Mr. Payson, under these circumstances, would comfort her with anticipations of future abundance. They knew, indeed, that most of the settlers had newly arrived, and had everything to buy, as they had not been long enough settled to raise anything from the ground. But a year had now elapsed, and many acres of the rich soil had been turned over and planted, and there was prospect of abundant returns. The missionary, being unaccustomed to farming, and wishing to devote his energies, as far as practicable, to the spiritual interests of his growing charge, had let out his tillable ten-acre lot to a neighbor, to be cultivated on shares, reserving a little spot for himself, which he had planted to early potatoes, and a good variety of garden vegetables. As the one who carried on the rest of the piece was an intelligent and experienced farmer, and had facilities for the work in the way of teams and men, the clergyman felt that he might reasonably calculate on a supply of corn and wheat, to which crops the ground had been devoted. And nowhere was there promise of a larger yield than on that quick and productive river bottom. The corn grew to a prodigious height, crowded with mammoth ears, and the wheat emulated the corn; while the squash and pumpkin vines conducted as if on a race to see which would beat in the number and size of their fruit; and Mr. Payson's pet sorghum—a species of sugar-cane—shot up to a marvellous perfection. It is true that a neighbor's unruly cattle had broken into the enclosure a number of times; and a contrary sow, with her lively family of eleven, had also made sundry plundering raids, causing the minister considerable trouble in driving and keeping out the intruders; but he had already a fine supply of seasoned oak rails under way for perfecting the fences; and he cheerily said to his wife,—

"Another year, and I'll defy the unruliest animals in the settlement to steal an ear of corn or a potato from my lot."

Summer had now faded into late autumn, and one day the farmer, who had charge of the field, called at Mr. Payson's, looking very dejected.

"Elder," said he, "our farming this year is going to be losing business."

"Why, what's the matter?" asked the clergyman.

"You see," he replied, "most of the settlers, like myself, came from a warmer climate than this. We were told also that the growing season was as long here as there, and brought our choicest seed with us. But there is not time for it to ripen; and our corn will not do to grind, nor will it keep, it is so green. It is a great disappointment to me; but most of the neighbors are in the same situation."

Words cannot describe what sad tidings these were to the missionary.

"The wheat is good—is it not?" he inquired.

"Yes; but you know there was little sown, as the ground was best adapted to corn."

So it turned out that more was realized from the half acre cultivated by the missionary, notwithstanding the old farmer laughed at his city style of doing things, than from the nine and a half acres besides. And the year of plenty had to be deferred for another twelvemonth.

That eighty acres!—how much comfort the missionary and his wife took in the thought that it was, or rather soon would be, theirs! How many times they admired its pleasant, rolling aspect, and weighed its prospective value! And the pretty grove near the cabin, with its straight-growing trees—what cosy walks they had with the children in its leafy shade! What enjoyment in noting the progress made in clearing out the underbrush and trimming the trees of superfluous branches!

"If the place was only paid for," said the husband one day, "I should be glad. Let me see. Eighty acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre,—the government price,—would be one hundred dollars. I think I'll act upon Mr. Jones's suggestion, and sell some of the timber across the river, and pre-empt immediately. I have been offered thirty dollars an acre for the privilege of cutting off the wood, and, at that rate, three and a half acres would be more than enough."

So the sale was effected, and, with the hundred dollars in his pocket, the clergyman started one morning on horseback for the Land Office, thirty-seven miles distant. A horseback ride across a Minnesota prairie is highly exhilarating, and both horse and rider were in good spirits. Seemingly half borne on by a sweeping prairie wind, Mr. Payson reached his destination in some five hours, in season for an early tea; and the next morning he was conducted to the Land Office by a lawyer acquaintance, and, with a witness at hand to prove what he affirmed, stated, under oath, that he had, on the land he wished to pre-empt, a cabin and other improvements to the amount that the law required; and then, having paid his hundred dollars, he started towards home with a light heart.

The day became dark and cloudy; and, as there was only a faint cart track across the prairies, the minister found, in the course of the afternoon, that he had lost his way. There were no cabins at which he could retrieve his error, and, after many vain endeavors to find the track, he let his horse take his own course; and, carrying his master under low-branched trees and through thorny thickets, across a swamp, he brought him out at last by a much shorter route than he had taken in going, on the farther bank of the river, near the town.

As the clergyman neared the village, he noticed heavy volumes of smoke ascending. Then he saw Mr. Palmer with a force of men busily engaged in checking a fire that was careering through the bushes. There was a wall of flame between him and them. Striking the road, he dashed through the glowing boundary; and Mr. Palmer, beckoning to him, said,—

"We have rather bad news to tell you, though not so bad as it might have been. A fire commenced near your place yesterday afternoon, and came near burning the town."

"A fire there!" ejaculated the minister. "How did it start?"

"I cannot stop to tell you," said his bachelor friend; "but your wife, when you get home, will tell you all about it. Had it not been for her, we should have been swept away."

What a sight met the clergyman's eye as he came into the town! The entire area, before so like a lawn, looked as if the contents of a large ink-pot had been spread over it. He was relieved, however, to see that his cabin and the other houses were still standing; but his wife met him with a depressed bearing quite in contrast to her usual sprightly manner. It so struck to his heart to see how badly she felt, that—although his glance from the saddle showed that the flames had not spared his beloved grove, and had consumed the rails, of which he had been so proud, and spoiled many a promising tree—with a desperate endeavor, he set about comforting her.

"O, this is nothing," said he—"nothing at all! Consider what it would have been had the cabin taken fire, and you and the children been in danger."

"Which would have been the case," she added, "had not our quick-moving town owner, Mr. Caswell, come to the rescue with his usual energy, at the head of a force of men and teams, bringing with them hogsheads of water, and pails, with which to throw it upon the fire. You have reason to thank them; for they worked as I never saw men work before."

"But how did the fire commence?" he asked.

"Why, you see," said she, "after you left, I said to the children, 'Father's gone to the Land Office to buy the land; and now we'll stir around, and see how nice we can make everything look by the time he gets back.' Well, you know how unsightly the chips looked around the house, and which you had not had time to remove. So we went to work raking them up into little heaps. While we were thus employed, we heard the report of a gun in the bushes near by. The morning, you recollect, was quite calm; but just as the gun was fired, a gust of wind swept over the place, carrying with it some burning wadding that alighted in a dry log some rods away. Before I could get there, the inflammable wood was afire, and from that other sparks had been borne on, and at once had kindled flames in a number of different places. Seeing that it was impossible to arrest the progress of the conflagration, I sent Helen to the nearest neighbor's to give the alarm, and, as I have already said, by the help of those that came, our cabin was barely saved, and the neighbors had to fight hard to preserve their own dwellings."

Each day after that the missionary would walk about his blackened domain, pondering the uncertainty of all sublunary things, about which he had so often preached, his wife scrutinizing his disconsolate face the while, and he repeating, with an emphasis that showed he was saying it for his own benefit as much as hers,—

"O, it's nothing at all—nothing at all; and as for those few rails,"—as he kicked over the burnt fragments with a melancholy look,—"they're not of much account, for the piece over the river is pretty well fenced, after all; luckily, the fires didn't touch them, and we have them safe for another year."

One afternoon, a few days later, as Mr. Payson was in his attic study absorbed, an unwonted darkness fell upon the page before him; then a heavy peal of thunder succeeded. It was one long, continuous roll, for an hour or more, without pause, and the rain poured down as he never saw it in any shower east; it seemed as if the heavy clouds were literally emptying their contents upon prairie and forest, while flash followed flash of vivid lightning. Throughout the whole night it rained, and the next day, and the next; and, were it not for the ancient promise, one might have thought that a second flood was to sweep the inhabitants of the world away. About midnight of the third day of the terrible storm, the family at the missionary's cabin were awakened by wild shoutings in the village below.

"What do you suppose is the matter?" asked Mrs. Payson.

"Nothing serious, I think," said her husband. "As the town site is rolling and descends towards the river, it is probable that the high water has come up into some of the yards and gardens, and perhaps has invaded some of the settlers' pig-pens and hen-coops, and the neighbors are working in the rain and darkness to save their live stock."

The sun came out next morning like "a bride-groom from out his chamber, rejoicing as a strong man to run his race," flooding the fields with light, as the clouds had flooded them with water, revealing the destruction which the tempest had caused. It appeared that the river, a short distance up stream from the town, had become obstructed by dead trees, and brush, and loosened soil, until a heavy body of water had accumulated, when, the impediment suddenly giving way, the water rushed with tremendous power, inundating a wide extent of ground, and sweeping away everything movable in its path. Many cabins were flooded, sleepers being awakened by the water dashing against their beds, while articles of furniture were floating about in the room. It was this that caused the outcries that Mr. Payson had heard.

