;
let that suffice;  so lie down and sleep calmlp to-night,  if you
can."
  Tearing out the leaf on which I had written these lines, I
fastened  it to a  small stone with a strip  of  my handkerchief.
When I  had done this, I retraced my steps  noiselessly to  my
first position near the  unknown, and,  bending forward, cast
tho stone so that it fell at his feet. 
82
SILVER-KNIFE :
  With an exclamation of surprise, both seized their weap-
ons ; but the white man's eye had caught sight of the paper.
Casting a suspicious glance around  him, he stooped, took it
from the ground, and commenced reading the lines.
  A change came over him as he read; he was no longer the
swaggering ruffian of  a  few minutes  ago.   He seemed to
shrink and grow smaller as he held  the bit of  paper in his
hand;  appeared stupefied, uncertain,  and undecided;  cast
hurried, nervous glances around, as  if expecting a shot from
an  unknown agency.  Once  or  twice,  apparently, he  was
upon the point of rushing away to meet or shun the danger,
and then the hazard and folly of such a step restrained  him.
  Thus tossed with fear and uncertainty, he  threw himself
down with his face to the earth, and jfc, probably, what the
guilty only can feel.   Satisfied with what I had done, I was
walking toward the spot where blazed the fire of my friends,
when the tall figure of Wickliffe suddenly stood beside me.
 •  " You here ? "  I asked, with a start of surprise.
   "Yes, I am everywhere.  What did you write on that
paper ?"
   " You saw me, then ? "
   " Of course I saw you; what is there  I do not see ? "
   I repeated to him what I had written.
   " That will  do very well;  if he is a coward,  he will suffer
more to-night than if you  had shot  him  through the head, as
you thought of doing in the first instance."                ,
   " How long have you been here ? " I asked.
   " As long as you;  what course do you think of pursuing
in relation to the white man and the Indian ? "
   " That is a subject which I have not  fully considered.  I
crave your advice.  The  former knows more of the fate of
my  friends than we do,  I have no doubt.   He is the  man
who  gave me the  letter at  St.  Louis, of which  I  have
spoken."
   " Since you have asked my advice, I will give it.  Shoot
 the red-skin,  and take the white man  alive.   If  he knows
 aught of the Leroys, we can  wring  it from him by fair means
 or foul."
   " I don't greatly like the  idea of destroying the poor In-
 dian," I replied.   " He is but an instrument in the hands of
 a designing man, and  we  can expeet nothing better  of him. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
83
  What would the death  of that miserable wanderer avail?
  Nothing; it would be like slaying  the starving wolf merely
  because he is a wolf, and not something better."
    " Not so," replied Wickliffe.   " If he escapes through our
  mercy, or inability to capture him, he will bring scores of his
  tribe upon us before we have accomplished our objeot.  If he
  dies on the spot, no word goes to his people of his end or our
  movements; and we have only one prisoner to look after, in-
  stead of two.  Indians are proverbially a slippery race;  cold
  lead  only can keep  them  from getting through one's fingers."
    " I think  we  can manage them both,"  I answered.  " With
  Sutler's  assistance,  it will be an easy matter to  make them
  prisoners."
    " Well,  let it be so," rejoined Wickliffe.  .
    At that moment we were joined by Sutler, who had  also
  seen the fire.  I explained to him the  condition of things as
  well  as  I could; but it was with difficulty I  could  restrain
  him  from  shooting the  Indian. " There was such  a good
  chance, and it was so much like an act o' mercy."
    After further deliberation, we decided  to forego, for the
  present,  the  idea  of capturing them, and, instead  thereof,
  follow and watch their movements so long as we could do  so
  successfully.  This  was more in accordance with my views,
  for I believed it presented a better prospect of success, and I
  wished to  play with the guilty fears  of the  unknown.   It
., would give me  a stern joy to be near  him  by night and by
  day, and  be a Witness  of his ceaseless, corroding vigils, his
  sleepless  anxiety.   Having  formed  this  resolution, Sutler
  took it  upon himself to  find  and  dispose  of their horses.
  They were found hobbled at no great distance.  They suffered
  themselves to be approached without difficulty, and were soon
  in our possession.   This was no wanton act; the safety and
  success of our plans required it.  Were the objects of- our
  suspicion permitted to retain their horses, they might  elude
  us ; but on foot we could follow them.
    Sutler wrapped the feet of the captured animals in buffalo
  skins, and rode  them away to a considerable distance.  Wick-
  liffe and myself stationed ourselves in a growth of sycamores
  at the base of the hill I have mentioned, to watch the move-
  ments of the parties by turns, until morning.
    The unknown  and his  red friend were greatly mortified at
% 
84
SILVER-KNIFE .
the discovery of the loss of their horses.  Knowing it would
be vain to spend much time in  looking for them, they struck
off  iii  a north-westerly direction, toward  the White-Earth
river.   AVe  followed them at a safe  distance for two  days,
while Sutler kept in  the rear with the  animals.   A portion
of this  time  they kept the trail, which we  had been tracing
with so much  trouble;  and  at other times  they left and
crossed it again, after several hours.
  My journal of the 29th reads as follows:
  " For the last forty-eight hours we  have traced the foot-
steps of the unknown  with untiring  assiduity; he has  not
been an hour from our sight.   It is evident that  he  suffers;
his  manner  is  ever  restless,  and  his eyes wander contin-
ually over  the prairies and hills, as if in momentary  ex-
pectation  of meeting misfortune.   He  is never  at  ease,
is  nervously impatient  to  get forward, — feels  that  he is
watched, his steps  dogged  by those who wish him no good, —
makes  no fire  at night, and would no  doubt travel  during
the hours of darkness if his strength would  permit.   He is
probably straining every nerve  to overtake his Indian accom-
 1 *       .At.     .U.    .Xt.    At.      4£.     .>*.      Jt,    Jf.
DllCeS.    Tr,TTWWTt:T?*'7^;7P
  " We have again crossed what we  believe to be the trail
of Leroy and Silver-Knife.  What a  piece of good fortune it
would be to overtake them!
  " I still dwell upon the memory  of Madeleine, and cannot
cease to hope; but what can she  be  to me, even if we suc-
ceed in wresting her from  the  power  of tfrose wild men of
the wilderness ?   In vain do I strive to teach my heart  a new
philosophy.   There is no philosophy for  the affections; they
are  as  uncontrollable as the winds.   Those sick  of life, or
too old to enjoy, may talk  of philosophy, but not  the  young
and hopeful.
  " 30th.—As soon as it was  light this morning, we discov-
ered that the Crow (the white man's companion) had given
us the  slip.   Wickliffe  looked  disappointed and serious, and
said it  boded no good.   I suggested the propriety of pursu-
ing him on horseback, and trying to cut him off; but Wickliffe
shook  his head, and remarked that  he was far beyond  our
reach.   To-night we are resolved to make a prisoner  of the
unknown, as nothing is likely to be gained  by putting it off
longer.  The disappearance of the Indian causes us much unea- 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
85
          siness.  We consider our position a very critical one.   If the
          Crow camp is  not  at a great distance, we shall  have visitors
          before  long.   My  ill-timed  clemency  has endangered our
          whole enterprise.   I am  ready to  shoot myself for my folly.
          What can we do with this white man, if we deprive  him of
          liberty ?   He will  only be  an incumbrance; but we  may at
          least learn the fate of the Leroy family, though  even that is
          doubtful.     ********
            " We have crossed the White-Earth  river, and are repos-
          ing upon its bank.   This is the  third river we have crossed
 *        since leaving the Platte.  What will be the end of these wan-
          derings?    *    *
            " I have been low-spirited all day; my mind  is filled with
          foreboding; evil is  near —I feel  it; every whisper in the
          air assures me of it.  Perhaps my end is near, and these are
          but premonitory flashes  of what shall be ; but what does it
          matter where I fall ?  There is a time and  a  season for all
          things, saith the preacher.   If there  is  a  time  to laugh and
          be merry, there is  a time also to die.   Who is ready for that
          season?   Is it thou, of woman born?   Then lie down in the
,         dust without a murmur, and let the worm cover thee.  Alas!
          though tired of earth, we turn with no eager eye to heaven.
             *********
             " Man  is naturally superstitious;  hears and  sees things
          which never were and never will be; terrifies himself with a
          thought, and  pleases himself with a shadow,  which has no
          substance.  Wh$ then, should I seize these vagrant fancies,
          and  fasten  them  upon  paper ?   I cannot  tell.   *   * . f
          One  hour  later.    This unaccountable depression  of spirit
»         still  continues; it is very  singular; for I. was  never a man
          of dark thoughts.   As for  marvellousness, I have but  a
          small share; and reverence is smaller, I fear, than it ought to
          be;  but every person has, unquestionably, his  moments  of
          weakness, and these are mine.   I have  read of  the  strongest
          minds  believing  in premonitory flashes.  *   *  *   *   I
          shall give my papers to Wickliffe, that they may be forwarded
          to my friends, should anything befall me; he will sneer at th%
          idea, no doubt; he is too cold to be superstitious — too proud
          to acknowledge it if he is.   *  *  *   *   The unknown is a
          prisoner at last, — is silent and  sullen.  No threats can wring
          V                  8 
86
SILVER-KNIFE :
from him any knowledge of the Leroys.  He is a man of
powerful frame, and struggled fiercely when seized. He is by
no means fresh upon the prairies.   I have seen  his wounded
hand, and one finger is indeed  gone.   If he knows aught of
Madeleine,  he  shall  divulge  it, by heaven!   I  cannot and
will not bear this uncertainty much longer.  I hope he  may
not  tempt my  mood too much, for I wish not  to have the
blood of  a fellow-creature upon my  hands  without good
cause.  I dare  not trust  myself to   question him, for  fear
my  impetuosity may get  the  better  of  my prudence.  Let
me  remember it is a  terrible thing  to dismiss  a  human
soul  from  its clay tenement to its God; because there is no
repentance  in   the grave, and  the  spirit shall return no
more."
    ■U,    -V.     4f-     -AC.    *U>     Jt.     .&£.     Jt.     .&£.
    *JP    "*s"     *7v*     *A"    TP     TV"     *?P     V?     TP
   I intrusted my  papers  and  other valuables to Wickliffe;
and all for the forebodings mentioned in my journal.  He re-
ceived them  more  graciously than I  had expected, although
it was obvious to me that he felt no  little contempt  for  the
proceeding.
   " You  will probably  think  this a  piece of folly," I  re-
marked, as I handed them to him.
   " Far from it,"  he answered.  " This is not the first trans
action I have known of the kind."
   " Tell me about it," I said.
   " There is but little to tell.   I was huntu^  in  the vicinity
of the Blackfeet country, with an old guid^by the name of
Williams.  He had been a  dweller in the wilderness for many
years, and possessed an accurate knowledge of woodcraft and
savage habits.   He had  just enough of the French blood in
him to make him  gay under  every kind of privation.  His
spirits never flagged, and his good humor could  not  be out-
done.  But one afternoon  his gayety vanished of a sudden;
his brow grew thoughtful, and his face  became serious in its
expression.   The song and the joke no longer passed his lips.
I could scarcely suppress a smile at his woe-begone visage.
•  u i Wnat is the matter now ?' I asked.
   " ' I don't know exactly,' he  replied,  ' but I kinder think
 I'm wanted.'
   " ' Wanted where ?' 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
87
             " 'Up there,' he answered, pointing solemnly to the skies.
             " ' Going to die, you mean ?'
             "'I feel something in here'  (putting his hand to his breast)
          that kinder tells me I shan't trap a great many more beaver.
          I reckon as how I 'm bound to another sort o' huntin'-ground,
          where the streams  are flowin' with the waters o' life.  But
          it's doubtful to me whether I taste o' them delicious waters.
          They  warn't made for the like o' me.   You know I 've been
          a wicked, swearin' man, carin'  for  nobody,  although it may
          be nobody cared for me.   I never had  much trainin'.   My
          father was somethin' of a Frenchman, and my mother was an
          out-an'-out squaw, and p'rhaps they won't expect much  from
          such a cast-a-way child o' natur.'
             " '  Nonsense !' I  said ;  ' nothing but a  fit  of the blues.
          Cheer up, now.  A buffalo hump will set you all right.'
             " ' We have eat a good many bufferler humps in our time;
          but we  shan't  never eat no more of 'em together.  In course,
          I may be wrong, and these feelin's may wear off;  but I don't
          believe  they will.  I 've got a few things in my pocket which
          I want you to  take,  and, if anything happens, they are yourn.
t         Here's a few bank-note3, and some other things, which would n't
          be any good  to me, if I should get my quietus from one o'
          them savagerous critters.'
             " To please the old trapper, I took his bank-notes, &c, think-
          ing it was but  the cloud of a moment.
             " One hour from that time we stood on the summit of a hill.
          The guide was leaning on his rifle, looking  mournfully at the
          setting sun. I saw him wipe  an unusual moisture from  his
          eye, and cross  himself.   He seemed in  the act  of turning  to
.         speak, when the sharp report *f  a rifle  rang out upon the air.
          The guide tottered, smiled, fell, and died without a struggle.
          I bent over him an  instant, but there was no sign of life, and
          I  attended to my own  safety by hastening from the  scene.
          His scalp hung that night, no doubt, in the lodge of a Black-
          foot brave."
             This tale had a contrary effect from what  might have been
          expected.  It  aroused my pride; for it  appeared to me that
          he had devised the story on purpose to  play upon my fears.
             " I will take back my papers," I  said,  coolly, as soon as he
          had finished.
             " 0, no! " he replied,  quietly, "  I want  to  read  them, by 
88
SILVER-KNIFE :
and by.   I have no doubt but they give a fair and unpreju-
diced  history of your progress in the Indian country."
  " Well, keep them ; but my mood has changed, and  I  care
nothing about  it.   I am subject  to the blues; but they are
gone  now, and I am all right.   To prove my words, I am go-
ing to take a stroll up the river."
  " No, don't do that! " he said, earnestly.  " I expect we
are in a dangerous neighborhood, and none too safe when all
together."
  " I am  no coward, Wickliffe,  and I  really don't  intend to
run into  danger.   But, since you  have told me that story, I
shall go out, merely to show you I do not heed it."
  Whistling a favorite air, I shouldered my rifle and marched
leisurely away.  Though I was  thus calm  outwardly, I was
not easy at heart.   Thus far I  had not been very successful
in my exertions to rescue the maiden Madeleine.   I had  fol-
lowed the  trail for a  number of days, and was now no nearer
my object than at first,  and perhaps further from it;  for  the
escape of the Crow would  warn the marauders of pursuit.
when  they would either send out a war-party to  exterminate
us, or take good care  that we should not effect our purpose.
  What now could  be done ?  We  had taken what we be-
lieved to  be the party most deeply implicated in the transac-
tion ;  but what should we do with  him ?  He was sullen, and
refused to give us any information.   The letter, which I had
good reason to believe he had written, was still in my posses-
sion.  As  I thought of the threats and* taunts  contained
therein, and the malignity with which he had dogged our foot-
steps  to do us evil, my passions rose to an ungovernable height.
I felt my heart beating tumultuously, and  the veins swelling
like cords upon my  forehead.  My eyes were burning, and
my face was hot and fevered.  I stalked back, and  stood be-
fore  the unknown with  a scowl of defiance upon  my brow.
For a moment I contemplated him,  and then motioned Wick-
liffe and Sutler to withdraw.
  They did so.
  " We are alone," I said, sternly,  drawing a pistol from my
belt.  " There are a thousand miles of wilderness between  us
and the marks of civilization.   If  a human  being perish here,
what bird will fly with the news, over the woods and over the
wilds, to call for retribution ? " 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
89
         I paused to give my words time to take effect.  The man's
       cheeks grew pale ; he knew I was dangerous.
         " I have a few questions to ask, and  your life  depends on
       the answers you make," I continued.   " What are you called ? "
         " 0, you want an introduction," he replied, rallying, and
       putting as good a face upon the matter as possible.
         " What are you called ? " I repeated, in the same tone.
         " Well, if  you insist on knowing me,  my name shall be
       Burrill, at your service."
>        " Let it be Burrill, then; perhaps in an  hour hence  you
       won't need a name."
         " But you surely don't mean to assassinate me ?  O, no, you
    •  are facetious — you intend it as an excellent joke ; but jokes
       lose their edge, you know, when carried too far ;  and the law,
       you know — the law----"
         " Don't waste your breath before  the time ;  you will want
       it all  before long ; and breath is precious sometimes, especially
       toward the close of one's life."
         I drew the crumpled letter from my pocket, and held it be-
       fore his eyes.
         "A  very fair specimen  of chirography," he said, at length,
       with affected composure ;  but his voice trembled.
         " Did you write this ? " I resumed, emphasizing the words
       deeply.
         " Why, really, sir,  you  are inquisitive  and  impertinent
       withal," he rejoined, with the  same desperate  effort at calm-
       ness.
         I cocked the pistol, and held  it about  six inches from his
       head.
         " I shall not repeat the question," I said.  " If you do not
       answer, and answer truly, you die on the  spot.  Don't lie to
       me, for I  do not wish your blood on  my hands."
         I know I must have been a fearful object as I stood before
       him, with my flushed face, my set teeth, compressed lips, flash-
       ing eyes,  and veins like knotted whip-cords.
         " I don't deny an agency in  that;  but, my dear sir, it was
       all a joke — a mere joke, nothing but a joke-----"
         " I have another question to ask, of the utmost importance;
       and  I charge you, as you value  life and the repose  of your
       immortal soul, don't hesitate to tell me correctly.  But  first
       look at this dissevered member; it is the one you lost."
                         8* 
90
BILVER-KNIFE :
  I had preserved the finger in a small bottle of brandy, and
now produced it.   The effect upon him was obvious.  His face
gathered a deeper  pallidness, and his bravado  spirit seemed
stricken down and  humbled.   He perceived that I had a chain
of evidence against him, and that a flat and unqualified denial
of all knowledge of the Leroys would do no good,  and might
be productive of the worst of consequences.
  " Where is Madeleine Leroy ? "
  He hesitated, and trembled from head to foot.
  " You are a devil!  " he muttered.
  " Yes!  I am at this moment; and have some of the devil's
own work on my hands.  You perceive, I  presmne,  that this
dangerous weapon  is  cocked  and  levelled at your right eye.
A slight pull  of the  trigger — it is a hair-trigger, and my
finger is on it, and I am rather nervous — would send a leaden
messenger crashing through y6ur head."
  " This is too cool  and blood-thirsty ! " cried Burrill, shut-
ting his eyes,"horrified at the prospect of death.  "  Take away
that devil's plaything!"
   " I shall not repeat a question three times;  you know what
I require.  This minute is yours; the next shall be mine."
  " Your question is  too hard.  What should I know of the
persons you name ? "
  " Remember the letter, and the  threats it  contains.   You
do not deny the authorship of that.   This weapon, you see, is
very near — the least carelessness----"
   " Hold ! stay your  hand.   The two maidens are  unharmed;
they are now with my friends."
   " Who are your friends ? "
   " The Crows — and I saved their lives.  They would  have
been slain immedi-----"
   " No lies! no lies!  "  I cried, stamping  furiously  upon the
ground.   "Let me read from  your letter.  Listen!  'Your
hope  shall be  like the deceitful mirage which tantalizes the
thirsty traveller upon  the desert  waste with the hope of water.'
And again: ' You have not sufficient stamina to contend with
that influence which will continually be exerted  against  you.'
I know that ' influence,' and have felt it, and you shall learn if
I have  strength to struggle with it.  Whither have  the savages
Q;one with the maidens? — make a  clean breast."
   " That I know not.  Ask something that I know." 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
91
           " Harkee, Burrill!   Hear  you the howl of the wolf that
         prowls about the camp ?  It is hungry for blood; its gaunt
         frame  is pinched with  famine; it eats human flesh.  Were
         you left dead here to-night, there would not be  two joints of
         your frame together by to-morrow's sun."
           "Horrible!"
           " Very true ;  but you have forgotten to tell me where your
         Crow friends have gone ? "
           " To the Black Hills, son of  Satan! — now release me."
 »         " Release your spirit, perhaps ;  but not your body.  What
         was the fate of Leroy ? "
           " He perished — I  could not  save him."
    %    "  You save him!   Cease to blaspheme the  truth.  So  the
         wolf saves the lamb, and the hawk the chicken; so the vul-
         ture scorns carrion, and feeds upon the choicest  dainties;  so
         the fox forgets his cunning, and the snake  to crawl  upon its
         belly on the ground."
           I laughed savagely, and my laughter seemed to terrify him.
           " I believe you are deceiving me about Leroy," I continued.
         " K you are, remember you are in my power, and, if  I dis-
         cover your  duplicity by any circumstances which the future
         may develop-----"
           " I tell you, he perished."
           " Well, let it  be that he perished — all must perish.  What
         was your object  in abducting the maidens ? "
           " I deny the charge."
           He was  sitting upright  upon the earth, for his bands did
         not p^-mit him to assume a standing position.
           " Take that for your hypocrisy ! " I shouted, and dealt him
P        a stunning blow upon the head, which laid him senseless upon
         the ground. 
92
SILVER-KNIFE :
                 CHAPTER  XIV.

                        CAPTIVITY.

