BEADLE & ADAMS’ 20 CENT NOVELS.

 

Published Monthl~. {No. 12.

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The White Squaw.

BY CAPT. MAYNE REID.

 

BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. |

 
 
THE

WHITE SQUAW.

BY CAPT. MAYNE REID,
Author of “The Scalp Hunters,” eto

NEW YORK
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

vs WILLIAM STREET,

 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
Iu the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.

 
THE

WHITE SQUAW

CHAPTER Tf.
A DEADLY INTRODUCTION.

Tm last golden gleams of the setting sun sparkled across
the translucent waters of Tampa bay. His fading light fell
upon shores fringed with groves of oak and magnolia, whose
evergreen leaves became gradually darkened by the purple
twilight.

A profound silence, broken by the occasional notes of a
tree-frog, or the flapping of the night-hawk’s wings, was but
the prelude to that wonderful concert of animated Nature,
heard only in the tropical forest.

A few moments, and the golden lines of trembling light
had disappeared, while darkness almost palpable overshadowed
the scene.

Then broke forth, in full chorus, the nocturnal voices of
the forest.

The mocking-bird, the whippowil, the bittern, the bell
frog, grasshoppers, wolves, and alligators, all joined in the
harmony incident to the hour of night, causing a din startling
to the ear of a stranger.

Now and then would occur an interval of silence, which
rendered the renewal of the voices all the more observable.

_ During one of these pauses, a cry might have been heard
differing from all the other sounds.

 
 

   

10

 

THE WHITE SQUAW.

It was the voice of a human being! And there was one
who heard it.

Making his way through the woods was a young man dressed
in half hunter costume, and carrying a rifle in his hand.
The cry had caused him to stop suddenly in his tracks.

After glancing cautiously around, as if endeavoring to
pierce the thick darkness, he again advanced, and again came
to a stop, and remained listening. Once more came that
cry, in which accents of anger were strangely commingled with
tones appealing for help.

This time the sound indicated the direction, and the listen-
er’s resolution was at once taken.

Thrusting aside the undergrowth, and trampling under
foot the tall grass, he struck into a narrow path, running paral-
lel to the shore, and which led in the direction whence the
ery appeared to have come.

Though it was now quite dark, he seemed easily to avoid
impediments, which even in broad daylight would have been
difficult to pass.

The darkness appeared no barrier to his speed, and neither
the overhanging branches nor the wild-vine roots stayed his
progress.

About a hundred paces further on, the path widened
‘into a a list that led to an opening, sloping gradually down to
the beach.

On reaching its edge, he paused once more to listen for a
renewal of the sound.

Nothing save the familiar noises of the night greeted his ear.

After a short pause he kept on for the water's edge, with
head well forward, and eyes strained to penetrate the gloom.

At that moment the moon shot out from behind a heavy
‘bank of clouds, and with a brilliant beam disclosed to his
eager gaze a tableau af terrible interest.

/

     

Ni epider

 
   

   

A TIMELY SHOT. 11

Down by the water's edge lay the body of an Indian
youth, motionless, and to all appearance dead; while stooping
over it was another youth, also an Indian, He appeared to
be examining the body.

For some seconds there was no change in his attitude.
Then all.at once he raised himself erect, and with a toma-
hawk that flashed in the moonlight above his head, appeared
in the act of dealing a blow.

The hatchet descended ; but not upon the body that lay
prostrate.

A sharp repon ringing.on the air, for an instant silenced
all other sounds. The would-be assassin sprung up, almost
simultaneously, and two corpses instead of one lay along the
earth.

So thought he who had fired the shot, and who was
the young man already described. He stayed not to specu-
late, but rushed forward to the spot where the two In-
dians lay. He had recognized them both. The one upon
the ground when he arrived upon the scene was Nelatee, the
son of Oluski, a distinguished Seminole chief. The other was
Red Wolf, a well-grown boy, belonging to the same tribe.

Only glancing at the would-be assassin to ‘see that he was
dead, he bent over the body of Nelatee, placed his hand upon
the region of his heart, at the same time anxiously scanning
his features.

* Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Benéath
his fingers a weak pulsation gave signs of life. Nelatee might

_ yet be saved.

Pulling off his hat, he ran es to the beach, filled it with
water,and returning sprinkled the forehead of the young Indian.
Then taking a flask containing brandy from his pough, he
poured a portion of ‘its contents down ‘the teed of the un-
conecious youth.
 

13 THE WHITE SQUAW.

These kindly offices he repeated several times, and was
finally rewarded for his pains. The blood slowly mantled
Nelatee’s cheek ; a shivering ran through his frame, and with
a deep sigh he gazed dreamily upon his preserver, at the same
time faintly murmuring, “ Warren ?”

“Yes, Warren! Speak, Nelatee; what is the meaning of
this ?”

The Indian had only the strength to mutter the words
“Red Wolf”—at the same time raising his hand to his side
with apparent difficulty.

The gesture made his meaning clear; Warren’s gaze rested
upon a deep wound from which the blood was still welling.

By the tremulous movement of his lips, Warren saw that
he was endeavoring to speak again; but no sound came from
them; his eyes gradually became closed. He had once more
fainted.

Warren instantly flung off his coat, tore one of the sleeves
from his shirt and commenced staunching the blood.

After a time it ceased to flow; and then, tearing off the
second sleeve, with his braces knotted together he bound up
the wound.

The injured youth slowly recovered consciousness, and
looking gratefully up into his face, pressed the hand of his de-
liverer.

“Nelatee owes Warren life. He will some day show his
gratitude.”

“ Don’t think of that now; tell me what has happened i

I heard you cry and hastened to your assistance.”

“Not Nelatee’s cry,” responded the Indian, with a faint
flush of pride suffusing his face; “ Nelatee is the son of a
chief—he knows how to die without showing himself a wo-
“man. It was Red Wolf who cried out!”

“Red Wolf!”

   

res

  
EXPLANATIONS. 18

“ Yes; Red Woif is a coward—-asquaw. ’Twas he who
cricd out.”

“He will never cry out again. Look there!” said War-
ren, pointing to the lifeless corpse that lay near.

Nelatee had not yet seen it. Unconscious of what had tran-
spired, he believed that Red Wolf, supposing him dead, had
gone away from the spot.

Warren explained.

Still more gratefully did the Indian youth gaze upon the
face of his preserver.

“You had an encounter with Red Wolf, I can see that.
Of course it was he who gave you this wound ?”

“Yes; but I had first defeated him. I had him on the
ground in my power; I could have taken his life. It was
then that, like a coward, he called for help.”

“ And after ?”

“TI pitied and let him rise. I expected him to leave
me and go back to the village. He feared that I might
speak of his defeat to our tribe, and for tms he determined

| that my tongue should be forever silent. I was not thinking

AY

:

|

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{

of it when he thrust me from behind.. You know the -
rest.”

“And why the quarrel ?”

“He spoke wicked words of my sister, Sansuta.”

“ Sansuta !” exclaimed Warren, a strange smile overshadow-
ing his features, :

“ Yes; and of you.”

“The dog; then he doubly deserved death. And from
me!” he added, in a tone not loud enough for Nelatee to

hear. “What a lucky chance.”

As he said this he spurned the body with his foot.
Then turning to the Indian, he asked:
“Do you think you could walk a little, Nelatee ?”

 
  

     
   
 
    
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
 
 

14 THE WHITE sQuaw.

The brandy had by this time produced an effect; its po
tent spirit supplied the loss of blood, and Nelatee felt his
strength returning to him.

“T will try,” said the wounded youth; ‘“ Nelatee’s hour
has not yet come. He must not die till he has: paid his debt
to Warren.”

“Then lean on me. My canoe is close by; once init you
can rest at your ease.”

Nelatee nodded consent.

Warren assisted him to rise, and half carrying, half support. —
ing, conducted him to. the canoe.

Carefully helping him aboard, he shoved the craft from
the shore, and turned its prow in the direction of the white
settlement.

The moon, that had become: again obscured, once more
burst through the black clouds, lighting up the fronds of the
feathery palms that flung their shadows far over the pellucid

wave. :
The concert of the nocturnal forest, for a time stayed by —
the report of the rifle, burst out anew as the boat glided |
silently out of sight. s
{
I
v
a
CHAPTER Il. t
THE SETTLEMENT. : |
Tux site of the settlement to which the canoe was directed 7
merits description. =
It was upon the northern shore of Tampa bay. ; _
The soil that had beem cleared was:rich in crops of cotton, —
ee

indigo, sugar, with oranges and the ordinary staples:of food.

  
   

A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. 18

The raising of stock also formed a part of the labor of the
settlers.

Around were forests of useful timber, containing among
other trees the well-known live-oak.

From the summit of a beautiful hill, upon the north-
western side, a magnificent panorama revealed itself.

The adjoining land sloped down to the waters of the kay,
vieing with each other in gorgeous hues and marvelous ef-
fects of light and shade.

The inland side embraced a district rich and varied. Ever.
glades, savannas, forests and swamps, lay within a range of

| view comprised within a tract seemingly not more than
| fifty miles in extent, but in reality much -greater. In that
_ ‘translucent atmosphere all objects appeared nearer than they
. actually were.
As the gazer’s eye wandered over the landscape, it fell upon
every charm of scenery that could be presented by Nature.
Huge trees here festooned with gossamer mosses, there with
sweet-flowering parasites, towered beside smiling savannas
with verdant sward stretching away to the distant horizon.
Through the cultivated lands, mapped out like a painter’s
palette, ran a crystal stream, from which the rice-fields were
watered by intersecting rivulets, looking like silver threads in

a tissue.

Orange groves margined its course, running sinuously
through the settlement.

In places it was lost to sight, only to reappear with ‘some,
new feature of beauty. Here and there it exhibited cascades
and slight waterfalls, that danced in the sunlight, sending up
showers of prismatic spray.

There were islets upon which grew reeds, sedges, and canes,
sa ‘surmounted by groups of caricas and laurel-magnolias, the
exogenous trees overtopped by the tall, feathery palm

    

 
  

 

16 THE WHITE sQUAW.

In its waters wild fowl disported themselves, scattering
showers of luminous spray as they flapped their wings in de-
light.

Birds of rare plumage darted hither and thither along its
banks, enlivening the groves with their jocund notes.

Far beyond the swamp forest formed a dark, dreary back-
ground, which, by contrast, enhanced the cheerfulness of the
scene. There, upon half-decayed cypress trunks, standing
clear against the sky, perched in lonely grandeur the wood-

 

pelican, looking like some bird-demon exulting over the sur-—
rounding ruin. Cranes, watchful and silent, stood like senti- —
nels guarding the entrances to many a lone lagoon. |

Looking seaward, the prospect was no less resplendent of |
beauty. The water, dashing and fretting against the rocky
keys, glanced back in mist and foam. Snow-white gulls .
hovered along the horizon, their wings cutting sharply against _
an azure sky ; while along the silvery beach, tall, blue herons,
brown cranes, and scarlet flamingoes, stood in rows, their forms
reflected in the pellucid element. ;

Such were the surroundings of the settlement on Tampa bay.

The village itself nestled beneath the hill already men-
tioned, and comprised a church, some half-dozen stores, with
a number of substantial dwellings, while a rude wharf and
several schooners moored near by, gave token of intercourse
with other places.

It was a morning in May—in Florida or elsewhere the
sweetest month of the year. Borne upon the balmy atmos-
phere was the hum of bees and the melody of birds, min-
gled with the voices of young girls, and men engaged in the
labor of their farms and fields.

The lowing of cattle could be heard in the distant grazing-
grounds, while the tillers of the soil were seen at work upon
their respective plantations.

  

 

 

 
 

 

  

 

   

ELIAS RODY. 17

There was one who looked upon -this cheerful scene, with-
out seeming to partake of its cheerfulness.

Standing upon the top of the hill was a man of tall, gaunt
figure, and face somewhat austere in its expression.

His features, strongly lined with a firm expression about
the mouth, marked him for a man of nocommon mold. He
appeared to be about sixty.

As his keen, gray eyes wandered over the fields below, there
was a cold, determined light in them, which betrayed no
pleasant train of thought.

It spoke of covetous ambition.

Behind him upon the hill-top, of table shape, were poles
standing up out of the earth. Around them the sward was
trampled, and the scorched grass, worn in many directions
into paths, signified that at no distant period the place had
been inhabited.

The sign could not be mistaken; it was the site of an In
dian encampment.

Elias Rody, as he turned from gazing on the panoramic
view beneath, cast a glance of strange significance at these
vestiges of the red-man’s habitation. His features assumed a
sharper caste, while a cloud came over his face.

“But for them,” he muttered, “my wishes would be ac-
complished, my desires fulfilled.”

What were his wishes—what his desires?

Ask the covetous man such a question, andif he answered
truly, his answer would tell a tale of selfish aspirations. He
would enyy youth its brightness, old age its wisdom, virtue
its content, love its joys, aye, even heaven itself its rewards,
and yet, in the narrow bigotry of egotism, think he only
claimed his own.

Elias Rody was a coyetous man; and such were the
thoughts at that moment in his mind.

  
 

18: THE WHITE SQUAW.

They were too bitter for silence, and vented. themselves in
words which the winds alone listened to,

“Why should these red-skins possess what I so deeply long
for? and only for their short temporary enjoyment! I would
be fair with them; but they wrap themselves‘up in their sel-
fish obstinacy, and’ scorn my: offers.” 4

How selfish others appear to selfish men.

“Why should they continue to: restrain me? If gold is
worth any thing, surely it should repay them. for what can. be

only a mere fancy! I shall try Oluski once; again, and if he.

refuuse—” j

Here the speaker paused. He did not like, even to himself,
to fashion into words what he would do in the event of a re-
fusal. There are some thoughts exceedingly unpleasant to
give expression to. Rody’s were among them.

For some time he stood in contemplation, his. eye roving
over the distant view. As: it again: lighted upon the settle-
ment, a smile, not a pleasant one, curled. his lip,

“ Well, there is time yet,” said he, as: if concluding.an ar-
gument with himself. “I will once more try the golden bribe,
T will use caution; but here will I. build my, house, come
what may.”

This natural conclusion to, an egotistic mind appeared: sat-
isfactory. It seemed to soothe him; for he strode down the
hill with a springy, elastic step, more like that of.a young
man, than one over whose head: had passed sixty eventful years.

  

   

   
 

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4 MAN OF THE WORLD.

CHAPTER III.
ELIAS RODY.

Waite Elias Rody is pondering upon his scheme, let:
ts tell the reader’ who he is,

A Georgian, who. began life without any. fixed idea. His
father, a wealthy merchant of Savannah, had brought him up:
to nothing; and, until he had attained. man’s estate, he fuith-
fully carried out his father’s teaching.

Like many Southern lads, born to competence, he could
not appreciate the dignity of labor ;. and accordingly loitered:
through his youthful life, wasting both time and. patrimony»
before discovering that idleness is a curse.

At his father’s death, which happened upon Elias:reaching:
his twentieth year, all the worthy. merchant’s property des-
cended to the son; and the idler suddenly found: himself the
possessor of a large sum of money with a-sort: of feeling that,
something was to be: done. with. it.

He accordingly, spent it.

Spent it recklessly, freely and rapidly ; and then:discovered
that what he had done was not the thing he should have done.

He ‘hen became reformed.

Whick meant that, from a liberal; open-handed, careless fel-
low, he changed to a cynical, cautious. man.

In this case the usual order of change. was reversed, The
butterfly had become a chrysalis.

With a small’ remnant of his fortune and: an. inheritance
from a distant relative, Elias, became a man of. the world, or
rather a worldly maa.

 
   

  
   

20 THE WHITE SQUAW.

In other words, he began life for a second time, and on an
equally wrong basis

Before his eyes were two classes of his equals: reckless
men with large hearts, and careful men with no hearts at all,
for such was the organization of the society surrounding
him.

Of the first class he had full experience—of the second he
had none whatever.

To the latter he resolved to attach himself.

It is useless wondering why this should have been. Per-
haps he had never been fitted fur the community of large-
hearted men, and had only mixed with them through novelty
or ignornce of his own station.

Be this as it may, one thing is certain: he became, before
long, a most exemplary member of the society he had selected
fer imitation. No one drove a closer bargain, saw an adyan-
tage, (to himself,) or could lay surer plans for securing it, than
Elias Rody.

He learned, also, to control, and in every way wield infiu-
ence around him. Power became his dream. He was ambi-
tious of governing men.

Strange to say, this feeling was almost fatal to his prospects.
We say strange, because ambition generally carves its own road
and molds its own fortune.

Rody, however, had commenced an active career too late to
arrive at much importance in the political world, that grand
arena for attaining distinction. i

He therefore cast about him for another field of ambitious

strife, and speedily found it.
At this time, throughout the State of Georgia were many
planters, who, without capital to purchase additional property,
found themselves daily growing poorer, and their land became
“worn out with the exhausting crops.

    
 

  

 

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7

SHLFISHNESS. 21

These men were naturally enough the gamblers and discon-
tented spirits of the community.

Another class were those with little save a restless dispo-
sition, ever ready for any venture that may arise.

Rody, shrewd and plausible, saw in these men the very in-
struments for a purpose he had long thought of, and had well
matured.

“Tf I can not attain the object of my wishes here,” said
he, to himself, “ perhaps I may be successful elsewhere, if I
can only persuade others to believe in me. Here are men
ready to my hand. I will take them with me; they shall be
my followers, and whilie contributing their means to my end,
they will look upon me as a benefactor.”

Rody, it will be seen, was a thorough egotist.

This idea becoming fixed in his mind, the rest was easy.
He spoke to them of their present condition ; drew a brilliant
picture of what might be achieved in a new land; painted
with masterly eloquence the increase of wealth and happiness
his plan presented, and finally gathered around him a large
number of families, with whom he started from Georgia, and
settled in that section of Florida we have described.

The reason for Rody’s selection of this spot was another
proof of his profound selfishness.

In his reckless, generous days, he had, on the occasion of
a visit to Columbus, been the means of saving from insult and
outrage a Seminole chief, who had visited the capital upon
some business connected with the State government. This
act of generosity had been impulsive, but to the Indian it as-
sumed the proportion of a life-long debt. In the fullness of
his gratitude, the chief caused papers and titles to be drawn
up in Rody’s favor, giving a grant of a portion of his own
property, lying on the shores of Tampa bay.

The Indian chief was named Otuski.

 
   

22 THE WHITE SQUAW.

The grant of land was the settlement we have spoken of.
Rody at the time made light of Oluski’s gratituae, and
thrust the titles into his desk, without bestowing a second
thought on the matter.

Now, in his days of worldly wisdom, these papers, with
the Seminole’s emblematic signature, were brought to light
with very different appreciation. He saw that they repre-
sented value.

Elias Rody accordingly determined to make use of them.
It ended in his carrying a colony southward, and settling upon
Tampa bay.

The scheme which had originated in selfishness, turned out
a success. The lands were valuable, the climate salubrious,
and the colony thrived.

A bad man may sometimes do good without intending it.

Rody received even more credit and renown than he had
expected ; and, being a shrewd man, he achieved a part of his
ambition. He was looked up ta as the most important per-
sonage in the community.