The Jones's cabin had been well chosen for safety on ordinary occasions; but, on the night in question, Tom was awakened by something cold touching his hand; for, in throwing it out of bed in his sleep, it had been immersed in the water, which had entered the room, and was rapidly rising. Shouting to his mother and the children, he struck a light, and leaped into the water; and, taking Bub in his arms, and directing the movements of the rest, he hurried them out of the door, away from the river bank, as fast as they could go. How providential it was that he should have, in his restlessness, dropped his hand over the bedside! for scarcely had they ascended a swell of ground beyond the field when the cabin went down with a crash, and the fragments, whirling about and jarring together, disappeared from view.

They were now poorer than ever; but, cold and wet, with the lightning flashing about them, in the pouring rain, they clung together for mutual protection, while they took their toilsome and difficult way from the scene of danger.

There was an unoccupied shanty in the edge of the town farthest from the river, and to that Tom led the terrified and shivering group. It was three full hours before they reached it; and then they had nothing but the bare walls and the bare floor, with the shelter over their heads, for a resting-place, where, the next day, the missionary found them as he went about assisting to succor the sufferers; and, at his suggestion, from the scanty stores of the settlers about, their cabin was fitted out with eatables and housekeeping articles.

During all this time Mr. Payson had been so occupied in benevolent labor among those whose cabins had been flooded, that it had not occurred to him that he had sustained any damage; but, after the subsiding of the waters, as he took his way down his favorite path through the grove, he saw that the waters had borne away every vestige of fencing around his cherished ten-acre lot. The highest part of the fence had been under water many feet on that calamitous night, and with the loss of the rails had gone down another of the earthly props on which he had leaned for his daily bread in the wilderness.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE INDIAN LODGE.

Spring on a north-western prairie. What a glorious scene! Suddenly, you scarcely know when, the snow has disappeared, leaving the long, dead grass lying in matted unsightliness, and you would think it was dead forever; but soon, in little clusters of from three to seven, you see dotting the landscape a purple flower, a tough, membranous, hairy sheath protecting each floweret from the chilling winds, for it opens at once to your gaze. Then, as the weather waxes genial, the blossoms shoot up from their hirsute guardianship, and nod brightly in the breeze. It is the "spring beauty,"—as the frontier folk call it,—the first vegetation of the season, presenting the phenomenon of rich blooming flowers, while yet the lifeless turf shows no signs of vitality. But life is there; for at once, as if by magic, the whole expanse is green with verdure, growing with marvellous rapidity, decked with flowers.

"Garden without path or fence, Rolling up its billowy blooms."

Then you rise some soft morning, and the air is vocal with the cooing of myriad birds. If you are just from the east, you will think that thousands of turtle doves are announcing that spring has come. They seem close about you; but you cannot see them. They are not in the groves near by; you follow the sounds through the waving prairie grass for a long distance, and you find them not, and will be surprised when your western friend tells you that these are the voices of the prairie hens, miles away, holding their annual convention, the queer cuckooing not being loving sounds, but notes of war—abortive attempts at crowing, which the rival males set up as they prepare to do battle with each other.

And now from the blue expanse overhead come down the varied cries of the migratory birds returning from the south. Line upon line of wild geese, in military order, follow their leader, while the trumpet blasts of the sand-hill cranes—the ostrich of the American prairie—ring out clear and shrill, and their long white bills glisten in the sunlight from afar, like bristling bayonets of ivory.

Tom stood in front of the hotel, enjoying the spring sights and sounds with unusual zest. The two winters now past had been eventful to him. Mr. Payson, the missionary, who had taken a great interest in Tom, had, the winter before, kept school in his own cabin; and Tom and his sister Eliza had attended much of the time, their tuition being paid by such assistance as Tom might be able to render Mr. Payson in his outdoor work.

Eliza had grown to be a sedate and interesting young woman, and was making good headway with her studies, when one day she gave notice that she should not be able to attend school any longer; and to her teacher's inquiries she returned only blushes in reply, and he could get no further light until the next day, when an enterprising young man from a "neighboring village," twenty miles distant, called to invite Mr. Payson to join himself and "Miss Eliza" in marriage.

The last winter the missionary's family had occupied rooms at the hotel. Mrs. Payson had been growingly unhappy from dread of the Indians, and often said to her husband,—

"Our lot is just such a place as they would be likely to come to first."

Mr. Payson did not share this fear; but, on account of her feelings, the generous-hearted landlord offered them rooms for the winter rent free.

The winter had gone by without any adverse occurrence. Tom had been prospering in his studies under the missionary's direction, working for his board in the family of one of the town owners, just opposite the hotel; so it was but a step for him to the missionary's when he wished to recite.

"Will you be able to hear my recitation this afternoon?" asked Tom, as Mr. Payson came down the hotel steps.

"Yes," replied the missionary. "I am called away this morning, but I think I shall get back in season."

That afternoon, as Tom sat in the missionary's front room, absorbed in a book, the furious barking of a dog disturbed him. He glanced out of the window, and saw, to his surprise, an Indian. The savage had turned, facing the hotel, rifle in his hand, and, with flashing eyes, was driving back a large mastiff that had attacked him. Tom was struck with the singular intelligence and beauty of the young savage. He was a shade lighter than most of his race, had large, dark, expressive eyes, regular and finely-cut features, a symmetric form, and his luxuriant black hair, which was of great length, was dressed with most elaborate care, and the ornaments that he wore about his person, and his blanket, were better than those usually worn by Indians.

From the Indian's manner, Tom concluded that he suspected the dog was set upon him by some white person. The bearing of the red man was lofty, collected, and defiant. In an instant Tom sprang down the front stairs, and called the dog off. The Indian, glancing at the lad, went stolidly on his way, up the main street, through the village, till he was hidden from view by the trees on the missionary's land.

Mrs. Payson and her children stood at the window, watching the retreating figure of the Indian with mingled fear and admiration.

"Isn't he handsome?" exclaimed the elder of the little girls.

"He certainly is very intelligent looking," remarked her mother; "a noble specimen of the red man."

"Did you see that Indian?" inquired the landlady, a calm, dignified woman, as she stepped into the room. "One of the boarders says there is quite a company of them encamped on your husbands land. The have a large wigwam, and seem to be making themselves as much at home as if they owned the place."

The missionary's wife shuddered, and remarked,—

"It is just as I foreboded."

"But these are friendly," returned the landlady. "The chief has a letter from the government agent, recommending him to the confidence and charity of the settlers. It has been a long and hard winter, and the agent says there has been much suffering among the Indians."

"Is that young Indian the chief?" asked Mrs. Payson.

"No; I wish he were. He is the finest-looking savage I ever saw. I don't think I should be afraid to trust him. But the chief looks frightfully; he is as cruel and treacherous as a snake, or I do not read his face aright."

"Then you have seen him?" said the other, in surprise.

"Yes; I was riding through the woods with husband, and we met him. The young Indian seems to belong to the company, and yet holds himself somewhat aloof from the others, as if he feels conscious of being superior to them, and finds it difficult to fellowship their low ways. To-morrow a party of us are going to call on the Indians at their wigwam, and I stepped in to invite you to go. There will be a good many of us; so you needn't fear being tomahawked!" she added, laughing.

The visit to the Indians the next day was full of interest to the missionary's family, for, although they had seen numbers of the half-civilized Indians of the Eastern States, they had never before seen the red man in his native wilds, with habits and customs unchanged from their primitive character. The wigwam was large and well constructed, erected in a sheltered and romantic spot, convenient at once to the village, the woods, and the river. Within were squatted four or five of the company on the ground, playing a game of chance, in which employment the Indian men spend most of their time, when not hunting, fishing, or at war. There were no women with them, and therefore the men had, besides the cooking, to do the drudgery usually assigned to the squaws, such as gathering and bringing in the wood, and dressing the skins of the wild animals.

The Indians did not lift their eyes as the whites entered through the narrow opening which served as door, and ranged themselves around the sides of the lodge as best they might. Nor did they answer any questions, not appearing to understand a word of English, their faces remaining as stolid under the remarks of the whites as if nothing had been said; and taking it for granted that the Indians were as ignorant of civilized speech as they appeared, some of the inquisitive pale-faces indulged themselves in quite uncivilized speeches, for they had a traditional contempt and hatred of their tawny brothers.

"You had better not express yourself quite so freely," said Mr. Caswell, the landlord, aside to a settler; "these fellows understand every word you say, and it's better to have the good will than the ill will of a dog, as the old saying is."