  As I walked  away and left  him,  I saw  a purple  stream
welling  from his temples.   I passed  Wickliffe and Sutler
without a word,  for it may be easily imagined that I was not
in a mood for words.  They saw my excited manner, and suf-
fered me to go my way without question.  I felt the need of
cool air, for it seemed hot and  suffocating where Burrill was,
as if he had rendered it  so  by his presence.  I  believe the
breath of one villain will create an atmosphere foul enough to   0
sicken a dozen honest men.   I met the balmy winds that came
sighing  down the river, and they were as grateful to my burn-
ing brow  as  a  bath  of cold water to him upon  whom the
fever-demon has  laid his scorching fingers.
  Just before me was a high bluff, one of many such.   Upon
the water side it arose perpendicularly to the height of thirty
or forty feet.  It  resembled those rocky headlands  I  have
seen upon the sea-shore.  I mounted to the top of this bluff,
and seated myself  where I could look down into the waters of
the White-Earth.   I sat there and watched the stars as they
came out, one by  one, to gem  the diadem  of night, and my
brain teemed  with thought.  As I  listened to the voice of
Nature, while she spoke through the winds, and the birds, and
the running  waters,  I  grew calmer.   Aided by the  gentle
moon and her satellites, I took  out my tablets and wr^,e, or
attempted to write, lines like the following.   I cannot recall
them, word for word, because they were lost;  and, indited at
that hour, could  have been  scarcely intelligible if  preserved;
but the  overtasked mind seeks anything for employment.
  " I have been angry — it may be, cruel; but what I have
done was for the  sake of Madeleine.  I have solved the mystery
at last,  and the ruffian's name is Burrill.   I shall compel him
to lead us to the maidens.  He  begins to know me for what I
really am.  The wicked are  ever craven-spirited.  *  *   *
Madeleine is unharmed.  It is possible I may see  her again#
  *  *  *  But why these  forebodings?   I thought tWbj
had passed, and  given place to more manly impulses.   *    *
It is hard to tell what new mood I may take.  The imagina- 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
D3
 tion is a wayward thing.   Perhaps  I  shall become a disciple
 of Don  Quixote, and  believe in enchantment and other ex-
 travagances.  *  *   *   I need sleep, and this  relapse into
 the dismals may owe its origin to that.  *   *   *    Very
 mild is the night.   The air is cool and balmy, and the breezes •
 seem to chide me for my moodiness.  The nightingale is sing-
 ing his song, and the waters flash and sparkle far down below
 me.  *   *   *  Has Burrill seen  and spoken to Madeleine ?
 Has he insulted her with  offers of love ?  Why was he away
 from her ?  Time perhaps will show.  Good angels defend the
 restless  Madeleine and the calm Mary !  May the time when
 I can strike a blow for her-----"
   I was interrupted — a hand was laid upon my shoulder.
 I sprang to my feet — a painted warrior stood beside me.
   " White man walk woods," he said,  meaning that I was his
 prisoner, and should go with him.   For  a  reply I planted a
 blow between his eyes  that stretched him upon the ground.
   But  that was  only the  commencement  of  my  trouble;
 another was  upon me  before I had time to recover  myself.
 He was a strong fellow, and  I was  likely to have the worst
 of it.   I  had incautiously left my hunting-knife, and now
 felt the want of it bitterly; for I perceived the Indian was
 trying to get his from  his  belt.  Resolving not to die  alone
 and unavenged, I concentrated  all my physical powers, and,
 lifting him in  my arms, leaped  from  the  bluff, and we went
 whirling down the dizzy height.  I had no thought but death —
 I did not expect to  escape; but the waters proved deeper
 than J had thought.   I arose to the surface  after a terrible
 plunge, still held by the nervous arm of the Indian.   Grasp-
 ing him firmly by the  throat, I held his head under until his
 hands relaxed their hold, and  the limbs  straightened out;
 then pushed him from  me and swam to  the shore, faint and
 exhausted.  Meanwhile the brave upon the bluff had  recov-
 ered from  the stunning blow I had  dealt him, and now sent
 forth  his  shrill war-whoop,  which  was answered  from the
 adjacent wood by a hundred  savage throats.  My rifle and
revolvers, also, had carelessly  been left at the encampment.  I
had only a brace of common duelling-pistols in my belt, and
they were  now rendered  useless by their  recent  drenching.
If I could  not fight,  I  must run; and so I made the attempt.
but it was  only an attempt, for  I was hemmed  in on every 
94
SILVER-KNIFE :
  side.   Despairing of escape in  that  way, I  threw irtj*&.
  down upon the earth among a  growth of ferns  and reeds
  in the hope that I might happily be overlooked.
     I  had  scarcely assumed that  position when  I  heard  tha
. terrible voice of Burrill, and felt my case was indeed a pre-
  carious and hopeless one.   The Iudians had released him un-
  questionably,  and he  was  inciting them to vengeance.   I
  reproached myself bitterly that I had  not slain him on  the
  spot, and  that  through my means his  Crow friend had been
  suffered to escape to bring his people to destroy us.   They
  came very near, and I heard them pass on every side.  I was
  in an agony of suspense, and prayed  fervently that my fate
  might be decided quickly.  Not the least painful thought was,
  what will  become of the Leroy family,  in case of my capture ?
  Once the tide of dusky figures rolled away in another direc-
  tion ; but it speedily swept back  again.   And Burrill  came
  also, foaming with rage, exhorting the Crows to activity, and
  to look behind every tree, and  beat every  bush.  Several
  times he passed so near my hiding-place that I  could have
  touched him with a yard-stick, or  dashed my pistols  in his
  face with  but a slight exertion of the arm.   I will not assert
  that I  was entirely composed; or that I did not feel a sickly,
  painful anxiety in regard to the result.  I should have been
  something more than human not to have  experienced  sensa-
  tions of a character  extremely unpleasant, and  bordering  on
  the horrible.
     The knight of La Mancha himself, although a very proper
  and valorous knight, had he been placed in just such actua-
  tion, would have  envied the low estate of Panza during the
  blanket-tossing, or the  discipline of the  pack-staves.   I  do
  not think  I am a coward.  I never acted the part of one in
  positions of danger, and I have braved death  more  than  once;
  but,  as I lay there amid the ferns and reeds, and heard  the
  cries and footsteps of the wild sons of the wilderness, the per-
  spiration rolled from my face in great drops.  Lying  there
  like  a dog was a different thing from facing the enemy like a
  man, and  having the question of life and death  resolved at
  once.  Suspense  makes the boldest  heart tremble,  and  the
  certainty that follows is a relief,  let that certainty be of what-
  ever character it may.
     I  had  a presentiment, after I heard  his voioe, that Bur- 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
95
        rill would be the man  to  discover me;  nor was I  mis-
        taken.   He  approached the spot where I lay, and  his  eyes
        gleamed upon me like a basilisk's.   I did not give  him time
        to commence an attack, but, leaping from the earth, knocked
        him down with a pistol, and ran for dear life.  I should have
        done very well had I continued running;  but unfortunately I
        ran against a Crow warrior, and a rough-and-tumble engage-
        ment took place, during which we both rolled over  and  over
        an infinitude of times.   I  succeeded finally in  getting him
 !       beneath me, and freed myself from him  by dashing his head
        against a stone  several times with all  my strength, which I
        have reason to  believe deranged  his mental faculties  more
        than several touches of the nightmare!  As I continued my
        flight, I saw Wickliffe and Sutler in the distance fighting like
        lions; and they were not alone. I heard the crack of a rifle that
        sounded  like old " Ironsides," and a war-cry that  reminded
        me of Silver-Knife;  but in that moment of excitement J was
        by no means sure I was right  in my conjectures; j c the
        bare possibility of being  right gave  me a thrill  of  pit  sure.
          Alas!  I  was not  destined  to  join them.   A blow ft am a
'       tomahawk laid me low.   I  know little of what followed im-
        mediately ;  there was a period of darkness without SLV't dark-
        ness  within.  The world, and all  I had known, or felt,  or
        feared, were lost in that  darkness.  When my :  ^,as  once
        more became connected,  I was lying on my bad*   I felt a
        painful sensation about my wrists and  ankles, an 4  perceived
        that I was bound hand and foot.   The sound of conflict had
        nearly ceased, though a random shot occasional"/ told that it
        was still  going  on at a distance.   I was  not «ione; a Crow
»       warrior stood near me, with weapons in his h*,nds.  His vigils
        were quite  useless, for I  was  bound  so thoroughly there was
        but little prospect of escape.   He was  soo'i joined by others.
        My feet were unbound, and I was ordered to march.   There
        was no alternative but  to  obey, and I followed my captors.
        We had not proceeded  far before Burrill  made  his appear-
        ance ; and a most unwelcome appearance  it was.  He wore
        an expression that boded no good.  I did not deign to notice
        him, and gave no sign that I knew he was near.  The dark
        scowl upon his  face  gave place  to a derisive laugh as  he
        approached. 
96
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " Well, Ferguson, you are on your last march! " he said,
triumphantly.
  I scorned to answer him.
  " You will never walk over this ground again.  Every step
takes you nearer to your  grave.   Let me quote  a little to
you.  ' If a man die here, in this wilderness, what bird will
fly to call for retribution ?'   Is n't that poetical ? "
  I made no reply.                      •
  " You said something about wolves which I cannot remem-
ber ; but you may rest  assured they will not eat so much  as
a joint of your frame.  Do you understand that ? "
  He paused for an  answer.
  " Silent are you — silent as an Indian ?  I shall teach you
to speak.   What think you of Madeleine Leroy ? "
  I  was still  mute, although my blood  boiled  to hear him
speak the name of Madeleine.
  " Would you take Mary for Madeleine ?  Jacob took Leah
for Rachel, you  know.  I should be willing  to  make  almost
any sacrifice for you, we are such good friends."
  I longed to strike him upon the mouth;  but I could  not;
my hands were bound.
  " What would you like to have done with your ashes, Mr.
Ferguson ?  Anything I can do for you,  in  their final dispo-
sition, will give me pleasure.  What kind  of  fagots should
you prefer for your funeral  pile ?  Some have a choice;  one
prefers  hard wood,  another  soft, a third  pitch-pine,  and a
fourth birch-bark.   Shall be happy to  oblige you — have a
great assortment of combustibles."
  He paused again.
  " Perhaps you leave  all  these  matters to me, and trust to
my experience and better judgment; you could n't do better.
I shall not fail to attend to these little  preliminaries, like a
faithful friend."
  Another silence.
   " I suppose you know you are  not alone in disgrace ?  The
sight of a friend will raise your  spirits,  no  doubt; and here
he comes."
   I turned suddenly at these words,   and my eyes rested
upon the noble figure of Silver-Knife.  He was  a little in the
rear, and bound like myself.   He was singing his death-song
in a clear, ringing voice.  It had a wild and startling effect 
AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
97
upon me.   He told  of  the exploits of  his  fathers; of his
people; of  his own, and the vengeance his tribe would  take
upon their enemies.
   In substance it was something like the lines which follow,
though it was much more prolix.*
    " Wabuma! Wabuma! the warrior shall die;
      'Tis the voice of Monedo, He speaks from on high;
      The form that is lofty in dust shall be laid —
      Monkonawon hears it, and is not afraid:
      Though the form that is lofty in dust shall be laid.

    "0 Minno Monedo! he will not delay,
      The soul of the chieftain entreats not to stay;
      Like the eagle unconquered his spirit shall soar,
      And defy them till malice can torture no more:
      And his spirit untamed like the eagle shall soar.

    " Go look in his wigwam, and see if you know
      The scalps that once grew on the head of the Crow;
      He tore them away ere the life-blood was cold,
      From the heads of the young, and the heads of the old:
      Ere the blood in their bodies was thickened and cold.

    " Tour warriors and chieftains  like squaws he has slain,
      Ye never shall see them in  battle again;           •
      And long shall the living remember to tell
      The deeds of Monkonawon  ever he fell:
      Your people shall ever remember to tell.

    "0 Minno Monedo! he looks unto thee;
      Sustain through the  torture, whatever it be;
      Give courage and  strength  to the soul of the Brave,
      And glory and sunshine shall rest on his grave:
      Give firmness and strength  to the heart of the Brave.

    " His young men shall come in the strength of their might,
      Pursue you by day, and surprise you by night;
      Not one shall escape,— not a chieftain  shall live, —
      For Monkonawon's warriors never forgive:
      And none shall escape — not a warrior 6hall live."


  * The term wabuma signifies, Behold thou, or, Attend thou.  Monedo,
as most persons know, signifies God or Spirit.  Munkonawon is an abbre-
viation and corruption of the hero's Indian name.   Minno, means good.

                  9 
9S
SILVER-KNIFE :
                 CHAPTER  XV.

                         DOOMED.

  Three hours'  march  took us to the  Crow  encampment.
Daring  that time  I had  exchanged no  words with Silver-
Knife. " He had  manifested no surprise at seeing me, and
noticed  me only by a  slight movement of the head.   Our
entry into the camp was hailed  with a  terrible clamor by the
women and children.  Insults of every kind were offered us.
oqaaws reviled us, and naked children  made wry faces.  We
were firmly secured in the lodge of one of the chiefs, and it
was  a  consolation  to  have  my  fellow-prisoner near.   He
bore his misfortunes with true Indian dignity.  In the  na-
tive pride of his character, he soared far above the malice of
his captors.  A warrior was  stationed  near the door of the
lodge, and we were left to our  reflections for the remainder
of the night.  Once, Burrill looked in to see if all was secure,
and went away apparently highly satisfied with  what he had
seen.   I *ow had  an  opportunity to converse  with Silver-
Knife.
   " What know you of  my friends, and how came you hith-
er ? " I asked, quickly.
   " The maidens  beloved  by  the pale  medicine  man  are
prisoners."
   " Where are Leroy and Basil ? "
   " They have been on the trail of the Crows, and the war-
chief has been with them."
   " Why did you leave  me ? "
   " We thought the medicine  man was dead.   Our hearts
were heavy; but we could not stay. The Crows were bearing
away in triumph the wife  and  daughters of Long Rifle.  To
do good to the living, we left the dead, wishing him a pleas-
ant journey to the  happy hunting-grounds.   We have dogged
the footsteps of our enemies ever since.   To-night they attacked
your camp.   We heard the  sound  of  firing.  We  hastened
to your assistance, and heard  news of you.  They told  us
you were in danger, and perhaps at that moment a prisoner.
We fought desperately.   Many of the enemy fell;  but there 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
99
were too many to contend with.   We retreated step by step,
fighting as we went.   I was at last overpowered and taken
prisoner.   My hours  are  numbered; the  red  warrior  will
die."
   " You will not die alone.   I shall perish with you.  These
demons are merciless;  they will burn us.   And, even were
they disposed to mercy, that white  fiend would  change their
mood."
   " Bad man is the  snake in the grass.   He is the child of
Machinito, the bad spirit.   But you  must  die  like a man.
Do not shrink  from  the  smoke when  it stifles, or  the  fire
when it burns.   Sing your death-song, and tell of the war-
riors  you  have slain.  Let them not call  my  white friend
a  squaw.  You have  been brave in battle.  The mighty in
war have fallen before you.  Death is a journey to a better
land.   The tortures of a day will be forgotten in the happy
hunting-grounds.  We  shall not die there, neither  shall we
make war any more with our enemies.   Nobody weeps there;
and all faces shine with happiness.  The fields are very green,
and the trees never grow old and wither.  The game abounds,
and we shall pursue it through a country very beautiful  and
pleasant, whose delightful verdure  is eternal.  We shall  not
stumble upon the graves of our fathers  in  hunting, for there
are no graves  there.  No sun shines there, for the smiles of
Monedo will  give us light.   Sparkling rivers are there,
whose waters  impart everlasting youth and freshness.  Who
would not dwell in that country ?   We will  journey together
to the pleasant land, where the shadows of our fathers are."
   " But Madeleine !  Who will pluck her away from the hand
of the destroyer ?  How can I die and leave her in danger ?"
   " Monedo is the father of the helpless and innocent.   He
will make her his care. Perhaps he will take her by the hand
and lead her from her enemies, or  you may meet her in the
hunting-grounds of our fathers.   Do  I not leave children ?
Do I ask who shall care for the Morning  Star and the Sing-
ing Bird ?  They are very dear  to  the red man's heart;  but
he fears not to trust them with the  Master of Lite,"
   " It is hard for the young to die  before they have  scarcely
tasted the cup of life."
   "It is better to die young than to die old; for the old grow
doting  and foolish, and are remembered  as children.   The 
100
SILVER-KNIFE :
young man passes away in his strength, and is remembered as
one comely and  brave.   The aged  are like the old and with-
ered trunk, fit only to lie down in the  dust.  They shake  and
tremble at every breath that blows.   The  young man is  like
the young  sapling, whose fibres  are tough and strong.  He
can die with more  courage, and leave a  great name.  His
people mourn his loss, and youthful maidens shed tears to his
memory."
  This was good Indian philosophy, but it consoled  me but
little.  I was not so  much  afraid  of death,  as the man-
ner of dying.   I could go  forth and  be shot; I could lay
my head  upon  a block, and  have  it  cut  off  at  a blow;
but who, save an Indian, could  brook the thought of being
burned ?   Where is  the man whose nerves are strung of the
right material for such a hellish ordeal ?  Do you know him ?
can you point him out ? have you seen him ?  And this is not
even the merciful burning which the martyrs  had; but the
slow, the thrice  slow torture of the slow fire,  aided,  abetted
and aggravated, ten thousand fold, by savage arts and devices.
Good heavens! how can human flesh brook the living fire ?
  Would to God that what is called  life were  nothing more
substantial  than a  dream.  I would  barter  all my hopes of
the future,  all my ideas of  a heaven, for the certainty that life
were an idea — only an idea :  something like the  light, airy,
misty clouds that rest for a single instant upon the disc of the
moon.
  *  *   *  And  I must die.  Solemn thought.   Let me
repeat the words; let me dwell upon them well.   I must die!
And what then ?   What comes after death ?  Is it judgment,
or is  it  the  cold rottenness of  the grave ?  I  wonder if the
doctrine  of life  hereafter  is a  truth, real and awful!  My
mother thought so;  she prayed too.   And I shall never be-
hold her again,  never gaze upon the brow whereon the light
and the shadow have rested by turns.   My exit will write an-
other line there, where the cloud  shall linger forever.    *    *
  Is Wickliffe a believer ?  or does he  reject such things  as
airy nothings ?   The views of the strong-minded man must  be
worth something.  And yet what can they be worth to a dying
man ?   Can an arm of flesh sustain me ?  Alas ! no.   Where,
then, shall  I turn my despairing eyes ?  Is there hope in the
Cross?   Is there peace in the smiles of the Nazarene ?  But 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
lul
I have spurned Christ.  I have not made him the man of my
counsels;  and God has not been in my thoughts.  And this is
another of the inconsistencies of the creature called man.
  Tiie Christians hang, and the Indians burn.  Which is the
most  dreadful?   How  horrible it  must be  to see a  human
creature fastened to an upright post, and burned to ashes! If
it be  horrible to see, how much worse must it be to suffer!
And yet helpless women have been burned, for God's sake, by
professing Christians.   But it is  a  different  thing to die for
one's  religion; for  God is with the martyr.  What has been
may be again; and in the hour trial even i  may suffer like  a
man, if not like a Christian.
    *********
   The dark shadows of night lifted and rolled away into eter-
nity.   The  red sun  came  up  in a blaze  of fire, and looked
down upon the great wilderness.  There was a stir and confu-
sion in the camp of the red men; they were gathering around
the council-fire of the great chief.   A grave matter was to be
decided, a question of life and  death.  Captives of import-
ance  had bv.ien taken,  and  now was the hour of doom.  In
solemn silence, the chiefs  and principal warriors took  their
seats upon the earth.   The old men spoke first.   My fate was
soon decided.
   A  chief with gray  hair made  a speech  of some  length,
 which was interpreted to me by Silver-Knife.
   " Warriors," he  said, " does any of you  know whether the
 white man has  a country of his own 1  If  he has a country,
 and hunting-grounds, why does he come to  take our game, and
 kill our  people ?  Why does he not stay at home, and hunt,
 and slay  his awn people ?   I will tell you; it is because he is
 not willing the red men should live.  He wishes  to kill  them
 all, and  possess their  lands.   I have  heard it  said that the
 pale-faces came across the Big Water in  large  canoes, and
 that our  people used them well, and smoked  the pipe of  peace
 with  them.  But they forgot this kindness, and  presently be-
 gan to kill  them.   They drove  back the  red men from their
 hunting-grounds, and took possession of their land.  The white
 man  and the Indian cannot live  together.   The latter dies.
 while the first  lives and  prospers.  We soon shall have no
 place  to  dwell in.   Our country will  be  taken from us, and
 our fathers' graves will be defiled.
                 9# 
102
SILVER-KNIFE:
  " The  pale-faces were born  our enemies.   We must slay
them wherever we find them.  They show us no mercy, and
we  will show none to them.  They say they came to trade
with us, and that the Great Father has sent us good  wishes.
But what do we know of the Great  Father, and what  do we
care for good  wishes?  We want hunting-knives and guns.
We have never seen the Great Father, and the tales they tell
of his power may be all fictions, to frighten Indians.
  " AY hen they come to trade, they bring us articles of no
value; and they cheat us, and tell us lies.   If their Great
Father is like themselves, we don't want to know him, for he
would drink  fire-water, and get drunk.  Such a great chief
would  look bad drunk, and would not be fit to rule Indians.
This pale-face is one of our enemies.   He came out, like the
rest of them, to fight, and kill us, and make us drunk with his
fire-water, so that we  should act like beasts, and not like men.
  " We  will kill him, and there will be one ravenous bird the
less to buzz about our ears.   The blood of the Crows  he has
slain calls for vengeance.   They will not rest well in  their
graves till  he is  dead.  Let him die like a dog, or any vile
thing that should be trodden on."
  This address was received with much enthusiasm and ap-
plause.   It accorded well with Indian notions of justice.  An-
other chief  arose and said,
  " He had listened  to  the  words of the wise and eloquent
chief, and they were just and good.   Let the pale-face perish
to-morrow.   He has coufe to us, no doubt, with lies and  fire-
water, and his thoughts are evil toward us.   He has slain two
of our warriors.   Let him sing his death-song, and die."
  Burrill, during  this time, sat in silence.   He was  dressed
after the fashion of a chief of  distinction.  He had given no
sign of  emotion during the harangues of the chiefs,  save an
occasional exclamation, like
   " It is good !  It is just! "
   He now arose slowly to his feet, and fixed  his serpent  eyes"
upon me.  I met  his  cold, revengeful  gaze  with a smile of
scorn.
   Yes, I would have smiled, had I been assured it would have
been the last indication  of contempt ever wreathed upon  my
lips.   I felt a nameless, desperate pleasure in looking back his
hate with no sign of unmanly shrinking.  They might have 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
103
torn my flesh with hot pincers, and wrung from me no cry of
agony.
  He averted his eyes, disconcerted; and then, as if ashamed,
turned them upon me  again.   But  there was that  in  mine
that  made  him  quail.  Perhaps I  looked  as  I did  when
I stood before  him with a pistol levelled at his head.   His
self-control was now put to the test, for passions ungovern-
able were struggling within him.  At that moment he wished
for the strength of the lion, that he might fall upon and tear
me limb from limb.  As for me, my strength grew with  the
occasion, and a strange, almost breathless calmness pervaded
my soul.  I could defy him —defy any, every thing.   I saw
the eyes  of Silver-Knife fixed  upon me in admiration and
pride, such  as a father might feel  for a son; while a smile,
strange in  its  placidity, trembled  upon his lips, and lent a
light  unearthly to^is lofty features.
   Burrill spoke.
   " I have  listened to  the words of the  fathers of my adopted
people,  and  they have fallen upon  my ears like dew upon the
herbs, or rain upon the grass.  I have gathered wisdom from
the motion of their lips, for they have grown wise by experience
and age.
   " The  war-chiefs have  spoken  truly of  the pale-faces.
Their voices have been to me like the voice of Monedo.  The
whites were once my people. I dwelt with them many moons.
But  when  I grew  old, I  learned they were  bad.   I heard
them tell lies to the Indians, and saw them make thein drunken
with  fire-water.   My heart grew  bitter  against them.   I
would not dwell in their lodges.  I reproached them for their
wickedness, and, shaking the dust off my feet for a testimony
against them, went out from among them. I wandered solitary
and sad in the wilderness, because I could find no people after
my heart.   Then  I heard of the great Crow nation, and knew
that they were  those I was destined to dwell with in peace.  I
came to  you.   We smoked the calumet  of peace  wgether,
and the smoke went down  to the earth,  and  up  to heaven, in
token we called  on both  to  witness  our good  faith.   We
hunted and  dwelt together.  When I   told you of the pale
maiden whom  I  had  set my heart  upon,  your warriors bade
me go  and  get her, and make a wife of her.  Then I went
to her land afar off, and beheld her face again. 
104
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " Monedo favored me, and she journeyed into the wilder-
ness with her friends.   This pale-face came with  her, for  he
thought to take her away from me, and make her mistress  of
his own lodge.  I warned him to keep away ; but he heeded
me not.  At length your warriors came,  and we took the pale
flower  away, and she and her relations are with us now.
  " I was wounded and sick, and I told your warriors to hasten
on with the  captives, and I  would follow as fast as my strength
would  permit.   I did, and behold, this son of Machinito  came
upon me at night to do me evil.   He dogged my  footsteps,
with other pale-faces whom he happened to find.   They  made
me a prisoner, and menaced me with death.  Again your war-
riors came and saved me.   You are a great people —I hope
you will live forever.   You say the white man must die, and
you are wise;  he  deserves to die.   But, before  he dies, let
him  witness my espousal with  the  white ^iden.   We shall
see whether he will  bear it  like a warrior, or like a squaw.
What  say the great war-chiefs ? "
  A murmur of approbation  ran along the circle of braves.
  And now my fate was sealed.   There was  no  longer  a
doubt.  I was to die, and by fire.   But this was not all;  I
was to behold the  ruin  of  Madeleine first, as  a  terrible pre-
lude to the flames.
   This was the work of Burrill, and it staggered me  like  a
blow from a strong hand; I heard a ringing sound in my ears,
and felt a horrible faintness and sickness in my brain.  Was
it for  this that I had been  reserved — to witness the desecra-
tion of the  idol I had set up  in the  most sacred place  in  my
soul, to worship ?  Was it  for this I had been  a pilgrim in
the wilds ?  Was  it  for this that I had followed  the footsteps
of that girl ?  An espousal!  0, mockery !   O, blasphemy !
 I will burst these bands.   I will trample down my tormentors
 to  the dust.   I---- Hush! be quiet, my thoughts! — back,
 maduess !   The eyes of the fiend Burrill are  fixed  exultingly
 upon me, and I would not have him  read my agony for a  world.
    *********
   Silver-Knife is doomed also — doomed to the  stake  and
 the flame.   But he heeds it not.   His thoughts  appear to be
 somewhere else.   *  * *  The council is  broken up ;  but
 I still hear the voice of Burrill; it comes to me like an echo
 from  the   bottomless pit.   How  dare the wretch  speak of 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
105
espousing a pure woman ?  *  *   *   Is it possible Heaven
will suffer such iniustice  and cruelty?  Shall Madeleine  be
sacrificed ?  I can familiarize myself with the idea of death ;
but  I cannot with  that;  it is  a drop  more than I can bear,
and not go mad.          _______