Although some of the settlers did not approve of all his
measures, still their opposition was rather negative than posi-
‘tive, and had as yet found vent only in remonstrances or
grumbling. None had dared to question his prerogative, al-
though he often rode a high horse, and uttered his diction in
a tone too offensively arrogant.

What more, then, did Elias Rody want?

A covetous man always wants more. Oluski’s gift was a
noble one. It covered a large area of fertile land, with wa-
ter privileges, and a harbor for trade. It was the choicest
portion of his possession. The chief, in bestowing it, gave as
a generous man gives to a friend. He gave the best he had.

Unfortunately the best he had did not embrace the hill, and
therefore Rody was unsatisfied.

     
 

  

 

 
  

 

 

 

  

THE HILL. 23

 

More than once, durmg the progress of the settlement, he
had cast a wistful eye upon this spot, as the choicest site in
the whole district for a dwelling.

As his means had expanded, so had his tastes, and a grand
dwelling became the desire of his life.

It must, perforce, be built upon the hill.

To every offer made to Oluski for a cession of this spot, the
chief had firmly and steadfastly given a refusal. He, too, had
his ambition, which, although not so selfish as the white
man’s, was not a whit less cherished.

For nine months in the year Oluski and his tribe dwelt in
a distant Indian town, and only visited the waters of Tampa
bay for the remaining three, and then only for purposes of
pleasure. The wigwams of himself and people were but
temporarily erected upon the hiil, For all this they had an
attachment for the spot—in short, they loved it.

This was what Elias Rody stigmatized as a mere fancy !

There was another reason, held in similar estimation by
Elias. In the rear of their annual encampment was an In
dian cemetery. The bones of Oluski’s ancestors reposed
therein. Was it strange the spot should be dear to him ?

So dear was it, in fact, that to every proposal made by
Rody for the purchase of the hill, Oluski only shook his
head and answered “ No.”

    
   

  
   
    

   

THE WHITE sQuAaw.

CHAPTER IV.
CRIS CARROL.

NELATEE recovered from his wounds.

Warren had conducted him to a hut, the temporary resi-
di ace of a man of the name of Cris Carrol. é

Thiy individual was a thorough specimen of a backwoods
hunter. He was rough in manner, but in disposition gentle
as a chi'd. He detested the formalities and restrictions of
civilization. Even a new settlement had an oppressive air to
him, which he could not endure. It was only the necessity
of disposing of his peltries, and laying in a stock of ammu-
nition, that brought him into any spot where his fellow-crea-
tures were to be found.

To Cris Carrol the somber forest, the lonely savanna, cr
the trackless swamp, were the congenial home, and bitterly he
adjured the compulsory sojourn of a few days every year
among those to whom society is a pleasure.

It was always a joyful day to him when he could shoulder
his rifle, sling his game-bag over his shoulder, and start anew
upon his lonely explorations.

When Warren brought the wounded Indain to Carrol’s
rude hut, the old backwoodsman accepted the responsibility,
and set himself to the task of healing his wounds with ala-
crity. :

Nelatee was known to him; and he was always disposed
to be a friend to the red-man.

“No, of course not,” ssid he to Warrren, in answer to his
explanation ; “I don’t see as 10w you eould take the red-skin

 
 

A BACKWOODS PHYSICIAN. 26

up to the Governor’s house. Old Dad wouldn’t say no, but
he’d lock mighty like wishin’ to. No, Warren, lad, you'v«
done the right thing this time, and no mistake; and that
there’s sayin’ more nor I would always say. Leave the boy
to me. Bless you, he’ll be all right in a day or two, thanks
to a good constitution, along of living like a nat’ral being, and
not like one of them city fellows as must try and make ’em-
selves unhealthy by sleepin’ in beds, and keeping warm by sit-
tin’ aside of stoves, as if dried leaves and dry sticks warn’t
enough for ’em.”

Carrol’s skill as a physician was little short of marvelous.
He compounded and prepared medicines according to un-
written prescriptions, and used the oddest materials. Not
alone herbs and roots, but earths and clays were laid under
contribution.

A few days of this forest doctoring worked wonders in Ne-
latee; and before a week was over he was able to sit at the
back-door of the huuter’s dwelling, basking himself in the
sun.

Carrol, who had been in a fever of anxiety greater even than
his patient, was in high glee at this. After giving the Indian
youth a preparation to allay his thirst, he was on the point of
picking up his traps to start upon one of his expeditions,
when he saw an individual approaching his cabin from the
front.

Thinking it was Warren Rody, he called out to him that
Nelatee was “all right.” He was somewhat surprised to
perceive that instead of Warren it was his father who came
forward.

“ Good-morning, neighbor Carrol,” said Elias.

“ Mornin’, Governor !”

“How is your Indian patient?’ asked he whom Carrol
called “ Governor ;” I hope he has entirely recovered.”

 
26. THE WHITE sQuAW.

“ Oh, he’s ready now, for the matter of that, to stun’ an
other tussle, an’ take another thrust. It wasn’t much of a
wound, arter all.”

“ Ah, indeed,” said Elias; “I heard from my son Warren
that it was a bad one.”

“ Perhaps your son ain’t used to sich sights: There’s a
deal in that. Would you like to see the Injin? He’s out-
side at the back.”

“No, thank you, Carrol. I didn’t come to see him, but
you. Are you busy ?”

- “ Well, not so busy but I kin talk a spell to you, Governor,
if you wishes it. I war only packin’ up a few things ready
for a start to-morrow.”

Saying this, Carrol handed the Governor a stool, the fur-
niture of his hut not buasting of a chair.

“ And so you're off to-morrow, are you?”

“Yes ; I can’t stand this here idle life any longer than Pm
obleeged. ’Tain’t my sort. Give me the woods and the sa-
vanners.”

At the very thought of returning to them: the backwoods-
man smacked his lips.

“When did you see Oluski last ?” abruptly asked: Elias:

“Let mesee. It war across the Black Cypress swamp;
near his own town—.a matter of fifty mile from hyar as the
crow flies. It war a fortnight ago, Governor, near as my me-
mory sarves me; jest arter I’d shot the fattest: buck killed this
season. Qluski’s people war all in.a state o’ excitement at
the time.” 5;

“Indeed ; about what ?”

“Wal, Oluski’s brother, who war chief o’ anotlier tribe,
died not long afore, and his son Wacora had succeeded to the

chiefship,. Oluski was mighty perlite to his: nephy, who war
oa a visit to: Oluski’s town when I war thar. I expect

   

 

     

 
 

 

A BIT OF BUSINESS. 27.

they’ll, all be. hyar soon, It’s about their time.o’ comin’ to
Tampa.”
“ Did you see this Wacora, as you call him ?”
“J did so, Governor,” answered Carrol ; “ and a likely. Injin
he is. Tall and straight as one o’ his own arrows, and. as
proud usa turkey-gobbler. Thinks hisself a deal better nor
_any white man, no doubt.”
While speaking, the hunter had taken down his. rifle- with,
the intention. of cleaning it.
Elias sat for some moments silent, during which time. Cris
busied himself over his gun.
After a time he put the question:
“Js that all you had to say, Governor, or is it only for a,
bit o’ gossip you came here?”
The “ Governor,” as Carrol styled him, started at this abrupt
interrogatory :
After a short pause he answered it.
“No, Carrol, that isnot all, What.I had to say to you is
this—you are a friend to the red-men, are you not ?”
“Yes sir-ee! so long as they behave themselves I am,”
promptly replied Cris.
“ And they have a high estimation of you, have they not ?”
“ Wal—yes. I don’t think there’s much doubt about that,
not speaking vain-like. I try todo the right thing by them
eritturs. I may say I do; I’m sartin on it.”
“T also am their friend,” said Rody.
“ Wal, I ain’t so sartin o’ that,” thought Cris to himself. i
“ And being their friend, I want to deal fairly by them,
They have, however, a foolish sort of pride, that makes it dif
ficult, especially in some matters. You see what I mean?”
“Yes ; I see,” responded the hunter, in a careless draw).
“Well; in a bit of business I have with Oluski, I thought
a friend might manage with him better than I could myself.”

 
   

  

28 THE WHITE SQUAW.

The Governor paused to give Carrol an opportunity of re-
plying.

The backwoodsman, however, did not avail himself of it,
_ but seemed immensely concerned about the condition of his
vifle.

“So you see, Carrol,” continued Elias, “ I thought that you
might act the part of that friend in the negotiation 1 allude
to. You see that, don’t you?”

“No; I don’t quite see that,’ said Cris, locking up with an
odd smile upon his face, and a twinkle in his eye. “But,
come, Governor! don’t beat about the bush. Tell me what
you want done, and I'll tell you right out whether I kin do
it—yes or no.”

“ Well, then, Carrol, I will.”

The Governor drew his stoo1 nearer to Cris, as if about to
impart some confidential secret, and in the friendliest man-
ner.

The backwoodsman preserved a wary look, as if suspicious
of an attempt to corrupt him. He was not alarmed. Cris
knew himself to be incorruptible.

CHAPTER V.
PLAIN TALK.

“Wert, Mr. Carrol,” proceeded the Governor, after a pause ;
“ you know that our settlement has prospered, and as you
may imagine, I have made money along with the rest.”
“ Yes, I know that,” was the curt answer.
“And having nov got a little abead of the world, I feel

   

 
 

 

BEATING AROUND THE BUSH. 29

that I have a right to indulge some of my fancies. I want a
better house, for instance.”

“Do you now 2” said Cris,

“Yes. My dwelling-house is getting out of repair, and it
wouldn’t cost much more to build a new one than to patch
up the old one.”

“ Wouldn’t it, indeed ?”

Carrol was very reticent. The Governor was compelled to —
get along without any aid from him.

“And so ’ve made up my mind to build, but I want a
good site. Now you see what I’m driving at?”

“ Well, no; I can’t say that I do exactly.”

“Why, Cris; you are dull to-day. I say I want a good
site for my new house.”

“Well, ain’t you got hundreds of acres, enough and to
spare for the most tremenjious big house as was ever built ?”

“That is true, but on all my land there’s not a spot I really
like. Does that seem strange to you?”

“Mighty strange to me, but perhaps not so strange to you,
Governor.”

“ But there ¢s a bit of ground, Cris,” continued Elias, that
I like exceedingly. The worst of it is, i’'s not mine.”

“Why don’t you buy it?”

“Just what I wish to do; but the owner won’t sell.”

“Perhaps you don’t offer enough.”

“No, that’s not the reason.”

“What is it then ?”

“Do you know the top of the hill?” abruptly asked Rody.

“ What! where the Injins make thar camp ?”

“Yes ; that’s the place where I want to build. Oluski
won’t sell that piece of property to me. Why, I don’t know.”
* The Governor didn’t stick closely to the truth while talking
on a matter of business.

 
   

  

80 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“ Wal; what have I to do with that ?” asked the back wooda
man.

“Why I thought, if you were to see Oluski, perhaps you
might talk him into letting me have the ground. Tveset my
mind on it, and I wouldn’t care if it cost me a good round
sum. Tl pay you well for any trouble you may take in
helping me.”

Elias Rody had but one estimation of his fellow-man, and
that was that every one has his price.

In the present instance he was mistaken.

“Tt won’t do, Governor; it won’t do!” said Carrol, shaking
his head. “TI see now, plain as can be, what you’re after.
But I won't lielp you in it. If you wants the property, and
Oluski won't let you have it, then the Injin’s got his own
reasons, and it ain’t for me to try and change ’em. Besides,”
added he, “I don’t like the job,so no offense meant, but I
‘must say no, and I says it once and for all. Is that all you’ve
got to say to me ?”

“The Governor bit his lips with vexation ; Lut possessing a
wonderful command over his temper, he merely inquireé what
his son had said about Nelatee.

“Well, sir, he didn’t say much about any thing special ex-
cept to ask me to look after the Injin lad, and see to his
wounds. I did that in first-class style, and as I told you
afore, he’s all right Your son has been down every day to
see my patient, as the doctor chaps calls them they physics.
He ’peared mighty anxious to know how it was that he had
come over to this part of the country alone, and where the
young girl, his sister, was.”

“Ah! so he was inquiring about her, was he?” exclaimed
Rody, rising and pacing the hut with restless steps. He waa
glad of a pretext for his rage.

The backwouodsman uttered a prolonged whistle.

   

 
 

PERFECTLY NATURAL. 31

Suddenly pausing in his impatient strides, the Governot
again faced toward him.

“So he was anxious about her, was he ?”

Elias Rody was evidently out of temper, and was not afrail
to show it; but Carrol was not exactly the person to care
much about this.

“He was,” was his cool answer; “buat I don’t know how
Tve got any thing to do with it, except to tell him, and you,
too, for the matter of that, that the red-man has his rights and
his feelings. Yes, and they’re both worth considerin’ as much
as if they war pale-faces like ourselves.”

“ And why to me, sir?” asked the Governor.

“Well, just because I ain’t afraid to say to your face what
Td say behind your back, that is that your son had _ better
stop thinking about that girl Sansuta as soon as may be, and
that you’d best see to it afore worse happens.”

A very outspoken man was the backwoodsman, and Elias
Rody was sorry now for having visited him.

Before he could recover from his surprise, Carrol resumed
speech :

“There ain’t no good, Governor, in mincing matters. Last
year, when Oluski war here, your son war always prowlin’
*bout the Injin encampment, and down in the grove whar
thar girls used to be. He war always a-talkin’ to the chief’s
darter, and making presents toher. I know what I seed, and.
it wa’n’t jest the thing.”

“Perfectly natural, man,” said the Governor, mastering his
chagrin, and speaking calmly; “ perfectly natural all that,
seeing that Nelatee, Sansuta and my son grew up as children
toge’her.”

“ All that may be, but it ain’t no use applyin’ it now that.
they're ’most growed up to be man and woman-sand you .
knows it, Governor, as well as Ido As for Nelatee, he don’t

 
   

    

THE WHITE SQUAW.

amount to shucks, and I sometimes wonder whether he #
Oluski’s son after all.”

The home-truth in the first part of Carrol’s speech pleased
the Governor as little as any of his previous remarks, and,
surprised at the freedom of the backwoodsman’s language, he
was silent.

Not so Cris, who had evidently determined to say more.
His garrulity was unusual; and, once started, he was too hon-
est to hold his peace.

“Governor, there’s many things I’ve had in me to say to
you at a convenient time. That time’s come, I reckon, and I
may as well clur it off my mind. I don’t belong to your
colony. I’m only a ’cassional visitor; but I sees and hears
things as others don’t seem to dare to tell you. Though
why, I can’t fancy, for yowre only a man arter all, although

. you air the head man o’ the settlement. As near as I can
fix it in my mind, all y’ur people hev settled hyar on land
that once belonged to the Injins. This being the case, it seems
to me that the same laws as is made for the white man is
made for the red-skins too. Now, Governor, it ain’t so; or
if they are made, they ain’t carried out, and whar there’s an
advantage to be got for the white man at the expense of the
Injin, why, you see, the law’s strained just a leetle to give it
It’s only aleetle now, but by-and-by it'll be a good deal. 1
know you'll say that’s only natural, too, because that’s the way
you think; but I tell you, Mr. Rody "—here Carrol became
excited—“ that it ain’t natural nohow, and it ain’t right, and
therefore mischief’s boun’ to come o’ it. Now I tell you, be-
cause you’ve more brains and more money than any o’ the
rest, of course you’ve got more to answer for. So, them’s my
sentiments, and you’re welcome to them whether you like ’em
or no.”

“Well, Mister Carrol,” repied Rody, with a withering

 
 

 

AN HONEST OPINION. 83

emphasis on the “ mister,” “ ’m glad you’ve given me your opi-
nion, it’s a valuable one, no doubt.”

“T don’t know whether it’s a valyable one, but I know it’s
a honest one,” answered Cris, with a quiet dignity, that despite
his rough dress bespoke him a gentleman. “I have no ob-
ject in giving advice to you, Governor. I only feel it a duty,
and I likes to discharge my duties. The same way I thinks
about your son Warren running after this Injin girl. No
good’ll come o’ that, neyther.”

Whatever reply the “ Governor” would have made to this
last observation, was cut short by the entrance of Warren
Rody himself.

Seen now in the light of open day, the young man pre-
sented a strange contrast to his father. Of small stature, ef-
feminate countenance, restless shifting eyes, and a vacillating
expression of mouth, he did not look like the son of the hard,
rugged man who stood beside him.

He was neatly, almost foppishly dressed, and had a self-
sufficient air not altogether pleasant. He seemed like one
who would rather pass through the world with oily smooth-
ness than assert himself with confidence of power and hon-
esty of purpose.

As in the night he glided through the dark woods, avoid-
ing every obstacle, so he now entered the backwoodsman’s hut.

By one of those strange mental impressions impossible to
account for, both Cris and the “ Governor” felt that Warren
had been a listener. :

If so, he did not betray any sign of it, nor yet of annoy-
ance at what he may have heard, but stood smilingly, tapping
his boot with a handsome riding-whip.

“ Ah, father, you here? Have you come to see the invalid,
or to say “ good-by ” to the hunter here, who tells me he is
off to the wilderness to-morrow ?”

 
  

   

4 THE WHITE SQUAW.

His father did not answer him, but turning to Carrol, said

“The matter Tinteuded to have spoken to you about will
do at another time, but I’m still much obliged to you for your
good advice.”

This was spoken with as much cutting politeness as could
be well pressed into the speech.

As he turned to leave, he said aside to his son: ‘Be home
early, Warren. I have something particular to say to you.”

Warren nodded, as his father passed out of the house, not
at all pleased with the interview between himself and the
backwoodsman.

Nothing disconcerts scheming men more than blunt hon-
esty.

As soon as the Governor was gone, Carrol commenced
humming a song. His new visitor waited for several moments
before speaking to him.

“ How is Nelatee ?” he at length asked. “ Will he’be strong
enough to travel to-morrow ?”

“ Not quite,” said Carrol, pausing in the chorus part of his
ditty; “he’d best remain here till his people come. They
won't be long, now, and the stay’ll give him time to get right
smart ?”

“What was it that vexed my father, Cris ?”

“ Well, I don’t know, ’cept ‘he’s tuk somethin’ that’s dis-
agreed with him. He do seem riled considerable.”

“ But, Cris, are you really off to-morrow ?”

“ By sun-up!” answered Carrol.

“Which way are you going ?”

‘Cris looked slyly ‘at his questioner, before answering.

“T don’t know for ‘sure whether itll be along the bay or
acrost the big swamp. ‘The deer air gettin’ scarce near the

‘settlement, and I hev to go further to find’em. That's all
along of civilization, durn it'!”

 

 
 

CRIS SOLILOQUIZES, 35

| “If you go by the swamp, you might do me a service,”
sid Warren,

“Might I?” Then, after a thoughtful pause, the back-
woodsman continued: ‘ Well, you see, Warren, it won't be
by theswamp. I’ve made my mind up now, and I’m goin’
along the bay.”

Warren said “ All right—no matter.”

Then, with a word of explanation, partea from Cris and
proceeded to find Nelatee.

As soon as he was out of sight, Carrol’s behavior would
have furnished a comic artist a capital subject for a sketch.
He chuckled, winked his eyes, wagged his head, rubbed his
hands, and seemed to shake all over with suppressed merri-
ment.