Curious, however, to see what the effect would be, those who disliked the Indians the most made them presents with the rest. Tobacco, skeins of cotton, brass buttons, cakes, crackers, cents, sticks of candy, bits of ribbon, were received by the Indians without a word or nod of acknowledgment. No sign of consciousness of visitor or presents was evinced, save that a grimy hand would deftly clutch the article tossed within its reach, and convey it to the head, quickly and ingeniously twisting it in the hair, the game proceeding the while, without a pause. The young Indian played with his companions; and from his beauty and princely bearing drew much attention and a large share of the gifts to himself; yet even in receiving the presents he seemed different from the other savages. His was the only face in the swarthy group that betrayed "the workings of the soul;" and although he fastened the trinkets in his raven locks, drops of sweat stood on his brow, and it seemed as if it cost him a struggle to be treated as an object of charity.

Tom, with the others, was much struck with the appearance of the young Indian, and made a number of unsuccessful attempts to converse with him. Finding that the "confusion of tongues," or some other barrier, had made talking together impossible, in various ingenious ways he tried to direct the Indian's attention to himself, but without avail; game succeeded game in Indian silence, the talking and advancing towards acquaintanceship remaining wholly on the side of the whites.

"How many belong to this company?" asked Mr. Payson of the landlord.

"There are nine of them: the rest are out hunting, I suppose," was the reply.

"And do all these chaps manage to sleep in this little hut?" asked a settler.

"A nice time they must have of it on the ground, especially when it rains," added another, pointing up through the roof, which was open, to let out the smoke.

"But," said the missionary, "everything is in remarkable order here. Don't you see that each man has his place, and on the side of the lodge a snug chance to stow away or hang up his personal effects. We whites could scarcely arrange the little space with more fairness and mathematical precision, so as to make the most of the room."

It was indeed so; and much did the callers marvel at the intelligent system that prevailed.

"Some one has had a hand in the ordering of affairs here, who has more intellect than we are accustomed to attribute to the red man;" and the minister glanced at the young Indian, as if to say, "It must be due to him."

But twilight was falling, and the villagers started on their way home. Scarcely, however, had they passed the hedge of elders and the rows of young oaks that hid the abode of the Indians from view, when from within the wigwam there went up a startling whoop and yell, mingled with derisive laughter.

Mrs. Payson stood still, pale with terror, as if expecting to see the savages rush out to massacre them. But they kept within their tent, their horrible whoopings and mockings continuing until the whites were well away.

"I do not like the sound of those yells," said the missionary, soberly.

"O, the Indians are only amusing themselves by trying to scare the women and children," replied Mr. Caswell, merrily.

"There is more than that intended," returned the minister. "There was the bitterest irony and hatred expressed in those tones. If the authors of them dared, or it was in their plan to do so now, they would spring upon us with the eagerness of so many beasts of prey."

The next day eight of the Indians walked into the village, one after the other, as is the Indian way, and called at the hotel to beg. They had found their tongues over night, and could manage, not only to understand, when it was for their interest, what was said to them, but in broken English make reply. They were a fine set of men, physically—tall, broad-chested, erect; and, wrapped in their white and red blankets, they made a formidable appearance. There was no touch of fawning or crouching in their manner. They demanded the articles given them, rather than begged. You would have thought them lords of the soil, come to collect rent of tardy tenantry.

The young Indian, however, still preserved his individuality, and various romantic conjectures were conjured up in imaginative heads concerning him. Some went so far as to assert that he had no Indian blood in him, and started the theory that he must have had white parentage, and that he might have been stolen, when a child, from some noble white family. But the more experienced of the pioneers set that at rest by affirming that they could tell the pure, unmixed Indian, and that he was one.

Tom lingered much about him.

"O," said he to the missionary, "if I could only talk with him, how I would love to teach him how to read, and speak to him of the blessed things in the Bible!"

"That is on my mind most of the time, Tom," replied the good man. "I am often asking myself. Can I not, in some way, lead these benighted souls to the Lamb of God? But how inaccessible they are! What an impassable barrier between them and us! and, with the exception of the youngest of them, how brutal and low! To see such splendidly-formed men spend their time squatted on the earth, playing jack-straws, or some equally silly game, from morning to night, is pitiful. And then their yelling and laughter are more like wild beasts or demons than human beings. These people seem to me the lowest, meanest, most treacherous, and hardened of the human race. I do not wonder that it is so difficult to civilize or Christianize them."

Weeks went by, and the Indians remained in their lodge, daily growing bolder and more intrusive, till they had become obnoxious to the most benevolent of the settlers. It had come to be not over pleasant to the women of the neighborhood to look up from their domestic duties, and see that a grim savage had stolen into the house, and, unasked, seated himself in a chair, ready, as soon as he thought best, to nod, in a dictatorial way, towards some coveted article, in a manner which meant,—

"Hand that to me!"

Meanwhile Tom and the young Indian—who, whether that was his real Indian name or not, was called Long Hair—had become quite intimate. Nevertheless, not many words passed between them, for Long Hair was more reticent, if possible, than the rest of his company. But without word-signs they managed to understand each other. Long Hair, indeed, appeared to read Tom's thoughts intuitively, and Mrs. Payson was often made anxious for Tom, because he would be gone so long in the woods with Long Hair. The latter had selected a tree for a canoe, and Tom, with his sharp-edged axe, cut it down for him, and helped him dig it out and shape it. A strange sympathy had grown up between them, and one evening, as Tom was on his way to the prayer-meeting, chancing to meet Long Hair, he invited the latter to accompany him, trying, with great earnestness, to make him comprehend the object of the gathering. Long Hair seemed to gain a dim perception of what his friend meant, and, after much persuasion, entered with Tom the cabin in which the meeting was to be held. The Indian's face gave evidence of great excitement as the services progressed; the deep solemnity of the prayers, and the devout strains of Christian song, took powerful hold of the red man's feelings. Doubtless he understood little of the scene in which, for the first time, he mingled; but a potent influence went along with it, and so affected was he, that his hand sought Tom's, and he held it in a strong, tender grasp till the meeting closed, his frame trembling with emotion. And yet Tom could not converse with him afterwards; and what the nature of the emotion was that shook him so,—what thoughts were stirred, and with what result for eternity in the bosom of that silent son of the prairie, who, for the first time, had attended Christian worship,—no one knew. Tom could not induce him to attend again, and yet he did not seem offended at what he had heard; but when his white friend alluded to it, his eye gleamed with a new light, and his face looked thoughtfully, doubtfully serious.

Nearly every day Tom and Long Hair were together, the latter keeping but little in the wigwam, and seldom going with the other Indians. When they filed into town, and besieged the houses, trying the doors, peeping into the windows, accosting the street-passers, Long Hair was not with them; and when at evening they returned exultant from a successful hunt, singing their strong-lunged song of triumph,—their wild and scarcely human "Hi yar! hi yar!" growing nearer, till, entering the village, they sang their way through to their lodge, Long Hair was not of their number.

One day Tom, chancing to visit the wigwam, found Long Hair there, shivering with a violent attack of ague. He was alone, and had been for two days.

How bare and cheerless appeared the Indian's life to Tom's sympathetic nature then! for an Indian, when sick, has few comforts. Solitary he sits wrapped in his blanket, or lies on the ground, with no one to nurse or care for him; no nice dishes to tempt his feeble appetite, no hand to bathe his fevered brow, no medicines to assuage his pain or drive disease away.

"Why, Long Hair," cried Tom, "why didn't you let me know that you were sick?"

But Long Hair sat shaking in his blanket, and, as usual, heard, but made no answer, only with his expressive eyes.

Tom brought in wood, and started the fire, and saying, "Mother'll know just what to do for you, Long Hair; I'll go and tell her how you are," he ran to his mother's cabin, and, quickly making some nourishing gruel, and putting up a store of simples that she used in fever and ague, she returned with Tom to the lodge. What a treasure is a loving, experienced woman in sickness, whether in a palace, a log house, or beneath the rude shelter of an Indian's moving home—ever gentle, exhaustless in resources, untiring in her ministrations! It seemed a marvel to Tom how readily his mother knew just what to do for Long Hair, intuitively adapting herself to his Indian peculiarities; and, for the week that his illness lasted, she nursed him with great tenderness, often remarking to Tom,—

"He is one of God's children, Tom; for the Bible says, 'God has made of one blood all the nations of men to dwell upon the face of the earth,' and Jesus died for the red man as much as for the white."

Through all this womanly care of him by Mrs. Jones, and brotherly attention of Tom, the Indian, while shivering with the chill, or burning and panting with the fever, made no acknowledgments of kindness shown him, or uttered a word of complaint as he suffered, and, when he recovered, returned in silence to his Indian occupations.

"I wouldn't give one of the red skins a glass of water to save his life!" exclaimed a settler who had lost by the depredations of the Indians. "There isn't a particle of gratitude in one of 'em. Give any of them all you have, and ten to one he'll steal upon you out of a bush, and take your scalp."

"It is too true of most of the Indians, I admit," said Mrs. Jones, "and perhaps Long Hair will prove ungrateful; but I only did as the Bible directs, and I am contented."