   Bound with  thongs  of deerskin, we  awaited the morrow,
that we might die.   No hope of rescue ; the encampment was
full of warriors. The day rolled away, and I tried  to reconcile
myself to death.   I thought of my sins, and prayed that God
in his infinite mercy would forgive.  I knew it was the eleventh
hour; but even that hour is not hopeless, and very few think
seriously of death before that time.
   I thought of the words of Holy Writ, and regretted I had
not made them o/tener  my prayer: " So teach us to  number
our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."  But
men  seldom  number their days.  They rather  make it  a
point to think them limitless.   When they feel the touch of
the  hand that  is  never warm  and welcome,  the appalling
thought occurs for the first time that they must die, and pass
into utter darkness.   Dark is the  grave, but light, bright  is
the doctrine of the resurrection to the believer.
   The night drew on;  the last  night.  The words stunned
and paralyzed me.   The last night — the very last  upon this
side of the vast and  terrible boundary which is a dread mys-
tery to the living.   To-morrow  night the moon  and stars will
shine upon my  ashes.  Hartley Ferguson will be swept from
the faffi of the earth as  completely as if he had never inhaled
the  breath  of life.   What,  then ?   Speak!  ye  who  have
gone before, — speak from the tomb, from your rottenness and
corruption, and  tell  me what ye  have seen,  what ye have
felt,  what ye have suffered, what ye have  enjoyed!  Speak,
I adjure  you!  Speak, for it  cannot violate your fealty to
the Imperishable.  He will permit this  much to one about to
die — I know, I feel that He will.   Still ye are silent, gods,
angels, saints, spirits, all!  I rave — I wander;  and the soul
of the untutored Indian  is calm. 
106                   SILVER-KNIFE :
                 CHAPTER  XVI.

                        REDEEMED.

  The sun was setting, when a warrior looked into the lodge
where we were secured.   I thought little of the circumstance,
for many had looked in upon us during the day.  I  did not
heed him, for  I was endeavoring  to  fix my  thoughts  upon
heaven, from  which  they  had wandered  from childhood.
He advanced to  the  middle  of the lodge, and stood like a
statue of stone.  I gave him no attention.   Silver-Knife was
chanting solemnly portions of his death-song.  The  intruder
uttered a low,  guttural sound.  I raised  my eyes. A figure,
tall and majestic, stood near, with folded arms.   Could I
credit  my senses ? or was I  mad ?   The  face and  form of
Wickliffe  were before  me — calm,  quiet, unruffled,  self-pos-
sessed ;  the same inexplicable being I had met so strangely
on the  prairies, who had attached himself to my interest in
such a mysterious  manner.   I  did not  cry out,  for my
thoughts came quickly, and  taught me how to act.   An un-
guarded exclamation might have endangered my  friend.  In
externals, Wickliffe was  an Indian.   The robe of skins, the
leggins, the moccasins, the paint upon the face, the hair, and
even the expression, were all in keeping with  that character.
He held up his finger in token of silence.
  " At midnight expect me.—You shall not die. — I #ill save
you ! " he said in a whisper,  laid  his finger once more  upon
his  lips, waved his hand, and glided from the   lodge.  0!
what a welcome visitor was that man of mystery!  The words
rang in my ears a thousand, thousand times — "You  shall
not die; I will save you."    My  breath came, my   heart
beat once  more.  " At  midnight  expect me."   Heavenly
Father, I thank thee!  Thou hast  not forgotten me in my
low estate.
  I  exchanged  glances  with Silver-Knife.  Our very looks
spoke — spoke of life, of happiness.  No, I  could  scarcely
think of happiness;  that could be found only in the  smiles
of Madeleine.   My fellow-prisoner might be happy ;  but not
I.  The time was past when such ideas filled  my heart; the 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
107
shadow of Madeleine no longer fell thereon.  Why should  I
rejoice at the hope of deliverance, when she was still in deadly
peril ?   Wretch that I was, to forget her an instant in my
selfishness!  As if I could  find pleasure  in freedom,  or  a
delight anywhere  without her.  *   *  *  *   And  I  to
escape, and leave her in the power of Burrill.  But stay !   I
am too fast.   I may not escape.   Wickliffe may be discov-
ered and fail;  and the consequence of that failure will  be
— will be — death.
   Hours and minutes are long when great events hang upon
them.   When they decide the question  of living or dying,
each second has  a gray hair for  the temples and a wrinkle
for the face.   Burrill came in the evening, taunted and re-
viled me.   He  pictured the happiness of himself and Made-
leine.  He spoke of her as loving  him, and scorning  me.   I
remembered the evening when I had taken her hand, and how
she withdrew it; and  deemed,  for the moment, that  Burrill
Bpoke  the truth, and no lie.  He talked of his lodge, .and her
as the light of it.   He knew his  words wrung my soul with
a strong agony, and he dwelt long on the picture so  hateful
to my  contemplation.  After that he spoke  of the stake, the
fagot,  and the fire.  I  could not  resent — I could but hear
him.   I shut my eyes  and let  him talk on.  When he had
ceased through want  of words,  I  spoke to  him  for the first
time since I had been in his power.  I mastered  myself, and
spoke  calmly also; yes, calmly, for the will is omnipotent
when it awakes, and shakes itself like a lion, and clothes  itself
in strength.
   " Burrill, I will speak to you, perhaps for the last time.  I
am, it appears, very near death; and I will speak as  a  dying
man, and not as a dying Christian.  Hear me ftnd tremble,
for cowards always tremble at the truth.   I am  now so near
my dissolution  that my words must be to you like  the  words
of inspiration, and as such you may regard them."
   My voice  was very deep and solemn, for I meant to in-
timidate and awe him.   He was startled at my manner.
   " Burrill, you are a villain, and a murderer.  You have be-
trayed the innocent, as Judas  Iscariot betrayed his Master.
The price of blood is upon your  hands.  To-morrow-night it
will cry from  the ground where my ashes repose, and you
will hear the cry.  You will  never  sleep soundly after that. 
108
SILVER-KNIFE :
That cry will be ever in your  ear, louder than ten-fold thun-
der ; and I also will  be near you.  You shall see me scorched
and blackened, as I soon shall be.  The spectacle will be too
terrible for you; it will fill you with horror.   The time shall
come,  if this  deed be done, when you would give all  your
hopes of salvation to bid me  live.   I will  haunt  you till I
drive you mad; but  I doubt if  you ever live to go mad, for
something speaks within me, and tells me your end is  near.
God will not suffer you to live long to pollute the air.   You
will pass away in darkness and in blood.  Eternal justice will
overtake and  hurl you  to  the  dust — to  the pit — to  hell
itself!   I warn you, — I warn you  by God  above, and Satan
beneath, not to wrong Madeleine Leroy, or her gentle sister."
   The ruffian  shuddered, and grew pale.
   " I will not rest until I have  scathed your scoundrel  heart
with the eternal fires.  I will fill your veins with the hissing
poison of remorse.  I will follow you in dark  places; I will
terrify you with a burning hand that never shall-----"
   " Hold!  hold! or I shall  slay you on the spot! " he cried,
and rushed from  me, as if the curses I had invoked were
already taking effect.
   "A small heart has  the  snake in the grass," said Silver-
Knife.
   " ' The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' " I replied.
   A minute had not elapsed before Burrill appeared again at
the door of the lodge, and shook his clenched hand at me.
   " What do you think of the white stranger who promised us
deliverance ? "  I asked of Silver-Knife.
   " He had the look of  one who would  come to us through
fire and water.  There  was decision  in his movements, the
pride of thdf eagle in his eye, the firmness of an Indian upon
his lips.  He  is brave."
   " Then you have met him before ? "
   " I  have; and who can  see and forget him ?   He scorns
danger; he laughs in the face of death."
   " Where have you seen him ? "
   " I  have seen him upon the  hills, and in the valleys;  on
the prairies, and on the high mountains; and he was always
the same.  If I told him of danger, he  smiled ; if I told him
to fly, he frowned.   He  is too proud to tell his thoughts to
strangers, especially to the Indian.   The Indians  know-and 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
109
 fear him;  they never seeft — they shun  him.  Yet he has
 influence with  some of the Indian tribes; but he  scorns to
 exert it."
   " Such is Wickliffe," I  answered.   " You have  described
 him well.  But he has a heart — a soul;  I respect — I love
 him.  He has been near to save me in the hour of  peril;  he
 has hovered about like an angel of beneficence to shield and
 bless me.  I know not why it is thus.  I cannot fathom  him;
 he is too deep for me; and I  have kept my eyes open at  night
 to  ponder and weigh  his actions.   Yes, he will come —
 come to snatch us from death."  *     *     *    *
   Perhaps he loves  Madeleine!  Why have I not thought
 of this before ?  He saw her, and a single glance Was enough.
 But  no! away with the thought;  it  is  folly, it is ingrati-
 tude,  and  the  heart's foul  madness.  To doubt Wickliffe,
 to  accuse him of selfishness, is  baseness.  *  *   *  'Tis
 dark now.   *   *  *  Several  hours of  the  solemn  night
 have gone.   It must be near  midnight.  * +*   *   How
 can he come ?   *   *   *   They will  discover him — no
 human being can save us, and I shall be obliged to witness the
 sacrifice on the morrow.   *  *   *   Burrul and Madeleine!
 what mockery !   *  *  *   It is past midnight — I know it
 must be — the night has been terribly long.   *   *  *   I
 am  not ready to die!  I  am unfitted entirely; this forlorn
 hope has destroyed me.   Perhaps I might have died like a
 man, if I had not  hoped  for  escape.  It is the certainty that
 makes a man  prepare himself.  *  *  *   No,  he won't
 come.  *  *  *   I  shall  perish.  Silver-Knife  is calm.
 He  says it lacks  an hour of midnight.   *  *  *  I  can't
 believe it.   The day already begins  to streak the horizon.
 *   *  *   The  light will soon stream  in  at the  door  of
 the  lodge.  *   *   *  The  sun will  be up, and I  shall
 catch a glimpse of  my last  sunrise.   *  *   *   And yet
 Silver-Knife tells me it is not midnight.   He must be mad;
 this terrible suspense has turned and unsettled his  mind.   I
 don't wonder; my own brain is unsteady, and strange  faces
 go  dancing  before my eyes.  *   *  *   I  should  like  to
 look upon the stars once more;  but that cannot be.  I may
see them before I die to-morrow night, possibly.   *  *  *
And  Madeleine!  I would I could see her for a moment
— one miserable moment.  *  *   *   Be firm, my heart —
                   10 
110
SILVER-KNIFE :
be firm!  I must not die like a wbman — let me remember I
am a man, and my spirit should be unconquerable.   *   *  *
I knew he would not come.  *  *   *   He has forgotten
his----.
  One of the skins of which the lodge was composed  was
lifted, and Wickliffe glided in.  Silently he severed our bands
with his hunting-knife, and put arms into our hands.  How
my heart  bounded with joy when  I  felt  my " revolvers"
once more at my side, and my limbs  free!   Our  deliverer
beckoned  us to  follow, lifted  again  the  skin,  and  glided
from  the  lodge as silently  as  he came.   We imitated  his
movements, and stood once more in the open air, armed  and
free.   With a start  of alarm, I  saw half-naked  figures
stretched sleeping upon the ground.   We held our breath as
if the very motion of it would awaken  them, and walked  un-
challenged and unnoticed away.  In a few seconds we were
in a dense thicket.  I saw several dark forms approaching, and
laid  my finger  upon the trigger of my  revolver.  But that
caution was useless; they were my friends, tried and true.
I should have recognized the tall form of Leroy in any place.
His friend and companion, old Ironsides, was by his side.  He
looked grim and forbidding.  I shook  him silently and  fer-
vently by the hand, and then   greeted Sutler and Basil in
like manner, for those persons were indeed present.
  I  felt thankful for  my escape.   Kneeling down  beneath
the moon and  sta'rs, and bowing my  head  in my hands,  I
poured out my gratitude in the ear of the Almighty.   Yes, I
uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, and wept tears of gratitude.
  When  I arose,  the  heads of all present were bared,  and
tears trembled on the lids of Leroy.
  " And now for Madeleine ! " I exclaimed.
  " What would you do ? " asked Leroy.
  "Save her, or perish," I replied, sternly.
  " I 'm going on that  sarvice myself,"  he answered.
  "And I also," added Wckliffe.
  "And I," said Sutler.
  " And I shall not stay behind," said  Basil.
  "Two's  enough," continued   Leroy.   "More  would  en-
danger the whole affair.  And if we don't succeed, why, I am
sure, two's enough  to die  by  the  hands  o' them  heathen
creters." 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
Ill
       " Them 's my feelin's,"  said Sutler,  " and  I '11 be the man
    as '11 go into the camp of the Philistians."
       " No, that I  shall  not permit;  if  there is danger, I will
    dare it.  Death by torture  is horrible; but I do not  fear to
    die fighting like a man, and in a good cause," I added.
       " We have no time to waste," said Wickliffe.  " The Crows
    will soon discover the loss of their prisoners, and then adieu
    to the thought of rescuing the family of Leroy for the present.
    I  am  expecting every instant to  hear  the  sound of hellish
 »  clamor  from  the encampment.    What we do, let  us  do
    quickly."
       " The man of the big heart has spoken well," said Silver-
    Knife, who had hitnerto  been silent.  " I am an Indian ; I
    have been  reared in  the wilderness, and know well the habits
    of the red men.   I am best fitted  to  perform the dangerous
    business you talk of.   Let  the pale  medicine man have his
    way; he  is brave and trusty.   We will  enter  the  enemy's
    lodge together,  and  his knife shall sunder the Ifends  of the
 • prisoners like flax.  The Big Heart, and the Long Rifle, and
    the others, shall be near to help us, in case of^a surprise. Has
 '   the Indian chief spoken wisely ? "
       " There  is wisdom  in  the words of our red brother," .re-
    plied Wickliffe.   " We will not  disregard  them; but it  is
    necessary that  I should go  and  lead the  way.  I know the
    lodge where the captives languish."
       " Let it be so, and God  prosper you! " said Leroy, fervently.
    " But first you must put on the Indian toggery, and paint."
       In five minutes I was transformed, so far as externals went,
    into a Crow warrior.  My  hair was drawn to ,the top of my
) *  head tight, and tied with a string ;  after which it was orna-
    mented profusely with feathers.   My face  was  painted  by
    Silver-Knife in the most approved style. When this was done,
    a  robe of skins was  thrown  over my shoulders, and my toilet
    was soon completed. 
112
BILVER-KNIFE :
                 CHAPTER   XVII.

                 BURRILL  AND  MADELEINE.