“ A pair of the artfullest cusses] ever comediacross. Darn
my pictur’, if the young ’un ain’t most too good. ‘Was I
goin’ by the swamp? ’Cos then I might do him a service?
No, wo Mister Warren, this coon ain’t to be made a cat’s-paw
of by you, nor your father neyther. I ain’t a-goin’ to mix
myself up in either of your scrapes; leastways not if I knows
it. Nor Nelatee shan’t, if Ican help it. I don’t let em stir
till his fellow-Injins come, and maybe that'll keep him out o’
trouble. Not that he’s much, but he ain’t a bad sort 0’ a
young red-skin—a reg’lar child of Nature, that’s what ‘he is,
No, Mister ‘Warren, you must do your own dirty work, and
so must your father. Cris Carrol shan’t help either ©’ you in
that. If the young ’un don’t mind what he’s heard, although
he made b’lieve he didn’t, and his father don’t mind what I
told -him, there'll be worse come of it, or may I never more
draw bead on buck.”

 
   

    

THE WHITE SQUAW.

CHAPTER VI.

CROOKLEG.

wey

WHEN young Rody took his departure from Carrol’s hut,
he went off in no very enviable mood.

His interview with Nelatee, although of the briefest, had
been as unproductive of results as with the blunt old back-
woodsman.

It is not a pleasant thing to find contempt for your own
abilities impressing itself upon your mind. Nothing can atone
for a bad opinion of one’s own powers, when those powers
are directed toward an unworthy purpose.

Without an analysis of this feeling, Warren Rody was still
conscious of failure, and to him failure had hitherto seemed
impossible.

So much of the parent’s qualities, at any rate, did the son
possess.

He was to the full as selfish as his father, but lacked that
experience which makes the concealment of egotism easy.
In this his father was lis superior.

The plain speaking indulged in by Carrol, and which he
had overheard before entering the cabin, had annoyed him,
while the oracular manner adopted by Cris had in no wayg
assuaged the feeling.

The fact of the matter is that ‘ae old hunter had made a
close guess at the truth.

Warren had a passion for Sansuta, the daughter of Oluski.

Not a manly, loving passion, but a covert gambler’s lust for
possession without labor.

 

~
wey

MASKED. 8?

Her beauty had cast a spell upon him. Had his sonl been
pure, the spell would have worked its own cure. Out of the
magic of her very simplicity would have arisen chaste love.
But his head was wicked, and its growth weeds,

Hitherto the difference of race had shielded from harm the
object of his admiration. He would have been ashamed to
avow it in an hnnest way.

Secretly, therefore, he had forged a false friendship for her
brother, as a mask to conceal his base treachery.

In the incident with which our tale opens, he had found a
ready means of advancing his own interests, by more closely
cementing Nelatee’s simple friendship, and molding it to his
will.

We have said that Red Wolf, the would-be assassin, fell

_ by the bullet of his rifle.

With his hand upon the trigger, and in the very act of
sending this wretch to his long account, a thought had flashed
across young Rody’s mind, which made his aim more certain.

Let us explain.

Nelatee said that Red Wolf had spoken wicked words
of Sansuta and of Warren. ‘The very conjunction of their
names supplies the calumny.

Nelatee spoke truly, but what he did not know was: that
the wretch who paid the forfeit of his life for his foul speech
was but the dupe of Nelatee’s own friend, Warren Rody.

-Red Wolf, an idle, drunken scamp, had been a fit instrument
in Rody’s hands to be employed as a messenger between him
and the Indian girl.

For these services Red Wolf received repeated compensa-
tion in gold.

But the old story of the bad master becoming discontented
with a bad servant was true in this case.

Warren was afraid that Red Wolf wouid, in one of his

2

 

 
   

  

38 THE WHITE sQuAW.

drunken orgies, talk too. much, and betray the secret with which
he had entrusted him.

So far he was right; for it was while endeavoring to warn
Nelatee of his sister’s danger, that Red Wolf made use of
improper language about the girl.

He had cast reflections upon Nelatee’s sister while tradu-
cing his friend.

The issue is already known.

Wicked were Warren’s thoughts as he stood, rifle in hand,
watching the two.

If Red Wolf (and he recognized him at once) were removed
in the very act of killing Nelatee, a dangerous tongue would
be forever silenced ; while Nelatee’s friendship would be fur-
ther secured, and Sansuta eventually become his prey.

The decision was taken—the bullet sent through Red Wolf's
brain, and Warren Rody accomplished a part of his own
prophesy.

Having succeeded so far, it was terribly mortifying to find
that one clear-sighted individual had penetrated his schemes,
and had, without appearing to do so, placed a restraint upon
the otherwise warm sense of gratitude with which Nelatee
regarded him.

All this Cris Carrol had done, and therefore Warren Rody
was angry with him.

He left the cabin vowing vengeance on Carrol, and casting
about for the means to accomplish it. ;

He had not long to: wait, or far to seek. i

At the end of the by-road upon which the backwoodsman’s
dwelling stood, he encountered the very tool suitable for his
purpose. It wasin the person of a negro, with a skin black
as Erebus, who was seen perched upon the top of a tall fence.
He was odd enough looking to attract attention.

His head, denuded of the old ragged piece of felt he called

 

 

6 £.8
 

THE NEGKO. 89

hat, was unusually large, and covered with an enormous shock
of tightly curling wool. This did not, however, conceal the
apish form of the skull that bore a strong resemblance to that
of a Chimpanzee.

Rolling and sparkling im a field of white were eyes pre-
ternaturally large and wickedly expressive, above a nose and
mouth of the strongest African type.

His arms were ludicrously long, and seemed by their un-
usual proportions to make up for the shortness and impish
form of the body.

He was whistling in a discordant strain, some wild mel-
ody, and kicking his heels about like one possessed.

As Warren Rody approached, he paused in this ear-split-
ting music, and leaped nimbly from his perch, while flourish-
ing his tattered felt in a sort of salutation.

It might have been observed that he was lame, and the,
few. halting steps he took imparted a droll hobbling motion to
his diminutive body.

His dress was a curious warp of rags, woven, as it were,
upon a still more ragged woof,

They were held together more by sympathy than cohesion.

In his right hand was « stout, gnarled stick, with which he
assisted himself in his frog-like progress,

At sight of young Rody the huge mouth of this uncouth
creature seemed to open from ear to ear, while a double row
of teeth filled the hiatus like a gleam of baleful light,

“Ha! ha! Whoo! whoo! Gor bress me if it arn’t
Massa Warren hisself. dat I sees! My stars, massa, but dis
ole man-am glad to see ye, dat he is !”

Such was his salutation.

The young man came toa stop and surveyed the negro
with a smile.

“ Well, Crookleg, what do you want with me, you old fiend ?”

 
  

   

40 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“Hatl!ha! ho! ho! bress him, wat a brave young gen’l’m
it is! how han’som’—jess like a pictur! ‘ What do the old
fien’ want? Why,he want a good deal, massa ! a good deal!”

“Are you out of work again ?”

“ Halha! ain’t done a bressed stroke of work, massa, for
more nor two week, ain’t, pon dis old nigga’s solemn word.
Ain’t had it, massa, to do. Poor Crookleg am most used up.
Ya, most used up.”

As if to prove his Jast assertion, the hideous wretch cut a
high caper into the air, and settled down again in a grotesque
attitude.

Young Rody laughed heartily at this feat, slapped his rid-
ing-whip roughly across the negro’s back, pitched a piece of
silver to him, and pased on.

While Crookleg stooped to pick up the coin he glanced af-
ter him under his arm, and saw with some surprise that the
youth had paused at a few paces distance, as if in thought.

After a time the latter faced round, and came back along
the road.

“ By the way, Crookleg,” said he, “ come up to the house ;
my sister may have something to give you.”

“Hal ha! he! he! Miss Alice, bress her, so she may, massa.
Pll come, sartin. Dis old nigga’s always glad to get what he
can from Miss Alice.”

“And,” continued Rody, “ask for me when you come. I
may find something for you to do that'll help you along a
little.”

Not staying to hear the voluble expressions of gratitude with
which Crookleg overwhelmed him, Warren strode on, and was
soon lost to sight.

The moment of his disappearance the darky perpetrated
another aérial leap, and then hobbled off in « direction oppo-
site to that pursued by the Governor’s son.

 

 
 

& CHANGE OF SCENB. 41

He could be heard muttering as he went:

“ Wants to see dis chile, does he? Why dat leoks good frr
de ole nigga; and who knows but what de long time ati 4
coming to an end, and all dis old nigga’s work is a-gwine tu
be done for him by odder folk? He! he! dat would matm
dis chile bu’st a-laffin—he! he ! he !”

CHAPTER VII.
THE TWO CHIEFS.

Our story now takes us fifty miles inland from Tampa
bay.

The spot, on the edge of an everglade.

The hour, noon.

The dramatis persone, two Indians.

One an old man, the other in the prime of life.

The first, white-headed, wrinkled, and with traces of a life
spent in action.

He presented an appearance at once striking and. pictur-
esque, as he stood beneath the shade of a tall palm tree.

His dress was half Indian, half hunter. A buckskin shirt,
leggings and moccasins richly worked with beads. A wam-
pum belt crossed his shoulder. A scarlet blanket hung at his
back, its folds displaying a figure which in its youth must
have been superb. It still showed, in the broad chest and
powerful limbs, almost its pristine strength.

Upon his head he wore a band of bead-work, in which
were siuck three wing-feathers of the war-eagle.

His face was full of dignity and calm repose.

 
  

    
  

42 THE WHITE SQUAW.

     
   
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
   

It was Oluski, the Seminole chief.
~ His companion was no less remarkable.

As he lay stretched upon the ground, leaning on one e» t
bow, his face upturned toward that of the old man, a striking
contrast’ was presented.

Like Oluski, his dress was also half Indian, half hunter, 2
but more richly ornamented with bead-work, while a certain C
careful disposition of the attire seemed not inappropriate to
his youth and bearing. . ]

It was, however, in his features that the difference was §
chiefly apparent.

In the attitude he: had assumed, a ray of sunshine, pierc-
ing a break between the trees, illumined his countenance. j
Instead of the coppery color of the Indian, his skin was of a
rich olive, an unmistakable sign that white blood flowed in
his veins.

He was remarkably handsome. His features were regu- ii

lar, well defined and admirably chiseled. His eyes were large
and lustrous, overarched by a forehead that denoted the pos- | },
session of intellect.
Like the old man, he wore a plume of eagle’s. feathers on f
his head, as also a wampum belt; but, in liew of a blanket, ©
a robe made of skins of the spotted lynx, was thrown over
his shoulders. v
Oluski was the first to speak.
“Must Wacora depart to-day ?” he asked. y
“ At sunset I must leave you, uncle, ”replied the youth, who b
was his nephew, already spoken of as. Wacora. ‘¢
“ And when do you return ?” a
“ Not till you come back from Tampa bay. I have still | y
much to do. My father’s death has placed me in a position
of trust, and I must not neglect its duties.” fi
“T and my tribe depart from this place in seven days.”

 
   

  

 

UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 48
“ And Nelatee; where is he?” asked Wacora,
“J expected him ere this. He and Red Wolf went away
together.

Oluski was ignorant of what had happened.

“They went upon a hunting excursion, and if not able te
return in time, were to go.on to the bay, and there await our
coming.”

“ You still make your summer encampment upon the hill?
I have not seen it since I was a boy. It isa shame, too,
since our people are buried there.”

“Yes, and therefore it is dear to you as to me.”

“And yet the whites have a settlement near it, It waa
your gift to them, uncle, I remember that.”

Wacora spoke with an accent that sounded almost sneering.

The old chief answered warmly :

“Well! I owed their chief a debt of gratitude. I paid
it. He is my friend.”

“ Friend ?” said Wacora, with a bitter smile. ‘ Since when
has the pale-face been a friend to the red-man ?”

“ Still unjust, Wacora? I thought you had changed, The
foolish sentiments of youth should give place to, the wisdom
of age.”

Oluski’s eye brightened, as he spoke. His heart swelled
with noble feelings,

“TJ do not, will not, trust in the white man!’ answered the
young chie& “ What has he done, to our race that we should
believe in him. Look at his acts, and then trust him if you
can. Where are the Mohawks, the, Shawnees, the Delawares
and the Narragansets? How has the white man kept faith
with them?”

‘: All white. men are not alike,”. responded Oluski; “a pale-
face befriended me when I required aid. The deed always
weighs against the word. - I could not be ungratoful,”

 

     
   
   

  

aa THE WHITE sQUuAW.

“ Well! Oluski’s gratitude has been proved,” returned Wa-
cora. ‘“ But let him beware of those on whom it has been
Destowed.”

The old chief did not answer, but stood in an attitude of
thought.

Ideas, slumbering till now, were awakened by Wacora’s
words. An unknown feeling appeared to gain possession of
him.

So contagious is mistrust.

His nephew, too, seemed lost in thought. Still lying upon
the ground, he idly plucked the petals of a flower growing
by his side.

The conversation was at length resumed by his uncle.

“Thave nothing to charge the white chief with; or his
veople. Our tribe yearly visits the place—we are welcomed
on arrival, respected during our stay, and unmolested at leay-
ing. No, Wacora! these white men are not like others.”

“Uncle, all white men are the same. They make their
homes in our land. When space is needed, the Indian must
yield to them, What faith or friendship can exist where
there isno equality? Do not the Seminoles suffer, at this
very moment, from the white man’s ambition? Are not their
hunting-grounds profaned by his presence—their towns pil-
laged for his fancied wrongs? Your friend is a white man,
and therefore the enemy of your race.”

Wacora spoke passionately. E

Old age, or perhaps habit, had blunted Oluski’s sense of}
the encroachments described by Wacora.

History unfortunately sustains the younger chief's assertion.
Over the entire American Continent, there has been, along
with the advancement of civilization, a cruel disregard of the
tights and feelings of the Indians. Treaties’ have been wau-
tonly broken or misconstrued; and persecution on one side

 

 

3
3

en oe

ncengenremeninanin
 

ee
«

eoeerparocmenenanentte

SUPERIOR MEN. 4

has led to bitter retaliation from the other. Itis sad to think
that this history is not yet complete.

The whites have, it is true, in every instance prevailed.
The tribes who still hold their own do so more by the tacit
consent of the conqueror, than through uny concession of
justice.

The moment there appears a necessity for removing the In-
dians from their lands, the pretext is not wanting.

It is easily found, and then the course of events is invariably
the same.

First some petty tyrannies, some fancied grievances, or
slights, gradually increasing in importance by the mere ex-
cited feelings of the two races—then open aggressions lead-
ing to bloodshed, ending in wild warfare, massacre, and an-
uihilation.

These generally fostered, or as often caused, by selfish
speculators or land-agents,

The Indian is not always a savage. The reverse is often
the case. In every tribe, there are men of education, of
quick intelligence, and with a high sense of right.

Think of their leaders in the wars of Creek and Cherokee,
Shawnee and Delaware. Think of Tecumseh. Remember
Logan!

The Seminoles were ever remarkable for intelligence, and
among them were men of liberal education, Schools had
been established—the peaceful pursuits of agriculture and
trade encouraged, and the ground-work for moral elevation
and citizenship securely laid.

These facts may appear strange; but, they are none the
less true.

Both Oluski and Wacora were superior men, in the sense
that education and natural intelligence give the stamp of
superiority over ignorance and superstition.

 
    

   

THE WHITE SQUAW.

Cie Bol ER sy tie
SANSUTA.

As we have said, Wacora had white blood in his veins.

His mother was a Spaniard.

In one of those afflicting contests, the result of unjust legisla-
tion by the Spanish government, Wacora’s father, at the head
of his tribe, waged war against the whites, and in the last
conflict in which he took part, made captive of a Spanish
girl, the daughter of a planter, who lived near the town of
San Augustine. _

Several years elapsed before a peace was concluded petween
the contending parties, and in the interim, the maiden, who
was almost a child at the time of her capture, seemed to have
entirely forgotten her own kindred ; ‘and either through affec-
tion or taste, became devoted to the chief, who had been her
captor.

It ended in her becoming his wife, and the mother of Wa-
cora.

Several such instances may be remembered in the history
of the early settlements.

Albeit that in Wacora’s veins white blood flowed, his soul

was Indian, and he loved his father’s people, as if he had been g

of their purest blood. High aspirations for their future great-
ness filled his thoughts. He dreamed of a golden future,
when the Indians should hold a high position among men,
upon the land of their forefathers,

His soul was noble—his heart pure.

He was a patriot of the most enthusiastic stamp.

or

 
 

4

  

A WOOD-NYMPH. 47

His judgm nt, clear in most things, was clouded in estimat-
ing the qualities of the white race, simply because he had
seen the worst phase of their character, its cupidity and
selfishness.

If this disadvantage, inseparable from the first approach
of so-called civilization, affected him, how much more must
it have affected the ignorant men of his nation !

We leave to casuists the answer.

Oluski would have replied to his companion’s address, bnt
the same train of disagreeable thought that had entered his
mind at the first part of Wacora’s speech, held him silent.

Wacora proceeded.

“Enough, uncle; I did not intend to trouble you with my
feelings—I meant only to warn you against danger—for dan-
ger exists in all dealings with the pale-faces. They, as our-
selves, are true to their instincts, and those instincts bling
them to justice. Your friend, the white chief, may be all you
think him. If so, he will rather admire your caution than
blame you for mistrust, natural, because not causeless.”

Whatever reply Oluski intended, was postponed by the ar-
rival of a third person, at whose coming Wacora sprung from
the ground with a gesture of surprise and admiration.

The new-comer was an Indian maiden.

With light, elastic step she approached the spot.

As she stepped across the broad belt of sunlight between
the trees, she seemed a natural part of the silvan scene—a
perfect wood-nymph !

She was a girl of slight stature, beautifully-rounded limbs,
with hands and feet unusually small. ;

Her dress was simplicity itself, yet so gracefully worn that
it seemed the result of labored art. A tunic of bright-colored
cloth, clasped round her neck by a silver brooch, descended
to her ankles, while around her waist was twisted a scarf of

 

 
 

48 THE WHITE SQUAW.

many colors. Over her shoulders fell a bright cloth mantle,
bordered with shells worked into delicate patterns, Upon her
head was a bead-work cap, trimmed with the plumes of the
white egret like a fringe of newly-fallen snow. Her wrists
were circled by bead bracelets, while embroidered moccasins
covered her small feet.

She smilingly sppreached Oluski, and nestled close to the
old chief, who, spite of years and infirmity, stood erect beside
her.

‘Wacora seemed puzzled by the fair presence.

“T had forgotten,” said Oluski, “that you are strangers to
each other; Sansuta, your cousin Waeora stands before
you.”

Sansuta, for she it was, smiied upon the young Indian.

He did not approach the spot where father and daughter
stood. His impassioned eloquence had vanished. He could
scarce find words for the simplest salutation.

Oluski, perceiving his bashfulness, hastened to his relief

“ Sansuta has been upon a visit, and has only now returned.
It is many years since you have seen her, Wacora; you did
not expect her to have grown so tall?”

Wacora finished the sentence.

“Nor so beautiful!” he said.

Sansuta cast down her eyes.

“No praise like that should reach an Indian maiden’s ear,”
said Oluski, with a pleased smile nevertheless; ‘“ Sansuta is
as the Great Spirit has made her—that is sufficient.”