But, some days after, as Long Hair strode into her cabin with a freshly-killed deer on his shoulder, which he deposited at her feet, saying, as he left,—for he tarried not to sit down,—"White squaw, much good; Long Hair bring venison," Mrs. Jones wiped the tears from her eyes, rejoicing more to find that there was gratitude even in an Indian's heart, than at receiving his generous gift.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE WAR-SONG.

Mrs. Payson sat sewing in her pleasant room at the hotel. Her thoughts were far away from the checkered experiences of the frontier, for her husband—having received by the last mail a new book from an eastern friend—read while she plied her needle. Baby was in his crib in the bed-room adjoining, and Fannie and Helen were whispering in a matronly way in the corner, as with the help of mother's scissors they fitted their dolls to new dresses. Had you looked in upon the group, you would not realize that they constituted a pioneer missionary's family; for the hotel building was tasteful and spacious, and if they lived and dressed plainly, and often felt the pinchings of poverty, their appearance betrayed no unhappiness. And then the volume had transported the father and mother to other and brighter scenes than those of the uncultured wilderness. The tone of the reader in its subdued or impassioned modulations attested the interest he felt in the volume, and the heightened color of the wife showed her sympathy with the theme. What a magician is a book! It can cause the poor to forget their poverty, and the wanderer in a distant land to become oblivious of his exile.

"What was that?" exclaimed the missionary and his wife at once, as they sprang to their feet in breathless suspense.

Again the horrible cry broke forth, seeming to come from the room below.

At this moment the fair face of the landlady appeared, and she said,—

"The Indians are below, and are going to sing for us. Won't you come down and hear them?"

"Rather discordant music," answered the minister; "but I think we may as well accept your invitation—don't you, wife?" and taking the children with them, they descended to the dining-room. Ranged round the long table were eight savages, and sitting back against the walls a few boarders,—for most of the household were away. Some of the Indians held tin pans, and on these, as an accompaniment, they beat time with iron instruments, their heavy blows making a deafening din, and their harsh, guttural notes, uttered in unison, made the diabolical uproar. Mr. Payson's inspection of the performers in this strange concert was anything but satisfactory to him. The manner of the savages was impudent and brutal beyond anything he had yet seen in them, and he fancied that their sneering and malignant grimaces and serpent-like contortions of the body expressed evil and vengeful passions that burned within. On the faces of the whites a startled, anxious look struggled, with an effort to feel at ease, and fear nothing.

"There is something wrong about these Indians," whispered the minister to a man near him; "they are plotting mischief; their looks and tones are full of ugliness; and I am convinced that if they intend no trouble to-night, they know that some hidden danger threatens us. See how that chief's eye glares. Observe the murderous leer of the one beside him. Notice how they mock and insult us to our very faces. Now, how awfully jubilant their tones, as if they had us at their mercy. Do you suppose they are secretly armed?" and, rising, he went calmly from Indian to Indian, lifting the blanket of each, to see if a rifle cut short, or some other deadly weapon, was not concealed there. But none was to be found; and at the close of their alarming exhibition, the chief haughtily arose, bowed to the missionary, who was now seated again, and passed out; each of his followers imitating him in the salute as he glided from the room.

"The Indians have taken down their wigwam, and gone away," said Tom to Mr. Payson, the next day.

"I am glad to hear it," replied the missionary; "they are a dangerous set, and I have been quite anxious lest the settlers should get into a quarrel with them. But what makes you look so depressed? Are any of your folks sick?"

"No," replied Tom, striving to appear calm. "Father came home last night—"

"Well, that was a pleasant surprise—was it not?" interrupted his kind friend.

"Yes; but—but—he wants us to remove."

"Remove! Whereto?"

"Near Spirit Lake."

"I am sorry to hear that. I heard this morning that the Sioux are quite insolent towards the settlers in that vicinity, and threaten an outbreak. I must see your father, and dissuade him from his project;" and the minister proceeded to the cabin occupied by the Joneses.

It was near Spirit Lake that Mr. Jones was wounded by the Indian. This, however, did not deter him from going there again to hunt. Three promising young settlements had sprung up there, side by side, for the beauty, fertility, and cheapness of the land had attracted quite an immigration that way. Mr. Jones had mingled much with the settlers,—for an entirely new country had special charms for him,—and his knowledge of all matters most needful to the pioneer made him a welcome acquaintance. He had become a great favorite with the inhabitants. The Indians were numerous and bold, but entertained a wholesome dread of the squatter's rifle and personal courage; and the whites, although they did not anticipate serious trouble with the savages, felt so much safer when he was with them, that they offered him a comfortable cabin, and promised other advantages if he would dwell among them. Among the Indians Mr. Jones went by the name of Long Rifle, and they expressed great admiration of his marksmanship. Occasions not unfrequently happened for him to show his superior qualities in that line. For example, the squatter happened in one day at a cabin, and found some half dozen Indians there, who had busied themselves, in the absence of the men, in rummaging the house for plunder, greatly to the terror of the women and children. As Mr. Jones appeared, they seated themselves with Indian gravity, refusing to answer a word, while their faces wore an angry and sullen look. Among these were some famous for their skill with the rifle, and, knowing their passion for target-shooting, he proposed at once a trial of skill. This was eagerly accepted; but the squatter triumphed in the contest, and the Indians went away much impressed with the result.

When Mr. Jones returned to his family, and mentioned his decision to remove, the mother heard his account with a foreboding heart, but made no objection, only saying,—

"We mustn't take Tom away from his studies."

To this the father assented, for he really felt grateful to the missionary for the interest he took in his son, and proud of the progress the lad was making in his books.

"Tom," said he, "has a good chance, and it isn't in me to discourage him."

It was, however, more difficult to persuade Tom to remain behind, than for his parents to give him up,—hard as it was for them. He had so long been the staff of his mother, that it seemed like selfish desertion for him to stay with the missionary, while she went farther off on the frontier.

"It is your duty to remain, Tom," urged the mother. "God has opened the way for you to cultivate your mind, and fit yourself for usefulness; and we shall not be so far away but that you can come to us at any time, if we need you."

"And are you not afraid to go where there are so many Indians?" asked Tom.

"Yes," she replied, "I am afraid; and yet I feel strengthened to go. Your father will be useful there. He is fitted to take the lead in case of trouble with the savages; the settlers look up to him, and depend upon him, and I cannot find it in my heart to hold him back; and if he goes, it is best for me to be with him. If you remain behind, we shall have in you a friend to assist us if any trouble should arise. You might be able to do more for us here than if shut up with us by a common danger."

And so, with many a last farewell by the fond mother, Tom saw them start for their new home.



CHAPTER XV.

THE MASSACRE AT SPIRIT LAKE.

Between the settlement in which the missionary lived and the one next north-east was a wide prairie, succeeded by a stretch of primitive forests, through which, down its abysmal, rocky bed, ran a foaming river. The limestone bluffs that formed its banks abounded in holes and caves—fitting homes for wild beasts. Here the cry of the panther might be heard, and bears and wolves sought their food.

Through these gloomy solitudes Tom was making his way in the buggy, which the missionary had provided; for Tom had been intrusted with the errand of going to the village beyond for a trunk which had arrived from the east for Mr. Payson. He was jogging along, listening to the strange sounds of the forest; for it was near here, the last winter, that a sight met his gaze that he could never forget. There had been a succession of those still snow-storms which so often come in the night in Minnesota, and go off at day-dawn, leaving a perfectly even coating of snow over everything. The sleighing was quite passable, and the weather, that day, mild. Coming suddenly to an open space, within a few feet of him, were two large gray wolves, eating a horse not yet dead. The poor beast was still attached to his team, and hopelessly struggled against his twofold fate; for he had fallen into a 'sink-hole' that the treacherous snow had concealed, and his driver, unable to extricate him, had abandoned him to his fate, or gone for help. Brandishing his whip, Tom shouted at the wolves in hope of frightening them off. They only raised their heads to glare threateningly at him, their jaws dripping blood, then voraciously resumed their gory repast, tearing great quivering masses of flesh from the struggling beast, which they seemed to swallow without chewing, with such a ravenous appetite did they eat.

Tom was a brave lad. But as he descended the side of the hill towards the river, and the dense shadows made his way dim, although it was high noon and a brilliant sun was flooding the prairies, he could not shake off a feeling of dread that had grown upon him. Every now and then he caught himself starting with nervous apprehension, and, to break the spell, he began to whistle a merry tune, to keep up his courage, as boys are wont to do. But he was thinking how dismally it sounded, when, suddenly, in the distance rang out the clear notes of a robin. Tom involuntarily reined in his horse at that; for the call of that bird his Indian friend Long Hair used to imitate for a signal, and had taught Tom how to do it.

"For the sake of Long Hair," said Tom, more cheerily, "I'll answer you, old bird."