   Silence rested upon the Crow village.  The moon and  tho
stars wore  sbining brightly in heaven, to  light the wanderer
upon earth.
   With steps that made no echo, we traversed the borders of
the wood  that skirted the encampment.  The lodge was at jiie  •
extremity of the village.   Wickliffe pointed it out to us.
   " Now  imitate  me," said  the war-chief,  leading the way.
Stooping until his tall figure was nearly double, he gradually
and noiselessly advanced.
   Like a  fox exerting his cunning  to baffle his prey, like  the
panther that gives no warning of his approach, like the ser-
pent creeping in the dank weeds,  we neared the unsuspecting
foe.  We#ere very near  the object of our hopes and fears.
The guide beckoned us to stop.  We did so, and he went forward  •
and put his ear^gainst  the lodge.   No enemy was in sight.
We had approached  the lodge in the rear, and, if a Crow kept
guard, it was upon the other side.
   After a little  pause, Silver-Knife motioned us to approach.
We went  forward, and stood by his side.   Voices came to  our
ears from  within.  One was  the  voice of Burrill:  could I
hear it anywhere upon the  face of  the wide earth, and not re-
cognize it ?   I had heard him speak  but a few times, and  yet
every note,  every  intonation  of his  voice, was graven  upon
my memory, as  by the hand  of  the  Master of Life.  It was
to the mind what branding the flesh with a hot iron would be
to the  body; it  had  left its mark, to endure  forever.   Thus
the tonos  and features of some men become obnoxious.   Had
I  met him  under any circumstances, I could  not have loved
him.  I should  have repulsed and drawn myself away from
him.  We were  natural enemies.   We could  not have been
friends.   I  do  not judge  always  by the face, and indeed,
did I not  see the face at all, I  should either like or dislike ;
for the presence  of a human  being invariably affects  mo
agreeably  or disagreeably,  and makes me a friend or other-
wise, as the case  may be.   Animate bodies,  like inanimate
ones, act upon each other.  The good exert a good influence. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
113
   if they do not speak ; and the bad, if they are dumb, exert a
   bad influence.  The human soul, like mercury, is affected  by
   whatever  approaches  it;  but  it affects, also, whatever  it ap-
   proaches.   In the presence of some people,  my heart is hard
   and stern, and I feel no love or  sympathy with my kind; in
   the society of others, I change, and a thousand bright thoughts
   have birth, and I feel like blessing the whole world.
     The guide  pointed  to  a small opening  in the lodge.   I
   looked in.  By the light of a  smouldering fire I saw four
   persons — Madeleine, Mary, Madge, and Burrill.  The latter
*  w.as standing in  his usual attitude, his arms  folded upon  his
   chest, and  his chin resting almost upon his  breast.  The cap-
   tives were seated upon the ground.  The mother held a hand
   of each.
     " Then you are still obstinate," said Burrill.
     " I reject your conditions," replied Madeleine.
     " Have you considered well  the subject ? Are you prepared
   for the results? "  added Burrill.
     " Considered !   No !   It  needs  no  consideration," she  re-
   torted, rising to her feet with grace and dignity.   " Such a
   subject is beneath my consideration.  Trouble  me  no  more;
   I am resolved.   I am a Leroy; you cannot change me."
     As she stood  there  and  stretched  out her hand, I  saw a
   string  of dressed deer-skin  depending  from her wrist; her
   hands had  been bound, and  the bands were  loosened for the
   occasion.   Even Burrill, perhaps, was ashamed to stand in the
   presence of a woman he had disgraced by  bonds.
     " You know that Ferguson is a prisoner," he continued.
     " I do, if a tongue like yours can be trusted."
     " He dies to-morrow."
     " You wish to intimidate me ! "  cried Madeleine.
     " Your  lover  dies to-morrow; it is  thus decreed  by the
   chiefs and warriors.  Think you they will retract,  and show
   mercy ?  Is it in the nature of a Crow to  be merciful ?  "
     " Did you speak of mercy ?   Stop,  and let the wolves that
   howl in the desert talk of gentleness, and the hyena of kind-
   ness.  Stop, and let every vile  thing  talk  of goodness, and
   every mean thing of greatness."
     " I have not told you all yet," added Burrill, calmly.
     " Can you save him ? "
     " I can."
                     10* 
114
SILVER-KNIFE .
  " And will you ? "
  "No."
  " Then  the curses  of heaven  will fall  upon you!" ex-
claimed Madeleine, wildly.
  " You can save him," answered Burrill.
  " How ?  Tell me, and I will forgive  the wrong you have
done — cease to remember my sufferings — even  strive  to be
your friend,"  she cried, vehemently.
  " Become my wife."
  " No, that may not be."
  " Then Ferguson dies ! "
  She drew up her figure, folded her arms upon her heaving
breast, and was silent.
  " I have not told you how he will die."
  "Speak!"
  " By fire."
  " In the name of mercy, let not this thing be!   I will kneel,
I will sue as  a subject sues to a king,  I  will be your slave;
but your wife, never! "
  " Madeleine, I love  you as one loves  his own hand, or his
own eyes.   Your  foolish obstinacy drives me to  the last
extremity."
  Madeleine sank sobbing upon her knees, and hid her face in
her mother's bosom.
  " Hush, child !  be calm, be strong!   Our Heavenly Father
lives.   His arm is not shortened, that he cannot save, nor his
ear heavy, that he cannot  hear,"  said Madge.   " Do not
despair; trust in him.   Deliverance  may be  near.  When
has been the  time that he hath not tempered the wind to the
shorn lamb, or when have the righteous been forsaken ?   Even
now there is  a whisper of hope  in  my heart, soft, gentle, as
the sweet south-west."
  Madeleine was silent.
  " My children," continued ]\Jadge, " God led the Israelites
forty  years through the wilderness, and  was with them  night
and day;  and while they trusted in him, he delivered them
out of all their afflictions."
  " Beware what you do," said Mary  to Burrill.   " The hour
of retribution may come sooner than you dream.  We  are in
your  power now, it is  true; but some sudden  turn  of the
wheel of fortune may change everything.  Deliverance may 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
115
    come in the hour of our greatest need.  Think you that deeds
    like yours can pass without punishment?   If you do, you
    deceive yourself.   Strong and determined hearts are pursuing
    you ; they will follow you to the death, for vengeance.  Will
    Leroy  forget his wife and  children?  O, no!  the  lion will
    forget  his whelps sooner!  I  feel a presentiment  that  my
    father is near.   I expect  momentarily to hear the crack of his
    deadly rifle.  Well may  you start at the mention of Leroy.
    There is a long score of wrongs to settle between you."
       Burrill involuntarily glanced about him in alarm, as if fear-
>   ful Mary's words  would prove prophetic.   Then, with a sneer,
       " Don't trouble yourself  about  me, Miss  Leroy!   I have
    settled a great many old scores in my time, and  shall settle
    another to-morrow."
       He turned to go.
       "Stay, one moment!" exclaimed Madeleine, starting-up
    suddenly.   " Let me shower upon you my bitterest  maledic-
    tions !   The hand of retributive justice will rest upon you, like
    a mountain of iron.  May darkness bring a terror, and day a
    continual  reproach!  May  your  friends forsake  you in  the
    hour of need, and your love turn to hatred-------"
       " Hold,  Madeleine, hold! " cried Madge.  " Bless, and
    curse not.  That which  we give returns again to  our own
    bosom.   Love your enemies, and pray for those  who persecute
    you;  hast forgotten, my child — my first-born ? "
       " Mother, what you speak  of  is impossible.   Would you
    have your daughter pollute her lips by praying for the welfare
    of such a wretch ?  Would you have her prostitute her purity
    of soul by loving him, even as a Christian ?  No!  no!  not
    that — not that!   Rather  let me, like  David,  pray that he
    may go down quickly into hell, where the worm dieth not,
    and the fire is not quenched."
       " I will depart now," said Burrill, with something of wild-
    ness in his manner,  as if  the evil  had already begun to work.
    "I will depart, cursed  in sodl and body, in joint and mar-
    row.  But you cannot curse me  out of existence.    I shall
    live till to-morrow,  to punish those who delight  to torture me
    with words.   Don't forget,  Madeleine ; you shall be  there at
    the death."
       With a sharp cry, Madeleine  sank fainting into her mother's
    arms, while Burrill walked away.  As he  disappeared, we 
116
fll.VER-KNIFE :
heard him speak on the opposite side of the lodge, as if giving
orders.
  " Stay where  you are," said  Silver-Knife, in a whisper ;
then, tightening his bolt and unsheathing his hunting-knife, he
moved away on tip-toe.   As he went, he reminded me of some
terrific shadow that falls unexpectedly on  one's path;  or a
ghost, visible to the eye, but unsubstantial to the touch.
  By long practice only does the forest wanderer acquire his
flitting, noiseless  locomotion, when he surprises the watchful
foe.
  With eyes  upon the  stretch, as if to see things which do,
not exist;  with nostrils  dilated, as if to scent the danger  at
a distance; with hands put forth, as if he would throw half
his weight  upon the air; with  breath  half suspended, as if
breathing would betray; with feet that glide like serpents, the
red man seeks his  prey, by night and  by day, in storm and
in sunshine, in heat and in cold.
  Slow were the movements of  the Indian.   I  watched and
strained my eyes after his dim outline, till they seemed bursting
with pain.   On him alone depended the  rescue of the captives.
All rested  upon his sagacity and coolness.   One misstep, one
inadvertent motion, or a breath  above a zephyr, a cough, the
crack of a  stick no larger than a needle, the flutter of a leaf,
might prove fatal to us and the captives.   Imagine, then, if
you can, with what intense interest we followed the war-chief
with our eyes.
   But was he calm and collected ?  Were  his  nerves drawn
still and tight, like iron cords?   Was there any trembling of
the flesh, or rebellion of the heart ?  Endow a statue of bronze
with  locomotion, and  locomotion only, and ask if its 'heart
beats, if its blood circulates, if it thinks.   The high qualities
of his soul  were raised  far above the common shrinkings of
civilized man.
   Wickliffe stood at my side.  And what was he then, in that
moment of suspense, peril and exjfCctation ?  Was he the same
I had known hitherto ?   The very same, only stronger, more
self-reliant, more terrible in himself.
   His head was thrust  slightly forward, while the muscles of
the neck were prominent and fixed like stone; his eyes were
riveted upon the war-chief.  The latter gradually disappeared;
but we kept our eyes on the spot where we had  last seen him. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
117
The deadly silence  was at length  broken by a sound  that
made me shiver — a heavy, ominous sound, like a falling body,
and a knife thrust home to the heart.  There might have  been
a suppressed groan or a cry, but silence came before the ear
was scarcely conscious it had  been alarmed.  Instantly the
chief appeared.  He held a smoking scalp in his hand, and
his knife was reeking.  The story was told, a story of death
at night.   We  followed him in silence.   Near the door of the
lodge lay a corpse yet  steaming with its own warmth.   The
flesh was yet quivering its last adieu to  life.   Silver-Knife
thrust aside the  skins that answered the purpose of a door,
and, stepping quickly into  the  lodge, stood erect  before the
captives.   We tarried a moment, to give  him time to announce
the coming of friends.  We heard a smothered exclamation of
surprise from Madeleine, and a warning sound of silence from
the Indian; and  then  glided in like spectres.  No word was
spoken, but hands were wrung in silence, and in tears.  My
pulses thrilled with delight at the touch of Madeleine; and
this time her hand  was not withdrawn.
   I led her forth into the open air, with a soul brimming $rith
gratitude to God.  The others followed  with no  unnecessary
delay ;  for all  felt the need of action,  and not of a scene.
   Stepping silently over the Crow warrior, with hearts almost
motionless, and breath pent up in the lungs, we turned our
noiseless  steps towards our friends.  As we flitted over the
ground like  midnight spirits, I felt  the  weight of Madeleine
grow  heavier upon  my arm.  She had swooned.   I lifted her
in my arms, and  bore her  forward as a  miser might carry a
treasure of inestimable value.   It is often true that persons
mog;  qtiiet and unobtrusive upon ordinary occasions are the
most firm and self-possessed in situations of danger.  It was
thus with Mary; for she was  now equal  to the  emergency.
She clung to Wickliffe without a  sign of shrinking or fear;
and that  was a  moment requiring  all  the strength of the
strongest soul.  Every moment we were  expecting to hear an
alarm, war-cries,  and savage outbursts of anger.
  It came, even while Leroy was  embracing his  lost  and
recovered ones;  wild, loud, startling, clear, terrible as the
watchword of hell.   Once, twice, thrice, it  pealed  out upon
the night, and  sent a shiver of horror to  the hearts of the
females.   " On !  "  hissed  Leroy, "  on ! "  and on  we went. 
118
SILVER-KNIFE :
Madeleine had revived, and was now clinging convulsively to
my arm for protection, as we hurried along through bush and
wood.   On we sped, like the poor, belated wretch when  the
tides of the Solway are at  his back, threatening to swallow
him up at every moment; on, like the condemned when, break-
ing from his executioners, he flies from death  and the gallows,
and hears the tread of the hangman at his heels ;  on, like one
who runs from  the  leaping flames of a burning  prairie, and
hears the liquid fire hissing upon his track; on, like spirits
escaped from Hades.  Fearful moment— moment  to  appal
the hearts of the boldest!
  The Crow village  rolled out  its  masses of  red  fiends.
"Whoop! ha! the  prisoners »have  escaped, a  warrior  lies
bleeding, whoop !  whoop ! "  What sounds to come from  hu-
man throats !  The demons might father them, and take pride
in it.   Above all  the din,  I heard the voice  of Burrill,  stern,
stormy, loud  as  a double-tongued trumpet.   When the first
surprise was over, the savages swarmed  away into the woods
upon every side, and a hot shower of balls came rattling after
us, flaring the bark from the trees, and hastening our footsteps.
  " Forward !  forward ! "  said Wickliffe ;  " the horses  are
near."
  " Thank  God ! " I exclaimed.   " Then  you have provided
horses."
  " I will release your arm," said Madge  to Leroy.   " I am
strong, and old Ironsides has work  to do.   Children,  do  not
encumber our protectors ;  't is your  mother that speaks."
  " \Va ! "  said Silver-Knife.   " Let them  go forward,  and
we will cover them with our bodies."
  " On straight  before you," cried Leroy, " and we will five
a parting salute to them heathen creturs."
  In  a single  instant the  order of march had changed,  and
the females were flying along before us like startled fawns.
  " If some of them varmiu don't  lose their  fakiities, I '11
never eat no more bufferlers on this uncultivated sile," said
Sutler.   " [t 's rayther my conviction that  one  or  more  on
'em '11 breakfast on a half-ounce o' lead.   Them 's my feelin's."
  " Be cool ! be  cool! " exclaimed Wickliffe.  " When they
are near enough, we will give them a volley ; but be careful
and don't waste powder.  If you see a pale-face among them,
riddle him, in God's Dame ! " 
AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
119
  " Amen ! " I ejaculated.   " God send good fortune to every
man who puts a bullet through his body."
  " Old Ironsides is here," said Leroy.  " I want you all to
remember that; and, ii" there's any nice shootin' to be done,
I goes in for it.   There 's nothin like the eye;  I ilo  my
extra fine shooting in the eye.   I don't do it bungling, neither,
and an't never afraid to see my work arter it's finished.   But
hush !  I see painted faces and feathered heads.  'T is time to
speak to 'em."
  An old hunter will  bring his piece to his face with aston-
ishing  celerity, and  level the sights  down  to the object  as
quickly.   For  a  moment only was  the tall, bony figure of
Leroy  fixed  and  motionless;  then the fire  belched from  the
throat  of  old  Ironsides,  and  the  sharp,  whip-like crack
resounded through and through the woods.  I know not why it
is, but an Indian  mortally wounded has a peculiarly strange
way of bounding into the air.   Following the direction of the
flash, I witnessed  a performance of this  nature on a grand
scale ;  for I saw three, in rapid succession, shoot up into  the
air several feet, with a smothered exclamation, which merged
with the death-rattle; when  they fell, they were clods, and
clods only.   But there is an  awfully spasmodic stiffness and
unnaturalness about that last,  expiring demonstration, that
is horrible to think of nights, when the mind is cool.  I have
seen them since then leap up  so in  my dreams; but the leap
was terribly exaggerated, and more likely a piece of diablerie.
We all fired  and those who were not  struck with balls were
panic struck, and  for a moment gave back ; but they rallied
at the voice of Burrill, who took good care to  keep out of reach
of our  rifles.   The discharge of our pieces, and the shouts of
the braves, told the others,  who had gone on the wrong scent,
that the game  was started; and they began to gather round
us in a manner that promised our speedy extermination, when
fortunately we  reached the spot where the  horses were  left.
With pleasure  I  recognized Wyandot and Camanche.  We
were soon in the saddle, and moving forward at a rapid rate,
led  on  by Wickliffe, who seemed well acquainted with  the
country.
  " I must give 'em another pill," said Leroy, and sat motion-
less upon his horse, until a painted face was visible.
  " Them 's my feelin's," added Sutler. 
120
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " Them two cattle won't do no more mischief," added Leroy,
as the two  came clattering after us, followed by a scattering
shower of balls.
  We were well mounted, and in a short time the shouts and the
shots af the Crows, and the stormy voice of Burrill, died away in
the distance.   We left them to their rage and disappointment,
with emotions of pleasure which  it is impossible to describe.
I rode  by the side of Madeleine.  I heard occasionally the
murmur  of thanksgiving  that went up from her pure heart.
She was  safe, and 1 was happy ; I had  been instrumental in
her delivery.   The morning dawned upon  us like a blushing
young  maiden  awakening from her first  kiss,  in dreams.
Soft winds bent the prairie-grass,

              " And ilka bird sang o' its luve."
                CHAPTER XVIII.

                THE  PILGRIMAGE RESUMED.

  The metal of our gallant steeds was severely tested before
we halted ;  and many miles of prairie lay between us and the
scene of  conflict.   After some deliberation, we concluded to
make the best of our way to Fort  Laramie, where we could
rest for a few days in safety.   We crossed the White Earth,
and, making a bend to the left, went forward as fast as possible.
After four days' hard travelling, we reached the fort without
accident.
  My journal of August 10th  has the following note :
  " I go forward like  one in a  dream.  I can scarcely believe
that these strange recollections can  be more  than  confused
fragments snatched from my sleeping fancies.
       #          *          *        *         *
   " I am near her once more.  Hope lights my soul with its 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
121
 warm sunshine, and I am looking expectantly to the future.
 I have discovered  a new face  in  nature, and it does nothing
 but. smile.   I  see it in  everything, and am never weary of
 beholding.   There is a voice, too, continually in  my ear ;  it
 speaks words to me I never heard before, — tells of the pleasant
 time to come.   I hear it in all seasons and in all  places.   I
 hear it when the sun  rises, when  it reaches its meridian, and
 when  it sets.  I hear it at twilight, when the moon comes up,
 and when it goes down again.   I hear it by starlight, and at
 midnight, when  the  lamps  of  night refuse  their  light.   It
 breathes  the name of Madeleine ;  and then ithas a music-tone.
 I am  wakeful to hear it.   But when I sleep it is not hushed.
 It keeps  talking to me in my dreams, and its burden is still
 love and  Madeleine.
   " August 11th. — We are at Fort Laramie at-last, and in
 safety.   We are  all weary with rapid  travelling.   We  have
 been very vigilant  since  our escape  from the Indians.   No
 doubt  but their spies have dogged our steps, for Burrill is not
 a  man to be baffled.  He has a thousand desires to succeed  now,
 where he had one before.   We shall  have more trouble  with
 him and  his allies.   We shall  join some party of  emigrants,
 if we  can. in our future  journeyings.  There is a long, lono-
 way of wilderness before us.
   " Wickliffe is silent and  distant.  He cannot brook a long
 stay at Fort Laramie;  it is too much like going  back to the
 world, and  he  shrinks from that.  Our fair friends suffered
 much during their captivity.   They were hurried forward  by
 their captors with but little regard to their strength.  Burrill
 kept with them for a  day only,  when he was obliged to slacken
 his speed  and fall in  the rear, on account of a wound he had
 received from Basil.   They felt it  indeed a relief to b€ rid of
 his society,  for he had made them  wretched with his importu-
 nity.   The conversations between them  it would be useless to
 repeat. The captives watched  for  an opportunity  to escape in
 vain, for they were rigorously guarded.  The adventures of
 Leroy  and Silver-Knife on the trail were very much  like my
 own with  Wickliffe.
   "12th.  — We are still at  Fort Laramie.   We see every
 variety of human nature here.   French voyageurs, Trappers,
Half-Breeds, Yankees, Englishmen, Mexicans, Mormon emi-
grants, &c.   We shall not go forward with any of them. 
122
SILVER-KNIFE:
They are, as  a general thing, such a  drunken, roistering set
of vagabonds, that their room is better  than  their company.
It is hard to  know who to trust.   There is an  Indian here
who, apparently, takes a great  liking to us.   He has been in
the habit of' acting in  the capacity of hunter and guide to
parties of emigrants.  He says  he was with Captain Bonne-
ville during his expedition to  the Columbia river.  He repre-
sents the captain as a  very  brave and cautious man.  He
talks also  of Fremont; but  whether he ever saw either of
those persons is another question.  He  calls  himself a  Kan-
sas,  and his  name  is  Ossawaun — the  Barbed Arrow.  His
camp is within gun-shot of the fort.   He spends  most  of his
time here.  He says he is going  as  far as Henry's river, to
trap beaver.  For a trifling consideration, he  is willing to go
with us as a  hunter.   Wickliffe does not  like  him, nor has
he from the first.  He is an able-bodied savage,  and  seems to
possess all the cunning of his race.   Still, there is something
about his eye that I do not like.  I cannot explain what it is.
I dare say it is nothing good ;  but even a savage  should not
be judged by his eyes.   He may be a very trusty, worthy
Indian, notwithstanding his retreating forehead, and the way
he has of looking from  under his lids.   I am  inclined to
think he will be a valuable  addition to our company.  To-
day  I  spoke  to the Leroys about  turning their  faces toward
St. Louis, instead of the  Rocky  Mountains.  They listened
to me  respectfully, but shook their heads.
   " 'What we have undertaken we will perform,'  said Madge,
with a smile.  ' Let us hope we have traversed the most dan-
gerous part of the way, and that  our future  journeyings will
be  attended with  comparatively  little peril.    With  such
strong hearts with  us, what can  we fear ?  Beside, Heaven
has  befriended us in such a  signal manner already, that we
seem bidden to trust again.   Ought I not to exclaim,  "  I
have been in six troubles, yea, in seven, and the Lord hath
delivered me out of them all ? " '
   " 'And you, Madeleine ; what do you say ? '  I asked.
   "  ' I say, let" us go on. It is as safe to go forward as to turn
back.  What should we gain, then, by a retreat ?  It is true
we have suffered, and been in deadly peril, and  involved our
friends;  but  that is  past, and who shall say  it will occur 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
123
again ?   My Horeb is yet beyond  us, and the Jordan is half
passed already.'
  " ' What, still firm ?   Can  nothing discourage you ?  You
should have lived in the  days of chivalry.  Renounce this
wild and romantic scheme.  Like the recluse who spent  his
meagre substance in a vain effort to visit  Rome, look once
more toward the high hills of your Horeb, and then turn your
back upon it forever.  As you retrace  your steps, pray that
the goodness of Him in whom  you trust may cover and shield
you as the cloud did the children of Israel.'
  "' Not so,'  replied Madeleine, with a smile.   ' We will
rather pray that the cloud and the pillar of fire may go with
and guide us to the land of our hopes.  Why should we  doubt
the protecting care of the Eye that never slumbers or sleeps,
and the Hand that never wearies in guarding those who trust
in Him ?   But we ask not others to share our peril.'
  " Madeleine's voice faltered, and for a moment she was em-
barrassed.
  "' That would be selfish,' she  resumed,  «selfish to sinful-
ness.   But  we should grieve  truly to  part with those who
have gone with us thus far, and dared death in  our defence.'
  '"Do not fear!' said Mary, with a mischievous smile.
  " Madeleine blushed.
  "' We shall be but  too happy to go with  you,'  I  stam-
mered awkwardly enough, for  somehow the  ill-timed remark
of Mary embarrassed me exceedingly.                  •
  " ' Mary shall remain,' said her mother, playfully.
  " 'Then we  shall lose the  company of  Wickliffe,'  I  ob-
served.
  " ' Shame!'  cried Mary, ' to retaliate upon a woman!'
  "' The bird  flutters,'  added  Madeleine; ' a sure sign that
it has been wounded.'
       ■tf.     J&     At.     AL,     .At    -if.     -i£-    -V.
       •Jfr     *W*     W     TT*     TT    Hv"     TV*    TT
  "Thus our time passes on pleasantly  in friendly intercourse."
  During our stay at the fort, Sutler was very  amusing.   He
had much to   say concerning  " plain" and "  fancy" shoot-
ing, and kept  his listeners in good  spirits by his singular
drollery.  Stories he related without number.   On one  occa-
sion, when  the conversation  had taken rather  a  ghostly
turn, and the  subject of supernatural appearances was  being 
124
SILVER-KNIFE :
somewhat sagely discussed, and illustrated by citing examples
in point, he relate! the  following, with  much comic  gravity
and tact :
   " Talkin' of sperits, reminds me o' my own exper'ence in
that line," he said gravely, shaking the ashes from his pipe.
   " Let us hear it,"  I said.
   " With  the  greatest pleasure,  Cap'en.  My father,  you
see, had  been  under  the  turf a  great  many years.   He
wasn't a bad  man, by no means ;  a kinder heart never beat
nor his ;  but  he was  oncommon  fond o' terbacker.   He 'd
?moke the clay out and the day in.   He hadn't  an equal in
that way, except old  Sam Flint,  our  nearest neighbor, and
he was jest about  his  match ;  and  they used  to smoke  and
tell their tough stories, evenin' arter evenin';  but that was
afore  my father died.
   " My nateral suscepterbilities being  fine,  I  felt rayther
bad  when the  old gentleman stepped out.  I  used  to lay
awake night arter night, and think on 't.   One night, in the
fust o' the evenin', arter I  had  turned in, I heard  a  strange
knoekin' on the winder-sill, and did n't know what on airth to
to make on 't.
   " '  Who 's there ?'  says I.
   " '  Your father,' says a  voice.
   " '  It can't be posserble!' says I.
   " '  It's nothin' shorter',' says he.
   * '  How do ye like as fur as you 've got ?' says I.
   " '  I 'm not over an' above pleased,' says he.
   " '  I 'm sorry to hear it,'  says I.   ' What's the trouble ?'
   '"It's  e'enermost  imposserble  to get  any good  smokin'
terbacker,' says he, in a derjected voice.
   " ' That's malanehully,'  says I.   ' Can I do anythin' for
ye?'
   "' Nothin' to brag  on,' says he; ' but you '11 obleege me
by layin' a good  piece o'  pigtail  on the winder-sill, nights,
when  you go to bed.'
   " ' I '11  do it,' says I.
   " ' I'll feel obleeged,' says he.
   " ' Not  at all,' says  I;  ' but, if it's a fair question, I 'd like
to know how you pass your time up  there ?'
   " It's no offence at all, souny.   I set  on a sunbeam  most
o' the time, playin' on  the jewsharp.' 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
125
  " • It must be very amusin',' says I.  ' Have you got the
old  thing with ye ?'
  " 11 an't got nothin' else,' says he.
  " ' Play us up a tune, then,'  I continued.
  " ' With pleasure,' says he;  and so he struck up.
  "'That's rayther malanchully,' says I.
  "'I  know  it,' he  said;  'but  it's all on  account o' the
terbackerf'
  " ' I '11 get ye some o' the raal pigtail,' says I.
  "'So  do, and I'll  play  ye somethin' livelier  next time.
Good-night, sonny,' he added, in a more cheerful tone.
  " ' Come agin,' says I.
  " ' You may rely on't,'  says he.
  "'Good-night, then,'  says I.   'Don't  hurt yerself doin'
the miscerlaneous work, and  I 'd  recermend  ye  to  bring  a
better  instrument when you come agin.'  And with that the
old gentleman hurried away."
  " Did you place the pigtail  on the window-sill ? "  I asked.
  " In course, I did — the raal ginewine."
   "And did he come after it?"
   " As reg'lar as the night  came.   I never knew  him to fail,
and an oncommon sight o' the stuff he made way with.   If
all  my relations had  come back,  and  used as much  o' the
weed as he did, I should ha' been dead broke."
   "And what kind of tobacco did Sam Flint  smoke at that
time ? "  I continued*
   " Pigtail — nothin' but pigtail, jest like  that  used by the
old gentleman,"  said Sutler, with a look irresistibly comical.
   " How was it about your father's ghost ? " I said, one day,
to  Sutler, when we were alone.
   " The fact o' the case was," he  replied,  " I found it took
off the change like all natur to keep my father in terbacker;
so  I told Flint all about it, and axed him if he could n't sup-
ply the old man with a plug or two  occasionally, for old
acquaintance' sake.
   "'I couldn't think of it,' says  he;  'got a large famerly
to  support, and I use an  awful  sprinklin' o' the weed my-
self.   B it I 've got a pound or two I '11 sell ye cheap.'
   " ' What kind is it ?'  I asked.
   ''' Pigtail,'  said he.
    " ' Bring it over,'  says I.
                 11* 
126
SILVER-KNIFE :
  "' With  pleasure,'  says he;  and so  the next  day  he
brought it over, and  1 bought  it.  Well, come to look it
over, I found some o' the identical plugs which I had laid on
the winder-sill for the  old gentleman.  Upon  careful inquiry
I lamed that  he'd sold several  pounds  o' the  stuff to the
neighbors,  and  seemed to have  a  plenty o'  the same  sort;
although, afore that, he used to be  hard up on terbacker, for
he was poor as Job, and an  oncommon  smoker.   Arter  that
time, I did n't lay any more plugs on the winder-sill, thinkin'
it best to let the old gentleman depend on his own exartions
for a supply o' pigtail."
   " Many ghost stories would probably end in the same way,
if traced back to their true origin,  I doubt nqt," I remarked.
   "It's  not  unposserble, doctor;  but still, I'm a leetle in-
clined to berlieve in sich things,  arter all.   There 's sunthin'
inside of a man that tells him, when a poor human creter dies,
that an't  the end on't; and, if  that an't the end on't, why
 mayn't the sperit o' that same human cretur  come back to us
 on extrordinor occasions?  The Master o' Life may marcifully
 permit the immortal  principle to visit the friends as it had
 known on airth while in the nateral  body.  I say that it
 don't seem to me that there  is nothin' onreasonable  in the
 idee.   It's true I'm allers tellin' tough  stories, and blunderin'
 into  some kind  o' nonsense; but, as  I'm  a  livin'  man,  I
 wouldn't  deliberately and  willin'ly make light o' sich sub-
 jecks, for no  consideration whatsomever."
    One  evening Leroy and  some   trappers  were talking of
 horses, and the condition to which  they were  sometimes re-
 duced by hardship and hunger, when he told a  story in the
 following unique style:
   " That  reminds me of a carcumstance," said  Sutler.   " It
 was  my misfortin' once to be the  owner of  a very venerable
 horse.   I never larnt his age exactly; but it was sunthin'
 short  of  a century.   The cretur  had n't  no teeth, and the
 oldest trappers did n't remember when  he  lost  'em.   For the
 last few years he had subsisted on  cracked corn, soaked and
 biled to his compacity o' munchin', and the delercate state of
 his digestive functions.  As  for grass, he'd forgot what 'twas
 made for, and contented himself with layin' on 't without any
 ruminisances  of other days.   He 'd been blind for the last ten
years, when his former perprierter  hired me to take him out 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
127
 o' the country.   Findin'  his eyes wan't of no sarvice to him,
 the interlecteral creter shut 'em up to keep the dust out, and
 never pertended  to open 'em, which  give a malanchully ex-
 pression to his countenance, and on the whole rayther injured
 his parsonal appearance.   He was oncommon poor, was that
 hoss; the back-bone had  worn through the nateral skin, and
 I used to hang my powder-horn and ball-pouch  on the  spuri-
 ous prostitooters (spinous processes) when I went on the war-
 path, as the  ryptiles say,  and the effect was  highly picteresk.
 The hip  and shoulder bones were in the same  unpertected
 and unsheltered condition, and he never pertended to take 'em
 in when it rained ; the marrer was  stole out  of 'em  a few
 days afore I consented to take  him, by  a half-starved root-
 digger ;   but they were  kind o' convenient-like,  because  I
 used  to lay my rifle across 'em, and  there was n't no danger
 of its fallin' off: for Snorter*—that was his name — was  a
 proper easy-goin'  cretur, and  never rared up  for'ards, or
 kicked up behind.   He was  an exemperlary beast, and wan't
 afeared o' nothin' under the canerpy o' heaven.  He wouldn't
 turn out  for nothin', on any consideration whatsomever;  and
 I don't exaggerate, nor get out  from  under the redeemin' in-
 flerenee, when I say that  I 've known that cretur to run agin
 five pine  trees, four sycamores,  two  bears, and  a catamount,
 one buffaler, and ten rocky mountains,  in succession, without
 gettin' discouraged  or malanchully  in the  least.  When  I
 used to contemplate the subject  philerosophically and discom-
 passionately, I used to  e'enermost believe in the parseverance
 o' the saints.  My tout ensemble, as the French  say, when
 mounted and ready for a start,  w&a  orgust  and imposin' in
 the extreme, when looked at  in  that  pint o' view.  Well, to
 make a long story short, and do justice to the manerfold vir-
 tooes of  Snorter, — I was journeyin'  through the  country of
 the Bannecks, intending to make a brilliant descent upon the
 bloody Blackfeet.   All of a sudden, I  heerd a terrible clamor,
 and  thought I was surrounded  by the inemy.   I  instantly
 turned round toward the anermal's tail; for  it was  easier to
 do that than  to turn Snorter, he was so  mild like, and moder-
 ate, in his naferal dispersition.   Without losing my presence
o' mind for a minit,  I begun  sharp'nin' my knife on the hip-
bones, when  the  danger seemed  to  threaten me  right  over
head.  Upon lookia' up into  the air, the  whole  canerpy was 
128
SILVER-KNIFE :
swarmin' with crows, yellin' like all possest.   I had a terrible
persentiment o' danger as soon as my visable orgins  fell on
the feathered ryptiles.   For a short time or  longer the caw in'
was parfectly tremendous  and astoundin'.   I gin  Snorter tin?
rein, and, for the first time, turned  my back upon the ineiny.
For  six  days and  nights, without  stoppin' to eat water, or
drink meat, for man or  hoss, I pressed forrard, boyed  up by
the vain  hope of escape.   But it wan't  of  no avail;  it was
caw!  caw!  the whole contineral time; no sleep  to  my eye-
lids, or rest to my eyes.   I was forced to give in, and  leave
Snorter to  his fate.   I  jumped down from my gallant war-
horse, leavin' all my things hung on  to  his framework.  In
half an hour there wan't nothing left of him but his timbers.
When  the crows had  gone, with a sad  heart,  I went  and
picked out my powder-horn,  shot-bag,  rifle,  &c, from among
the venerable remains."         .
                 CHAPTER  XIX.