The girl did not seem to share her father’s sentiments; a
slight pouting of her beautiful lips implied that the compli-
ment was by no means unpleasant.

Wacora was again dumb, as if half regretting what he had
said.

Such is the power that beauty exercises over bravery.

  

 

 

 

  
 

LOVE ! 49

The young Indian warrior actually blushed at his bold-
ness.

“But what brings you here, Sansuta ?” asked her father.
“Did you not know that your cousin and myself were in coun-
cil 2”

The pretty Sansuta had recovered her composure. The
pout had disappeared from her lips, which, opening to an-
swer her father’s question, revealed two rows of teeth of
a dazzling whiteness.

“T am here to bid you both to the evening meal,” she said.

Her voice, melodious and soft, struck upon Wacora’s ear
like the music of the mock-bird.

The charm was complete.

Forgetful of his late conversation, forgetful for a time of
his thoughts and aspirations, oblivious of his own enthusiasm,
he stood, a very child, eagerly watching her, and listening
for those tones again.

It was Oluski, however, who spoke.

“Come, Wacora: let us go with her.”

The old chief strode away from the spot, Sansuta by his
side.

Wacora followed, with a new feeling in his heart.

It was love!

 
   

THE WHITE SQUAW.

CU AR. hiv’ a3

THE INDIAN VILLAGE.

A WEEK later, the table-top of the ‘hill, overlooking the
settlement, presented a changed picture. It was om of
active life.

The naked poles, formerly ‘standing ‘there, had disappeared,
and comfortable Indian dwellings—wigwams—were ‘in their
place.

At the doors of several were planted lances and sjpéars, with
plumes and pennons depending from them.

These were the residénces of the chiefs.

In the center of the grotip was a large building, which was
carefully, almost elaborately, constructed, and which far over-
topped the others.

It was the council-house of the tribe.

Around the doors of their respective dwellings, the owners
might be seen engaged in every variety of employment, or
peaceful idleness. Children frolicked in the presence of their
parents, and dusky maidens, in twos and threes, loitered up
and down the main street or avenue.

At one of the doors, an interesting group seemed rapt
in attention at the recital of a story that was being told by an
aged chief.

The chief was Oluski; and, among the individuals around,
was his daughter, Sansuta.

The others were his kindred. They had assembled, as was
their usual evening custom, in front of his wigwam, to listen
to tales of virtue or valor, of deeds done by their ancestors
in the days of the early Spanish settlers.

   
 

&
=

 
  

  

 

STORYTELLING. dl

The Indians’are admirable listeners; and, in the ‘easy, na-
tural attitudes into which they fell as they leant forward to
catch Oluski’s words, they formed a charming tableau.

The venerable chief, with dignified action, measured speech,
and great skill in modulating his voice, held their attention,
‘as much by the manner as the matter of his narrative.

Ass the incident he was relating developed pathos, chivalry,
horror, or revenge, so didshis audience yield themselves to its
influences. By turns they lowered their eyes, shuddered,
-stared wildly:around, with knit brows and clinched hands.

Like ‘all ~people constantly communing with nature, they
“were easily moved ‘to joy or sorrow, and not civilized-enough
to ‘make any attempt at concealing it. :

As Oluski sat in their midst, the observed of all observers,
he! looked :the picture-of }a:patriarch.

The time and place were both in ‘harmony with the sub-
ject.

Oluski’s story drew to a close. His hero had achieved
his triumph, the distressed-Seminole maiden was rescued, and
joy and union wound up the tale which had, for more than
an hour, held his listeners enthralled.

“So, now, children, away! .The-sun is sinking in the west,
the hour of council is at hand, and I must leave you. Re-
turn to morrow, and I will relate to you some other episode
in the history of our'tribe.” é

The young ‘peuple ‘rose-at:the -chief’s :bidding; and, with
“thanks” and “ good-nights,” prepared to depart, Sansuta
‘among the rest.

“Where are you going, child ?” asked: her father.

“Only to the:spring, father; I shallibe back soon.”

As the girl said this, she turned her face away,’as if »wish-
ing to avoid her father's gaze. The other people:had all de

 

 

   
  

52 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“ Well,” said the old man, after a pause; “do not forget
to return soon. I would not have you abroad after night
fall.”

She murmured a few words, and sauntered away from the
spot.

Oluski did not immediately depart, but stood leaning against
the spear that stood up in front of his dwelling. The old
man’s eyes were filled with tears, while a hand was laid upon
his heart.

“Poor girl,” he reflected, as he watched her form disap-
pearing in the fast-darkening twilight; “she never knew her
mother. I sometimes think I have been but a poor guardian
of Sansuta’s steps. But the Great Spirit knows I have tried
to do my duty.”

Sighing heavily, he brushed the tears from his eyes, and
strode off to the council-house.

CHAPTER x:
AN APPOINTMENT KEPT BY DEPUTY.

Let us follow the footsteps of Sansuta.

Once out of sight, and conscious that she had eluded her
father’s observation, she quickened her steps, not in the diree-
tion of the spring, but toward a thick clump of live-oak, which
grew at the foot of the hill.

As she approached the spot, her pace gradually became
slower, until she at length came to a stop.
As she paused, a shiver ran through her frame.
She was evidently in doubt of what she was doing.

 

 
 

 

 

 
   
am
slg
ix

 

 

 

  

THE TRYST. 53

The sun had sunk below the horizon, and darkness was
Tapidly falling over the landscape.

A distant murmuring alone gave token of the proximity of
the Indian village upon the hill.

After a few moments, and while Sansuta still stood beside
the grove, these sounds ceased, and perfect silence reigned
around the spot. 7

Presently a cuckoo’s note was heard, followed by another,
nearer and Jouder, that was in its turn succeeded by three
others.

While the echo of the last still vibrated on the evening
air, the maiden was startled by a sudden apparition.

It sprung into view at her very feet, as if the gound had
opened suddenly, to give it passage.

When the girl regained courage sufficient to look upon it,
her fears were in no way lessened.

Standing in a grotesque attitude she beheld a negro, with
arms enveloped in a ragged garment, moving about like the
sails of a wind-mill, while a low chuckle proceeded from his
huge mouth.

“Hel hol bo! Brest if de ole nigga didn’t skear de
galumpious Injin. He! he! he! Gorry, if de Injin’ beauty
ain’t turn white at de show ob dis chile!”

It was Crookleg who spoke.

He seemed to enjoy the scare he had given the maiden;
fur after having ceased to speak, his gurgling cachination
was continued.

It was some time before Sansuta recovered presence
of mind sufficient to speak to the black deformity before
her.

“ What do you want?” was all she could gasp.

“Hal ha! ha! It warn’t dis ugly ole nigga what the
big chief’s chile ’spected to meet, war it? .No I know it

 

  
   

54 THE WHITE SQUAW.

warn’t. But don’t be skeared; ole Crookleg won't hurt ye
He’s as innercent as a angel. He! he! he !—as a angel !”

Here anpther caper, similar to the one with which he had
introduced himself, placed him in a still more impish attitude.

The Indian girl had by this time recovered from her first
aurprise, seeing that some attributes of humanity appertained
4 her strange interlocutor.

“Again, what do you want? Let me pass. I must
return to the village.”

“Gorry, an’ it arn’t Crookleg dat will hinder you,” the
negro answered, standing directly in her path. ‘‘ He only
want say a word to you, dat is if you is de beautiful Sansuta,
de darter ob de chief?”

“J am the chief’s daughter. That is my name. I am
Sansuta !”

“Den de young gen’l’m'n tole dis ole darky true w’en he
say I find you down by de live-oak grove at sunset—he tole
one ole nigga true.”

A blush overspread the girl’s face as Crookleg spoke. She
Cid not answer him.

“He say to me,” continued the negro, “dat I war to tell
die ‘lady, (here he chuckled) “ dat he, de gen’!m’n, couldn’
come to meet her to-night, on accoun’ o’ de ole man, his bossy,
w'at hab gub him somethin’ ’tickler to do. He send ole
Crookleg tell her dat, and gib her somet/in’ what I’s got
hyar in my pocket—he ! he! he !”

Saying these words, the monster made a seri¢s of move
ments, having in view the discovery of his pocket.

After a most elaborate and vigorous search for its aperture
among the multitudinous rags, he succeeded in finding it.
Then plunging his long right arm therein, up to the elbow,
he drew forth a small parcel wrapped in white paper, x»4

tied with a string of dazzling beads.

   

As
a, }

 

  

THE PRESENT. 55

With anotber acrobatic bound he handed it to the trem
bling girl.

“Dere it am, safe an’,soun’. Dis ole nigga nebba lose
nuffin’ and offen find a good deal. Dat, says de gen’l’m’n
he speak of, is for the most lubly of her seck, de Missy
Sansuta.”

The tender look accompanying this speech was something
hideous to behold.

Sansuta hesitated before taking the parcel from him, as if
in doubt whether she should not decline it.

“Da! take it! urged he; “I aint nuffin’ as ll go off aw”
hurt ye; dis nigga kin sw’ar to dat.”

Not so much this friendly assurance, as a resolution the
girl had come to, decided her. She stretched forth her hand,
and took the package. This done, she essayed once more to
move past the negro, in order to return to the hill.

Crookleg, however, still blocking up the path, made no
movement to give way to her.

He had evidently something more to say

* Lookee hyar,” he continued ; “I war bid to tell de lubly
lnjin lady, that the gen'l’m’n wud be at dis berry spot, to-
morrow mornin’ early to meet her, and I was ’tickler told say
dat it was private, and not to be told no ’quisitive folks w’at
might want toknow. Now I think ”—here Crookleg took off
his tattered hat, and scratched his wool—‘ dat’s all dis niggar
war tole to say—yes! dat’s all!”

Without waiting for a reply, the monstrosity made a
pirouette, then a bound, and disappeared so suddenly, that he
he was gone before Sansuta could recover from her surprise,

Once assured that she was alone, the maiden hastened
to untie the string around the packet, and lay bare its contents,

Her gratified glance fell upon a pair of showy ear-rings,
and affixed to them a small slip of paper.

 

  
56 THE WHITE SQUAW.

Though but an Indian maiden, the chief’s daughter had learnt
to read.

By the last glimpse of departing twilight, she read what
was written on the paper. There were but two words:

“From Warren.

CHAPTER XI.
THE COUNCIL.

OLUvskxr’s entrance into the council-house was the signal for
all eyes to turn toward him.

Slowly, and with dignity, he traversed the space between
the door and the seat reserved for him at the upper end of
the hall,

Once there, he turned around, bowed gravely to the assem-
bled warriors, and then took his seat.

Pipes were now lighted, and gourds filled with honey and
water handed around.

Oluski declined the latter, but lighted one of the pipes, and
for some time watched, as if in reverie, the circling of the
smoke,

The silence that ensued upon the old chief’s entrance con-
tinued for several minutes; at length a young warrior, oppo-
site to him, rose and spoke:

“Will our chief tell his brothers why they are called
together, and what it is that makes him thoughtful and silent ?
We will hear and advise—let Oluski speak !”

After this brief address, the young man resumed his seat,
while those around the circle murmured their assent to what
he had said. ©

 

     

  

;
were tte

THE COUNCIL. — pet

Thus solicited, Oluski arose, and spoke as follows:

“Tt is not unknown to many of our warriors now present,
that I was deputed by their elder brothers, and themselves,
many years since, to go to the pale-faces, in Georgia, to settle
some old disputes about lands sold by our people to them,
and about which wicked men, of both races, had caused
quarrels and bloodshed. I departed on my errand, went to
the great town where their council-house stands, spoke truth,
and made new treaties’ with them. All this I did, and our
people were pleased !”

A chorus of yoices ratified the chief’s statement.

“Tt may be remembered that I made new friends with
some of the pale-faces, and concluded treaties’ founded on
justice, which gaye to our people property they needed in
exchange for lands which we did not require.”

Renewed signals of assent.

“To one pale-face, more than to others, I was under sends
of gratitude. He did me great service when I required it,
and I promised to repay him. An Indian chief never breaks
his word. I gave to that man some of the lands left to me
by my fathers. These are the lands upon which the white
settlement now stands. . The pale-face I speak of was, Elias
Rody !”

The voices of the assembled warriors were silent ; an eager —
expectancy of look was all the answer Oluski received at
mention of Rody’s name.

The old chief continued.

“ To-day, Elias Rody came here and talked with me, He
told me that the hour had arrived when I could do him
a great service, and again prove myself grateful for the aid
he had afforded me. I told him to speak out. He did so.
I listened. He said the colony he had founded was prosper-
ous, but there was one thing he still desired, and this wae

 
   

  

58 THE ‘WHITE SQUAW.

the faver he came to ask. Twice ‘before he had spoken of
‘it. This time he required a final answer. His demand was

more than I could of myself grant. I to.d him ‘so. For -

this ' reason ‘have I called you into council. I will lay his
wish before you. ‘It is for you to decide.”

‘Oluski paused to ‘give opportunity for anyone who chose'to
‘make a remark.

None was made; but the listeners looked ‘around ‘them, as
‘if ‘trying to’read each other’s thoughts.

The chief proceeded.

“ What the White ‘man ‘wants is'to: buy from us this -hill
‘upon Wiiich our habitations are built.”

A-chorus of angry dissentient voices greeted the purpose.

“Hear me‘out,” continued Oluski, “and then decide.”

Silence ensued as stidden as’ the noisy interruption.

“ The white chief offered me one hundred rifles, two ‘hun-

dred square Mackinaw blankets, five kegs of gunpowder, fifteen
bales of Cloth, and one hundred shot-belts, besides. beads, knives
and small articles. “For this he desires to have «possession of
“the hill, as far’as the borders of the ‘settlement, and the strip
“of land lying along the shore‘of the bay. I have told you
“this with no remark of my own to influence’ your decision.
To you, brothers, I leave it. Whatever it may be, Oluski
“will abide’ by it.”

Saying ‘this ‘he-sat down.

The young warrior who had already ‘spoken once more
rose to his feet and addressed himself to the chief.

“ Why does Oluski ask us to decide’? he land is his—
‘not ours.”

Without rising, the chief replied to the question. ~His voice
“was sad and ‘subdued, as though he were speaking ‘under

~ compulsion.
““T have ‘asked “you, my ‘sons,” ‘said ‘he, “for good reason

 

=< BS

 
~=ahe

 

x

AN ANGRY DEBATE. 58

Although the land is my‘own, the‘graveyard of ‘our:ancestors,
which adjoins the property, belongs not only to the whole
tribe, but to the children of the tribe :forever.”

A silence, such as precedes a storm, féll upon the assembly

Then every voice within the council-chamber was -simulta-
neously raised in loud protestation, and had Elias Rody ‘seen
the flashing eyes and angry gestures, or heard tlie fieree in-
vective hurled back to lis proposal, he would ‘have ‘licsitated
to repeat it.

Amid the wild ‘turmoil, Oluski sat with head bowed-upon
his breast, a feeling of sorrow ‘in ‘his ‘heart.

The angry debate that succeeded did not:last long. -It;was
but the ebullition of a common sentiment 'to’which the? ex-
pression by one voice was-alone wanting.

It found it in'the same youthful warrior who had ‘spoken
before. The wishes of the warriors being known, he, as'well
as any other, could give them voice.

“The chosen of the tribe have decided,” said she, amid
perfect silence. “TI will proclaim their answer.”

“Do so,” Oluski said, simply raising:his head.

“They despise the white chief’s bribe, offered for the bones
of our ancestors. They bid me’ask Oluski what answer le
intends making to the pale-face.”

The old chief rose hastily to his feet—his form and eye
dilated.

QGlancing proudly ‘around ‘the assembly, he cried out, in‘a
clear, ringing voice : ;

“ Oluski’s answer is written here !”—as he said this he
atruck his spread palm upon his breast. ‘“ When the white
chief would have it, it shall be NO!”

A cry of approbation from every warrior present greeted
the patriotic speech. Hastening forward, they pressed around
the chief with ejaculations of joy.

 
   

      
 

60 THE WHITE sQuaw.

The aged patriarch felt his blood freshly warmed within his
veins— he was young again !” :

In a few moments the excitement subsided, and the war-
riors, retiring from the council-house, moved off toward theit
\espective dwellings.

Oluski was the last to emerge from the council-chamber.

As he stepped across the threshold, the fire that had ant
mated him seemed to have become suddenly extinguished, his
form was bent, his steps tottering and listless.

As he looked down the hill, he caught a glimpse of the
white man’s settlement, with its window-lights twinkling
‘Krough the darkness.

One, more brilliant than the rest, attracted his attention.

It was the house of Elias Rody.

“J fear,” said the old chief, in a dreamy voice, “ my gift
will prove fatal alike to him and me. When ambition enters
the heart, honor and justice fiud no home therein. Our peo-
ple can not know that man in the past—they mast judge him
by hia present. I would be generous—the Great Spirit
knows that—but I must also be just: If I have raised angry
feelings at tais council, I have nothing to charge myself with.
I but did my duty. May the white chief’s heart be turned
from the covetous thoughts which fill it. Great Spirit, hear
my prayer.”

With a natural and beautiful action, the aged Indian raised
his hands in supplication to that power alike cognizant of the
thoughts of white and +214

 

  

 

= *

 
 

 

  

WHITE AND RED.

CHAPTER Xi1.
THE SITUATION.

Srnce the meeting in the council-house several days had
elapsed.

The answer of the Seminole warriors had been conveyed
to the white Governor by Oluski himself.

The old chief couched the decision in kindly words, min-
gled with regrets,

Elias Rody was wonderfully self-possessed.

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, grasped the Seminole’s
hand, and with a wave of his own seemed to dismiss the sub-
ject from his thoughts. .

Nay, more : he presented the old warrior with a beautifully-
inlaid rifle, a bale of broadcloth, and a keg of powder.

“Come, come!” said he, speaking in the friendliest tone,
“don’t let a mere whim of mine affect such a friendship as
ours. You must accept these things—mere trifles. Your
taking them will prove that you harbor no unkindness to-
ward me or mine.”

Thus pressed, Oluski accepted the presents,

The Governor smiled covertly as the old chief departed.

Nelatee had recovered from his wound. He daily spent
hours in company with Warren, and there was no lack of
diversion for the white youth along with his red-skinned com-
panion.

Their canoe darted through the blue waters of the bay, or
stole dreamily along the river’s current.

 
    

  
   

62 THE WHITE SQUAW.

Their rifles brought down the wild fowl upon the sea, or
the quail and partridge upon the land.

Their fishing-rods and spears furnished many a dainty dish.

Sometimes, going further afield, they would bring home a
deer or a brace or two of wild turkeys; or, bent on destruc-
tion, would penetrate some dark lagoon, and slay the hideous
alligator.

The pretexts which these pursuits presented were con-
stantly improved by Warren.

He molded his conduct and expressions to suit the simple
faith and understanding of his Indian companion.

He concealed beneath a considerate kindness the dark
thoughts that were brooding in his bosom, and was the very
semblance of what he professed to be—a friend,

Nelatee, generous and confiding, was flattered, and charmed
by his condescension. With the simple faith of a child, he
trusted his white associate.