But scarcely had he done so, when, to his surprise, the bird responded.

"Well," said Tom, "you think I'm your mate, I guess; and if you choose to give me your company, I shall not object, it is so lonely here!"

So he answered the robin again.

Instantly the bushes parted, and Long Hair stepped into view. His eyes were bloodshot, his blanket torn, and his whole appearance indicated that something unusual had happened.

"Why, Long Hair!" exclaimed Tom, greatly startled; "what is the matter?"

The Indian glanced warily about, then laid his ear to the ground, listening intently, and arose quickly, saying,—

"Indian come. Much fight. Kill white man; kill white squaw; kill pappoose."

"What of my father and mother?" inquired Tom, excitedly. "Have they been murdered?"

"Long Hair save 'um little; father shoot one, two, tree, ten Injun. Long Hair been up to Fort. Sojer no bleeve Long Hair; say he spy. Long Hair come for Tom to get sojer. Injun see Long Hair; be here pretty soon—one, two, tree, ten, twenty, fifty! Kill Long Hair, kill Tom, take scalp. Tom go with Long Hair. He save him. Horse know way home."

Tom saw, from Long Hair's manner, that it was no time for delay, and, leaping from the wagon, with marvellous quickness the Indian turned the horse's head about, facing home, and, striking him smartly, the spirited animal rapidly retraced his way.

At their right rose a rocky ridge to a considerable height, springing up which Long Hair motioned Tom to follow. The other side was quite precipitous; but a narrow fissure in the rock afforded a scanty footing, down which the Indian glided, Tom following him, although dizzy with the height. Passing along for a short distance, they came to a scrub oak, the roots of which had struck into the side of the ledge. Climbing around it, a small opening appeared. Motioning Tom to enter, Long Hair said,—

"If both stay, Injun kill both. Long Hair run swift like deer;" and he darted up the ridge again with cat-like agility.

When Tom's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he found himself in a spacious, rocky room. It was one of those natural caves which seem as if the work of art, rather than a freak of nature. The room was almost a perfect square, and extending around its sides was a seat of solid rock, while in a square hole, which looked as if it had been excavated for the purpose, was a spring, the water of which was icy cold, and of crystal clearness.

Tom seated himself to await the result of the strange events that had so suddenly befallen him. Not a sound was to be heard in the forest; and had he not known enough of the Indian acuteness in detecting the approach of a concealed or distant foe, he would have doubted Long Hair's representations of the impending peril. Indeed, as the moments sped,—and they seemed long to him,—he had begun to consider the propriety of venturing out to look about a little, when a slight rustle in the ravine below arrested his attention. At any other time he would not have noticed the sound, it was so like the passing of the breeze. The scrawny roots of the tree at the entrance of the cave, and the darkness within, protected him from observation; and, drawing nearer the mouth of the cavern, he watched the bushes below with strained eye. He had not long to wait when he saw an Indian creeping cautiously along; then, a little farther off, another came into view, and still another. They were Long Hair's pursuers; and from their belts hung a number of scalps, which, from their bloody appearance, showed that they had recently been taken; and the luxuriant tresses of some of them indicated that they were from the heads of white women. At the sight Tom's blood almost froze in his veins. But his heart gave a sudden bound as he heard the sound of soft footfalls. From this he judged that the Indians had got upon Long Hair's trail, and some of them had gone round in front of the ridge, while the others followed closely in his track. Tom felt that his hour had come, and a mortal terror seized him. Then, thinking of his imperilled father and mother, to whose succor Long Hair had bidden him go, he was astonished at the fierce reaction which followed. He had no weapons; so, planting himself behind the tree, he lay in wait, ready to spring upon the first intruder, and hurl him into the depths below.

The dark figure of an Indian creeping stealthily along, like a horrid serpent, he saw cautiously approaching the tree: a moment more, and the death grapple would come, when an exclamation above made the Indian turn his head. Long Hair's trail, returning from the cave, had been struck by another Indian. At the same instant, Long Hair's defiant war-whoop, challenging his pursuers to come on, was heard in the distance. The answering yell of the savages from the ravine below and the ridge above rang out as they dashed after. The Indian, unaware of the presence of Tom, stepped to the tree to turn himself on the face of the cliff, so that he stood with his brawny back close to Tom. His waist also was hung with gory scalps. The sight maddened Tom to frenzy. The savage let go the tree, and started to join the chase, when Tom thrust his hands at once through the fissure, and sent him headlong from the precipice. The body struck with a dull, heavy thud, and all was still.

Tom could hear the sound of the pursuit as it died away, and knew that there was now no immediate danger to him; and, stooping down, he took a long draught from the spring, and bathed his fevered brow. Then, climbing out of his hiding-place, he passed quickly upon the ridge, and descended into the ravine below, where lay the mutilated form of the red man.

"Who knows but he is the murderer of some of our family?" he said, as he drew near. "No; none of our folks have such hair as that," he added, after examining the scalps, one by one. Then, taking possession of the rifle, powder-horn, and bullet-pouch, and thrusting the Indian's scalping-knife into his belt, and throwing some limbs over the body, that it might not so soon be discovered by his friends, Tom hurried away in the direction of the fort, as Long Hair had suggested. He lingered a moment, however, wishing that he could do something to serve Long Hair, who, he well knew, had uttered that challenging war-cry that saved his life on purpose to call the Indians away from the cave.

But what was he? A mere boy against so many infuriated savages. Besides, they were now far away, he knew not where. Moreover, Long Hair had charged him to go for the soldiers to rescue his father and mother, and, without further hesitation, he turned his steps towards the fort. Tom was in good health, a quick walker, and, like his father, accustomed to thread the woods and traverse the prairies.

Tom was agitated with strong and conflicting emotions as he pursued his lonely way. His boy-nature had been terribly roused by the exciting scenes through which he had just passed. He had experienced the strange feeling which men feel, when, in battle, they are stirred by danger and the sight of blood to deeds of blood. It was under this feeling that he was led to precipitate the Indian from the bluff, and to view his remains with so much composure. But now a faintness came stealing over him. His young heart recoiled at the thought of what he had done. This relenting, however, was repelled by the recollection of Long Hair's heroism, and his father and mother's beleaguered condition, if, indeed, the tomahawk ere this had not drank their life. How many days had passed since Long Hair had seen them he knew not; but it was easy to see from his friend's anxiety that his parents were in an extremity of danger, and whether he could succeed in procuring assistance for them in season seemed doubtful. It would take him, to go afoot, two days to reach the fort; and he could not hope to get to his father's settlement with the soldiers in less than a day more, even if they were mounted. It was now about two o'clock, and he had eaten nothing since early in the morning; but he thought not of food as he hurried on. With the accuracy of the practised pioneer he struck a bee-line for the fort. This took him some miles away from any village; but towards night he reached a cabin standing alone. Entering, he found the family just taking their evening meal. With true western hospitality, the man of the house urged him to sit down and partake with them, while his wife poured out a generous bowl of strong, black coffee, which, as was the custom, was used without sugar or milk; and she heaped his plate with fried pork, and hot, mealy potatoes, while by the side of his plate she laid a generous slice of brown bread.

Tom partook with a relish that did honor to the fare.

"Where are you from, and where are you bound, my lad?" asked the man, who had refrained from questions until he saw that his guest was well under way eating.

Tom's mouth and heart were full, and between them both he found it difficult to reply. He was painfully hungry from his long fast and the thrilling experiences of the day, and his brain was greatly excited.

"I am going," said he, answering the last question first, perhaps because it was nearest at hand, "to the fort after help."

"After help!" cried the wife, stopping short in the act of transferring a potato from the end of her fork to Tom's plate, holding it aloft unconsciously. "Ain't any trouble down your way with the Injuns—is there?"

"No, not exactly," said Tom.

And the good woman, relieved, remembered the potato, and deposited it as she had designed, then was proceeding to place another slice of pork beside it, just as Tom added,—

"But I saw lots of them this morning not more than twelve miles from here, and they looked fierce enough in their war-paint, and with the bloody scalps dangling from their bodies."

"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the good lady; and, again forgetting herself, she paused with the pork, letting the fat drip upon the snowy cloth. "I told you, husband, they'd be down upon us yet, and we more'n three miles from any neighbor."

And as Tom commenced his recital of the occurrences of the morning, she sat down in her chair with the slice of meat still in its elevated position, and the gravy dripping into her lap, while the husband ceased eating, and listened with open-mouthed interest.

Tom eyed the pork longingly as he continued his narration, and, seeing no prospect of getting it, abruptly said,—

"I hadn't tasted a bit of food till I came here since five o'clock this morning, and I've got to Walk all night."