                   AGAIN ON THE TRAIL.

  On the 14th of August we recommenced  our wanderings.
We  succeeded  in purchasing a  couple  of mules, and such
supplies as we needed.   All things considered, our  outfit was
not a bad  one.   The Kansas Indian  set  out with  us.   All
rejoiced at this  accession* to our numbers,  save  Wickliffe.
On the  20th of the month, after six  days' hard travelling,
we  encamped  at the Red Buttes.   The Black Hills still
towered away at our right,  their distant  tops  piercing  the
clouds,  while the Wind River chain  of the Rocky  Moun-
tains hemmed us in like an  immense wall.   These mountains
are  very lofty, and perpetually  capped with  snow.  Many
rivers take  their rise  among those  impenetrable fastiK-src.-,
flowing, some  to the  Atlantic, and  others  to  the  Pacific.
There is sr.mcthins wild and striking in the idea  that streams,
having their  birtii in the  bosom of those  rugged elevations.
should travel away  in different directions, to  mingle with  the
far-distant wave  at last, having accomplished  their mighty 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
129
pilgrimage; which  may aptly be compared to the journey of
life.  The travelling for the last  few days had been growing
more  difficult.  There were hills  to  toil over,  brooks and
ravines to cross, which  required  all our patience and power
of  endurance.   Our position was now one of considerable
interest.  We were in the most dangerous part of the wilder-
ness, the country most infested  by the  terrible  Blackfeet.
The mighty mountains  that walled us in  afforded them tem-
porary homes, while they surprised small war-parties of other
tribes, bands of emigrants,  or the white trapper.  They burst
from their fastnesses in hours unexpected;  and woe to those
surprised, for no  mercy can be  expected.   None but  expe-
rienced  mountaineers  may  outwit or  cope with  them  in
fight.   Even  the  shrewd Bonneville,  and the  indefatigable
Fremont, came off second  best when they measured their
cunning with  those lords of# the wilderness.   Ossawaun was
diligent in pointing out the different spots we passed where
bloody forays had taken place between the red man and the
white.   His eyes lighted up and glowed like coals when he
talked of battle.  It struck me that he had an unnatural ap-
petite for carnage.   His name was certainly more romantic
than his character.
   "August 21st. — I have  formed such a habit of journaliz-
ing  that I cannot very well forego an  opportunity of jotting
down my impressions.   We feel the need of  rest.   The vigi-
lance of Wickliffe and  Leroy increases at every step.  Our
horses  are picketed  every night,  and we  stand guard  by
turns.  When it  is practicable, we throw up a slight fortifi-
cation, by the aid of such trees as are convenient.   We have
had several alarms in the night;  but have been so well pre-
pared that no attack has been made, if intended.  I shall bo
heartily glad when we get away from this dangerous vicinity.
I am feverishly anxious for the  safety of those with us.   I
cannot forget Burrill; it seems to me that he is near.
   "Wickliffe and  the 'Barbed  Arrow' get along rather
poorly together.  He has  offered to stand guard  with us;
but the former won't allow it.  He prefers, he says, to take
his place, rather than trust him.   Silver-Knife and the sav-
age, apparently, are on good terms; but one thing  I have
observed — he never  allows the strange Indian out of his
sight.  We left our  wagon that we proeured at Fort Laramie, 
130            •       SILVER-KNIFE :

two days ago; it retarded our movements.  We packed what
we could upon the two mules, and  now go on  much faster.
*  *  *  X have not yet spoken of love to Madeleine.   I
have resolved to declare myself a hundred  times, and  my
courage has failed as often.  I have staked so much upon the
result that I dread to  have the question decided; and  yet
I am  convinced  she  is  not entirely indifferent  to me.   I
recall  all her words on  the night of her escape,  and cherish
them in my memory like things  precious.  Thus is my mind
a storehouse for the past.   Ossawaun is now  relating to Sut-
ler the history of a fight at a place  called Pierre's Hole.   It
is probably  the same mentioned  by  Bonneville,  where several
lives were lost.   Our Indian  affirms that he was there, but
whether  in  a friendly way  he saith not.  Yesterday Sutler
shot a  buffalo.   It was rather imprudent in  him to do  so,
for the report of his rifle mighty have reached  some lurking
enemy.
  " 23d. — Another day's journey nearer the place of our des-
tination.   The scenery is wild and imposing.   There is noth-
ing tame here.   Nature shows her works orTa grand  scale.
The mountains are higher, the valleys  deeper, than in other
countries.   We  have seen  several  antelopes  to-day.  The
Indian with the  chivalrous name was intent on shooting one,
but Wickliffe sternly forbade him.  The fellow  obeyed  sul-
lenly enough.  A short time after, he began to chant a wild
song,   whose wilder echoes  went  reverberating  among   the
mountains.   Wickliffe rode  up to him, and in a commanding
voice wfrned  him not to repeat  it  again, on his peril.   He
complied with a bad grace, and a sinister leer of the eye.   I
am persuaded there is mischief in that savage.  The restraint
under  which he finds himself makes him terribly uneasy.   He
often looks anxiously to the  mountains.  Does he expect any-
thing from that quarter ?   I must watch him.   He has just
been  telling Sutler another of  his abominable stories.   To
me it  had an ominous sound, which cast a  gloom over  my
spirits.  The tale was as  follows, varied  in style a little, of
course;  for I cannot^embellish it with all his Indianisms.
   "' A  great many  moons ago,' said  he, ' a band of pale-
faces came here to trap.   There were five in all.  Most of
them were young men.  They knew little about the country,
and  some of them were never in the mountains before.   The 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
181
Blackfeet soon put their eyes on them.  They said  in  their
hearts, "These men are squaws;  they cannot fight.   We will
destroy them, and take away their horses and traps."  Others,
more prudent, said,  " They have rifles in  their  hands,  and
they  will fight if we  attack  them  openly;  therefore let us
take them by stratagem.   Let one of our braves join  them,
and offer to guide them to the hunting-grounds.   They will
embrace the  offer, for the brave shall tell  them he knows
where the game abounds.   But,  instead of leading the  pale-
faces to the hunting-grounds to trap the beaver, he shall lead
them astray, and we  will fall  upon  them in  the  night, and
thus gain an easy victory."
   "' The warriors said  this  counsel  was  good.  A young
brave volunteered to  go and beguile them into  ambush.   He
did so in such a  skilful  manner  that all the white  trappers
perished but one.'
   " ' And what became of the brave ?'  asked Sutler.
   "' One of the  trappers  shot  him through the head,' re-
plied Ossawaun.
   " ' That's true,' replied Sutler, ' and  I  was the  man as
destroyed the treacherous varmint's  fakilties.'
   " ' You!'  exclaimed the Barbed Arrow, with a start.
   " ' Yes, /, Redskin; you may  put that down as sartin.   1
sent a good half-ounce of lead clean through his brain, and
Che critter did n't  know what hurt him.'
   " ' Sarved hiin right,'  said Leroy.  ' There an't no sin like
treachery.'
   " ' Them 's  my  feelin's,'  rejoined  Sutler;  ' and  I '11 jest
take this opportunity to  remark to this painted critter,  as  a
kind o' hint, that  may or mayn't be taken  at  his lasure, or
otherwise, that if he 's any sich notions, he 'd better  be get-
tin' ready to leave all sublunar things.'
   " Ossawaun made no  reply, but  affected  to  take  it  a3  a
joke too trifling  to  honor  with his  attention.   *  *  *
The Indians have done well to people this wild country with
beings supernatural.  Where  could  demons  discover  a better
home than in  those towering mountains at our  right.  They
must  fin 1 their  snowy sides  a great luxury, as they come
Beething  hot from their usual quarters.  The  low muttered
thunders, the intestine fires,  and the  reverberatino- echoes,
are ascribed to Machinito— the Bad Spirit." 
132                   silver-knife:
  On the  24th we  encamped  near the Sweet Water  river.
Two or  three Indians had been seen during the  day,  which
fact  warned  us to  unusual watchfulness.   There was  but
little sleep  that night; such a feeling of peril was with us
that  it  was  impossible.   Wickliffe  stretched  himself near
Ossawaun,  while  Sutler  and  Leroy  kept  unceasing  vigils.
As for Silver-Knife, he left us, and laid himself down in a
thicket at the distance of two or three rods.
  " When that Injin cretur does that, you  may depend on 't
there 's danger  not a great way off; and he '11 be the first to
know about it," said Baptiste.
  " Them 's my feelin's," replied Sutler.  " When that crit-
ter loses his fakilties, there '11 be one honest Injin the less.  I
hope he '11  hang on to  sublunar  things  for years  to  come
But  this Barbed  Arrer, as he calls himself, in  my humble
opinion, an't  to be depended on."
  " It's hard  tellin',"  answered Leroy.   " As the  people
used to say where  I's raised, you can't tell  a  chap  allers by
the cut of his coat."
  "No  more you can't, old boy; but  this onconvarted crit-
ter  has n't  a  coat  to his back; and I don't b'lieve he ever
owned sich a thing as an honest Injin's blanket."
  " If I thought he warn't jest the thing, and was comin' the
'possum over us  with  his  non'sns', I 'd finish the  low-born
cretur in  jest  no  time at all,  and prehaps  quicker,"  said
Leroy.
  Here the parties moved  away,  and I heard  no more of
the conversation.   In the course  of  an hour all  was still.
Sutler and  Leroy, wrapped in  their blankets,  were  seated
upon the ground  outside  the camp.  Both  Wickliffe  and
Ossawaun gave  the long, regular respirations of sleep.  I lay
with  my  eyes  partially closed,  and  restless enough  to be
walking about,  instead of trying to slumber.
   I saw Ossawaun open his eyes, and peer hastily  about the
oamp.  He closed them again,  and in  a few minutes repeated
ihe operation.   Having satisfied himself, apparently, that we
were sleeping soundly, he cautiously arose  to  a sitting  pos-
ture.  T glanced at Wickliffe.   To my great satisfaction, he
opened  his eyes, gave me a significant  look, and shut them
again.  Ossawaun rose to his  feet.  For an instant he stood
over Wickliffe, regarding him with a scowl  of mortal hatred. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
133
Once his fingers strayed to the handle  of his  hunting-knife,
and I should have interfered  had I not  been conscious that
Wickliffe was on his guard.   The  Indian then walked noise-
lessly from camp.
   " Truly," thought I, " he won't allow the fellow to  leave
us thus."  But he did,  and the Barbed Arrow walked  away
unchallenged.
   " Are you awake ? " I whispered to Wickliffe.
   " Perfectly,"  he replied.
   " Why, then,  do you allow him  to go ?"
   "It is all arranged — Silver-Knife  will attend  to  him;
we shall hear a  good account of him before morning."
   " That  alters the case; but ought we  not  to  be on  the
alert ?  His object cannot be a good one, I am sure."
   " I have always doubted him, but did  not wish to condemn
without some proof his perfidy.   It is  my opinion that we
shall  know  within an  hour whether he  is a true man or a
traitor.   But we will leave it all  with the chief.   If there is
danger, we  shall be warned in time.  Nothing escapes his
practised eye.   A hound never followed  fox  as closely as he
will dog the footsteps of that savage who has just left us."
   We arose, and went into the open air.   Sutler and Leroy
were sitting motionless near the camp.
   " Did you see him ? " asked Wickliffe.
   " In  course," replied Leroy.   " Them an't the kind o'
varmints that catch us sleeping."
   " Which way did he go ? "
   " Away in that direction," added the guide.  " But there's
a cretur arter him that don't waste his  strength for nothin'.
I wouldn't  be  in that heathen's  shoes  for the best hoss on
the prairies."
   "Them's my feelin's," said the  trapper.    " I've seen a
host o'  copper-skins in my day  and gineration, but I an't
seen none equal to that tame  Injin o' yourn.   He even goes
so far as to look like a human critter in the face; and he acts
like one, too, or I'm no judge o' the nateral disposition."
   In a state of  painful uncertainty, we waited  the return of
Silver-Knife,   lu about an hour he made^his appearance.
   " No danger to-night," said he.   " Lay down and sleep in
peace.  Ossawaun will return.   He has had a talk with a
war-party of Crows.   To-night you can  rest, but to-morrow
                 12 
134                   SILVER-KNIFE :
night let the pale-faces beware.  The snake in  the  grass is
near.   He crawls upon the earth— his sting is deadly."
  We  obeyed the instructions of the chief, and in a short
time were in as deep a sleep, seemingly,  as when the traitor
Indian left  us.   In about twenty minutes after the return of
Silver-Knife, he stole into camp as  silently as he went away
                 CHAPTER  XX.

                        OSSAWAUN.

  A cheerless  morning  dawned upon us; clouds shut out
the sun,  and the rain was falling.  The  sterile and  rugged
country about  us  looked doubly sterile  and  rugged.   The
mountains, as they lifted up their heads through the mist, to
hide them in  clouds, were  grim and  terrible.  The rocky
bluffs,  the deep ravines, which resembled ghastly wounds in
nature, took on a solemn aspect.   Sullen sounds were borne
upon the air, and not a lone bird  struck a note  of song.
   As contrary  as it was to  our inclinations, we were obliged
to stay where we were until after it had cleared.
   "Journal of the 24th. — I have not spoken to Madeleine
of the new danger which menaces us.   I have  not whispered
the name of Burrill in her  ear;  but she  knows that  he  is
hovering  about  us.  How she knows,  I  cannot tell;, but  I
suppose her intuitions tell her.   The soul of a pure woman
is like the mercury in a  thermometer,  and  sinks or  rises as
good or evil approaches; or like  a mirror, that reflects what-
ever is near, it catches shadows of the future.
   " This dark, dismal day casts a gloom upon  all hearts.   I
believe we human  beings gather our best thoughts from sun-
shine.   A year of storm  and  rain  would convert us all
into  misanthropes  and  scoundrels, unquestionably.    Soft,
mellow  moonlight,,-  and  clear,  warm  sunlight,  make  the
heart  light, aui purify it from evil; but darkness and tem-
pests are stimulants to crime.
   " I  cannot help  thinking  and asking, where we  shall be 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
135
to-morrow.  Poor Mary looks pale  and  anxious;  but her
face has a deeper flush when Wickliffe is  near.  In his pres-
ence she appears to forget danger, and looks reinsured and
strong.
   "But has he changed ?  Is he less lofty, and more human ?
He has change:!, but  only to rise  higher, and put a  greater
distance between us.  Not  that he is haughty, or proud; but
his noble qualities shine out  more  conspicuously.  He con-
verses but  little.   When  he  speaks, Mary trembles, and
listens with  feverish eagerness.   His voice  is  not  fawning
when he addresses her; it is deep, musical, and gentle withal,
and such a kind of gentleness I cannot describe.  He  never
laughs aloud, seldom  smiles; and when he does, it is  in the
face of danger, or when he catches a glance from the restless
eye of Madeleine; for  he never smiles when he looks  at
Mary, but has a more serious expression,  as though he pitied
her. -"I am glad he is not  given to  much laughter, for  it  is
degrading, and detracts from  the  dignity of  a human being,
and is attest but  the empty echo  of a shallow mind.   But
smiles are sunlight, especially on the lip of woman."