“ Ah, Nelatee,” would the latter say, “if I had only the
porver to do what I wish, I would prove myself a true friend
to the Indians. Our race are afraid to show any real sympathy
with them, on account of old and stupid prejudices. Wait
until I am in a position to prove my words, and you will see
what I will do. Why, even now, Id rather sit near you
fishing, or tramp with you across the country on a hunting-
excursion, than spend the time among my own people, who
can not understand either me or my ways.”

What wonder that Nelatee, after such sentiments, should
insist upon baiting his white companion’s hooks, paddling his
canoe, carrying his loaded game-bags, or relieving his shoul-
der of the weight of his rifle!

From a friend he became almost a servitor.
So debasing is flattery —so artful is selfishness,
Young Rody played his game, in. pursuit of Nelatee’s sister,

 

“*

 

  

  
rk

 

AN INDIAN COQUETTE, 63

with the same deep, calculating treachery as had secured
the young warrior’s friendship.

In a thousand designing ways he impressed himself on
Nelatee’s mind as a chivalrous, self-sacrificing fellow, worthy
the love of any maiden. Then, adroitly singing soft praises of
Sansuta to the brother’s pleased ear, he insured in him a
faithful ally and warm panegyrist.

Sansuta, pleased with an admiration which she never
paused to question, blushed at her brother’s report of War-
ren’s good qualities. With that mysterious power of divina-
tion possessed by a young girl’s heart, she took them as an
expression of the passion felt for herself, and saw through the
violent friendship between the young men only another proof
of her own powers of fascination.

Not that she was unconscious of it, through more direct
means.

More than one interview had been brought about between
her and Warren Rody, through the medium of the negro
monster—no longer so in her eyes.

Many articles of adornment had come into her hands, and
were kept hidden from her father’s sight. She dared not
wear them, but in secret gloated over their possession, as
over the feeling which had prompted the gift. ;

Sansuta, it will be seen, was a coquette ; though one through
vanity, not vice. |

She was innocent as a child, but inordinately vain.

She had grown up without a mother’s care, had been so
much thrown upon her own resources that all her faults were
those of an untrained nature. ;

Her heart was warm, her affection for her father and bro-
ther deep and true; but she was too prone to assimilate with
the bright side of life, and to tremble at auy thing with thé
appearance of dullness.

 
  

THE WHITE SQUAW.

Differently placed, this Indian maiden might have become
a heroine. As it was she was nothing but a frivolous child.

With a generous man, her defenseless posilion would have
insured her safety. S

Not thus with Warren Rody.

Her innocence seemed but to provoke him to the accom-
plishment of her ruin.

It would be trouble saved—triumph secured.

A great triumph, truly. The conquest, through her own
simple love, of a harmless child !

The son did not belie his father’s nature.

Crookleg had become useful to him in his scheme. This
hideous creature proved far more subservient and trustworthy
than the defunct Red Wolf, for he was all obsequious obedience.

True, he sometimes glanced askance with an ugly look bent
upon his young master; but the look vanished in a hideous
grin whenever the latter turned toward him.

What dark mystery Jay hidden in the negro’s mind, no one
white knew ; but all, by a common impulse, gave way to him
as he passed. Children ran shrieking, and hid their faces in
their mothers’ aprons; the boys paused suddenly in their
play as he hobbled by, while the old gossips of both sexes
shook their heads and thought of “the devil” as he ap-
proached them.

He seemed only flattered by these signs of detestation, and
chuckled with glee at the aversion he inspired.

The Indians, meanwhile, pursued their usual avocations.

The waters of Tampa bay were dotted with their canoes,
Troops of their children frolicked on the plateau, or plucked
the wild flowers that grew along the sloping sides of the
hill. The women of the tribe followed their domestic avo-
cations, and the whole scene around the wigwams was one
of tranquil contentment.

 
       
       
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

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A PARADISE. 65

The white settlers were not idle either. The fields were
smiling with crops which the planters had commenced to
gather in. A goodly store of merchandise was collected
upon the wharf, and several schooners had come to an anchor
in the bay.

Peace and plenty abounded in the settlement.

But, as before the storm a small, dark cloud specks the
bright sky, gathering as it grows, so was there a cloud too
small for human ken, drifting up over this peaceful scene
which should carry death and destruction in its wake,

Slowly but surely was it coming.

CHAPTER XIII.

A SUBTERRANEAN SNARE,

A MorninG in the forest.

What beauty ! what delight !

The wild-flowers gemmed with dew, the quivering foliage
Tieing in color with the emerald sward, the vistas dreamily
gray and endless, the air balmy, the light soft and grateful.

What a melody the birds make, a very paradise of sound !

What flashes of splendid blues, reds and yellows, as they
dart from branch to branch.

What a succession of novelties and charms for eye and
ear!

Thoughts like these filled the mind of an individual seen
near the settlement on a lovely morning, a few days after the
council held by Oluski with his warriors.

The individual in question was a woman. She was on horse-

 
66 THE WHITE sQuAW.

back, and as she checked her steed to gaze upon the scene
before her, she presented to view a face and form signally beau-
tiful.

A frank, fearless, young face, with all of true maiden mod-
esty. Her hair, in a rich, golden shower of curls, fell over a
forehead of snowy whiteness, and a neck and shoulders ad-
mirably rounded.

Her figure was graceful and striking, its contour. shown off
by the dark riding-dress she wore.

A hat, with a heron’s plume, stuck saucily on one side,
covered her head.

The horse she rode was a Seminole steed—of the Andalu-
sian race—small, but well-proportioned ; and, as evidenced
by the arching of its neck, proud-of its fair burden.

She remained for some time, silently feasting her senses with
the lovely prospect, herself a charming addition to its inter-
est. :

After a while she gave the rein to her horse, and allowed
it with a dainty, mincing step to pick its way along the path,
occasionally making a pretense of alarm, pricking up its ears,
drawing its head on one side, and doubly arching its pretty
neck as some idle butterfly or quick-winged humming-bird
darted across the road, or rose suddenly from a bed of wild-
flowers.

For a consideruble distance the young lady proceeded with-
out adventure or mischance, while her horse, having appar-
ently exhausted all its little affected airs, stepped along with
an even, rapid step.

The fair equestrian’s thoughts had not, it seemed, undergone
any change, for the same pleasant smile iJlumined her coun-
tenance. ;

The way was clear before her, the morning bright and beau-
tifal, and all nature seemed filled with light and harmony

  

  

   
     

a

<p

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‘sweat bathed his limbs.

A TRAP. 8?

Her thoughts were gay and happy, and.in. unison. with the
strroundings.

In this mood was she proceeding on her journey.

Suddenly—indeed so suddenly as to cause her alarm—her
steed. came to.a stop, showing signs of being scared.

His eyeballs were distended, his fore-feet planted. stiffly in
alvance, his mane standing almost straight, while be trembled
in. every limb.

Another step, and. horse and. rider would have disappeared
beneath the surface of the earth, and forever,

They were on the brink of one of those subterranean wells
or “sinks,” common in that part of the country, whose dan-
gerous. concayity is concealed by a light crust of earth; and
only by the sudden sinking of the support beneath him, is the
unwary traveler apprised. of the. peril.

Over the covering of the abyss.the grass grew as greenly,
the flowers bloomed:as brightly, as, elsewhere.

And yet, under that fair seeming was a trap that conducted
to death.

In an instant the fair rider comprehended her peril.
To.advance would be certain death; to attempt to. back her
steed upon its own. tracks almost as certain destruction.
~ She knew but one thing to do—and she did. it.

Gently patting the creature’s neck, she addressed it in sooth-
ing words, while with a wary hand she held the bridle; her
touch upon the horse’s mouth so delicate that the very breeze
might have swayed it. °

Her hand did not tremble, nor her eye quail, although the
ruddy tinge upon her cheek had altogether disappeared.

After a time the horse seemed to gain confidence; his tre-
mor became subdued, and instead of the wild frenzy in his
eye, there was a dull look, while a foam rose to his nostrils and

    
      

  
  

    
  

68 THE WHITE sQUuAW.

vara,

She continued to caress his neck, and soothe him with sof
words,

 
   
     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

Moving neither up nor down, to right or to left, with hei
delicate hand she still held the bridle.

But the danger still threatened; she saw if as she cast her
eyes below.

The ground was crunbling, slowly but surely, beneath the ,
horse’s feet, and a fissure had already opened wide enough

to show a deep, black chasm underneath. ‘7
She shuddered, closed her eyes for a second, and then
opened them only to see the fissure widening—the blackness
growing more intense!
A prayer rose up from her lips. She waited for the catas-
trophe ! :
The tension on the horse’s nerves became too great; again
the animal trembled—its knees began to yield.
The ground seemed all at once to give from beneath ite ’
feet.
His rider felt that she was lost !” 4
¢)_

No !—saved !
Just as her closing eyes saw the courageous animal slide
5 into the black chasm, and heard its last snort of terror, she
felt herself lifted from the sadde, borne from the spot; and
then—

She knew no more,

{he had fainted:
  

CHAPTER XIV.

 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

A TRUE GENTLEMAN.

Ir was Cris Carrol who had rescued the fair equestrian.

The old hunter had perceived her danger, and with the
quickness of thought mastered the whole situation.

Without uttering a word he stealthily approached the spot,
until reaching a tree, one of whose branches extended over
the horse’s head.

To climb it, spring out on the projecting limb, and lift the
young lady out of the saddle, were acts performed almost in-

a

stantaneously.
What followed was not so easy.
He had not counted on the feminine weakness of fainting,
fue” and with the dead weight of the swooning girl upon his arm,
i there was still a difficulty as to his future movements. How
was he to get back along the limb ?
He saw that nothing but shver strength could accomplish
it, and accordingly exerted all he had.
* With one hand grasping the branch, and the other aronnd ,
the unconscious form, he made a superhuman effort, and suc
ceeded in reaching the trunk of the tree. Against this he Z
supported himself until he had recovered breath and strength.
While thus resting, he was witness to the engulphing of
the gallant steed, as the snorting animal sunk into the
chasm below.
a The old hunter heaved a sigh. He was sorry for the crea-
ture, and would have saved it had the thing been possible.
“ Wal, darn it! if it ain’t too bad for a good plucky critter
like that to die sich a death! COuss them tarnal sink-holes!
3

  
  

7 THE WHITE SQUAW.

They’ve been the misfortun’ of a many a one. Thank good-
ness I’ve saved the feminine !”

The “ feminine’s” condition now demanded his attention,
as the temporary faintness was passing away, and she showed
signs of returning animation.

With rare tact and delicacy, the old hunter, regardless of
his own fatigue, softly lowered himself and his fair burden i9
the ground ; then, gently withdrawing his arm from her wais:,~
he drew back a step or two.

Taking off his seal-skin cap, he wiped the perspiration from
his brow, and with the gaHantry of a true gentleman, waited
until she should address him.

The young lady he had rescued was no ordinary person.

The faintness which had come upon her, continued only for
a short while. Recovering consciousness, she understood
at a glance, not only the nature of the service rendered her,
but also the character of the man who had rendered it.

“Oh, sir! Pm afraid, that you’ve run a fearful risk. I
needn’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“ Wal, miss, it war rayther a toughish struggle while it
lasted. But bless ye, that’s nothin’ so long as it’s turned out
right. If you’d not been the plucky one you air, nothin’ I
could ha’ done would have helped ye. It war your own grit
as much as my muscle that saved ye from fallin’ into
that thar darn’d trap.”

“My horse! Where is he?” P

“ Yur right, there; he’s gone, poor critter. Td ha liked ted
saved him too, for the way he behaved. That dumb critter
had more sense in him than many a human, and it ’ud ha’
done mea sight 0’ good to have pulled him through; but it
warn’t possible, nohow.”

“Tell me, sir, where did you come from? I did not see
your”

 

 

 

    
Ak,

 

ae ;

A RESIDENT OF NO PLACE. 7

“Wal, I war clost by, an’ seed you ride right on to the *

danger. It war too late to holler, for that would only ha’
made things worse, an’ skeered you both. §o I said nothin’,
but jest dropped my rifle, and made tracks toarst ye. I spied
the branch above you, an’ speeled up to it. ‘The rest war
nothin’-—ouly a spell 0’ twistin’ an’ wrigglin’.”

He did not tell her that the muscles of his arms were
fearfully swollen, and that it demanded all his power of endu-
rance, to prevent him groaning at the intense agony. he suffered.

But the young lady, with a quickness of apprehension,
seemed to understand this too.

“Nothing, do you say? Oh, sir, it’s another proof of
your noble courage. I can never show you enough grati-
tude. For all that I feel deeply grateful.” :

Her voice trembled with emotion—tears welled into her
eyes.

Her brave heart had well endured danger; but could
not contemplate, without betraying its emotions, the self-
generosity of her preserver.

“ Wal,” said he, in order to change the conversation, which
he thought too flattering toward himself; “ what do you in-
tend doing now, that your horse is gone ?”

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and in a firm voice
answered him:

“Ym not more than four or five miles from my home. I
merely rode out for pleasure. I little thought that my excur-
sion would end thus. Where do you live, sir? I don’t re-
member to have seen you before. Certainly you are not a
resident of the settlement ?”

He shook his head negatively.

“No, I ain’t a resident of no place. I’m as you sce.me, a
hunter. I have been at the settlement, though, many a time—in
sact, on that thar spot afore thar war any settlement. It war

 
 

72 THE WHITE sQUAW.

enough for me to know they war a-comin’, so I pulled up
stakes, and quit. Yousee, miss, it don’t do for a hunter to
live among the clearin’s; besides, ’m a deal happier by my-
self.”

“Ne doubt, to a contented mind, such a life as yours must
be a happy one.”

“That's it, miss; to them as is contented. Do you know
T’ve often and often puzzled over the expression o’ that there
idea, and never could hit it; and yet you've gi’n it in the
snappin’ of a juck-knife.”

“Perhaps you were going to the settlement when you saw
me ?”

“No; exactly other way. Iwar goin’ fromit. Tve been
down beyont hyar to meet a friend o’ mine. It ain’t long ago,
though, since I war in the colony, and staid a spell there. Now
Tm bound for the big savanna—that is, arter ’ve seen you
home, and out of danger.”

“ Oh no, thank you; that’s not at all necessary. I’m used to
wandering about alone, although this part of the country is
a little new to me.”

“Tf you'll allow me, miss, I'll go with pleasure.”

“That Ican not do. Al! I want to know now, is your
name ?”

“Cris Carrol,” was the hunter’s reply.

“Then,” said she, holding out her pretty, white hand, “ Cris
Carrol, I thank you with my whole heart for the service
you have rendered me. I will remember it to my dying
day.” :

Like a knight of ancient chivalry, the backwoodsman
stooped, and kissed the proffered hand.

When he stood erect sgain, a flush of pleasurable pride
made his rugged face look as handsome as an Apollo’s. It
was the beauty of honesty.

 

 

 

 

   

~

  
 

 

ALICE RODY. 73

“ Bless you, miss, bless you! Cris Carrol will allers be too
glad to do a sarvice for one that’s rail grit as you are. That
Tll sw’ar to. — Bless you!”

As she turned to take her departure, a sudden idea struck
the backwoodsman.

“ Why, what a darn’d old fool Iam. I never axed her for
her name. You'll pardon me, miss,” said he; “I’m sure you
will, but—”

“ But what ?” she asked, smilingly.

“But might I ask your— Td like to know—” here he
stammered and stuttered.

“You want to know my name, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“ The very thing !”

“ Alice Rody !”

The old backwoodsman started on hearing it.

CHAPTER XV.
BROTHER AND SISTER.

As Alice Rody left the spot which had so nearly proved
her tomb, she thought of the old hunter with admiration.
His courage and honest courtesy had won her; but she had
also noticed his surprise on hearing her name.

Of the feeling entertained by him for her father and
brother, she knew nothing.

The female mind loves riddles, and Alice, like a true
woman, racked her brain for a solution of that one Carrol’s

tconduct seemed to embody.

Thus occupied, she emerged from the forest, and had

 
     
  

14 THE WHITE SQUAW.

proceeded some distance upon her road, when she perceived
two individuals in close conversation.
Their backs were toward her, and as her light footfall did

 
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

not disturb them, she got close to the spot on which they
stood without their perceiving her. 4

Near enough, in fact, to hear the following :
| “ Hark you, you black rascal! If you betray me it will be
the worse for you. I have a means of silencing those who
prove false to me.”

Whatever reply the “ black rascal” would have made, was
prevented by an impetuous gesture of the speaker, who had
caught sight of Alice. :

“Ah, Alice, you here?” said he, facing toward her; “I
did not know you were abroad.”

It was her brother Warren.

Alice recognized in the “ black rascal” no less a personage
than Crookleg.

‘Warren thrust a piece of silver into the negro’s hand.

“There, there! That'll do. Tll forgive you this time,
but remember! Now be off with you—be off, I say!

Crookleg, cut short in his attempt to address Alice, hob-
bled away, muttering some words to bimself.

“ Why, Warren !” asked his sister, “ what makes-_you speak
so harshly to poor Crookleg ?”

“ Because he’s a pestilent fellow. I want him to know
his place.”

“ But a kind word doesn’t cost much.” ‘

“ There, sister ; no scolding, if you please. Im not in the
best of humors now. Where is your horse ?”

Alice told her brother of the incident, and spoke warmly
of Carrol.

“So the old hunter did you a good service, did he? I
didn’t think he had it in him, the old bear.”

 

 
 

 

  

 
   

   

e

 

$a

 

   

  

BROTHER AND SISTER. 75

“How unjust you are, Warren. Bear, indeed! Let me
tell you that Cris Carrol is as good a gentleman as ever
lived !”

As she said this she showed signs of indignation.

“Ts he, indeed ?” was the brother’s mocking retort.

“Yes! A thorough gentleman! One who wouldn’t
wound another’s feelings if he could help it, and that’s my
idea of a gentleman !”

“Well, we won’t argue the point. He has done good this
time, and that'll go to his credit; for all that, I don’t like him !”

Alice bit her lip with vexation, but made no reply.

“ He's too officious,” continued Warren ; “too free with his
advice—and I hate advice.”

“Most people do, especially when it is good! quietly
answered his sister. a

“ Who said it was good ?”

“T know it was, or you would have liked it, and have fol-
lowed it.”

“ You are sarcastic.”

“No! truthful !” s

“ Well, as Iam in no mood for quarreling, we'll drop the
subject, and Cris Carrol too.”

“ You may, but I shall never drop him. He is my friend
from this time forward.”

“ You are welcome to choose your friends. T’lkselect my
own!”

“ You have done so already.”

“ What do you mean ?”

“That Nelatee, the Indian, seems to be one of them !”

“ Have you any thing against him ?”

“Oh,no! Iam only afraid he’ll be the loser by the inti-
macy.”

“ Am I so dangerous ?” asked her brother.
  

 

 

76 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“Yes, Warren, you are dangerous; for, with all yout
pretended goodness, you lack principle. You can not conceal
your real character from me. Remember I am your sister.”

“Tm glad you remind me. Otherwise I should forget it.”

“That’s because you avoid me so much. If you believed
in my wishes for your welfare, you would not do that.”

Her yoice trembled as she spoke.

“Indeed; then I beg you won’t waste your sympathies on
me? I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”

“You think you are !”

“Well, have it that way if it pleases you better; but what
has this to do with my friendship for the Indian ?”

