Gustave Aimard - The Prairie Flower - A Tale of the Indian Border

"I repeat to my brother that he is welcome: I know that he is a great chief, and am happy to see him."

"Wah!" the Indian said, with a cunning smile: "is my brother so satisfied as he says at my presence?"

"Why not, chief?"

"My brother is angry still that the Blackfeet fastened him to the stake of torture."

The Canadian shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and coldly answered: —

"Nonsense, chief! why do you fancy I am angry with you or your nation? war is war; I have no reproaches to make to you. You wished to kill me, I escaped; so we are quits."

"Good: does my brother speak the truth? has he really forgotten?" the chief asked with some vivacity.

"Why not?" the Canadian answered cautiously. "I have not a forked tongue, the words my mouth utters come from my heart: I have not forgotten the treatment you made me undergo, I should lie if I said so: but I have forgiven it."

" Ochi ! my brother is a greatheart: he is generous."

"No: I am merely a man who knows Indian customs, that is all: you did no more and no less than all the Redskins do under similar circumstances: I cannot be angry with you for having acted according to your nature."

There was a silence; the two men went on smoking. The Indian was the first to interrupt it.

"Then my brother is a friend," he said.

"And you?" the hunter asked, answering one question by another.

The chief rose with a gesture full of majesty, and threw back the folds of his buffalo robe.

"Would an enemy come like this?" he asked, in a gentle voice.

The Canadian could not repress a movement of surprise; the Blackfoot was unarmed, his girdle was empty: he had not even his scalping knife, – that weapon from which the Indians part so unwillingly. Bright-eye offered him his hand.

"Shake hands, chief," he said to him. "You are a man of heart: now speak, I am listening to you: and, in the first place, will you have a draught of firewater?"

"The firewater is an evil counsellor," the chief replied, with a smile; "it makes the Indians mad: Natah Otann does not drink it."

"Come, come, I see that I was mistaken with regard to you, chief; that pleases me: speak, my ears are open."

"What I have to say to Bright-eye other ears must not listen to."

"My friends are in a deep sleep, you can speak without fear; and even if they were awake, as you know, they do not understand your language."

The Indian shook his head.

"Glass-eye knows everything," he replied, "the Grizzly Bear will not speak before him."

"As you please, chief: still, I would remark that I have nothing to say to you: you can speak, therefore, or be silent at your ease."

Natah Otann seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then continued: —

"Bright-eye will follow his friend to the river bank, and there listen to the words of the Blackfoot chief."

"Hum!" the hunter said, "and who will watch over my companions during my absence? No, no," he added, "I cannot do that, chief. The Redskins have the cunning of the opossum: while I am near the river, my friends may be surprised. Who will respond for their safety?"

The Indian rose.

"The word of a chief," he said, in a proud voice, and with a gesture full of majesty.

The Canadian looked at him attentively. "Listen, Redskin," he said to him, "I do not doubt your honour, so do not take in ill part what I am going to say to you."

"I listen to my brother," the Indian answered.

"I must watch over my companions. Since you insist on speaking to me in secret, I consent to follow you, but on one condition, that I do not lay aside my weapons; in that way, should one of those things happen, which are too common in the prairie, and which no human foresight can prevent, I shall be able to face the danger and sell my life dearly: if what I propose suits you, I am ready to follow you; if not, not."

"Good," the Indian said, with a smile, "my pale brother is right, a true hunter never quits his weapons. Bright-eye may follow his friend."

"Very well, then," the Canadian said, resolutely, as he threw his rifle on his shoulder.

Natah Otann began descending the hill. While gliding noiselessly through the shrubs and thickets, the Canadian walked literally in his footsteps; but though pretending the most perfect security, he did not omit carefully examining the vicinity, and lending an ear to the slightest sound, but all was calm and silent in the desert, and after some ten minutes' walk the two men reached the riverside.

The Mecha-Chebe rolled its waters majestically in a bed of golden sand, while at times a few vague shadows appeared on the bank: they were wild beasts coming to drink in the river. Two leagues from them, at the top of the hill, sparkled the last flames of an expiring fire, which appeared at intervals between the branches. Natah Otann stopped at the extremity of a species of small promontory, the point of which advanced some distance into the water. This spot was entirely free from vegetation: the eye could survey the prairie for a great distance, and detect the slightest movement in the desert.

"Does this place suit the hunter?" the chief asked.

"Capitally," Bright-eye replied, resting the butt of his rifle on the ground, and crossing his hands over the muzzle: "I am ready to hear the communication my brother wishes to make me."

The Indian walked up and down the sand with folded arms and drooping head, like a man who is reflecting deeply. The hunter followed him with his glance, waiting calmly, till he thought proper to offer an explanation. It was easy to see that Natah Otann was ripening in his brain one of those bold projects such as Indians frequently imagine, but knew not how to enter upon it. The hunter resolved to put a stop to this state of things.

"Come," he said, "my brother has made me leave my camp; he invited me to follow him; I consented to do so: now that, according to his desire, we are free from human ears, will he not speak, so that I may return to my companions?"

The Indian stopped before him.

"My brother will remain," he said; "the hour is come for an explanation between us. My brother loves Glass-eye?"

The hunter regarded his querist craftily.

"What good of that question?" he asked: "it must be a matter of indifference to the chief whether I love or not the man he pleases to call Glass-eye."

"A chief never loses his time in vain discourses," the Indian said, peremptorily; "the words his lips utter are always simple, and go straight to the point; let my brother then answer as clearly as I interrogate him."

"I see no great inconvenience in doing so. Yes, I love Glass-eye; I love him not only because he saved my life, but because he is one of the most honourable men I ever met."

"Good! for what purpose does Glass-eye traverse the prairie? My brother doubtlessly knows."

"My faith, no! I confess to you, chief, my ignorance on that head is complete. Still, I fancy that, wearied with the life of cities, he has come here with no other object than to calm his soul by the sublime aspect of nature, and the grand melodies of the desert."

The Indian shook his head; the hunter's metaphysical ideas and poetic phrases were so much Hebrew to him, and he did not understand them.

"Natah Otann," he said, "is a chief, he has not a forked tongue; the words he utters are as clear as the blood in his veins. Why does not the hunter speak his language to him?"

"I answer your questions, chief, and that is all. Do you fancy that I would go out of my way to interrogate my friend as to his intentions? They do not concern me; I have no right to seek in a man's heart for the motive of his actions."

"Good! my brother speaks well; his head is grey, and his experience long."

"That is possible, chief; at any rate you and I are not on such friendly terms that we should exchange our thoughts without some restriction, I fancy; you have kept me here for an hour without saying anything, so it is better for us to separate."