"Law me!" ejaculated his good-hearted hostess; "if I haven't forgot to help ye, I was so scared 'bout the Injuns;" and she passed it, adding, "Husband, you jist go down cellar, and bring up a pumpkin pie, and some o' that gingerbread. The boy mustn't leave this huss till he's had his fill;" and the tears came into her large blue eyes. "And are you going with the sojers over among the Injuns where your father and mother is?"

"Yes," answered Tom.

"Why, it seems to me that a stripling like you had best stay behind, and keep out o' danger. One o' them Injuns wouldn't make nothin' o' taking your scalp."

Tom's spirit rose at this, and he told them how he killed the Indian in the morning.

"Well, I never!" said the good lady, in blank astonishment. "Why, I don't s'pose my husband here would be any more dependence if them wild critters should come beseeching our dwelling than a three-year-old."

At which the husband thrust his hand up into his wiry hair, till he made it stand upon end all over his head, while he grew very red in the face, and said, fiercely,—

"Let the varmints come on if they wants to. Guess I could stand it if you could."

Tom saw that there was danger of a falling out between his fat, overgrown hostess and her diminutive husband, and adroitly said,—

"We don't any one of us know what we could do until the time comes. I was surprised myself at what I had done."

"Well," said the woman, restored to good humor, "there's a great deal o' good sense in that remark. I know it from experience. For when I had the toothache so that I couldn't sleep nights for a week, and husband wanted to take me over to Groveville, to the doctor's, I felt as weak as dish-water; but when I got there, I had out two jaw teeth and a stump without wincin', as you may say, and the doctor said he'd like me for a subject to pull on all the time. But I told him it would take two to make a bargain on that, I reckoned;" and she laughed heartily at the remembrance of her own wit.

But Tom had finished his meal, and rose to go, when his hostess said,—

"You won't think o'travelling in the night—will yer?"

"Every moment is precious," replied Tom.

"Well, husband," said she, "if the boy feels, under the circumstances, that he must go, it isn't in me to detain him. But it seems to me we orter do as we'd be did by, and help him onto his way a piece. Now, you jist go and harness the hoss into the waggin while I put up something to stay his stomach like till he gets to the fort. You could drive him there just as well as not, husband."

"Pretty long drive," observed the man, looking out of the little window dubiously.

"Well, but," she persisted, "you see the child's got to go all the way afoot, and it'll take so long that his folks'll be killed, murdered, tomahawked, and scalped, afore he can git there." Then, waxing warm, "an' if you an' I was in that perdicament, we'd want them as was going to help us not to aggervate our feelin's by coming to our rescue when it was too late."

"Yes, yes," returned the little man, unable to reply to his wife's wordy reasoning.

"Now, if you're not afeard—"

"Afeard!" said he, bristling his hair, and reddening again. "Who's afeard? I was only thinking, if the Injuns should come whilst I'm gone, what would become of you, Barbery Jane."

"Well," said she, looking aghast, and sinking into her chair anew, "I declare, if I hadn't forgot that!"

But she was a person who "made it a point" to carry her point in all domestic arrangements and controversies with her lord; and partly on this principle, and partly, we hope, from a worthier motive, she rallied, and added,—

"But I'll risk it, if you will, James. An' I'm more in danger 'n you are, bein' I'm so fleshy. You can hide most anywhere in the woods, and they couldn't find ye any more 'n a needle in a haymow; an' I never could stand it to think on't that we'd been sich cowards—"

"Cowards!" interrupted her husband, goaded by this; for on the matter of size and courage he was specially sore—a wound which his spouse took care to keep open. "Cowards!" and, bristling about, and striking his feet together, he bustled out, and, with commendable energy, soon had the horse in the buggy before the door. Tom sprang in, as the kind-hearted woman passed him a bountiful supply of provisions, saying, as she wiped her eyes with her apron,—

"I hope next time you come this way you'll be alive an' well; but I'm dreadful afeard the Injuns'll git ye." The latter remark seemed to have more effect upon her husband than Tom, for the flush disappeared from his cheeks again.

The ponderous wife watched the wagon until it was out of sight, then, with much pains, fastened the little window and the outer door, and, going to her trunk, took from thence a copy of the Bible, and sat down and read a chapter—a duty which she always performed on extra occasions, and especially in times of danger. It mattered not to her what chapter she read; and she now opened to the genealogical records in First Chronicles. She was a poor reader at best; but she struggled on with those names of foreign accent, feeling much safer with the exercise, while her thoughts were far away, following Tom and her husband. In truth, she had done a good deed, and one that had cost her a real sacrifice, in sending away her husband with the horse to accompany the lad; and the consciousness of this began to fill her with happiness, calmed as she was by the feeling of security which the use of the good Book imparted. Hers was a simple-hearted faith; but who shall say that she was not accepted and blessed according to the measure of her light?

Who would not choose to be such a one, with her defective knowledge and her weak superstition,—as some would call it,—than the proud sceptic, ever croaking, like some hideous night-bird, as he turns his bleared eyes away from the beams of the Sun of Righteousness, "No God, no Bible, no Saviour, no Heaven of blessedness, no Immortality," wandering through life without hope and God in the world, and, at death, taking a frightful "leap in the dark"!



CHAPTER XVI.

A BELEAGUERED CABIN.

It was a misty morning when Tom and his companion approached the fort. The air was damp with vapor, and the American flag, with its glorious stars and stripes, drooped heavily. The fortress was on the very outskirts of civilization, on an elevated point of land, commanding an extensive prospect on every side. Richly diversified prairies, rarely pressed by the white man's foot, gave one an impressive sense of vastness and magnificence. As the sun arose, and the curtain of fog rolled off, Tom gazed on the landscape, spell-bound; for, accustomed as he was to prairie scenery, he had never seen any view that equalled this.

"Not an Injun could come nigh this ere fort," said the little man that held the reins; "everybody has to be seen, no matter how fur off they be, specially when the officers gits their telescopes to their eyes. Why, I suppose they can see hundreds o' miles with one of them big glasses; any rate, I heard tell about their seeing clean up to the stars, an' a good piece beyend."

They had now approached a gate, before which paced an armed sentry, in answer to whose challenge, the little man, who grew consequential as he neared the citadel, said,—

"This ere youngster, Mr. Sojer, wants to see the commander of this ere institution on very perticler business, which admits of no delay."

The man with the gun sent a message into the fort without a word in reply, until the messenger returned, when he said, laconically,—

"Pass in."

Tom had never before seen a fortress, and surveyed with eager interest the rows of heavy guns, and the cannon-balls in conical shaped piles, and the long, four-storied brick buildings extending around the spacious square, from the centre of which rose the flagstaff. Grimly as frowned the guns and warlike munitions, the neatness and order that reigned had a pleasing effect on Tom's mind. And within those many-roomed buildings, standing amid the solitudes of the wilderness, in the families of the officers gayety and mirth often held carnival. Already a gush of music, elicited by fair fingers from a richly-toned piano, was borne through an open window into the court below. Then a clear, sweet voice accompanied the instrument.

"Pooty as a bird, and a plaguy sight nicer," exclaimed the little man as he frisked about, hitching his horse to an iron-ringed post.

Tom and his friend were shown into the dining-room of the commander of the fort. The officer was an early riser, and breakfasted betimes. The mahogany extension table was set with an elegant service. General McElroy was a tall, slender man, with iron-gray hair and weather-beaten face. His wife, a richly-dressed, stately lady, sat at the head of the table, and a boy of seven, in Highland costume, was at her side, while black Nancy flitted in and out with viands in her hands.

"Well, my lad," said the general, sedately, "what do you want of me?" motioning his callers to be seated.

Tom commenced to state the occasion of his calling, and the general's stolid features lighted up with growing interest; and he said,—

"Wait a moment, my boy; I guess you've a message important enough, and it will save time for you to relate it to two of us at once;" and pulling a bell-rope, a soldier appeared, to whom he said,—

"Tell Captain Manly that I wish to see him."

In a moment the last-named personage came in. He was about forty, of frank, open face, and soldierly bearing. Tom liked him at the first glance.

"Captain," said the general, "I want you to hear this boy's story. Commence again, my lad, and state the whole as briefly and connectedly as you can."

When Tom finished his recital, "You are a brave little fellow," said the general, "and in my opinion, if you were in the ranks, you would be sure to be well spoken of;" then turning to the captain, he added, "This is grave business, Manly, and something should be done for the settlers whom this boy represents. I heard that an Indian called at the fort, and tried to make us understand that there was an uprising; and I suppose it was this Long Hair that the lad tells about, but I did not attach much importance to what he said. And now, Manly, I want you to take a detachment of men,—for I think I can depend on you to do it up right. See that they are well mounted and provisioned, and that their arms are in good order,—but you understand all about that,—and go to the relief of the settlement that these villains have beset."

Then turning to Tom, he asked,—

"What is your name, young man?"

"Thomas Jones," he replied.