“A great deal, I don’t like your intimacy with him; not
because he’s an Indian, although that is one reason; but
because you have some purpose to serve by it that'll do him
no good.”

“ Why, one would think you were in love with the young
copper-skin !”

“No! but they might think he is in love with me.”

“What! has he dared ?”

No! he has dared nothing; only a woman’s eye can
see more than a man’s. Nelatee has never spoken a familiar
word to me, but for all that I can see he admires me.”

“And you. Do you admire him?”

The young girl stopped in her walk. Her eyes sparkled
strangely as she answered :

“ Shame, brother, to put such a question! Lama whita}
woman. He isan Indian. How dare’ you speak of such a
thing ?”

Warren laughed lightly at his sister, as he answered :

“Why, you don’t think that J care for the fellow, do
you?”

The young girl saw her opportunity, and seized it.

 

 

  

 
 

 

do

 

 

CALLED TO TASK. 72

“And yet you pretend to be his friend. Ah! have I
caught you by your own confession ?”

“ Again, what do you mean ?”

“That my doubts are now certainties—-that some wicked
scheme is concealed under this false friendship for Nelatee.”

“You are mad, Alice !”

“No, perfectly sane. You have some design; and I
advise you, whatever it be, to abandon it. You don’t like
my tears, so I'll try to suppress them if I can; but I implore
you, Warren, brother, to give it up, now and forever !”

She dashed a few bitter drops from her eyes ere she spoke
again.

I have only you and my father to luok to for support and
comfort. My heart has yearned toward you both, but has
met nothing but coldness. Oh! Warren, be a brave man;
brave enough to despise wickedness, and you will not only
make me happy, but perhaps avert that terrible retribution
which overtakes transgression. There is time yet. Hear
my prayer, before it is too late.”

Her pleading voice fell upon an ear that heard not. The
appeal did not reach her brother’s stony heart.

With a few commonplaces, he endeavored to exculpate
himself from any evil intention toward the young Indian.

All in vain.

Her woman’s instinct saw through his hypocrisy, and
showed him to her as he was—wicked !

That night, Alice Rody prayed long and earnestly for
support in an affliction which she felt was but too surely
coming. And she wept till her pillow wasHedewed with
tears.

 
  

THE WHITE sQuAW.

  
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

CHAPTER XVI.
A CHANGED CHARACTER. .

A WONDERFUL change had come over the conduct of Elias L
Rody. I

He was most gracious, most condescending.

He kissed all the children, chatted with the mothers, and
listened to their narratives of infant ailments, husbands’ delin- :
quencies, or household troubles.

To the surprise of many of the poorer settlers, the hitherto
autocratic “ Governor” took, or appeared to take, great inter-
est in their affairs, and more wonderful still, in some instances
put his hand into his pocket to relieve their pressing neces-
sities.

Petty matters seemed to become deeply interesting to him, ay
and he Uevoted time and attention to their adjustment.

Through all this his temper was conciliating and amiable.
Many personal quarrels; among the settlers, were forgotten
and forgiven through his means, while coolnesses were
warmed into new friendships by his mediation.

' This was the work of some time, and the astonishment at
his unwonted amiability gave way to self-censure on the part
of the observers, who charged themselves with haying does
him great injustice.

How had it-happened that neighbor this or friend that
could ever have dared to accuse him of meanness or false-
hood? And as to his irritability of temper—well, that had a
gone now—while with regard to his arrogance—no one who
knew Elias Rody could call him arrogant.

  

 
 

 

RBLIAS RODY IN A NEW CHARACTER. 79

Tf he had a fault, it was certainly that of being too easy.
Stingy! No; there must be some mistake about that; for
no stingy man would have sent down provisions for the poor,
have rebuilt widow Jones’ barn, or bought Seth Cheshire a
new horse; and what mean man would have lent money to
that drunken, but popular Jake Stebbins, whose fiery nose,
should Jake be abroad, was as a light-house on a dark night,
to any belated traveler.

This was the impression that gradually got abroad about
Elias Rody.

He only smiled, rubbed his hands softly together, and mut-
tered, “ Humph !”

The monosyllable was full of meaning.

It meant that he thought his labor well bestowed ; and that
the design he had in view was prospering even beyond his
expectations.

What this design was must be already apparent. -He had
courted this popularity to enable him to accomplish the dearest
wish of his heart.

After his bland dismissal of Oluski, laden with gifts, he had
acquired a control over his own naturally impetuous temper
which astonished himself.

The refusal of the Seminole chief to give him quiet posses-
sion of the hill was the more annoying because it seemed to
close forever any further attempt at negotiation.

He understood the Indian character sufficiently to know
that they were unchangeable in their opinions, and seldom, if
ever, to be moved from a resolution once taken.

This tenacity of purpose had, time out of mind, brought
ruin and devastation upon themselves as on those who sought
to coerce them, and Rody ground his teeth in impotent
rage when Oluski had announced the decision of the Indian
council.

 
  

80 THE WHITE SQUAW.

The Judas smile that succeeded had root in another thought,
which the Governor had kept out of his mind until the su-
preme moment of his defeat.

Hence his changed conduct toward his fellow-settlers.

They became, almost to a man, believers in him, and ready
te do his bidding.

He did not neglect, in his Machiayvelian policy, to insinuate
in every artful way his pet project of possessing the property
on which the Indians were encamped. So artfully, indeed,
that in most instances the idea seemed to have originated in
his listeners’ minds, and by them to have been suggested to
Elias, thus skillfully reversing the true facts of the case.

This once accomplished, the rest was simple.

A general feeling got abroad that the red-men were inter-
lopers, and had no right to usurp a spot so necessary and so
useful to the colonists. This feeling, although not loudly ex-
pressed, was very deep, and in nearly every instance, sincere.

The few clear-headed and impartial planters who were
proof against Rody’s sophistical speeches, were assailed by
him in a different manner; by specious promises of enlarged
possessions, or by matter-of-fact appeals for the advancement
of civilization, If he did not gain their approval, he at any
rate made their objections seem narrow-minded and selfish.

- Only a few sturdy, honest men, held out ; these Elias could
do nothing with. They rejected his proposals, laid bare his
false arguinents, and laughed at his facts; but, as they were
& very small minority, they had little influence.

Ere Rody had accomplished this pacific revolution of opi-
nion, the autumn had waned, and the winter months—if such
a@ word can be used where there is no winter—approached,
and with it the limit of the term of the Indians’ stay upon
the hill.

With the first appearance of cool weather, Oluski and his

 
 

  

 

 
    
 

 

 

USURPATION. 81

tribe repacked their household goods, took their dwellings to
pieces, and with their wives, children, horses and cattle, quitted
their late encampment.

The bare poles again appeared cutting against the clear

sky.

The hill was once more uninhabited.

/ A new sort of activity had sprung into existence upon its
table-top.

In the place of Indians, with their painted plumes and pri-
mitive finery, the ground was occupied by white men, car-
penters and other artizans, along with their negro attendants.

Piles of prepared lumber, stones and other building mate-
rials strewed the ground, while the busy workmen, black and
white, made the air resonant with their jocund voices.

A finished frame-house soon made: its appearance on the
spot where the Indians had but recentiy dwelt; a large struc-
ture, substantially built and ornamental in finish.

It belonged to Elias Rody !

He had secured the sanction of the settlers, and they had
determined to support him in his piratical designs Only a
very few of them had stood out against it.

Thus strengthened, he had resolved upon, and had now
completed, his act of usurpation.

 
   

   

CHAPTER XVII.
OVER-CONFIDENCE.

Oxvsx’s divelling, in his place of permanent abode, was a
more pretentious affair than the wigwam temporarily inhab-.
ited by him at Tampa bay.

The eastern residence of the tribe was an old Indian town
that had been built long before the Spaniards had landed in
Florida, and in it his people, for many generations, had
dwelt.

The chief, having returned from an extended hunting-ex-
eursion, was pleased to find himself once more beneath his pa-
ternal roof.

Doubly pleased, for he had brought back with him his
nephew, Wacora, who, thinking of his pretty cousin, had ac-
cepted his uncle’s invitation with alacrity.

Behold them, then, with pipes lighted, seated inside the
house, Sansuta in attendance.

Wacora watched the lithe-limbed maiden as she flitted to
and fro, engaged in household duties. He thought her as at-
tractive as ever, a certain consciousness on her part of the
fact in no way detracting from her beauty.

“Tam pleased, nephew,” said Oluski, “ pleased to see you
here again. I feel that Iam no longer young ; the support
of your arm in a wearying day’s march has been very wel-
come.”

“Tt is always at your service, uncle.” :

“Tam sure of it. If Oluski thought otherwise, he would
be unhappy. Your cousin here, Sansuta, came to see you

4

 

 
4

x

 

THE TWO CHIEFS. ; 83

as much as to bear me company. You should thank him for
it.”

“ido.”

“ Wacora is thanked already in the smile of welcome that
met him in Sansuta’s eye.”

The young girl blushed at the delicate compliment, and
going out, left the two chiefs together.

“ You tell me, Wacora, that the affairs of your tribe are
prosperous, and that there is peace and harmony in your coun-
cil-chamber ?”

« Yes, uncle, the same as in my father’s lifetime.”

“That is well, for without that there is no real strength
So it is with us.”

“You have told me nothing of the pale-faces on Tampa
bay.

“They are our firm friends still. In spite of your fears,
Wacora, Rody and the colonists are true to their promises.”

“Tam pleased to hear Oluski say so,” was the nephew’s
reply.

“JT did not tell you that the white chief had made an offer
to buy the hill.” f

“To buy the hill! What hill?”

“That.on which we make our annual encampment. We
call it Tampa after the bay.”

“Indeed! He wants that, too?” rejoined the young chief,
in a tone savoring of indignation.

“Yes; I called our council together and told them of the
offer.”

“ And their answer ?”

“Phe same as my own; they refused.”

Wacora gave a sigh of relief.

“When I carried that. answer to the white chief, he was
not angry, but met me like a friend.”

”

 
 

   

84 THE WHITH, sQUAW.

« Indeed ?”

“Yes. He pressed upon my acceptance rich presents, and
told me that Oluski's friendship was worth more than land.”

“But you refused the presents?” said the young Indian,
eagerly.

“T could not; my old friend would take no denial. Fearing
to offend him, Igyielded.”

“ You should have refused them, uncle.”

“You say that because you are suspicious. I have no
doubt about those whe are my friends.”

“Yes, uncle, I am suspicious, and always will be of the
white man. He gives nothing that he does not expect to have
returned tenfold. To the red-man he gives glass, and de-
mands buck-gold.

“That is true in many instances, but not in this. The
white chief gave valuables, and only asked the Indian’s friend-
ship.”

“ That is what he said; what did he mean ?”

“TJ see you will not be convinced. Ido not blame you;
but, I would have you think well before you condemn, A
whole race are not answerable for the wrongs done by a few.”

“JT will try to think so. If I am in error, I will confess
it, and believe all the good. of them you could wish.”

“ You talk like a true man, Wacora, and Oluski is gratified
hearing it.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an Ins
dian, one of the warriors of the tribe.

“ What does Marocota want?” asked Oluski.

“To speak to Wacora, the chief.”

Wacora desired him to express his wishes in the presence
of his uncle.

“ Marocota must speak to Wacora alone, if Oluski will al-
low it.”

    
  

   

 

x0

 

 
 

 

 

can
a”

 

MAROCOTA. 85

Oluski made a sign to his nephew, who, rising, followed
the man outside the door.

“Wacora must follow me further,” signified the Indian.

“Go on, I will do so.”

Marocota led the way, and only paused in his walk when
they had got some distance from the dwelling.

“Has Wacora faith in Marocota ?”

The young chief started at the question, which his guide.
had put to him in a tone of strange earnestness.

“Yes; I have faith in you.”

“ And be would serve Oluski, our chief?”

“ With my life!”

“Sansuta is dear to Oluski !”

Again Wacora started. Marocota’s words were enigmati-
cal.

His guide continued.

“ Sansuta is beautiful !”

“ We all know that. Was it to tell me this you brought
me here ?”
“The pale-faces admire the beauty of our Indian maidens.”
“ What of that ?”
“One pale-face has marked Sansuta’s beauty !
“Ha”
“His eyes gladden at sight of her; her cheeks grow red
sight of him !”

o

a

“ His name ?”

“Warren Rody.”

“ How do you know all this ?”

“ Marocota is Oluski’s friend, and watches over his chief’s
happiness, To-night Warren’s messenger was in the town—
the negro, Crookleg.” ;

The young chief was silent. Marocota watched him with:
out breaking in upon his thoughts. <

 
 

   

THE WHITE sQUAW.

Recvvyering himself, Wacora asked :
“ Where did you see the negro ?”
“Tn the old fort.”

“The old fort? What was he doing there ?” wi

“ Marccota followed his trail, a lame foot and a stick, and
saw him as he entered the ruin. Some one was waiting for
dim inside!”

“Who ?”

“ His master !”

“Warren Rody ?”

Marocota nodded. “I heard their talk,” he said.

“What did they say ®” asked the young chief.

“ At first I could not hear—they spoke in whispers. After
a time they grew angry. Warren abused Crookleg, und struck
him. The black man uttered a fierce oath, and leaped over
the wall of the fort, at the side opposite to where I lay hid.”

Did you hear their conversation before they quarreled ?”

“J heard the pale-face say, Crookleg had only half done
his errand, and must return to complete it. The black refused.
It was then that the other got angry and struck him.”

“This is very strange, Marocota. It is some treachery I
can not understand. The negro mnst be found, and ques-
ioned !”

“Well, massa Injin, dat ain’t hard to do! He! he! he!”

Had the fiend of darkness himself risen between the two In-
dians, they could not have been more startled, than when these
words were uttered in their ears; for it was Crookleg whu
spoke,

The darky appeared delighted at the effect his sudden ap-
pearance had created, since he continued for some time to
chuckle in great glee.

“Yas; he be de ’dentical nigga w’at you war a wishin’
for. You bab found him ’ithout gwine far! He! he! he!

    
 

 
 
  
 

#1)
#1)

THE TRUTH. 87

Wacora turned sternly toward him.

“ And having found you, wretch, I mean to keep you till
Tye made you speak the truth !”

“ De trufe, massa Injin, am w’at dis ole nigga always speak
He can’t help it, kase it comes so nat’ral to him. Trufe an
innocence is dis chile’s only riches, tank de Lord !”

The look which accompanied the impious assumption was al-
most diabolical.

Wacora cut him short in an attempt to continue his speech,
by a command instantly to make known what Warren Rody
wanted, with what message he had been charged, and t¢
whom.

Crookleg, however, was not easily taken at a disadvantage,

“ Well, massa Injin, I don’t mind tellin’ you somet’ing, but I
don’t like talkin’ afore other folks. You send dis individdle
away,’ pointing to Marocota, “ and ole Crook’ll tell you all
about it; he meant to do so when he comed here so sud-
den.”

Witha sign thechief dismissed Marocota, and telling the
black to follow, led him a little distance further from the town.

A long and apparently interesting conversation ensued, in
which Crookleg’s gesticulations were as usual violent, while
the young chief, with arms folded and brows knit, listened to
his narrative.

It was late ere they seperated, the negro hobbling back
in the direction of the ruin, while Wacora returned to his uncle’s
dwelling. :

 
THE WHITE SQUAW

CHAP THR -k¥ 1it,
A LOVE MEETING.

THE old fort, as already said, was in a ruinous condition.

It had, at one time, been a stronghold of the Spaniards, but
on their quitting that part of the country, it had been suffered
to fall into decay.

Early in the morning succeeding Wacora’s interview
with Crookleg, two persons stood conversing near the inner
wall of the ruin.

They were Sansuta and Warren Rody.

The Indian girl had stolen from her father’s house, unno-
ticed by the few early risers, and with cautious steps had gained
the fort.

Warren’s presence at such a distance from Tampa bay, as
well as Crookleg’s attendance upon him, were thus explained.

“Tam very grateful to you, Sansuta, for coming here to
meet me.”

“Tam afraid I have done wrong.”

“Wrong? Whatcan you mean ?”

“That Iam deceiving my father, my kind father; but it is
for the last time !”

“The last time ?”

“Yes, I have determined that this shall be our last meeting.
I could not endure my father’s reproach, if he knew I had
betrayed his confidence.”

“Do you doubt my love for you, Sansuta? Will it not
make up for Oluski’s anger ?”

“ Warren ?”

   

i

 

 

 

  

  
 

FILIAL DUTY. 89

The reproachful tone in which Sansnta uttered his name,
recalled young Rody to himself. He changed his tactics.

“ But why talk of Oluski’s anger—rather speak of my love
Surely you do not doubt it?”

The Indian maiden heaved a sigh.

“ Sansuta does not doubt you, but she is unhappy.”

“Unhappy! Why ?”

“ Because an Indian girl would make but a poor wife to a
white gentleman.”

A strange smile crossed the young man’s face. He did not,
however, interrupt her.

“Tf Sansuta cared for you less, she would not have been
here this morning; she would not have seen you again.”

“Come, come! dearest, you alarm yourself without reason,
Need I keep telling you how much I love you—how I have
always loved you? Have we not grown up together? What
more natural than love like mine ?”

“But your father—”

“ He will not object. Why should he? Is he not Oluski’s
best friend ?”

“ Yes, they are friends, but still—” /

Warren saw that the girl was nervous and alarmed. He
lost no time in reassuring: her.

“And after all, dearest, we need not tell them of our love,
until we are sure of their consent. In the mean time, let us
think only of ourselves. You have not yet told me what I
long to hear.”

“ What is that ?”

“The whispering assurance that your heart is mine!”

A painful struggle was evidently taking place in the
maiden’s breast. Filial duty and self-reproach contended with
that feeling nurtured by the soft blandishments of the scoundreh
by her side,

 
   

4 THE WHITE sQuAw.

In such a contest, love is always the victor.

This case was not exceptional. Softly murmuring the young
man’s name, Sansuta hid her head upon his shoulder.

His arm enclasped her waist.

The confession had been made. The die was cast!

They were both startled by a sound heard near. It was
like some one sighing. Warren, with the eye of a lynx,
searched among the weeds and wild vines, and peered through
the foliage on all sides, but saw nothing.

Reassuring her with honied words, he then led the girl away
from the spot.

As soon as they had disappeared, a man’s form was seen
standing upon the place they had lately occupied, while
another was visible at no great distance from it.

He who had first made his appearance seemed utterly bowed
down with grief, while a cloud, black as night, was visible
on his brow.

It was the chief, Wacora.

With an angry and contemptuous action, he flung some
pieces of money to the other, who had followed him, and who
was the negro Crookleg.

“Begone! Wacora may use you for his revenge. You
shall not witness his grief. Begone !”

The black picked up the coins, grinned hideously, and hob-
bled away.

Wacora stood for some time wrapped in his own sad
thoughts; then, turning his back upon the old fort, he retraced
his steps to Oluski’s dwelling.

The old chief found but a dull guest in his nephew, during
that and many succeeding days.

He would sit for hours seemingly lost to the consciousness
of all that was passing around him.

Then, starting up suddenly, he would stride out of the

   

ae

 
 

THE YOUNG CHIEF'S WATCHFULNESS. 91

dwelling with rapid steps, pass out of the town, and on to
the adjoining woods, where, plunging into their depths, he
would wander, to emerge from them hours after, sullen and
abstracted as ever.