   At  noon a gentle wind  swept away the  clouds  and the
rain.  The  sunshine  gladdened the  mountains and  valleys,
and smoothed the frowns from the sturdy  face of nature.
   With lighter  hearts we commenced our march.  Ossawaun
was with us and appeared as usual.   Wickliffe rode  up  to
 him, asking, carelessly,
   " What think you is 6ur best route now? "
   For a moment the keen  eye of Barbed  Arrow was fastened
 unon the face of the  questioner; but there was  no change in
 that face; all the savages  on  the prairies, or amid the moun-
 tains, might look upon it without reading a  line of what was
 passing  in  the  heart that beat so  tranquilly beneath.  The
 hard, keen  look of Ossawaun melted away, and a  lurking,
 satisfied smile curled his red lip.
    " If my red  brothers would  find the way smooth,  and the
 travelling  easy,  they must  keep  away in  that direction,"
 lie . vpliol, pointing with his brawny hand more to the uortii-
 we t tiuu we had  been going.
    " Yes, 1 recollect — you  spoke of that route yesterday;
 some trap.>ers, you said, were led astray and killed there  bv
• 
136
SILVER-KNIFE :
the Blackfeet," rejoined Wickliffe, stroking his horse's mane
with his riding-whip.
  Again the piercing eyes of Ossawaun crept over  the feat-
ures of his companion like writhing serpents, and again they
were baffled, and the mocking smile returned.
  "The  same, brother;  but the Blackfeet  are  gone.   No
birds of prey are near, and our hearts are big."
  " Very true.  We have big hearts, and  our rifles are sure.
But this morning I heard the prairie-wolf."
  "And what said the prairie-wolf?" resumed the Indian.
  "He told  me to sing my  death-song, for my end was
near."
  " Great medicine is the  prairie-wolf,"  added  Ossawaun,
unmoved.
  " He seemed to say, 'Go  back, white man; this country
was  not  made for  you;   it  was made for the Indian; you
cannot dwell  here.   The  red men  are cunning — they will
outwit you.  Turn back, or die.'  Then I  said  to myself,  ' I
wonder how long before  I shall die;' and  the wolf howled
again,  and I thought he said, ' Before many suns, if you  do
not go back;  but, if you go  back to your own country, you
shall  live.'  Then I said to myself, ' The prairie-wolf lies,
and I will not  go to my own country.'"
  " My white  brother hears much,"  said Ossawaun, coolly.
  " That is because his ears  are open.  Fools shut their eyes
and their ears, and know  nothing."
  " The prairie-wolf speaks  the truth to the Indian, but lies
when he speaks to the white  man," replied  the wily savage.
  " I had a dream, too,"  added Wickliffe.
  " What did  my brother  dream ? "
  "I dreamed I journeyed  through a strange country—a
country of deep gulleys and  big hills, like this, where great
rivers are born.   I  thought  the way behind  me was smooth,
and I could travel in that direction without weariness; but
the country before  me was  rough and  threatening, and  the
bad Machinito piled hills and  mountains  and vast rocks in
my path  to hinder me, so  that I should never get to the end
of my journey. I kept toiling on; but, when I had conquered
one obstacle, another was  thrown  in my way.   This was  not
all.  I saw Indians with war-paint on their  faces, who men-
aced me with their bows and arrows and guns.  All at once
• 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
137
 a tall warrior stood at my side, and offered to conduct me on
 my way in safety; then I heard a voice in  my ear which
 said,  ' Do not trust him ; he is the child of the Bad Spirit.'"
   " A great dreamer is  my brother,"  said Ossawaun, steal-
 ing a sidelong glance at Wickliffe.
   " I did not heed the warning voice, but followed the war-
 rior in silence.   The big hills faded away, and  we walked
 over a level  plain.   Very soon we met a man journeying in
 the opposite direction.  He asked me where I was  going.   I
 answered,  'To the  distant mountains.'  But he replied,  ' You
 are going to  the happy hunting-grounds.'  Then  I asked my
 guide if it was so;  but he would not answer.   When we had
 gone on  in this way  for several days, we  reached a pleasant
 valley, very mu :h like this.  As soon as we had entered it,
 the hills  suddenly  arose about  us to  a  great  height, and
 hemmed us in.  A great  number  of savages surrounded me,
 danced the war-dance, and shook their  hatchets at me.   The
 guide turned and looked me  in the eyes, and-he had your
 face.   He said to me, ' You shall go  no further.    You shall
 die, and for that purpose have I conducted you hither.'"
   " What  did my white brother do then ? "
   " I  awoke, bathed  in perspiration,  and  full  of horror.
 Presently I slept again."           •
   " Very strange!   Great medicine  is  my brother.  What
 did you dream then ? "
   " That the good  Monedo appeared to me in the form  of a
 warrior, and  held a cord in  his hand like this, and bade me
 bind you so  that you could not  run away," and Wickliffe
 drew a cord from beneath his hunting-shirt, and held it up.
   Ossawaun  started when he saw it, and looked uneasy.
   " And the form  told  me, if you  resisted, to  shoot  you
 through the head."
   The traitor Indian glanced from one to the other with the
rapidity of lightning; then, with a wild cry, which appeared
pcfo :tly  intelligible  to  his horse, dashed down  the stee >,
i\):-'cy sidu of a  ravine on our lel'r.
   Wicklifib urge 1 his horse after him with an energy e^ial
to  th) o:\tsion, and in an in •»dibly short sjiv.-c of time we
he.irl tlrj clatter  of iio§fs far  bjiow, and  saw sharks of fire
driven from the jagged rocks.
   " That heathen cretur an't no better nor dead," said Leroy.
                   12* 
138
SILVER-KMfE :
" I 'd sooner have the Royal Bengal tiger arter  me nor that
onacsountable chap.  There 's somethin' awful in his eye when
he 's excited ;  and a  body feels jest as if he 'd oughter to go
anywhere he says, if it's to the devil."
  At that moment the report of a pistol was heard.
  "That powder wan't burnt for nothin', I reckon," said Sut-
ler.   " It's my conviction that the Barbed Arrer, as he pre-
tends to call himself, has lost his fakilties."
  I dashed off in the direction of the  sound as fast as Wyan-
dot would carry me, followed  by the  rest of the party at a
slower pace.  With  some difficulty  I  descended  into  the
ravine, crossed a brook, and, after galloping about three hun-
dred yards, through  bush  and brier, came suddenly upon the
object of my search.   He was  holding his horse by the bridle.
Near him stood the animal ridden by  the Barbed Arrow, but
the saddle was empty.   The unfortunate being that had filled
it lay writhing on the ground.   I glanced  at Wickliffe ;  but
there was nothing terrible  in his  expression.  The dark frown
I had last seen upon his face  had  faded away.  No sparks
of anger flashed from beneath the dark lids, and the firm lip
had nothing of defiance.  The man who stood there  and  held
the bridle-rein, and gazed  upon  the dying Indian, was Wick-
liffe still; but more thoughtful, and more elevated above the
level of common men.   There  was no  touch of human weak-
ness  in his visage.  He stood and contemplated the wretch at
his feet as a great surgeon  might look at his handy and neces-
sary work, regardless  of  the  pain.   He did  not  heed my
approach, but  kept.on  with his  study, for study he evidently
made it.  The  rest  of the  party came up,  and  we stood
silently about the dying savage.  He was shot through the
lungs. I knew it by the light,  frothy blood  that came bub-
bling from his dark bosom and trickled over his robe of  skins
— the robe that was to serve him no more.  By a strong effort,
which taxed his remaining powers  to the utmost, he raised
himself to a sitting position, and smoothed the  knotted fur-
rows  from his damp  brow.  That decided  and  desperate
movement told that  he meant to die  like an  Indian and a
warrior.   With a slow and w*idering hand, he clutched the
stained robe, and pressed  it to  his streaming  breast.   That
was to hoard  his life  a little longer.  He called back  his 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
139
scattered  senses,  and his glassy eye  fired up as he glanced
around upon those present.  His gaze fell last upon Wickliffe.
   " Pale-faces, I  am dying," he  said slowly, while the  red
tide of life stained his lips.  " The voice of Monedo calls me
hence.  I do  not  fear to go, for  there  is no place on earth
where the Indian can  rest in peace.  The pale-faces have
come  among us to  kill and destroy.  In a few years my tribe
will be swept away, and their names will be forgotten.  I do
not wish to  see that time, and I'm glad  I'm going the long
journey.  I have  been wronged by white men ;  I have hated
white men; I have slain white men; and  now I die by the
hand  of a white man.   'T is well.  I have always expected to
die so.   I hate you all, and hope you may never come to  the
happy hunting-grounds,  because you,  would drive away  the
'wild Indians.'   You  think red  men are  brutes,   and that
they know nothing.  Your people  have hunted  them as they
hunt the deer  and the buffalo, and have killed them wherever
they could lay hands upon  them.   You _ think they have no
feeling,  and can die without pain.  You think it does not hurt
us to  be cold and naked, and to wander up  and "down in  the
mountains without food  and -shelter.   Perhaps you  think we
are never hungry,  or that we eat each other, like wolves. You
have  pursued  and slain  my people when they were naked and
cold and starving, and all the time you say you  have a coun-
try of your own.  I hate you — I  spit  upon you — I defy
you — I curse you with my last breath !   Not only do I hate
you, but him who  employed me to come  here to deceive you.
I  was glad that you pale-faces were eager  to  rend and do
each other mischief."
   Here the  voice of Ossawaun grew hoarse.  The blood, fast
freezing in death, trickled from his nether lip, and obstructed
his utterance.   He shook his  bloody robe  at Wickliffe, and
commenced chanting his death-song with solemn wildness.  It
consisted of broken and disconnected sentences, strung together
with startling effect.

              " The spirits of my fathers call,
                And I must depart.
                I have done with earth,
                And the. darkness is  falling upon me.
                Dusky figures go dancing before my eyes ;
                They are the shades of my people,
                And their faces shine like fire. 
y
140                    SILVER-KNIFE .

             The breath of Monedo gives them life.
             They shall hear tny baim-wa-wa.*
             I sec the birds of war,
             And I hear the rush of wings.
             They wheel in the  sky ;
             I hear their cries ;
             And they near me in fiery circles.
             I do not fear,
             For my soul is strong :
             I will frighten them with my baim-wa-wa.
             I have not run from the  foe.
             I met my enemies, arid they died.
             They could not stand before my might;
             The pale-faces have been laid low.
             They tremble at my baim-wa-wa.
             I Ml teach them how to die  ;
             They shall see a warrior pass,
             Nor exult in my agony.
             My spirit is net tamed.
             I scorn them in death,
             While I utter my baim-wa-wa.
             My blood is oozing away,
             My eyesight fails,
             My heart grows cold :
             My soul is passing ;
             The hunting-grounds are near ;
             0, Minno Monedo ! I come ! I come !
             And my baim-wa-wa shall be heard no more."

  He tore the drenched robe from his dark breast.  The last
spark of life gushed out in a jet of blood,  and the sound of
Ossawaun's passing thunders  were heard no more among the
hills.
  We gazed  solemnly at the grim  figure as  it  straightened
out and fixed itself in death, and then, throwing the robe over
the stern and rigid  face, left  it  alone.
                  CHAPTER  XXI.

                          BESIEGED.

  Brave men die in the wilderness, and no stone marks their
place of rest.   The birds of heaven gorge  upon their bodies,
* Passing thunder. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
141
or the wild wolf  rends  them joint from joint; but  among
civilized men the most miserable craven  may have  a marble
column.  The death of Ossawaun put us in  a reflective train
of thought, and we rode on in silence.   Silver-Knife was the
first to speak.
  " What will my white brothers do now ? " he asked.
  We looked anxiously at each other, and halted.   It was an
important question, truly, and required  consideration.  That
a party of Crows were near, led on by  Burrill, there could
be  no doubt.   That their  numbers exceeded ours, we were
equally certain, for Silver-Knife had looked into their encamp-
ment.   Having dogged our footsteps so  many days, we could
hardly hope to evade them.  It was therefore proposed  and
agreed that we should retrace our footsteps to our last night's
encampment.   By so doing, we should  in some degree per-
plex our enemies, and save some labor  in  felling  trees,  and
constructing a new camp ; beside, we wished to make as little
noise as possible.   With feelings of reluctance, we turned our
horses' heads to return.   Fortunately, we had left the camp
but a few miles behind us.  Our first object was to strengthen
our  position as much as possible, and to this end we availed
ourselves of every auxiliary within our reach.  Two hours'
labor gave it quite the appearance of a  fort, and it was dark
before we  had completed these preparations.   It was the
opinion of Sutler and Leroy, as well as of the chief, that no
attack would be made that night; and the sequel pi^ved they
were right, for we  were not disturbed.
   Early the next morning, we went to work in good earnest.
We  built a palisade about our camp, of a character quite firm
and  substantial, and which would  cost  the  most agile some
pains to scale.  This enclosure was made  large enough for
our horses.   We felt well satisfied with  our work when com-
pleted,  and flattered  ourselves that we should  be able to
withstand a long  siege, providing we had plenty of food  and
ammunition.  The latter we were well supplied with, and in the
afternoon Leroy and Sutler went  out  to hunt.  Soon  after
they had gone, an Indian was seen  at a distance, who seemed
reconnoitring us.   Wickliffe examined  him  attentively for a
few minutes, and  then sent forth a shrill cry, which sounded
like a war-whoop.   It was answered, before the echoes  had
died away, by one shriller and louder;  and then he who had 
142
SILVER-KNIFE :
perpetrated it came galloping toward us, performing a  hun-
dred wild feats of horsemanship.   He attested his joy at seeing
Wickliffe in many extravagant ways.   They talked earnestly
together for a long time, after which, the savage threw him-
self once more upon his horse, and scampered away,  with but
little regard (I thought) for his  neck.   People know nothing
of horsemanship until they  see an Indian on  horseback.
Some  of their feats are almost incredible to  the  dweller  in
the tents of civilization;  so much so, that I will  not venture
to tell them.  For an hour after the departure of the Indian,
Wickliffe  appeared in  deep thought, and paced about our
works in silence.
  At  times he was unusually  agitated, if one could judge
by his heaving chest and compressed  lip.   Occasionally  he
paused, and his eyes wandered toward Mary and  Madeleine,
and from them to me.   He saddled his horse, and was on the
point  of mounting,  when I accosted him.
  " You surely do not  intend to expose yourself and us  to
danger by wandering about at this hour, under present cir-
cumstances ? "
  " My time  is not yet, Ferguson," he replied.
  " It is not easy to tell when one's time has come, or, more
properly, when it has gone;  and you forget that  your move-
ments may endanger us."
  I said this, not that I so much feared the  danger to our-
selves, a%the risk he was about to incur.
  " I will not endanger you, or those  with  you, Ferguson.
But I must go forth, and alone."
  " And why alone ? "
  " Because it is best thus.   I am not a  vain, proud, or boast-
ful man;  but danger cannot keep me from the path of duty.
I have never heeded it, and do  not now.  Yet I despise  no
precautions which experience and prudence can suggest.  He
is a fool  who neglects  to provide for his safety, and he is a
greater one who fears after  having done all that wisdom and
skill could dictate.   As I came to you, so go I forth.  Was I
not safe before I saw you ?   Who protected me then ?   Was
it an  arm of flesh, or was it a higher power ?"
   " You believe, then,  in a higher power ? "
   " Who can help believing ?   There  is a voice in nature
which talks to me  continually of a God.  Everything I see 
«
                   AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                143

every sound I hear, repeats the story.   When stretched  on
the prairie at night, beneath the open expanse, I  have been
wakeful to watch the stars and the moon, and the great ocean
of air, on purpose to feel the  nearness of God, and  to  com-
mune with him through his works.  I felt and feel no servile
fear.   I am  content to  be  governed by one who is higher
than I.   What is decreed shall come to pass, and no earthly
power can blot out one sentence of what is written by Omnip-
otence."
   " I am not a fatalist," I replied.  " We are held responsible
for our acts.   Everything has its price and penalty.  As we
sow, so also shall we reap.  What can be plainer ?  What figure
could  teach  more aptly the responsibility of man ?   In our
conduct there should always be  an adaptation  to  circum-
stances.  We shun the  fire because it will  burn, and we love
the air because it is the element of life.  Carry out the prin-
ciple.   When you  would cross the deep, go in a  tight ship,
and not in a leaky one; for why should  heaven protect you,
when  you  scorn to protect  yourself? why should you  not
rather be punished for your fool-hardiness  ?  If a dangerous
serpent is in  your path, shun it, and take another ;  it is better
to  turn back than perish.  These ravines, and mountains, and
prairies, are full of wild men.  You know  their habits : shun
them, by all  means, as much as it is in your power, or you are
 criminal in the sight of Heaven."
    * What you have said is both true and false," he returned.
 " You have  spoken after the manner of the few, and not of
 the many.   We should conform our conduct to circumstances.
 and do ; but God makes the circumstances, and we  arrive at
 the same results, and are still creatures of fate.   If he leads
 you into a barbarous country,  does  he not do so  for some
 object, and by any act of yours  can  you baffle  him in  that
 object ?  I trow not.   We are as clay in the hands of  the
 potter.  One vessel is  made for  honor, and another for  dis-
honor.   He  loved  Jacob,  and'hated Esau,  before  they  had
done good or evil."
    " Because he foreknew one would be a good, and the other
a bad man, even if placed in the same circumstances."
    "So you  have  affirmed, but  advanced no  proof. . Your
mere assertion avails nothing.   I might also affirm  that, had
it not been for those springs up there in the mountains, there 
•
144                   SILVER-KNIFE :

would  have been no flood ;  but who would  believe me ? and
yet one half of the world reasons thus.   So half-mad limalics
describe all the horrors within the  boundaries of  Hades, and
send all the rest of the world to perdition with headlong haste ;
so they tell the population of  the New Jerusalem, its circum-
ference, the length  and breadth of its  walls, and what  the
celestial streets  are  paved with; but  who  believes them?
None,  save those steeped in the same  madness.  But I will
cease to talk of this; other things demand my thoughts.  The
declining  sun  admonishes me to be away.  If  I  thought we
should  never meet again, — and that may be possible, — I would
say a word to you ;  I would disclose a secret.   But no — that
impulse is past.  If I perish, and you behold my face no more,
forget  that we ever met, that you  ever  heard  my voice, that
you ever saw my face."
   " That is impossible!" I exclaimed,  with feeling.   "No!
no !  I  cannot do that, but almost anything  else you  can ask.
Let us  not part thus in mystery!  Let me know more of you.
Tear aside the curtain, and  let me look down into  the depths
of your heart.   You have been kind, disinterested and noble.
I have  been instinctively attracted  toward you.  I have felt
safe  when  near you, and happier  when you  seemed happy.
You have  preserved  my life.   A brother's solicitude could not
have done more.  Is it strange, then, that I feel a friendship
for you ?"
   " Very  strange ! " replied Wickliffe, with  a smile  in which
sadness and misanthropy seemed  mingled.   " Very strange
that  such a thing as friendship exists, and it  is passing strange
it should  be  found  in  the  wilderness.    Friendship   has
been to me a word without  meaning.  In all my  wander-
ings upon  earth, I have never found it.  I  am one whom  the
world has  neglected.   I was never loved and caressed ; I was
never  humanized by  a mother's soft breath ;  I  was never
stimulated to exertion  by a father's smiles.  I grew a proud
and a disdainful boy.   I threw*the world back  its coldness and
neglect.   I was a man  when others of my age were children;
for sometimes hard blows bring forth the hidden fires of the soul,
as flint brings  it from the stricken steel.   I was  proud, and
sought not the friendship which was not spontaneous.  1 did
not then, and I do not now.  It is a pleasing delusion, and only
that; but, since I have met you, I have wished it were not so." 
#
                    AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                 145

   " You are proud, Wickliffe ? "
   " I  know I am, and glory in it.  Pride is a  man's surest
 safeguard.  It steels his heart under difficulties ; it gives him
 dignity in prosperity, and courage in the hour of danger.   I
 do not mean arrogance; that  is the counterfeit of  shallow
 heads, and not the genuine  article.  The true pride of  man-
 hood never burned in the bosom of a coxcomb."
   " Well, I will not dispute you in  this, for it may be  so.
 When shall you return ? "
   " I  cannot tell.  If I am successful, I shall see you again
 soon.   Do not think I am  abandoning you  in  the hour of
 need; do not imagine so, for a moment.  My mission is one
 of danger, but I hope to succeed.  If I fail, it  is well;  if I
 return, it is better.  You will not probably be able to stir from
 here for several days.   If you  do not see  me within forty-
 eight hours, believe I  am no more.   You have good, strong
 hearts with you, and can stand a long siege."
   " But will you not bid adieu to Mary and Madeleine, before
 you leave us ? "
   " No, I  had better  not;  it would give them an idea  of
 danger, and perhaps make them uneasy on my account."
   " Do you not think  there is one heart among us that will
 ffgh for you, when you are gone ? "
   " Who do you mean ? " he asked, with  a start of surprise.
   "Yonder gentle girl," I answered, pointing to Mary.
   Wickliffe changed color, and bit his lips.
   " Why should she burden  her thoughts with me ?  Let her
 not think of me;  but  to say that is a waste of words; prob-
 ably she does not, more than of  Sutler, or that proud  Indian
 chief.   Don't  wrong  one so young, and  so artless, and the
 sister also of the woman you  adore.  I am not the  man to
 awaken tender emotions in her heart."
   " You are not the man, Wickliffe, to be  slighted by woman,
 or pass her by unobserved.   Pardon me, for I do not  wish to
 flatter  (that is a meanness  I  never stoop to); but there is
 something in your bold figure, your calm countenance,  your
 lofty and perhaps proud expression, that is calculated to  com-
mand the attention of a young and ardent girl."
   " Well, suppose it be so ;  what, then ?   Do you imagine it
is  a subject of self-gratulation   with me that I  can dazzle
the  eyes  or  ensnare  the affections  of an  unsophisticated
                 13 
#
146                  SILVER-KNIFE :

young girl ?  If you do, you mistake me.   The gift of pleas-
ing is a fearful gift; I have it not, and desire it not.   Woman-
pleasers  are vain, and  I despise vanity, for it  does not be-
come a man.   Shame upon him who exults in  the  conquest
of a heart that can never  be his !   If I thought that  pure
young creature loved me, however flattering and agreeable
the knowledge might be to my heart, I might  be tempted to
ride away into the wilds, and never look upon her sweet face
again.  She is hopeful now; but, if she should learn to love
me, it might be otherwise.   Mine is a dark  destiny, for I was
born under a dark planet; and the same darkness might fall
upon  her path.    I  am strong within myself.   I can  exist
without being loved; for I have been schooled to  isolation.
and the soul's solitude, from childhood.  Yes, I have learned
to be-eelf-reliant and self-sufficient.   The  outcast  naturally
learns that lesson, if he be  of the true material;  otherwise, he
sinks  under the bitterness  of his lot.   But  it is a severe and
terrible  ordeal, that of learning to live within one's self, and
not receive one single sweet pulsation  from the great heart
of humanity that beats without and around him.  Yet there
is something of pride in the consciousness that  one  can exist
alone, and turn everything to his own use and  comfort,  with
his own unaided hands.   There is something sublime in th8
idea, also, when you lie  down upon the boundless prairies at
night wrapped in your blanket (which you have stripped from
the body of some wild animal), with your  arms beside  you,
and your food smoking upon the fire, that you are master of
your own fortunes, subject to no command, and no  laws but
those of God.  One lies down and sleeps well, and the dangers
of that kind of life prevent it from becoming monotonous and
wearisome.  This is true independence."
   " Yes, but a savage independence,  Wickliffe.  What would
be the fate of mankind, if all adopted this mode  of exist-
ence ?  Where  would be  the arts and sciences ? and what
would be the destiny of woman — where would her soft influ-
ence be felt;  where would she shed her  light and truth;
whose heart would  be made better by her ? "
   " I did not say all should  adopt this mode  of  life;  all
cannot — it is not in their  nature.   Let each one follow his
own inclination.  Let those to the  desert  who love the des-
ert ; those to the city who  love the city; those  to the arms 
#
                    AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                147

of woman who love woman.   But think not the kind of inde-
pendence I have mentioned  is without its uses.   From such
spirits we get our first knowledge  of new countries.  They
pave the way to civilization, and pilot us to new regions, and
new sources of wealth."
  " Still,  I believe the isolated soul must turn to woman for
a little sunlight;  and so you will turn to Mary."
  "True, she may  light  my path for a  brief season,  but
nothing more.  The passing gleam will fade, as the ' Will-o'-
the-wisp ' sinks  down  and disappears in the ferny ground,
where the traveller has been lured to step  aside.   I have
never opened my heart, and laid its secrets bare  to  mortal,
nor will  I now to you.  I am not so weak as to do  so.  I
have  some  secrets,  and I will  keep them;  and  one  which
would make your  cheek pale with wonder.   If I see you no
more, it will perish with me.   Perhaps I have  not  received
graciously your offers  of  friendship;  but I am  your friend,
nevertheless.  For the present, adieu.   Have no care for my
safety;  imagine that nothing  can harm  me, and that deliv-
erance from present peril is near."
  Wickliffe shook my proffered hand, vaulted into the saddle,
and rode slowly away.
  " Our  meeting  was  strange, and  strangely we part,"  I
muttered  sadly, as I watched the figure of my friend growing
less and less in the distance.
  I was awakened from  my revery by the approach  of the
chief.
  " The Big Heart has gone," he said.
  I nodded assent.
  " My white brother fears for his scalp ? "
  " I do, my friend, and I should be unfeeling not to  do so,
when he has dared so much for me."
  " Let not my brother be sad.   Great Medicine is  the  Big
Heart.  Nothing can hurt him ; he bears a charmed life."
  Leroy and Sutler made their appearance.  They had been
successful, and their horses were laden with  the  flesh of the
buffalo,  although they had ventured but a short distance from
camp.
  It was  rather unfortunate that they were obliged to  dis-
charge  their  riflea, on account  of  the  proximity of the 
•
148                    SILVER-KNIFE:

enemy; but, under the circumstances, it could not be avoided
as our provisions were exhausted.
   " I reckon as how, if the creturs how fight, we can stand a
pretty considerable long  siege," observed Leroy, as he  pro-
ceeded to unlade his beast.
   " Them 's my feelin's, and I don't think it's  onreasonable
to kalkilate  that  some  o' them Philistians will lose their
fakilties."
   " As  I have obsarved afore,"  replied  Leroy,  " there's
nothin' like the  eye.   It's  rayther my conviction it  was
made on purpose  to shoot at, for  it's placed  in a conspic-
erous persition, and is jest about the size of a Kentucky tar-
get.   The moral effect of that style o' killin'  is perdigious;
for it scares the heathen creturs e'enamost out o' their skins."
   "Yes, that's rayther  a harnsum way o' doin' the  thing;
but  every one must have his own  pertickerler mark, or we
could n't tell who  the top-knrJts  belong  to.  I  do  the  con-
sarned varmin right through the root o'  the nose, or,  as the
doctor would say,  the nasil orgin.  When you  put  the  lead
in there, you may be sure there an't  no  great waste o' pow-
der  and  ball.   I 'm not the  man  as  loves to  boast o' his
explites, like a drunken  Mexican, or  half-breed, but I kalki-
late there would n't be nothin' onproper in sayin', in a kind o'
modest way, that I have  seen  several o' the nateral varmin
o' this onhoppy sile, who have  met  their distiny in that  kind
o' shape.  It don't give the missionaries no great chance, for
they 're  out o'  the reach  o'  the ' nurtur and  admernition'
afore  they have time to  kiss the cross, and  say  anything
pious-like."
   "You've touched on  a subject  now as I  don't want to
make light on.   There can't be much required o' the creturs,
because  the means o'  grace has been  denied  'em; and the
gospil privileges an't very extensive arter  they 've bin shot
in the eye.  They would n't  know  a psalm-book from a pack
o' keerds, arter old Ironsides has looked 'em in the face.  I
don't say it's right to kill  Injins; I  don't say it  gives me
pleasure to kill Injins; but it's a case o' necessity,  and  can't
be helped.  They  're endowed by natur' with rovin' dispersi-
tions, and a  nateral  hankerin' arter human  blood,  which
makes 'em dangerous.   I finishes 'em  as the surgeon  amper-
 tates a limb, because it must be done; and he  takes the leasl 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
149
of the two evils.   Prehaps they 've got an immortal soul, and
prehaps they have n't.  Most of 'em, in my opinion, an't much
better nor cattle.  It's hard to tell what civilization might
do for 'em — but I don't think it would make the weight of
a feather's difference in their habits and  inclernations.  Cru-
elty and treachery is born  in  'em;  and  what's bred in the
bone can't be got out.   To  be  Christians, their whole natur'
must be changed and renervated.   Who can change the natur'
of an Injin ?  They was created a race of wild creturs,  and a
race of wild creturs they '11 remain.  'Tis the natur of the
beast."
   The  night drew on, and we disposed  ourselves  about our
little fortification  as we thought most conducive to the gen-
eral safety.  The females were required to stay in the  camp,
where the shots of the enemy — providing we were attacked
— could not reach them.   The name of Burrill  filled them
with dread; they knew why we were thus dogged from place
to place, and trembled  for  the result.   Madge was  trusting
and hopeful as ever.   She spoke words of encouragement  to
her daughters, as  on another occasion, and counselled them to
be strong.
   She  told them that every hair of their  heads was num-
bered, and not one could fall to the ground without  the per-
mission of their Heavenly Father.  Her  admonitions did not
fall upon  heedless ears.  Both Madeleine and Mary  treas-
ured them up, and manifested a degree of courage  and cheer-
fulness hardly  to be expected under the circumstances.   I
saw Mary's eyes wandering about as if in search of some one.
   " He has gone," I said, with a  smile.
   The  poor girl blushed till her cheeks were burning red.
   " Who has gone ?" she  asked, in a voice  intended  to  be
very indifferent and commonplace, but really very tremulous
and agitated.
   " Wickliffe," I replied, in a whisper.
   She grew very  pale, and asked,
   " Where ? "  in  a whisper softer than I could command.
   The  cry of " Injins ! Injins ! "  prevented a reply.
   " Do not fear/' I said, taking a hand of each of the girls
" I feel a good  assurance of success;  you shall never fall into
the hands of Burrill, while a man of us is  alivt to defend
you."
                  13* 
150
SILVER-KNIFE :
      I pressed the  hand of Madeleine to my lips; it was not
   withdrawn — it did not shrink and tremble.   The blush that
   mantled her  cheek gave place to  a smile — a  smile that
   seemed to me trusting and  loving, and full  of hope.   Mary
   looked into the face of each, and smiled also; but her smile
   was sadder, though gentle and approving.
      When I left them to take my place at the' palisade, my
   heart  beat hopefully, and  my  arm, I  imagined, had  the
   strength of three.   The night had just set in, and a shadowy
   indistinctness  pervaded  everything.   Figures could be seen
   in the distance which flitted  dreamily like objects in a magic
   lantern.  Puffs of smoke went up  in fantastic wreaths, and
   sharp explosions broke upon  the ear, and went  ringing away
   in echoes amid the darkened hills.   There was an  incessant
   pattering upon the palisade  like a  shower of hail, and shiv-
   ered splinters of wood flew about us.  Cries  like those which
   the famishing wolf utters in his starving throat, came  tearing
   discordantly through  the air.  Within the palisade, no shot
   was yet fired.  Cool, sagacious, self-possessed men stood un-
   moved, awaiting their  time.  The  foe, emboldened  by our
   silence, came  more confidently from their coverts, fired, and
   then fell back precipitately.
      " Let the creturs have it all their own way," said Leroy,
   whose grim figure had been motionless for the last half-hour.
   " They 're gettin' bolder and  bolder, and more noisy, jest like
r  a  parcel of onwhipped  boys.   Let  'em waste  their  powder
   and shot, if they want  to;  we '11 teach 'em the valley of it
   soon.  They may yell till they bust their confounded conster-
   tutions, but who 's afeared."
      " If them an't my  feelin's, I  am  the man as an't  got no
   feelin's," replied  Sutler; " that is,  none to speak  on.   It's
   kinder  amusin' like to see 'em  come and let sliver  at  ran-
   derum, and then  run back agin to the bush, like a flock of
   cowardly wolves," as they are.  Now, if I was a chap as had a
   boy ten years old as  would conduct in  that  onhannsum and
   sneakin' style, I'd thrash him till he  couldn't repeat the
   Lord's  prayer back'ards;  consarn me, if  I  would n't!  If a
   feller's goin' to fight, let  him fight, and not make a mock on't.
   See ! they  're gettin' obstroperlus.  What a chance for a shot!
   My shootin'  iron  can't  scasly contain itself,  and is acterly
   Bweatin' with  intpashunts." 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
151
  " Not yet -*hot yet," said the guide.  " Their pluck is risin'
fast.  They begin to think we 're skeered e'enamost to death,
and  can't  pull a trigger  to  save  our lives, jest for their
shoutin', and yellin', and hubbub."
  " Here  they come," added Suttler, " in categorical  con-
fusion  and  kaotic order.   Consarn  me, if that crittur  an't
comin' clean up.   If he don't loose his  fakilties, iny name
an't Sutler."
  The enemy had indeed grown daring, and one of  them, in
the true spirit of Indian bravado, had ventured almost  near
enough to touch the  palisade.   This was too provoking  to
bear long, and my own rifle felt about as impatient  as Sutler's.
At a short  distance from  our picket  stood a tall  sycamore,
some of the branches of Which swayed to and fro over our heads.
The warrior who  had performed  the piece of bravado alluded
to now determined to  distinguish  himself by another, more
daring, and requiring more address, and which consequently
would reflect more  honor upon him.  This feat was nothing
more nor less than climbing the tall sycamore, and  looking
down into our camp, to learn the exact position of affairs.
lie approached  the  tree in  a  creeping  posture, while the
others  made a great  noise in another quarter, to  divert our
attention.
  " Let the cretur  try it," whispered  Leroy,  " and let them
other creturs scream and dance  about, and see what '11 come
on 't."
  The Indian reached the tree, and began the ascent on  that
side furthest from us.  We saw his  red hands noiselessly clasp
the trunk  and put  forth their strength, and caught occasional
glimpses of the moccasined feet as they fixed themselves upon
the surface of the rough bark, and assisted to urge the body
upward by imperceptible gradations.  First,  the  hands  per-
formed their part, and then the feet took their  place, and  then
the former glided slowly upward, again to lift the other por-
tions.  The task was painfully fatiguing, and reminded me of a
sailor whom I once  saw undertake to climb a greased " Liber-
ty Pole."   Sometimes the  climber paused through sheer ex-
haustion, and looked back as an  inexperienced cub might do
during his initiation in the sublime science of  climbing.  The
affair was a serious one, even  for an Indian; for the  tree was
without limbs for a great number of feet. 
152
silver-knife:
   " It's my conviction," said Sutler, after wrr^hing his move-
ments in philosophical  silence, " that that  critter will  come
down without his fakilties—meni'ry in perticcrler."
   "For  the good of his friends, I hope the  heathen has  made
his will," remarked Leroy, " and that he has n't neglected none
o' the means of grace;  because life 's onsartin, and he may n't
never set under the  droppings o' the sanctooary  no  more in
the probationer state."
   " For  the sake o' his  futur prospects, I am the man as hopes
he's been an exempler Injin, and one as has n't  set his  heart
too much on sublunar things.   Prehaps as how he has laid up
his treasures above — and is goin' up arter  'em.   As you've
obsarved, life 's a ticklish  thing, and one may be called  on to
stick his toes up sooner  nor  he 's ready.   All flesh is  as grass,
and nothin' shorter.   It grows  up at  night,  and  is cut  down
and dried afore mornin'.  Them 's my feelin's."
   " I hope the wretched cretur an't got no children," said the
guide, musingly.
   " I responds to that  senterment," replied  Sutler, " because
as how cubs becomes bars arter a while!"
   " I don't mean that altogether, Sutler—not that;  but even
them Injin creturs may have some feelin', — enough, perhaps, to
feel the loss of a father.   I think of them  things, because I
have children of my own."
   " Don't think o' sich nons'ns',  old  feller,   they  an't nothin'
more nor young catamounts or young bars.   They have n't no
nateral feelin' ; it an't the natur o' the animal."
   " Prehaps it an't; but I  allers  think of sich  absurd things
at perticerler  times and  seasons; it's  my weakness.   But
no man can say I  fight less bravely for it, in the hour of
peril."
   During this time  the savages  continued  to fire upon our
pickets without effect, and the climber to ascend with breath-
less caution, where a squirrel could scarce find a place for his foot
to rest.   I watched his progress with strange interest, and asked
myself, with a shudder,  how he would come  down !   After in-
finite labor, and when  I thought his  strength must  fail, he
reached the first limb, and, grasping  it  firmly,  drew himself
up, and  seated  himself upon it.   The rest  of the task was
comparatively easy,  and, with the same  cat-like  caution that
had characterized his motions from the first, he  mounted  to 
AN ADXOiilOURAPHY.
153
        the more elevated branches, and was actually over our heads,
        and peering down into our camp.
           " That's a nice critter for ye — a nice critter!" whispered
        Sutler.   " What do you s'pose the missioners could do for him ?
        He han't no more notion  o' the scripters o'  dervine truth nor
        an onborn  catamount, nor a nigger;  and that's sayin' a good
        deal.   If he was anythin' like a human, he would give the
        rest o' his mrfhts-to  medertation on  heavenler and dervine
        things, and not bother his mind about temperal consarns.  I'm
        afeared the critter 's carneller minded."
>          " Well,  let the varmint hang there for a  season like a pos-
        sum, while we speak to his heathen bretheren; they 're gettin'
        a  leetle to fermiliar to be  agreeable to my feelin's.  Old Iron-
        sides can't stand it no longer.   The dumb thing 'II  go off it-
        self.  The powder 's growin' hot in the pan, as true as I 'm a
        Christian cretur.  My blood begins to rile up, and I don't keer
        a gra'-deal whether that anermal over our heads  has  got  chil-
        dren or  not.  These  troublous times kinder changes a man's
        natur, and make him feel  like eatin' somethin' as warn't made
        to eat.   I can't scasly contain myself.  Jest look at  that, will
        ye ?  An't that  jest a few more dropg in the cup of our indig-
        nert^s than flesh and blood can \mxr ?  Now 's our time — pick
        yer marks, and pepper 'em in tmfname of retributive justice."
           The usually kind expression of Leroy had vanished, and
        the fire  of battle taken  its place.  Those  flashes of feelino-
        which distinguished him on ordinary occasions were up longer
        apparent in word or gesture.  A frown  fierce and stern dark-
        ened his visage,  and the soul of the " fighting man "  only was
        revealed.  Our  silence had  prompted our enemies to acts  of
        boldness hardly  to be  endured, although the very state  of
        things  which we wished to produce.  After wasting  much
        powder and ball upon our pickets, they probably began to im-
        agine we were not provided with ammunition.   This was a
        fatal mistake, as  they soon  learned, to their  cost.  The more
        daring began to run towardW palisade, and then back again,
        discharging their fire-arms, and yelling horribly.  Seeing  no
        harm came of it, they began to think it was quite the thing;
        and so rushed up in a body, fired, and scampered away.  This
        was done with more boldness,  inasmuch as the  climber had
        succeeded so well.
          The time had  now arrived to make a defenajn demonstra- 
154
silver-knife :
 tion.   We discharged our  rifles at the  same moment, when
 the enemy were nearest.  Before they had regained their cov-
 ert, those of us who had two barrels fired those also, and sev-
 eral pistol-shots rattled after them.   To say that the Crow
 warriors were astonished would convey but an imperfect idea
 of the  real state  of things;  not only were they astonished,
 but they absolutely howled with  rage.  All their hopes of a
 bloodless victory were at an end, and they expressed their ex-
• cessive disappointment thereat in true savage style.  Seven of
 their warriors had fallen,  which was rather a significant fore-
 taste of what they might expect from us.  They were now more
 cautious, though occasionally one exposed himself during some
 savage demonstration  of anger;  in  which case,  a cry, a leap
 upward, announced that his earthly warfare was over.   Bur-
 rill was not seen,  and  his voice was not heard ; but we felt well
 assured that he was observing all  these movements, and en-
 couraging his red  allies.  Meantime the  Indian  in the syca-
 more was amusing himself by looking at us.   I  regret that  I
 am not able to inform  the reader in relation  to the exact state
 of his feelings during  our first discharge; but it is something
 utterly out of my powec,  as subsequent  events prevented him
 from communicating with me in relation  to  that intertteting
 subject. Whether he flatterer! himself that he was unobserved,
 and in  a position  of security, or  whether a  vague apprehen-
 sion of his impending fate made him tremble, I am unable to
 tell.   Perhaps the angel of death touched him with  his wing
 as he fl!rw over, and he heard the sound of his pinions in the
 air.  Even the wild man  has something  human in him, and
 the shadow of darkness may have fallen upon him then.
    " The cretur has rushed upon  his destiny," said Leroy,
 "and I s'pose he  must go  under.'
    "As the parsons say about asking grace—' it's your priv-
 erlege,' old feller," replied Sutler.   " He 's  a vessel o' wrath,
 fitted up for distruction; but  I wouldn't advise ye  to shoot
 too dead, mind ye — too dead ! you understand ? "
    "Not in the eye, ha?"
    " In course not; but make an example on him  to the rest
 o' the Phillistians.  It may prove kind o' salutary, and  pre-
 vent 'em from climbin' trees, and puttin' themselves in perdi-
 tions o' danger.   This finishin' 'em off is a reg'lar science, and
 requires a hg|p o' study and practice.  Each man has his per- 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
155
          ticerler  fancy.   Some shoot in the  eye; others prefer the
          bridge o' the nose; and a  third party  are fond o' the heart,
          stomach and lungs, for a mark.  I 'm not a notional chap, by
          no means.   I can see sunthin' good in everythin' (except in
          the perverse naturs of the nateral ryptiles of  this sile), and
          I'm willin'that each indervidooal«hould be governed accord-
          in' to the dictates of his conscience, reservin' to myself the
          same  priverl^e.   When  I  fust came to these parts,  I used
          to finish 'em off on the disablin' system.
             " The disablin' system is where you knock 'em off their nat-
)         eral pins, without woundin'  any o\ the vital orgins.  When a
          ryptile is fairly shot through both  his  nateral legs, he is jist
          as good as dead, and you don't run no  risk in  countin' his
          scalp, unless you get worsted in the fight, and his friends car-
          ry him away.  I've done it many a time when  I warn't in no
          great hurry, and beavers were gettin' cunnin' about takin'
          trap.  Like all other arts and  sciences,  it requires  practice,
          and some knowledge of the anatermy of the body ; because as
          how the bones must be broke in order  to carry out and illus-
          trate the beauty o' the system.  The advantages o'  this per-
          ticerler  fact is self-evident, and  can  be understood  by the
          mqpt  inexperenced  beginner.  If no bones  is broke,  ten to
          one if he don't run away, and you loseji good  charge o' pow-
          der and ball, without promotin' the carBe  o' civilerzation in
          the least; but  when the  nateral pins is  once broke, there is
          nothin', accordin' to  the laws o' philoserphy, to support the
          anermal corperation, and, in complience with  the'rules  and
          regerlations of gravertation, it sticks to  the sod; because the
          nateral constertootion of a ryptile is in the legs."
             Leroy threw himself back upon  his right foot, drew up his
          tall, gaunt figure, and brought " Old Ironsides " slowly to his
          shoulder.   For a moment he stood rooted to  the spot  like  a
          firm-fibred  tree in a dead calm,  when  not  a  leaf stirs, or
          a twig shivers in the air; then the breech of the rifle dropped
          from his  shoulder and felMo the ground.   I looked up at the
          Indian.   His eyes were starting from their sockets, as if the
          pains  of death had already seized him.
            '.' I can't say it's any pleasure to me to  finish the cretur,"
          said Leroy, in a serious tone of voice',  "especially in the sort o'way
          you speak on. If the wretched.heathen was where he could have
          a kinder chance .for his life, I could do it with better heart." 
156                   SILVEH-KNIFE :
  " It's my conviction he would n'tgive you much o' a chance,
if he had you treed  like a bar, or a  'possum.   You 'd lose
your fakilties afore you had time to say ' Our Father,' and
kinder straighten yerself up for the change."
  " I know there 's a sprinklin' o' truth in what you  affarm,
to speak perlite, like the doctor, but there 's quite a difference in
our persition in the sight o' God. I 've had the ways and means
(although I haven't improved 'em, more 's the pity), of be.com-
in' a good man and that cretur an't.  Or, in other words, I 've
been exposed to the gospil, and he has n't."
  " That's all very well in its way,  but  it's my conviction
that you might expose 'em to the means o' grace for years to-
gether, and 't would n't have no more affect than water spilt  on
the ground.  Them red-skins  are the swine as you must n't
cast your pearls afore. "
  " I have n't no great objections to finish him at once, but I 'd a
leetlerayther you'd  do it, if it's necessary to make an exam-
plar o'  the cretur, and work him off kinder graderal like; not
that I  don't appreciate your kindness, in  givin' me the first
preference, mind ye;  but, if I've a weakness, it's the  eye !"
   " The eye's good, 'though I go in  for the root o'the nose;
but I an't the chap  as can't be magnanimus,  and give  h«&or
where honor 's due.  Though, as I 've said, I prefer the bridge
o' the nasil or gin,  rcan do plain shootin.'   I don't feel it no
disparigement to do plain shootin ' — as shootin' in the legs, or
arms, or in the lungs, or in the  stomich,  and other parts o'
the  system.   So  I don't mind accommerdatin' ye, notwith-
standin' the onhappy condition o' the critter in relation to the
futur state, the means o' grace, and all them kind o'  fixins.
But it's the varmint's own fault, and it's too late for him to
git posted up on them subjicks now."
   The  heavy, greasy rifle  of Sutler came smartly  to  his
shoulder.  He laid his cheek  lovingly upon the breech, as
though it was a living thing, and knew and understood him.
He seemed to speak to it with his lyes as they ran along the
bronze-colored barrel; and his hands appeared to caress it as
they  carried  it toward the object.  The  attitude of an old
hunter  in the act of firing is  a study  in itself.   In shooting
an  object upon the ground,'th.e left foot is thrust out, the knee
slightly flexed,   and the whole  body thrown forward.   In
firing into a tree, the  attitude is different ; the body is thrown 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
157
 back  ipon the right foot, while the right knee is flexed, and
 the head elevated,  rendering  the chest  full and prominent,
 and giving the left side to the object.   And then, in this  de-
 fiant and bold position, the whole figure seems suddenly  to
 freeze or turn to stone.  The muscles of the left arm and leg
 are drawn  tight and firm; there is no relaxation, no  motion,
 no trembling, no rebellion of nerve or eye; the breathing is
 suspended; tn*e chest ceases to rise and fall; a feather would
 not float from the lips; an eye  of glass would  move  and ex-
 press as much life.   For a single instant, the man  might  be
 stone or iron, and only that.   Suddenly there is an explosive,
« ringing sound,  which echoes through the woods like the crack
 of a whip; the feet are no longer rooted to the earth, but up-
 torn on the instant; the arms are no longer iron arms, but
 flesh and blood ; the body is no longer thrown  back,  but  be-
 comes erect; the eye is no longer glassy and fixed,  but flash-
 ing and eager.   It was thus with Sutler when he levelled and
 fired at the miserable^.being in  the  sycamore.  The smoke
 curled quickly away.  The luckless Indian was still upon the
 limb, but no cry gave sign of mortal hurt.   I heard a patter-
 ing sound upon the»withered leaves at my feet; it was blood,
 warm from  the veins of the  savage.   A slight breeze blew
 misty atoms of it in my face, and it had already the clamminess
 of death.   I instinctively recoiled,  and*brushed it away with
 my open hand.
    " He's got it — nothin' but plain shootin' though, — about
 half an inch below the  breast-bone — starnum, as the doc-
 tor 'd say, " said Sutler, turning a handful of powder  into his
 rifle, and driving a  ball rapidly after it.
    " Don't offen perpetrate plain shootin1,  'though sometimes
 it answers better nor fancy work.  It's my conviction he's got
 his gruel.  Don 't be ticklish, doctor; 'tan't no worse nor buf-
 ferler blood, and no better nor any wild varmint's ;  if 't was,
 I 'd tell yer so.  I an't the man as  would deceive the young.
 See! the critter 's gettin' narvous. He holds on to  that limb
 as  if he never expected to give up sublunar things.  "
    I glanced again at the Indian,  and could not  withdraw my
 gaze.   He was growing weaker and weaker from loss of blood,
 and it was with difficulty  he  could  keep his body  balanced
 upon the limb.   His lower extremities  had already  slipped 
158
silver-knife :
from their former resting-place.   His chest lay upon the frail
tenure, while he grasped  it with  his hands to maintain his
equilibrium.  The strange pattering was still heard upon the
withered leaves ; but the drops were  thicker and heavier, and
fell at. longer intervals,  with  a deadly, solemn  monotony;
and, in proportion  as the drops grew thicker and heavier, and
less frequent, the body of the wretch  slipped f^om the limb.
The shouting and firing had ceased among his red brethren ;
they stood awe-stricken spectators of  the scene.   Occasional-
ly,  however, a smothered cry told  how  keenly they  partici-
pated in  the misfortune of their friend, and the unusual horror
of his position.   Another  motion,  like the  last lurch of a'
sinking ship, and the  Indian  hung  suspended by the hands,
and the hands only, seventy feet from the  earth.
  " It's  almost over now, " remarked Sutler.  " It can't go
on much longer; but the deluded  critter is  terribly attached
to sublunar things. "
  " It strikes me there's something awful in it," replied the
guide. " Them heathen creturs are quiet as death. I thought
there warn't nothin' as could sober 'em down.   Well, I don't
wonder!   Jest see the wretched cretur draw himself up like
an eel, when you're skinin' 'im alive.  He wants to  git back
agin on to the limb ^but that's onpossible.   What a kind o'
shudderin' went over him, then."
  " Spasms, " added  Sutler,  " spasms ; nothin'  but  spasms.
That  comes  o' the  plain shootin!.   You don't  see no such
non'sins  in the  bridge o' the nose system.   They bounce up
like a ball, and lose their fakilties without a murmur. That's
my kind."
  " I almost pity  the  cretur," said  Leroy.   " I 've seen  a
great many humans, of all colors, go  under ; but I never saw
one finished in  that style  afore, and don't wish to  again.
How  his  eyes stare out of his head.   I should n't wonder if I
dreamed of 'em for years to come."
  Although the spectacle was too horrible to look at, I could
look at nothing else.   The wretched  creature swung to and
fro in the air, clinging with  agonizing tenacity  to the limb.
It was his last frail hold of lite;  no  wonder  he  clung to it:
He might have met death with  firmness in- the usual manner,
or by torture among his enemies ; but this was a different mat-
ter.  How much longer this state things would have lasted, 1 
•
                    AN AUTOBIOORAPHY.                159