"Well, Thomas, I conclude you will want to go with the men."

"Yes, sir."

"And do you know, the shortest route to the settlement in question?"

Tom answered affirmatively.

"Include a horse for the boy's use, captain, and see that he is well provided for. He may be of use in piloting the way. At any rate he is a noble-spirited fellow, and deserves consideration at our hands. How many men will you need, captain?"

"I'd as lief have forty as more, if I can have my pick."

"Make such arrangements as will please you; and I hope to have a good report when you come back. The rascally red-skins should be taught a severe lesson for this outrage, or they may commit more."

Tom and his friend rose to withdraw with the under-officer, when the general said,—

"But you have not told me how far you came this morning."

"We rode all night," returned Tom; "I took supper at this man's cabin, and he brought me here in his wagon to save time."

"Bless me!" ejaculated the general, as he left the table; "that has the true ring in it. Nancy, see that these folks have a sip of coffee, and something to eat, and when you've broke your fast, my lad, come out into the square. I guess the captain will be ready by that time."

Tom felt some diffidence about accepting the invitation of the general; but Mrs. McElroy was a true lady, and her winning smile, as she filled his cup with the fragrant beverage from the silver urn, put him at ease. She had many a woman's question to ask about his adventures of yesterday morning, and seemed never to tire admiring his heroic conduct. He was just explaining for the third time how he pushed the savage from the cliff, when his voice was drowned by that of a girl, who came tripping and singing through the long hall that led into the dining-room. Hers were the same bird-like notes that came through the open window. It was the general's only daughter, Alice, who, as she burst into the apartment, stopped in surprise as she saw strangers there.

"Just in time, Alice," said the mother, pleasantly, "to hear this story."

The girl was scarcely in her teens, and her fair face, expressive of good sense, gentleness, and intellectuality, was set off by a wealth of auburn curls that fell in careless profusion over her shoulders.

Tom had never known anything of sentiment, or thought much of personal looks, but he had a quick eye for grace and beauty, and, charmed at the unexpected ingress of the little fairy, he forgot alike his food, his manners, and his story, and gazed in stupid silence at the lovely apparition. The mother comprehended the state of things, and, with a look of gratified maternal pride, said to Tom,—

"But you mustn't forget your plate; you have had a long ride, you know, and have another before you."

This recalled Tom to his senses, and in his straightforward, manly way he finished the account of the affair.

"The captain's most ready," said black Nancy, glancing out of the window, as Tom finished his repast.

"Farewell, my boy," said Mrs. McElroy. "I wish you success, and hope no harm will come to you;" and Tom went out and mounted the horse that had been provided for him, and shaking hands with the kind settler who brought him there, he saw Mrs. McElroy and Alice waving their handkerchiefs, as he and the men rode in military order out of the square.

The horses were in good order, and the men in fine spirits, glad, after their idle life within the fort, to be sent on active duty. The day was almost cloudless, the air pure and bracing, and they coursed the smooth prairies at a rapid rate. Yet to Tom's anxious heart the moments seemed long; and when they stopped at noon for refreshment, and to bait the horses, Tom could scarcely brook the delay. He was really on his way with a brave band for the rescue. The thought of this was joyful to him, yet he was afraid that they might arrive too late; and as the soldiers lay upon the grass eating their rations, Captain Manly, reading his feelings, said to him,—

"Be patient, my dear boy; be patient. The old saying, 'Prayer and provender hinder no man's journey,' is as true in war as in peace."

He was a Christian soldier, and he added,—

"We must pray, Tom, that God will prosper us. By this bit of rest the men and horses will be all the better for service when we catch up with the savages; and if God shall so order it, we will save such of the poor settlers as have escaped from massacre."

About the middle of the afternoon they drew near one of the settlements that lay in their path. Scouts were sent ahead to see if any Indians were lurking in the vicinity. They reported that none were to be seen, but that the village had been totally destroyed. Putting spurs to their horses, the eager soldiers were soon on the ground.

The air was still heavy with the smell of the burning, and as they passed along they saw that every cabin had been consumed. It was a scene of utter desolation. The horses' feet splashed in pools of clotted blood, while ever and anon they came to the mutilated remains of some victim of the massacre. In one place lay the form of a brawny pioneer, his broken rifle still clutched by the muzzle, while the ground around him was torn up by the mighty struggle he had made with his assailants. Here young children had been murdered by being dashed against a tree. To an oak near by a woman had been nailed while yet alive. All the corpses were horribly mangled and disfigured, indignities the most fiendish being heaped upon them. Their ears and noses were cut off, sticks were thrust into their eyes, and their mouths were filled with filth.

These awful sights wrought up the soldiers to frenzy. Tom's passions rose also; but he was startled by the deadly paleness that sat upon the countenances of the others, so expressive of intensified hate and desire for revenge. But the scouts again appeared, and reported a large force of Indians encamped before a log house a few miles farther on; and Captain Manly decided to strike for a piece of woods to the right of the savages. When the woods were reached, it was discovered that all the dwellings on either side of the besieged cabin, comprising three promising young villages, had been swept away. Cautiously the little company pushed on to the scene of action. Before the lone cabin were assembled hundreds of Indians, engaged in some savage ceremony.

"They have taken a captive," whispered Captain Manly, "and have brought him near the cabin to tantalize the inmates, hoping to induce them to make a sortie for the rescue of the prisoner."

"It is Long Hair!" replied Tom, wild with excitement.

"Be quiet, be quiet, my boy," replied the captain; "we'll be in their long hair before they get his, if they don't look sharp."

Then dividing his force into four companies of ten men each, and directing them to crawl carefully through the long grass to the points he designated near the foe, he instructed each man to be sure of his aim, and fire when the captain's division fired. The Indians had been so successful in their attacks on the settlements thus far, and so unmolested in their barbarities, that they were now completely off their guard, which enabled the whites to get close to them unobserved.

Tom's eyes were fastened upon Long Hair. The faithful Indian's handsome face betrayed no fear, but it was evident that he had given up all hopes of deliverance. With eagle eye he watched the ceremonies, and, as he saw them approach their fatal termination, began to chant his death-song. Captain Manly understood Indian customs, and telling certain of his men to make sure of the savages nearest Long Hair, he gave the signal, and the bullets of the ten unerring marksmen mowing them down, firing from the other detachments following with deadly effect.

The panic of the Indians was indescribable; for the firing from so extended a line gave the impression of a much larger force than had really attacked them. Their confusion was increased also at seeing some soldiers issue from the woods, mounted; for the captain had given orders, in case there was a panic, for a portion of the command quietly and quickly to take to their horses and pursue the fugitives. Thinking themselves attacked by superior numbers of both cavalry and infantry, the Indians were at the mercy of the soldiers, who shot and sabred them with small opposition.

As soon as Captain Manly saw the effect of the first volley, he said to Tom,—

"I shall leave Long Hair in your charge."

For with delicate magnanimity he would have Tom be the deliverer of the noble Indian who had perilled his life for Tom.

The lad needed no second hint, but sprang away, and severed the thongs that bound his Indian friend to the death-stake.

"Ugh! Tom good friend; big soldier-boy," ejaculated the grateful Indian.

"Are father and mother safe?" asked Tom.

"In cabin there," replied Long Hair.

Tom hurried forward towards the dwelling, but Long Hair seized him, saying,—

"Maybe they think you Injun; shoot you!" for his keen eye had caught sight of the muzzle of a gun pointing at them from out an aperture in the building. "White chief come soon," he immediately added. "They no fire at you; see, gun gone."

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when the outer door opened, and Tom saw his mother standing there, for she had discerned him in the deepening twilight, and recognized him as her son. Tom, with a bound, hastened to her, and as she folded him in her arms, and tenderly kissed him, he inquired,—

"But where is father?"

"Speak softly," she replied, as she led the way to a bed in a corner of the inner building, on which lay Mr. Jones. "He is wounded," said she, mournfully, "and is sleeping now. We cannot yet tell how it will turn with him, but hope for the best."

"But where are the other men?" asked Tom, weeping, for only a few women and children were in sight.

"They deserted us night before last. Our provisions had run low, and the savages had retired to make us think they had left, and the men, half crazed with sleepless nights and scanty food, were deluded by the idea that they might get safely away, and perhaps bring us aid. But, poor things, they were not themselves, and they had gone only a few rods, when they were set upon by the savages, and brutally slaughtered before our eyes. We used our guns on the Indians as well as we could, but found it difficult to prevent them from scaling the building."

"Did you fire upon them?" asked Tom, wonderingly.

"Yes, my son," said she, gently; "and last night, knowing how feeble our force must be, they were emboldened to attempt to burn the house. The roof caught in several places, and your father went up and put out the fire at the risk of his life. It was then that he was shot. He had been our main defence from the first, for the Indians were more afraid of his rifle than a dozen of others."