His anxiety to return-to his own tribe seemed to have
passed away; aud day by day he deferred his departure on
some trivial excuse for remaining.

He watched Sansuta’s movements, however, with the |
jealous care a mother might exercise over her infant child.
Every look, word, and action seemed to command his clorest
scrutiny.

The girl often trembled as she caught the young ¢chief’s
eye gazing upon her. His stern demeanor agitated her. She
suspected that he knew her secret, although neither by word
or action did he betray the knowledge.

Oluski was amazed at his conduct. In their conversation
there was a renewed bitterness when they talked of the pale.
faces and their actions. It astonished the old Seminole
chief. He could not understand the sudden growth of such
an unjust antipathy ; and therefore became more reticent, and
would sit for hours without exchanging a word with his
nephew.

Time passed in this manner until the period for the annual
migration of the tribe to Tampa bay. To Oluski’s surprise,
Wacora signified his intention to accompany them; and
along with them he went.

'

 
   

    
    

THE WHITE sQUuAw.

CHAPTER XIX.
A CHANGED SCENE.

A SsTILL greater surprise was in store for the Seminole
‘chief and his tribe.

The Indians stood as if petrified when they came within
sight of the well-known hill.

Upon its table-top, and visible for miles around, stuod a
frame mansion, in all the glitter of fresh paint.

When Oluski first saw it, he uttered an exclamation of
agonized -anger, at the same time clutching hold of
Wacora’s arm. But for its friendly support he would have
fallen to the ground.

“ Look, Wacora! look yonder! What is it we see?

As he spoke, he passed his hand across his eyes to shade
off the sun.

No; they had not deceived him ! There was no glomor
over them. The sunbeams were shooting brightly upon a
house !

His nephew looked sadly into the old man’s face, fervently
pressing his hand. - He dared not trust himself to speak.

“ And this is the act of a friend. So much for my blin¢e
faith in the traitor’s deceitful words. May the curse of the
Great Spirit fall on him and his !”

Wacora added, “ Yes, may both be accursed !”

Then, drawing his uncle away from the contemplation of
the painful sight, he conducted him to a neighboring grove
of oaks, the tribe halting near the spot. :

A council of the chief men was instantly called, and a
pian of action resolved on.

 
 

THE CHIEFS MISSION. \ 93
e

Oluski and Wacora were commissioned to visit the white
settlement, and demand the reason for this scandalous
usurpation. :

The Indians proceeded no further.

That night they encamped upon the spot where they had
balted, and early next morning, the two chiefs departed on
their mission.

As they approached the hill another surprise awaited
them

Surrounding it was a strong wooden stockade, with sub-
stantially-built block-houses at regular distances from each
other. Behind the palisading, men were seen as if watching
the approach, and ready to receive them in a hostile manner.

“ See !” cried Wacora, “they are prepared for our reception.
The robbers have determined to maintain themselves in their
stolen possession.”

“Yes, yes! Isee. But let us not act rashly. We will
first make an appeal in the name of justice. If they refuse
that, then we must prove ourselves worthy the blood in
our veins—worthy of our ancestors! Oh! I would rather
be lying among them, in yonder graveyard, than that this
should have arisen! The fault has been mine, and upon me
let fall the punishment. Come-on !”

They reached the central block-house, and were summoned
to a halt by one of the settlers, who, gun in hand, stood by
the entrance.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Oluski answered: “ White man, go tell your Governor that
Oluski, the Seminole chief, would speak with him !”

The sentinel answered sharply: “ The Governor is not here.
He is at his house, and can not be disturbed.” ,

Wacora’s hand clutched his tomahawk. Oluski, reas
the act, laid hold of his nephew’s arm.

 
   

  

4 é THE WHITE SQUAW.

“Patience, Wacora, patience! The time for bloodshed
will come soon enough. For my sake be paticnt!”

Then, turning to the sentry, he continued, his eyes flashing
in their sockets: “ Fool!” sa:d he, “ go with my message !
The lives of hundreds may depend upon it. Tell your chief
that Iam here. Bring him instantly before me!”

The dignity of the old Indian’s manner struck the man
with respect. Perhaps the nervous twitching of Wacora’s
finger about the handle of his tomahawk had also its effect.

Calling out to a comrade who was near, and placing him
at the post, he hastened off toward the house.

The two Indians, without exchanging speech, patiently
awaited his return.

There was evidently some commotion within the frame
dwelling at the reception of the news, as several men, well
armed, were observed -hurrying off in different directions
and taking station along the line of the stockade.

Shortly after, the man who had been sent by Oluski was
seen coming back.

Throwing open the strong slab door, he beckoned the two
eniefs to enter.

They did so; and then, leading them inside the block-
house, the man told them there to wait the “Governor's”
arrival.

It was not long delayed. Elias Rody was seen coming
forth from his new mansion, followed by five or six stalwart
settlers.

All save himself carried rifles.

The Indians stood still as statues. They made no moye-
ment to lessen the distance between themselves and the white
men. And at length Elias Rody and Oluski stood face to
‘face.

A close observer might have detected signs of fear in the

 

 

 
  

 

 

 

 

THE NEW HOUSE. 95

@overnor’s countenance. Despite his assumed boldness of
bearing, he found it hard to look into the face of the man he
had so cruelly wronged.

It was he, however, who first broke the silence, so painful
to himself.

“ What does Oluski wish to say to me ?”

“ What is the meaning of this ?” asked the chief, pointing
to the mansion. ~

“That is my new residence !”

“ By what right have you built it on this ground ?”

“ By the right of possession—bought and paid for !”

Oluski started, as if a shot had struck him.

“Bought and paid for! Dog of a liar! What do yor
mean *”

“niv that J have built my house upon land purchased
from you. Your memory appears pad, my v.d Inalan mena £

“Purchased from me? When? How ?”

Do you already forget the guns, blankets, powder and valu
ables I gave you in exchange for it? Fie! fie! you are trying
to jest with me. You must remember the transaction. If
your memory fails you, these gentlemen ”—here Rody pointed :
to the settlers—“ these gentlemen are ready to confirm the
wuth of what I say.”

Oluski groaned. The audacious treachery was beyond his
belief !

Wacora, burning with indignation, replied :

“False wretch, the lie you would have these men swear to
is too monstrous to be believed even were they upon their
oaths. Those gifts thrust upon my uncle were as falsely be-
stowed as the lands he gave you were falsely claimed for ser-
vice done tohim. Your black heart never conceived a gener-
ous thought or a just deed. All was for a treacherous end—_
‘the betrayal of the trust of a noble-minded chief, as much’

 

    

  
   

  

96 THE WHITE sQvaw.

 

your superior as the Deity your race kneels to is above the od

white man himself. I spit at and despise you. Wacora has
said it !”

He drew Oluski toward him and stood erect, proud in the
consciousness of right, before the now-trembling Rody and
his adherents.

The aged chief had recovered himself while his nephew
was speaking.

“What Wacora has said is good, and he only utters my
thoughts. _I came here ready to receive atonement for the
wrong done me and my people. I now see that there is a
blacker depth of treachery in your actions than that which
has robbed a confiding man of his best-loved possession. I,
Oluski, the Seminole, spit at and despise, you. I have
spoken !”

With a kingly dignity the old chief folded his blanket
around him, and leaning on his nephew's arm, slowly departec
from the spot.

Rody and his followers, as if transfixed by the withering
contempt with which the Indians had treated them, suffered
the two to depart without molestation.

They now redoubled their watchfulness, stationed additional
sentinels around the stockade, and looked after the arms and
ammunition with which they would no doubt have to defend
the usurped possession.

The small cloud that had been slowly gathering over the
settlement was growing dark and portentious. The soft
breeze was rapidly rising to a storm.

The people of the settlement, alarmed by the news of the
interview between Rody and the Indian chiefs, which spread
rapidly among them, hastened to take measures for the safety
of their families. The women and children were hurriedly
brought in from the outlying plantations, and lodged in
DISAPPOINTED AND CHAFED. 97

temporary abodes within the stockade, while provisions in
plenty were carried to th2 same place.

The war-signal had sounded, and it would not be long be-
fore the work of carnage would commence!

CHAPTER XX.
STILL ANOTHER SORROW.

Disaprorntrp and chafed, the two chiefs returned in
all haste to the Indian encampment.

But few words had been spoken between them on theirc
way from the hill. A firm pressure of his uncle’s hand was
proof that Wacora, once embarked in the impending contest,
would remain faithful to its end.

It needs no speech among true men to establish confidence
in their devotion. Between the two chiefs it was mutual. __

As they neared the spot where the tribe had pitched their
tents, an unusual excitement was observable. Men and wo-
men were conversing in little groups, animated, apparently, by
the receipt of some startling news. 5

The two chiefs at first imagined that the result of their in-
terview was already known ; but, on reflection, the impossibil-
ity of the thing became apparent to them, and their surprise
was extreme.

All at once they saw Nelatee hastening toward them.

The young man seemed ready to drop, as if from fatigue.
His looks told that he was a prey to the keenest anxiety.

- On arriving before the two chiefs, he was for some moments
unable to speak.

 
    

  

98 THE WHITE sQUAW.

Words rose to his tongue, but they found no articulate ut-
terance. is lips seemed glued together. Drops of sweat
glistened upon his brow!

The father, with a dreadful prescience +f new sorrows,
trembled at sight of his son.

“ Nelatee,” he said, “ what anguish awaits me ?—of what
fresh disaster do you bring tidings? Speak! speak !”

The young Indian again essayed, but only succeeded in
muttering “ Sansuta.”

“Sansuta! What of her? Is she dead? Answer me!”

“No, she is not dead. Oh, father! be calm—have courage

_ she is—”

“ Speak, boy, or I shall go mad. What of her?”

“She is gone !”

“ Gone ?—whither ?”

“TJ have sought her everywhere. I only heard of her de-
parture after you left the encampment. Bury your tomahawk
in my brain, if you will, for I have been the cause.”

“ What does the boy rave about? What does it all mear ?
Has the Great Spirit cursed me in all my hopes? Speak,

“ Nelatee—where is your sister? You say she is gone.
Gone? With whom?”

“ With Warren Rody !”

Oluski uttered a shriek of mingled rage and grief, pressed
his hand upon his heart, and reeling, would have fallen to the
earth but for Wacora’s arm, at that instant thrown around
him.

The two young men bent over his prostrate form, which
Eis nephew had gently laid upon the sward.

A few faint, murmuring words escaped from his lips—so
faint, indeed, that they were not comprehended by either son
97 nephew.

Che frown which had gathered on his brow in his interview

   

 
 

_ THE SCALP-DANCE. 99

with Elias Rody gradually gave place to a gentle smile.
His eyes for an instant rested sorrowfully on the face of Nel-
atee, then on Wacora, and were closed forever.

With that look had his life ended. The spirit of the
Seminole chief had departed for a better land!

Wounded in his friendship, doubly wounded in his pride,
cruelly stabbed by the desertion of his own daughter and the
weakness of his own son, outraged as friend and father, the
old man’s heart had burst within his bosom !

Tenderly covering the body with his blanket, Wacora
stooped and kissed the cold brow, in silence registering a vow
of yengeance upon his murderers !

Nelatee, stunned by the suddenness of the event, hid his
face in his hands, and gave way to lamentation and tears.
That evening the remains of their chief were interred ina
temporary grave, around which the warriors of the tribe, by
their own consent, now commanded by Wacora, joined in an
oath of sure and ample vengeance. Coupled with their oath
was the declaration that war and rapine should not cease
until the hill was again their own, and the body of their be-
loved chief laid peacefully beside the bones of his ancestors.

That night the red pole was erected in their encampment,
and under the glare of pine torches was performed around it
the fearful scalp-dance of the tribe.

The white sentinels upon the hill saw afar off the fiend-like
performance; and as that wild shriek echoed in their ears,
they turned trembling from the sight and cursed Elias Rody:

 
   

THE WHITE SQUAW.

CHAPTER XXI.
WACORA CHOSEN CHIEF.

Wacora was unanimously elected war-chief of the tribe
over which his uncle had long ruled. WNelatee’s claims were
80 slight, his ability so deficient, that not one of the warriors

_wished to nominate him for the important position.

To Wacora the honor was of inestimable value. By its
means there was now a hope for the realization of his long-
cherished design—the redemption of the red-man by the
union of all the tribes into one powerful nation.

He instantly dispatched messengers to the braves of his
own sub-tribe, summoning them to Tampa bay, to take part
m the approaching conflict.

He was answered by the speedy arrival of a large ant
well-armed force, who, mingling with Oluski’s people, now be-
came one community.

With unremitting care, Wacora impressed upon them the
necessity of caution and reserve, pointing out to them the
value of abstaining from active measures until preparations
could be made to insure success.

Obedient to his mandate, they continued to preserve an
ominously-peaccful attitude toward the settlers, who, but for a
knowledge to the contrary, might have comforted themselye:é
with a belief that the red-men had left the bay.

But although unseen, their presence was not unfelt. The
news of Oluski’s death had spread a feeling of alarm among
the colonists, which the heartless and assumed indifference of
Elias Rody and his adherents could not dismiss from their
minds,

   
    

 

ilaratainesiemanerns
  

*
101

   
     
 
       
     
   
   
   
    
   
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
 
 
      

 

THE MISSING ONE.

  

The “ Governor” seemed to have returned to the courses
of his early life. He had for many years been a man of
sober habits; but, since the building of his new house, a
change had come over him. He had begun to drink freely,
and in the excitement of preparation for the defense of his
usurped property, he found a thousand excuses for indulgence
of that appetite so long kept under control. .
The truth is that Oluski’s death had touched him in a ten-
der point. He seemed to see in it a presentiment of evil to
himself. The calm, kindly face of the old chief, as he re-
membered it before his cruel deception of him, often rose be-
fore his’ imagination with .a sad, reproachful look, Even
| drink could not dispel the impression.
When a man begins to go to the bad it is the easiest thing
in the world to find companions. Rody had them for the
choosing, for—thanks to the constant alarm in which the set-
tlers lived—no regular industrial pursuits could be followed,
and many, having nothing else. to do, were ready enough to
drink and carouse with their unscrupulous leader.
Still another matter gave discomfort to the Governor. His.
son had been some time missing from the settlement, and in a
mysterious manner.
His disappearance had a marked effect upon his father’s
temper, and when not cursing himself for the general discom-
fort he had caused, he cursed the son for adding to it!
- It will thus be seen that, although Elias Rody had prepared
his own bed, and was obliged to lie upon it, it was provieg
any thing but a bed of roses. .
Had it not been for the presence of his daugnte:, Auce, =>
the new mansion, in which he now lived, and for which he ~«
. might yet have to pay dearly, would have been a perfect pan-
demonium to him. ;
Tbat amiable girl, by her gentle behavior, did smiuch te>
4 <
  

   

 

102 THE WHITE sQuaw.

soften the rude, inharmonious elements around her, and the
roughest of her father’s roystering companions were silent and
respectful in her presence.

She was like an angel among those who had taken refuge
within the stockade. She never seemed to tire of attending
upon them or their wants, Her kind, sympathetic voice, and
assiduc"t3 care, were of inestimable service to the sick, wlo

 

 

 

diessed her in their hearts. Ze

But, though busied night and day, she still found time for ¢
many a spell of bitter lamenting. The home which might
have been so happy, seemed accursed.

To her father, she was still gentle and affectionate, but
could not hide from him a certain look of mingled reproach
and regret, as she listened to his outbursts of feigned mirth.

Whenever he caught that look bent upon him, his spirit
sunk, and he would mentally resolve upon a change of
i?fe.

The next glass, however, would banish the fleeting remorse
and in the pleasure of the moment he endeavored to drown
alike his memories of the past and his fears for the future.

His daughter saw his dissipation with increasing uncasi
ness. She knew she was unable to prevent it.

Nothing, in the mean time, had been heard of her brother
Warren.

Crookleg had also disappeared, although no one particulerly
missed him.

Cris Carro], the hunter, had not returned to the settlement {
In some distant savanna he was, no doubt, tranquilly passing
his time at peace with all the world. .

Such was the condition of affairs.

The first preparations for strife between the whites and In
dians had been made; and, to several other outrages, similar
to that committed by Elias Rody, may be traced the causes

 
 

A NOBLE THOUGHT. 103

of that Seminole war, which cost the government of the
United, States some thousands of lives, along with several
millions of dollars, to say naught of the reputation of six
hitherto distinguished Gencrals.

CHAPTER XXII.
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN COUSINS.

Tuis tranquil state of affairs did not last long.

The Indians, eager to avenge Oluski’s death, were impatient
of the restraint Wacora would have imposed upon them;
and, at a council convened for that purpose, they determined
to attack the stockade upon the hill.

This determination was hastened by several renconters
which had taken place in the outlying districts.

A small party of the red-men, led by Marocota, had pil
laged and destroyed a plantation near the bay. They had been
met by some of the white settlers, as they were returning from
their work of destruction.

In the melée which ensued, a number of Indians were
killed, while their white adversaries met with little loss,

These and some individual cases of contest had worked the
red-men up to.a pitch of savage earnestness, that took asa
Wacora’s temporizing power to restrain. He knew the
character of the people he had to deal with too well to haz-
ard opposition to their will, the more so as his own desire for

vengeance was as deep and earnest, but more deadly than theirs,
One thought occupied his mind nobler than that of revenge—
the regeneration of the Indian race.

 
  

   
  

1¢4 THE WHITE sQUaAW.

A chimera it may have been, but still, his was a great am
bition. o
He thus spoke to the assembled chiefs : z

“JT do not urge upon you to withhold vengeance for inju

   

we

    
  
   
  
  
   
  
    
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

ries done to our race by the white enemy ; I only desire to
make it more full ana terrible. What Elias Rody has done
to“you, has been done to our people ever since the white man
set foot upon the Continent. The Indian has been in every -_*
instance the oppressed ; the pale-face the oppressor. Revenge
is sweet. Let us take for our text one from their own sacred
book, with which they try to Christianize our people, while
holding a rifle to their breast: ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth
for a tooth.” Follow that advice, but accomplish more, for
we have more than our own injuries to revenge—we haye those
of the entire Indian race. This is but the beginning of a
long list of retributions, the. overflowing of accumulated
wrongs, the first step toward freedom and redemption! To
take that step, we must be patient, until certain of success.
Then begins a warfare that will only end with the annihila- i
tion of our hated enemies, and in a new existence for the red-

man! Have I spoken well ?”

Loud approbation greeted him from the assembled warriors,
but such is the inconsistency of human character, that indi-
vidually they devised means for immediate retaliation on the
settlers,

Hence the several encounters which had already taken
place.

Nelatee, mortified at his own weakness, was among the
warriors addressed by Wacora.

On returning from the council, the young chief approached
his cousin.

“Nelatee, you would do something to make up for your
slind infatuation that has led to such misfortunes.”

 

 
   
     
 

  
 

 

a

 

 

  

A PROPOSITION 105

“I would, Wacora; I would!

ways before me, reproaching me as my sister’s destroyer.’’
“Then action is the only way by which to shake off this re-

morseful feeling. Our efforts have, till now, been fruitless in

My father’s face seems al-

tracing the spot to which your sister has been carried. She

rust be found, and the punishment of the guilty made sure.”