know not.   I heard the voice of Madeleine, as  we sometimes
hear welcome voices awaking us from a dreadful dream.
   She threw herself at her father's feet, crying, in a voice of
earnest entreaty,
   " Put an end to this horrible barbarity,  I entreat you!"
   " The eye"  said Sutler; *' though I go  in for  t; . bridge
o' the nose system."
   Quick as lightning Leroy brought his rifle to his shoulder,
and fired.   An instant longer  the body quivered in the air ;
then one hand relaxed its hold,  the body trembled a second by
the other, and there was a dead fall.  All  this  passed before
Madeleine had arisen from her knees.  When she heard the
sound which told that the tragedy  was over, she flitted back
to the camp, like an angel of mercy as she  was.
   " Bless the gal," said Leroy, wiping his eyes with the back
of  his powder-begrimed hand.   " Bless the  gal!   Her rough
old father would do anything for her."
   The body had fallen upon the pickets, and was impaled up-
on  a stick which chanced to be  higher than its  fellows.  The
head lay  toward us, and the light  of the  moon  revealed a
wound in the left eye, and another about an inch  below the
sternum.
   "He feels just as well now as if he'd  died in bed with his
moccasins off; or as he had n't  been rubbed out by the plain
shootin'" remarked Sutler, in a moralizing  way.
   The trapper pushed the body from the picket, and  I  felt
relieved  when  the distorted visage was out of my sight.
   The  Crows appeared disheartened.  They withdrew, and
we heard no more from them that  night.  We saw several
lurking about, the next day, but none came  near enough for a
shot.   The following  night  was but a repetition of the one
that preceded it; but it was a fact  which could not be con-
cealed, that their numbers were increasing, and,  as near as we
could judge, amounted to a round hundred.   We kept them at
bay as best we could.   We never fired at random.  Whenev-
er a shot was heard from our camp,  it was  quite certain we
had one enemy less.
  My journal  of that date has  a note to  the following effect"
  " We have no rest,  but are harassed by  day and  by night—
regularly besieged.  I should not care so much  for this, were
it not for the females.   The prospect of another captivity to 
•
iftC                   6ILVER-KMFE:

them is anything but cheering.  I cannot endure the thought,
sooner let me perish  in their defence.  Madeleine again  in
the power of Burrill ? — Krvcr, while I live!   But where is
he ?  He does well to keep in the  background.  He knows
the power of our rifles.
   "Our food is failing—we ate our last morsel to-day; or,
more properly, urged the females to  do so.   What shall we
subsist on to-morrow?  Wickliffe  has  not  returned, although
the period  when  he expected to return  has  passed.   I
feel  the  most  painful  apprehensions  in  regard  to  his
fate.    He bade me not expect him, if he came notwitbm forty-
eight hours.  Inexplicable  man!  noble  friend!  Perhaps  he
has already  ceased to exist.  Even amid  the  horrors of this
hour, I give a tear to his  memory.   Mary does not mention
his name.   She trembles and turns pale when she hears it
spoken.  Poor girl!  I fear she will see the beloved object  no
more.   .  \  .  Things are growing worse and worse.   The
roost dismal prospect is before us — starvation, captivity, and
death,  at last.  Madge strengthens her daughters with  pious
exhortions;  and they, in their turn, strive to diffuse a general
cheerfulness, and make us hope against  hope.   They do  not
sink down in despair; they do not distress  us by useless re-
pinings.   To look upon them, no person would suspect that
they are hungry and in peril.  Their  conduct is heroic — an-
gelic.   Instead of being obliged  to comfort them, they have
proved comforters to us.  What a strange being is woman !
We know not her worth till the hour of adversity!  'T is then
she shows her strength, and sublimity of character.  I have
loved Madeleine hitherto as a mortal.  I now adore her as
something  more.  I  shall scarcely  regret  to lose life  in
her defence.  Her gentleness, her patience,  her greatness of
mind,  subdue and amaze me.  She seems to rise far  above
me, and the distance between  us is  increasing.   I  am  not
worthy of her, and dare not speak of love.   She is  something
spiritual, exalted, and I am so gross!
   " No food for two days.  This  is getting  horrible.   What
will  be the.  end ?  I have not the courage to think.   We
want sleep also —it is hard to live without sleep ; the brain gets
so confused.
   " Our enemies  are  as malignant as incarnate fiends.   We
have  the satisfaction of knowing, however,  that we have
**. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
161
thinned off their numbers. They are no doubt waiting till we get
weak for want of sustenance, to  make a  general  demonstra
tion upon our  little fort.  How  many  incongruous  ideas go
whirling through  a hungry man's brain.  He thinks of every
variety of food he ever masticated, and there is scarcely  any-
thing  which  he  does not  think of.   ' Sleep is nourishing,
they say, and  I wish I could  sleep.   But it is out of the
question; my anxiety for Madeleine would keep me wakeful,
if the  hunger-pangs were not gnawing  at my vitals.   I have
fasted  longer than any of them ; but  they do not know it
Could  I swallow a mouthful of food, when one dearer  than
my own existence might want it?  No ! my  selfishness  does
not extend so far."
   As the reader may judge by the  above extract, the sixth
day of the siege found us  in a  melancholy position,   Every
ho^e seemed to  be cut  off.  Even the stout hearts  of the
trapper an I hunter were appalled at the  dreary prospect be-
fore us.   Basil strove to imitate the stoicism of the Indian un-
der difficulties,  and succeeded  nobly.  But where was the
chief?  Did his sterling qualities shine less brightly?   No!
the soul of the warrior and chieftain beamed forth  more re-
splendency, as our sorrows accumulated.   He was always at
the post of danger, and his vigilance slumbered not for a mo-
ment.
   His step was not less  proud for famine, nor his bearing less
bold.   His voice and his shout were heard  where the peril
was most imminent, and it diffused new courage, and new hope
when hope was sinking.
   On the afternoon of the  sixth  day, I was  alone with Mad-
eleine.  The Crows had  retired, and left us unmolested for an
hour.   The shouting had ceased, although at intervals a strag-
gling shot went whistling over our heads, or  lodged  in  the
palisade.  It was a moment of comparative quiet.  Though
we were famishing and dying,  the sun shone brightly  that
day upon mountain and prairie.
   We  heard gentle winds-whispering among  the trees, and
gentler melodies warbled by airy singers.   To  us these were
solemn sounds, although  they still retained something of their
former sweetness.  We could not help thinking that sun.viine,
and soft winds, and mellow songs, would soon cease to be fa-
miliar to eye and ear.
                 14* 
102
SILVER-KNIFE :
  I took Madeleine's hand.   I was calm, but sad.  Perhaps
my voice shook a little  when I spoke, and my eyes had an
unnatural wildness.
  " Madeleine," I  said, and my tones  made  her tremble,
" Madeleine, we seem  to be  nearing the final  home of the
weary wanderer upon earth.   It would be useless to attempt
to conceal from you the  truth.  A few more suns without re-
lief, and it will  be all over.   Before it is too late, I will speak
to you, and hope to give no  offence.   Why have I left the
scenes  familiar to my childhood, and the home of civilized
man ?  Why  have I been a pilgrim in the wilderness ?   Why
have I encountered  danger and privation with  alacrity and
cheerfulness ?   I answer for the sake  of  Madeleine.   When
have I been happy and  hopeful ?  When near her, and only
then.   When have I been wretched  and despairing ?   When
she was away, and in danger.  Madeleine has  been my cloud
to direct  me onward in my pilgrimage  by  day, and my pillar
of fire to illuminate my dreams by night.  But I have been
to her as  a brother, and a brother only.  I have scorned to
take undue advantage of our companionship heretofore; but
now I say for the first time,  and perhaps the last, Madeleine,
I love you."
  At first a few tears trembled  on  the dark  lashes of the
maiden; but as I  proceeded, she  wiped them away, and her
face beamed like an angel's.
  " If we were not  in danger,"  she  said, in a voice scarcely
audible, but which grew  firmer as she went on, " it might be
unuiaidenly to say what  I am about to utter,  but, as it is, and
as we are about to die ( unless Heaven sends some good angel
to save us) — it would ill become me not  to speak the truth.
The love  you  have lavished upon the unworthy maiden, Mad-
eleine,  is returned;  she has confessed it.   Under ordinary
circumstances, she never would; her tongue  would not have
courage to speak the words."
  1 drew  Madeleine to my heart, and  was happy, in spite of .
famine and starvation.   While I held her there,  and  wept
over her, I felt  a hand laid gently on my head.  I looked up,
— the tall figure of Leroy, the guide, stood beside me.   Tears
were  rolling  down  the  cheeks be-grimed with  powder  and
smoke.
  " God bless you, doctor! — my boy — my son, I had hoped 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
163
to live to see this.  She 's a good gal — my child is — an an
gel of a  gal.   God bless her heart!"
   The good old man joined our hands, and blessed  us  ovei
and over again ; and then Madge, Mary and Basil embraced
and wept over us like children.
   "I can't stand that, nohow," said Sutler (who had looked
in upon us), drawing the sleeve of  his  greasy hunting-shirt
across his shaggy lashes.   "If the doctor hasn't any objec-
tions, I 'd like to kiss that angelic critter once."
   Madeleine bounded gracefully to  the side of the old trap-
per, and,  taking  his  rough hand, offered him her cheek.
He gazed at her a moment in silence.
   " I can't do it," said he, mournfully.  "I 've been a man o'
blood, and I won't contamernate your  young  cheek with my
lips.   I  don't  deserve to  kiss your hand even, but I will; and
now add, my God bless you to your  old  father's; and, if ever
we should live to get out o' this,  I  hope you '11  think o' the
sinful old man, now and then, in your prayers."
   " You 're a  kind, good, whole-souled  cretur, " said Leroy,
" and I hope you '11 live a great many years yet.  If I had a
hundred  gals, you  might  kiss 'em all, in welcome, and  they
would n't be none the worse for't.  But bless my soul! there 's
Wickliffe!"
   All eyes were  turned  toward the camp-door; and Wick-
liffe stood there, with his arms  folded upon his breast, while
traces of emotion were visible upon his face.
   " I have been an unobserved witness of this scene," he said
with some effort.   "I wish you all joy and happiness, and, if
Heaven rewards the virtuous and punishes the guilty, you will
be blessed  indeed."
   Madeleine and myself were the first to spring  forward and
embrace  Wickliffe.  As I held his hand in mine, I whispered
in his ear.
   " You  love Mary, and she reciprocates your feelings.   Do
not let your pride render you wretched for life."
   The countenance of Wickliffe relaxed, and he returned the
warm pressure of my hand.
   "Do j'ou love her ? " whispered Madeleine.
   "More  than  that—since  you ask  me — I worship  her.
Every spot is sacred to me where  she has been.  I am happy
only in her presence." 
164
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " Thank God !  Then my sister will not be wretched.  Give
me your hand, sir.  Mary, why do you not greet our benefac-
tor?  For shame, girl!  Come along!"
  Mary timidly approached.   Madeleine adroitly placed her
hand in Wickliffe's.
  " What, another one! " exclaimed the guide.
  "Leroy," said Wickliffe, with dignity, "I love your daugh-
ter— tenderly, truly, devotedly, deeply as man should love
confiding woman ; but, if it is not agreeable to her and you, I
will leave you, and  trouble you no more."
  " I have been without food  a  little better nor two days,
and I feel an  onpleasant gnawin' at the stomich, but I was
never so happy afore in my life, except when Madge said yes.
Bless your hearts, the old man could n't wish for nothin' bet-
ter."
  " Them 's my feelin's," said Sutler, " only perhaps I could n't
get 'ein off so  well."
  " I respond  to it all," added Basil, "though an indefinite
quantity  of buffalo-meat would n't come  amiss arter you all
get through.   I feel jest about  as holler as  a grave-yard."
  " I give you a mother's blessing," said Madge, " and a moth-
er's blessing is a good thing to start with in life."
  " Are you content? " whispered Wickliffe to Mary.
  "Happy!" was the responce.
  " Ferguson," said Wickliffe, in a low tone, " I will tell you
a secret,  for there  may be fighting to do soon, and I would
not have it perish with me, if 1 should fall.   Be calm, and do
not discredit what I am about to say.  We are  brothers; but
your mother was not mine.  Neglected and  disowned by him
to whom  I owe my  existence,  is it strange that when I grew
to manhood I should seek to hide myself from the sententious
world, that I might not hear  its sneering  voice  linking my
name with dishonor ?   I have  been an outcast and a misan-
thrope,  for my parents  placed an ignoble mark upon my
name and  memory.  The story of my wanderings is long, and
this is no time to relate it; but at some future time you shall
know more of the life of Wickliffe, the hunter  of the Rocky
Mountains."
  My heart was too full for words; and I shed tears on Wick-
liffe's neck, as certain people wept over Paul, once on a time,
many years ago. 
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
165
  " Your mother sleeps under the green turf, and the knowl-
edge of this truth cannot grieve her now.  Do you wonder I
have taken an interest in you ?   I recognized  the lineaments
of my  father's  face in  yours, before you announced  your
name.   I had certain  knowledge that danger was near  you,
when I met you for the first time; but I knew not its precise
character.  I received some hints from an Indian whom I met,
that induced me to warn you to watchfulness.  I have friends
among certain tribes.   I  went  to rally them for your protec-
tion, but they were beyond  my reach.  I  returned  to  you
the next morning, and you know the rest."
  I lost no time in making known  this unexpected discovery
to my friends.
  " Well, you do look alike; that's sartin," said Leroy.
  "The  resemblance  struck me  at first  sight,"  rejoined
Madge.
  " I can't say I see any resemblance," added'Mary.
   " I suppose you think  the elder brother the best looking,"
retorted Madeleine.
   " Very much  alike,"  said  Silver-Knife.    " The   pale
medicine man  has the same cur^of the lip, the same fire in
his eye, when excited."
   " And some of the same pride also," said Mary.
   " Pardon me, my friends, if I forgot for a moment  that
you  are famishing," exclaimed Wickliffe.  Stepping to  the
camp door, he made a gesture with  his hand.   Immediately
two Indians made  their appearance, bearing an abundance of
the choicest viands the wilderness could .afford.
   We all, save Basil, made a simultaneous  movement to the
door.   To  our utter  amazement, the enclosure was full of
Blackfeet.
   " These are  my friends,"  said Wickliffe.   "lam a  chief
among them, of some importance.  Whatever they may be to
others, they are faithful to me."
   " But how did you  come  upon us, and  gain admission so
silently ? "
   " Basil will tell you,"  he replied.  " He  admitted us with
his own hand.  Don't  give  yourself any uneasiness; we did
not find you sleeping, or off your guard; but you recollect
you were very  busy about  that time; " and Wickliffe  gave
Madeleine a significant glance. 
166
SILVER-KNIFE :
  " Very oncommon busy," rejoined Basil, who at  that  mo-
ment joined us, with a good-humored grin.
  I have but little more to relate.   I will not  linger over
these  pages.  I have already dwelt longer than I  intended.
Euding a talc  is something like  taking leave of  a fellow-
traveller on  a  "strange  road; we  part with  him  expecting
never to meet again.
  Food never  tasted sweeter than it did that  night.  We
satisfied the demands of our starving stomachs, thanked God,
and were happy.
  Sutler very philosophically observed " that sublunar things
never looked brighter."
  Near the hour of midnight, a general  assault was made by
the Crows.   For the first time during the siege, the voice of
Burrill was heard.   It was loud, stormy, terrible as ever, and
incited the  savages to fight with desperate valor.   They at-
tempted to scale our pickets, ignorant of the reinforcement we
had received.   We repulsed  them with great slaughter, and
not only repulsed, but pursued them to their covert.   I caught
sight of Burrill, singled him out — pursued him.  He turned
upon me like a tiger at baji; I fired, and he fell.
   " You have  triumphed at last," said  he, in a feeble voice.
" Triumphed at last; but it  has been by no good will of mine."
   " Been  doin' a little  plain shootin', have n't ye, doctor ? "
said Sutler, approaching, with an unconcerned look.   " Well
every man to his likin', though.I goes in for the bridge o' the
nose system, notwithstandin'.   I 'm happy to  say that you '11
find some o'the naterfcl varmin o'this unhappy sile hereabouts
who are moniments o' the bridge o' the nose  system."
   " I believe I 'm  dying," said  Burrill,  lifting  himself upon
his elbow,  and staring wildly upon him.
   " And it's my humble opinion  that you 're as onprepared
for the change as  ever a critter was," continued Sutler, ad-
dressing himself to Burrill.  "There's  no use in  cry in'for
what  can't be  helped.   It's  my conviction  that  the  time
has come when you must go,  willin' or not  willin'.   You're
wanted, and it's no  use to kick back on  the  rope.   If you
can recollect anything kind o'pious like, you  M better say it."
   The dying man motioned me away with his hand.
   " He don't like to  see you, doctor, and you 'd better  keep
out o' his sight."
*$   ' 
                           AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.                167
                                       «
         I fell back, where he. could not see me.
         "You  think I'm  going? "said Burrill, with a shudder.
         " Them \s my feelin's," answered  the trapper, " and you 'd
       better  be  gettin' ready.  The  plain shootin' has  done  your
 A "■    business."                                      *
         " Can't you speak a word for me,  old man ? "
         "I'm a sinful  man, and it's  my  convictions  my words
       would n't prevail.  The Master o' life, as  the Injins call him,
  £   is pertickler about sich things;  but then, old feller, he's very
  1     marciful.   Try and think o' sumthin."       '"'  '
i        An expression of unutterable horror played  for a moment
*      over the features of Burrill.  He f$l back upon  the earth,
       straightened out his limbs convulsively, and died.
         I was sorry that I had dealt  the wound  that sped him.
         We journey in safety to the  land  of' the Nez  Perces, the
       Horeb of the  Leroys.  I will not stop to tell how we went a
       great distance for a priest, and what  a wedding party we had^
       and how happy every one was,  and how numbers of Indians
       danced, and how some of them got rather the worse for strong
   <    water, — not I.  I '11 keep it all to myself, as well as the fact
***'    of Basil's  espousal with the "Morning Star," the daughter
       of our  old  friend Silver-Knife; neither shall I make known
       how delighted  the  latter was at having  Basil for a son-in-
. 9*'    law, or how  beautiful  the  bride was.   I  am  very  close
       and particular  on  these  subjects, because a great deal  of
|       scandal often comes of being too communicative.
pa^,     I will remark, however,  that I thought  there was a fair
L*"$   prospect of Sutler and 1% " Singing Bird " getting up a small
       match on their own  private account, and, if you can make
1       anything of it, you may.
         As for Madeleine and myself,  we  were  happy, and envied
       no  one, not even Wickliffe and Mary, and their cup of hap-
       piness was on the eve of running  over.  *  *  *
         Our lodge was reared near the pleasant  hunting-grounds.
  -^f-Tho" Nez Perces are our friends.  The cold does not freeze us
       in winter, nor  the sun scorch us in  summer.   When we are
       hungry, the wood  supplies  us  with food.   When  we are
       thirsty, we drink from the running streams.  Madeleine is all
       I could reasonably hope to  find  in  woman.  My days  pass
      pleasantly and in peace. 
168
SILVER-KNIFI
   Silvlr-Knife is yet  hale and  strong.  We  shall miss hia
ple^KujK face when he go^s to the happy hunting-grounds*
   Suthy still "goes* in " for the  "bridge o' the nose system,"
ancUiwoy talks of the " heathen creturs."   There is no great
fear that either will lose his " fakilties"  very soon.  So far
as  human foresight extends,  they will cling  to " sublunar
things " for many a long day to  come.
   Wickliffe, the hunter  of the Rocky Mountains, is  littlo
changed, and that change is for the better.
           f  '   ->                      •

                     CONCLUSION.

   It is summer.  The snow has melted from the valleys, and
the air is vocal with the song of birds.  The green grass has
sprung up, and nods softly in the wind.  The trees put  forth
their leaves, and the hill-sides have clothed themselves  with"
Verdure.  The prairies are  smiling in the sun.  The  buffalo
disports in the pleasant glades, and the wild deer drinks from
the meandering streams.   Everything is  redolent of life.
There  is a  hum of happiness in the air, and a flutter of joy
amid the living leaves.  The breath of many flowers perfumes
the vast parterre of nature.
    Harmony prevails in the wilderness, and  the  quick pulses
 of Time beat happily.  The voice of nature and the voice  of
 Madeleine woo me  to stay, and I obey.  I am happy when I
 go out, happy when I return, and content always.
    (From Madeleine's memoranda.)  TJ^e Jordan ispast — my
 Horeb won — my  land of  promise gained.   Very pleasant
 are these wilds.  Grateful odors are wafted from the prairies
 and a murmur of sweet sounds is heard iu the forest.  The
 wavin" branches, the swaying  reeds, the bending grass, tho
 breathing flowers,  the babbling streams, the  glad sunshine,
 and the soft whisper of the sweet  south-west, bid -ne ljr-
 auiid these seenes.                         *"^^fij*

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