"But how did you get along after father was disabled?"

"We women loaded, watched, and fired by turns. I do not see how we could have held out an hour longer. Help came just in time."

"But where are all the children," inquired Tom, forebodingly.

Mrs. Jones gave a low moan, as if her heart would break, but, with wonderful self-command, suppressed all other manifestations of emotion, and said, lovingly, laying her hand on his shoulder,—

"My son, we are a broken family; we shall never all meet again on earth. Charlie disappeared at the first attack. I did not see him killed; and you know what a quick, active boy he is, and he may have escaped, although the chances were fearfully against him. Sarah was overtaken by an Indian, and tomahawked while flying home from the store."

"And Bub?" sobbed Tom.

"That was one of the crudest of the cruelties connected with the outbreak. There was an Indian who made great professions of friendship, visiting our cabin almost daily. You saw him, Tom, when you visited us. We treated him very kindly, and made him many presents. He seemed to have a particular liking to Bub, and Bub was fond of him, and would always run to meet him when he saw him coming. The day of the fatal attack, he made his appearance as usual, and Bub, with an exclamation of joy, hastened to be the first to greet him, when, as the child drew laughingly near, the treacherous savage raised his rifle, and shot him through the head. This was the signal for the assault. Sarah was standing at the time in the store door opposite, and, seeing the murder, started for the house, her face terribly pale with fright. So terrified was she that it seemed as if she flew rather than ran; but the same savage swiftly pursued her, and, being nearer the house than she, struck her down with his tomahawk. But Robert has been left to us, and a brave, good boy has he been."

Tom was so absorbed that he had not noticed the quiet entrance of Captain Manly and others of the command, who, seated or standing around the room, listened intently to his mother's account of the massacre. As she concluded, the captain said,—

"I had taken the precaution, madam, to bring the surgeon along with me; and if you desire it, he will examine your husband's wounds, and see what is best to be done for him."

At which the doctor stepped forward and proceeded to probe and dress the wound.

"It is an ugly hurt," remarked the surgeon, "but by good care and nursing he may rally."

"Just what are impossible," answered the captain, "in this place. Would it do to remove him, doctor?"

"If a good litter was prepared," was the reply, "there would be less risk in doing so than in leaving him in this wretched hole."

"Particularly," added the captain, "as the red-skins would be sure to come back to finish their fiendish work. And I would propose, madam, that, after my men have taken a little rest, we remove you and your family at once to the fort, where you shall receive the best of attention, and everything be done for your husband that skill and medicine and needful comforts can do for his recovery."

Mrs. Jones glanced at the ghastly wound of her husband.

"I understand your feelings," said the captain, kindly; "but you have shown that you are a brave woman, ever ready to do what is for the best. Now, the Indians to-night were some three or four hundred strong; and, panic-stricken as they were, some of them must have discovered that I have but a handful of men. They will return in larger force, thirsting for revenge. It is therefore indispensable that we take Mr. Jones with us. It is all we can do under the circumstances."

Mrs. Jones saw the propriety of this, and gratefully assented to the captain's plan, and at the hour appointed—all the preparations having been efficiently made—the wounded man was carefully placed upon the nicely-constructed litter, the women and children taken upon the soldiers' horses, and the little cavalcade moved noiselessly out on the star-lighted prairie.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE MYSTERIOUS FIRE.

Few words were spoken, as the handful of brave men, with the rescued women and children, and the suffering squatter moved on. Experienced scouts were thrown out on either hand, to give notice of danger, for at any moment the wily foe might spring upon them.

"Where can Long Hair be?" whispered Tom to his mother.

"I cannot imagine," she answered; "he left the cabin as I was telling you about the loss of the children through the treachery of Yellow Bank. His eyes glared while I was speaking, and there was a look on his face that I could not interpret. Do you suppose he is trusty?"

"Trusty!" echoed Tom; "why, mother, he perilled his life for us."

"Yes, I know it, child; he is unlike any Indian I ever saw. But why did he leave so mysteriously?"

"I don't know," replied Tom. "Captain Manly tried to find him; he wished to present him to General McElroy. He said he did not doubt that government would reward Long Hair for his services."

"Well," sighed his mother, shuddering as she spoke, "how different these Indians are from us! They come and go so noiselessly, and talk so little! But what is that?" she exclaimed, glancing back.

"What?" inquired Tom.

"Why, that light,"—pointing in the direction from which they came. And Tom saw against the dark woods, for a background, thick flying sparks from the cabin chimney made themselves visible for miles across the prairie.

A scout now rode up, to call the attention of the captain to the same appearance.

"I cannot comprehend it!" ejaculated that officer, putting his glass to his eyes. "It is clear that the cabin is not on fire. It seems to be occupied." And, riding up to Mrs. Jones, he said, "Madam, can you tell me if there was any fuel in the fireplace when we left?"

"There was not," was the decided reply.

"But there is a large fire burning on the hearth now; how do you account for that? It's a trick of the savages," he muttered, as he put spurs to his steed; "and yet," he added, "it is not like the Indians to go into a house and make a fire. If they had discovered our retreat, they would be too cunning thus to let us know that they had found it out; we should see them prowling around as stealthily as so many panthers. Somebody's alive and stirring there; who can it be?"

The singular incident served to heighten the anxiety of all, and stimulate the soldiers to make as good progress as they could without too greatly distressing the wounded man. Several times, in the dim light, the groaning and pallor of her husband led Mrs. Jones to fear he was dying, and, with Tom and Robert, she watched every change in his appearance, tenderly ministering to him. Fresh relays of men took the places of those who bore him, taking their turn at the litter with alacrity, for Tom's dutiful and heroic conduct, and the mother's loving gentleness and patient endurance, and the squatter's stubborn defence of the lone cabin against such odds, had won the hearts of the soldiers, and they had resolved to see the family safe within the walls of the fortress, or, if attacked on the prairie, to defend them to the death.

"How did it happen," asked Captain Manly, in a low voice, of the mother, "that your cabin was enclosed with those walls of heavy logs. Were you expecting an attack?"

"Long Hair gave us warning," she replied; "and husband persuaded the settlers to cut down trees and build the walls."

"And your husband directed the defence?"

"Yes," said she, "and he made a sortie, and rescued a number of neighbors, who would otherwise have been murdered,—the very persons who afterwards deserted in the night, leaving, in their haste, the outer door wide open. We should all have been sacrificed before morning, had we not been startled at seeing Long Hair standing in the cabin. How he got in undiscovered through so many enemies, and notified us of our danger in so timely a manner, we could not conjecture. Husband secured the door again, and Long Hair vanished as he came, saying, 'Long Hair go quick, get sojer, come right back bimeby, quick!' that was, I suppose, when he came to the fort, as Tom told us about, and not succeeding in his errand, hurried to find Tom, to intercede with you for us."

"You have had a hard time of it," said the captain, "and your husband stood a siege before which a well-manned fort might have fallen. I only hope that the brave fellow'll get well, and enjoy the fruits of his noble conduct. If I had a few hundred men like him, I could sweep the red-skins from the soil."

But the jarring, and the motion, and the pain were proving too much for the wounded pioneer, and delirium setting in, he began to rave, speaking, however, slowly and distinctly, and without a tinge of the squatter dialect, but in the purer English of his early days.

"There!" he exclaimed, pointing his finger, "you've come again. I knew you would not let me rest."

"He's thinking of the Indians," remarked the captain, sorrowfully; "the confounded red-skins!"

"I told you he stole it all. Will you harass me into my grave? A set of vampires, sucking the life-blood of an honest man!"

"Now he wanders," said the captain; and, sending for the surgeon, the latter opened his medicine case, and, lighting a match to read the labels on his vials, administered an opiate, and the sufferer sank into a troubled stupor.

"Ah!" whispered the mother to Tom, "it is not the savages that disturb his mind so; it's the old agony of a wounded spirit."

About noon, the next day, they came in sight of the fort. How welcome the frowning walls to the weary women and children! How sublime seemed the national flag, floating proudly on the breeze, symbol of a united sovereignty of states, powerful to protect its citizens on the ocean and the land, in the teeming city, and in the wilds of the wilderness!

General McElroy received the settlers in the kindest manner, causing them to feel at once that they were among friends. Airy, quiet apartments were assigned to the wounded man and his household, and the ladies of the garrison vied with each other in their attentions to him and his stricken family. Often would Mrs. McElroy come in and sit by Mr. Jones, that his wife might get some rest. With her and her husband Tom had become a great favorite, and they entertained a high respect for the mother.

The squatter's life in the open air, roaming the prairies, tended to build up for him a healthy physical organization, favorable to the healing of the wound; and as this progressed, the doctor marvelled that he did not get stronger. He was strangely liable to delirious attacks, and opiates gradually lost their influence over him.