“Not Sansuta; you would not injure her ?”

Wacora smiled sadly, as he pressed his hand upon his
heart. :

“No, Nelatee, I would not injure your sister. Alas! I had
already learned to love her. Her fate is sad, but her punish-
ment has already come upon her. I would not hurt her for _
worlds ; it is the wretch who has ruined her. I would have
him suffer a thousand deaths, and every death more terrible
than the other.”

“Tell me, what can Ido? If I remain idle, I shall die !”

“ Take three or four of my own people; follow every trail
that promises to lead to where they are concealed, and, having
found the monster, bring him to me alive !”

Wacora’s eyes, as he uttered these words, blazed with pas-
sion.

“J would rather. go alone,” said Nelatee.

“ As you please ; but, remember, that there is one man you
dare not trust, and yet he may be the means of finding San-
sata and her abductor.”

“ His name ?”

“ Crookleg, the negro.”

“ But he, too, is missing.’

“T know it, and therefore he can lead you to their hiding-
place, if he can be found. With Crookleg to assist you, you
may succeed in the task—without him, your search will ba
fruitless.” :

“ How am [ to find him ?”

    
    

  
 

106 THE WHITE SQUAW.

 

“ By diligent search. He is not near this spot, but yet not
so distant as to be ignorant of what is passing. He has the
cunning of the wild-cat: remember that !”

“J will be a match for him! Never fear, cousin !”

Wacora glanced pityingly at the simple youth. He thought
_of his confiding nature, and felt that if the only chance of find-
ing Sansuta lay in his cunning, she would never be discovered.

“Well, Nelatee, I have given you the best advice I can.

Will you undertake the search ?”

“T will!”

“ When ?”

“At once, Wacora.”

“Come to my tent before you start. I may be able to

furnish information that will assist you.”
With these words, the cousins separated.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE STRAYED CANOE.

Tart night Nelatee left the Indian camp.

Wacora had given him a few hints by which he thought
his search for Crookleg might be facilitated.

He had suggested the probability that the negro iay hid
within the neighboring swamp.

This wilderness, difficult to traverse, was of great extent.
It was only by a knowledge of its intricate paths that it
could be successfully explored.

Nelatee, fully appreciating the difficulty of his undertaking
‘was more than usually depressed.

 

  

    
     

 
   

 

 

 
py

Ny

 

DEATH IN LIFE. 107

His journey through the tract of dry timber was easy
enough.

On emerging from it, he found himself in a broad savanna.

On the other side of which lay the swamp to which Wa-
cora had directed him.

; its gloomy appearance struck a chill to the young chief’s
heart. i

Could it by any possibility be the place selected by Warren
for Sansuta’s concealment? He almost hoped his search for
her in its somber fastnesses might prove futile.

Its aspect was especially forbidding at the time Nelatee
reached it, which was in the early morning.

_ A-heavy fog rose from its dark waters, clinging around the
rank vegetation, and veiling the mosses and spectral limbs of
the decayed trees. <A fetid breath exhaled from the thick
undergrowth, and the air seemed charged with poison.

No note of bird was heard. No bloom of flower seen.
Death in life was everywhere apparent !

Carefully, and with the quick natural instinct of his race,
Sansuta’s brother struck upon a well-defined trail, leading in-
wardly from the borders of the morass. Following this with
care, he had soon made considerable progress,

The sun rising higher as he advanced, only revealed more
clearly the gloomy character of the scene.

_ The thick mist became dispelled; the verdure, dark but

“rich, glistened with drops of moisture, and the ghostly moss
waved tu and fro, stirred by a gentle breeze that had helped
to dissipate the fog.

With the brighter sky, however, there came a corresponding
lightness over the young man’s spirit; and a doubt arose in
his mind as to the guilt of his former friend. |:

_ “I can not believe all that he has been accused of. Per-
haps he his not guilty of carrying off Sansuta. I always

 
   

 

108 THE WHITE sQUAw.

trusted him. Why should he be so evil, without a suspicion
having crossed my mind. He has not been seen since she
disappeared ; but yet, Crookleg may be the guilty one. If allI
have been told be true, and Warren be the man, he shall bit-
terly pay for his crime. ButI will not believe it, until I am
convinced.”

It will be seen that Nelatee was still a firm friend, ready
to doubt even villainy.

Suddenly the trail he was following came to an end. A
black lagoon was before his feet.

Its unrippled bosom showed it to be deep. Here and there
jagged cypress stumps stood out of it, to which clung droop-
ing parasites.

Nelatee felt that the trail he had followed was purposely
terminated at the edge of the lake, doubtless to be discovered
on its opposite shore,

How to cross it? that was the question.

Stooping, he scanned the shore, but failed to trace any
further evidence of the footsteps of man.

He was on the point of retracing his path in order to look
for tracks, when he was arrested by a faint sound, as from a
movement in the water.

It was very faint, but unmistakable in its character.

It was the stroke of an oar!

He strained his eyes to catch a view of the boat, which he
felt sure was traversing the lake.

After some time spent in the endeavor, his scrutiny was re}
warded.

A strange tableau was revealed to him.

Ata distance appeared the shadowy form of a canoe, in
which three figures were seated. The fog, like a dull silver

~-veil, was still spread over the lagoon, and his efforts to recog:
nize the phantom-like forms were unavailing.

 

 

  

 
THE, PHANTOM CANOE. 109

The intervening curtain of vapor baffled even the keen eye
sight of an Indian.

He halooed to the spectral figures until the swamp reéchoed
his shouts.

In vain !

No response came from the silent voyagers.

He fancied that the measured pulling of the oars for an

‘ instant ceased; but, so dim and unreal did it all appear, that
he began to doubt the evidence of his senses.

As he gazed, the canoe glided silently out of sight.

Muttering an angry adjuration at the ghostly oarsmen, he
threw himself upon the ground.

Overcome with the fatiguing journey, and dispirited by his
fruitless search, he soon fell into a deep slumber.

The last film of the fog was now dispelled by the powerful
rays of the sun. Birds sung in the trees about. him, and from
the black waters of the lagoon a huge caiman crawled up the
panks to bask in the noontide glare.

7 Still Nelatee slumbered.

He slept until the meridian heat had passed, and the
evening approached, seeming to lull all nature into silence.

The young man’s sleep was placid. With his head pillowed
on his arm, he lay like one dead.

From this sweet unconsciousness, he awoke with a start.

A rippling sound, as of some craft cleaving the water, once
more fell upon his. ear.

Had the phantom canoe returned ?

A glance answered the question.

Drifting near the shore was an empty dug-out.

The broken manilla cord dragging at the stern, told him
why it was. adrift.

Without hesitation he plunged into the water, and with a few
strokes reached the straying craft.

 

 

    

  
 

  

110 THE WHITE sQUAW.

Scrambing into it he seized an oar found lying in its bot-
vom, and paddled back to the place whence he had started
Placing his gun ready beside him, he again pushed off, and
rowed out to the center of the lake, steering his course as
nearly as he could remember in the direction which, in the
morning, he had observed the canoe to take.

The spot, as he had marked it, was near a huge cypress
tree. ft
It proved to be at a greater distance than he thought, and
the sun had well sunk in the western sky before he arrived

at it.

Once there, he came to a stop. Those he sought had
evidently either gone further out into the open water of the
lagoon, or had made for one or other of the numerous narrow
canals which debouched into it. ;

Selecting that which appeared of greatest width, he once
more plied his oar and advanced toward it.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A SMOKE INTERRUPTED.

AutHoueH Cris Carrol was absent from the immediate
neighborhood of the settlement, he was none the less informed 5
of what had happened since his departure.

Several of the colonists, alarmed at the prospect of affairs,
had quietly left Tampa bay, and meeting with the hunter, had
told him of theevents that had transpired within the past
month. ;

The backwoodsman’s foresight had not deceived him.

 

 

    
   

 
  

 

 

 
 

BARRING ONE. 11

The whites, by which he meant Elias and his followers,
had not heeded his advice, and “ WORSE HAD COME OF IT.”

The hunter was nothing if not oracular.

“ Wal,” said he, “ Governor Rody thought himself smart
when he sot to work buildin’ that thar frame house of his’n
on the red-man’s ground, but I reckon he'll pay for it yet in
bloody scalps and broken bones. Confound the old cormo
rant ; his doin’s will cause all them poor white settlers no end
of trouble. It don’t bear thinkin’ on, that it don’t. As for
his black-hearted whelp of a son, darn me if I wouldn’t like
to put an ounce o’ lead into his carcass, if it war only to l’arn
him some human feelin’.”

“But won’t you go back to the settlement now, and see if
your presence can do any good ?”

To this question, propounded by one of the fugitive settlers,
Cris answered :

“Good! What good can Ido now? No, lad, the fat’s
in the fire this time, and maybe I may better help some poor
critter away from the place than anigh it. I'll tell ye what
it is, and it ain’t no use denyin’ it, them thar red devils means
mischief, and that old cuss Rody knows it by this time. The
chief, Oluski, what you tell me air dead, war worth a whole
settlement of Rody’s—hbarrin’ one—that is, barrin’ one.”

“ And who may that be ?”

“Who, but his darter. The most beautifullest gal that
this coon ever sat eyes on. Bless her, I hope no hurt won’t
come to her. And there shan’t, if Cris Carrol can prevent it.”

In this manner did the honest hunter comment on the
alarming news brought by the fugitives from Tampa bay.

Not that he approached the spot too closely. No; he had
formed an idea of the manner in which he might be most
useful ; and to do so he must carefully avoid any appearance
of interfering between the contending parties.

 
 

112 TU WHITE SQUAW.

He therefore pursued his occupation of hunting; Lut con-
trived materially to narrow the circle of his excursions,

Often, as the image of Alice Rody presented itself to his
mind, he would heave a painful sigh.

“ How such a gal came to be a child of that old trait‘rous

«heathen is more nor I can reckon up. It’s one of them ‘thar
things as philosophers call ‘startlers.’”

In one of these moralizing moods, the old hunter was
seated on a tree-stump on the afternoon of a day that had
been more than usually fatiguing to him.

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, took.a plug of tobacco
from his pouch, and began to cut up a supply for another
smoke.

“Ah? muttered he, shaking his head, “I remember the
time when there was happiness in these savannas, and when
them red-skins were ready to help the white men rather than
fight ag’in’ them. Them times is gone from hyar forever!”

He struck a light with his flint, and applied it to his pipe.

Just as he had puffed two or three small clouds of smoke,
and was preparing to enjoy himself to the fullest extent,
a fissh suddenly appeared, the pipe was knocked from
his mouth, and the whizz of a bullet sounded in his ears.

To grasp his rifle, and shelter himself behind a tree, on
the side opposite to that from which the shot proceeded, was
but the work of an instant.

“ Red-skins, by the etarnal! I know it by the twang of
that rough-cast bullet.”

Whether red-skins or white men he did not find it easy to
be certain, although be was up to every move in such ap
emergency.

He knew that to look in the direction of the shot was to
expose himself to almost certain death.

He listened with breathless anxiety for the slightest sound

   

   
   

 
 
 

 

  

 
|

 

 

A SHOT. 11g

Which might give evidence of the movements of the
enemy. a

All remained perfectly still.

Adopting a very old ruse, he stuck his skin cap upon the
barrel of his rifle, and held it out a few inches beyond the
trunk of the tree by the side of which he had ensconced himself,

A flash, a report, and it was pierced by a bullet.

He was now fully satisfied that there was but one enemy
with whom he had to cope,

Had there been more, the first bullet which struck the pipe
from his mouth would haye been followed by another, as
quickly, but perhaps more surely aimed.

With a rapid glance he surveyed the ground behind him
It was covered with undergrowth and fallen timber,

His. resolution was at once taken,

He fell flat upon the earth, and noiselessly gliding along,
reached a tree distant some paces, and in an oblique direction
from the one he had left. ;

From that spot he made his way to another, at a greater
angle, and about equi-distant from the second.

These movements were effected with such agile stealthiness
as to be entirely unperceived by his still unseen enemy.

By the change of position he now commanded a side view
of his unknown antagonist, who, unsuspicious of it, was
keeping a close watch upon Carrol’s supposed shelter.

To raise his rifle to his shoulder was a natural action of
the old hunter.

Instead of pulling the trigger, however, some idea seemed
to cross his mind, and pausing, he scanned his adversary.

He.saw it was Marocota who had fired at him.

Carrol knew Marocota—a fuithful and devoted follower of
the late chief—and he felt loth to take his life, although he
might easily have done so.

 
114 THE WHITE SQUAW.

The better thought prevailed. He felt convinced that the
bulfet fired by the Indian had been aimed in reality at one
for whom Marocota had mistaken him.

Advancing cautiously toward the unconscious warrior, the
old backwoodsman crept from tree to tree, until he was close
upon him.

Not anticipating an attack from the rear, and still fancying
he commanded the hiding-place of the white man, Marocota,
spite or his Indian cunning, was completely in the white
man’s power.

A loud shout, a quick bound, and Carrol had him in his

grasp.

With one hand upon his throat, the hunter had pinned him ~

to the earth.

“ Not a word, you darned catamount, or Pll run my knife
into your ribs. So you thought to circumvent me, did ye,
with your Injin treachery? What would you say, now, if
I war to raise your ha’r, ’stead of lettin’ you take
myen ?”

Marocota could make no reply to the question, as the
pressure on his throat stopped his breath as well as speech.

The backwoodsman saw by the expression upon the
Indian’s face that his own surmise had been correct. He was
not the victim Marocota would have doomed to death.

It was a mistake ; but rather a serious one. i:

Loosening his hold, he suffered the astonished Marocota ‘o
rise to his feet.

“ Yes, I kin tell you’ve made a random shot at me. Next
time, try and see a man’s face ’fore you pulls trigger on him,
or it might be awkward! There’s no harm done! Only a
worse shot nor yours I never saw. Id eat wry rifle, stock,
lock and barrel, afore I’d own to sich shootin” Who war it
ye wur arter ?”

,

 

   

 

 
      
COMPLIMENTARY. 115

Having at length recovered breath, the Indian was able te
imswer : F

“T took you for Warren Rody.”

“Much obleeged for the compliment Do I look sich a
vanak as that fellow? If Ido, put a brace of bullets into
me, and we won’t quarrel.”

The warrior grimly smiled. :

3 “ Marocota has sworn to avenge Oluski’s death—Warrer
Rody must die !”

“Wal, let him! I shan’t stop you from riddin’ the world
of such as he. What made you follow my trail ?”

“Tt was no trail I followed. I have been seeking one from
the north ; yours came from the east.”

“ Right you air; that’s whar I hail from last.”

“ Have you scen any thing of him, or of Sansuta ?”

“TLoak hyar, Injin, although I might draw bead on the
scoundrel if I saw him, I ain’t a man-hunter, and that’s why

I hain’t been a-follerin’ any trail of his’n.”
{ } Marocota’s exger look gave place to one of despondency,
as he muttered :

“Not found yet! where can they be ?”

“ Ah, whar? It sin’t Warren as has hid whar he can’t be
found. Some knowin’ hand has put him up to it.”

“Yes, Marocota thinks so, It must be the negro,
Crookleg !”

“Crookleg? Is that all-fired nigger varmint mixed up with
him? That makes a brace cf the durnedest hounds as ever
run together. Who told you Crookleg helped young Rody ?”

“The chief thinks so !”

“ Wal, then, I'll bet a possum-skin ag’in’ a musk-rat’s that
he’s right. Yur chief Wacora’s as likely an Injin at reck-
onin’ up the merits o’ a case as this coon knows on. Now,
you’ye missed takin’ my scalp, what do ye intend doin’ ?”

 

   
 

 

   

  
   

  

116 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“@o on looking for the thief who stole Oluski’s heart.
Find him and kill him.”

The glance that accompanied these words was full of
deadly determination.

“ Wal, go, and good luck attend ye. Don’t ask me to jine
ye. I tell you I ain’t no man-hunter, nor never will be; only
if either of them thar scamps should be out walkin’ whar I
chance to be, they better have met with a mad b’ar than this
hyar Cris Carrol. Never mind sayin’ a word about that bad
shot of your’n. The moment I seed you I knowed you
didn’t mean it for me, only next time be more partik’lar, that’s
all!”

Without making reply, Marocota turned away, and was
soon lost under the shadow of the forest.

As soon as he was out of sight, the old hunter renewed
his preparations for a smoke. Drawing from his pouch
(which seemed to contain every thing that heart of hunter
could desire) another pipe, he was soon once more sending
clouds of blue smoke up into the air.

“Tf that Marocota meets Warren Rody or Crookleg, he’
be an awkward customer to either or both on ’em, and thai
he may meet ’em; he has Cris Carrol’s best prayers an’
wishes.”

With this homely but sincere expression of his desires, the
backwoodsman ceased to think of the deadly danger so lately
threatening himself.

 

 
 

A VOICE IN THE CROWD. 117

CHAPTER XXV.
PREPARING FOR THE ATTACK.

Tue Indians had at length determined upon making an at-
tack upon Elias Rody’s.stronghold.

The Governor had got wind of their intention through a
spy, a slave belonging to the tribe, who had turned informer
through his seductive offers. ;

A meeting of the settlers, within the stockade, was at once
called.

“ Fellow-citizens,” said Rody, addressing them; “I have
received sure information that our enemies have resolved
upon attacking us. It is my duty to tell you this, in order
that every man may be prepared to defend himself and his
family. We must be vigilant, as they are treacherous. The
stockade is strong, and the block-houses which we have built
will resist a long siege from savages. Our provisions are
plentiful, and we have but to hold out in order to conquer.”

“How many red-skins do you think there are ?” asked.a
voice in the crowd. 2

“T can not say for certain,” the Governor replied; “ they
outnumber us, I know, but a white man should be worth a
dozen red ones !”

“ Ain’t so sure of that!’ was the rejoinder.

“ One thing, gentlemen, I would have you remember. * This
war will be one of extermination, therefore be careful not to
waste a Bullet; let every pull upon your triggers send an In-
dian to his long account. Let the ery be ‘No quarter! ”

“Perhaps that'll be their motto, too,” remarked the same

apeaker.

 
   

  

118 THE WHITE sQuAWw.

“T perceive, sir,” replied Rody, a little nettled at the run-
ning commentary on his speech, “I perceive that there are
still one or two dissatisfied people among us. Let them step
forward and ‘Jeclare themselves. We want neither renegades
nor traitors in our midst.”

“That's so!” the voice replied.

“Again I say, let those displeased with my views step
boldly out, and allow me to answer any objections they may
raise. I’ve done nothing Iam ashamed of. I blush for noth-
ing that I do.”

“No, you're past blushing!” was the ironical rejoinder.

A suppressed titter ran round the assemblage at these perti-
nent remarks of the unknown, and the Governor’s temper was
not improved by observing the effect the words had produced
on his hearers,

“T scorn to answer the fellow who is afraid to show him-
self. But I warn you all, be prepared for a desperate contest.
We have only ourselves to look to for our defense. We are
in the hands of Providence.”

“We are!”

This sudden change, from jeering comment to deep solem-
nity of utterance on the part of the unknown speaker, struck
awe into the crowd, and caused Rody to turn pale.

“In the hands of Providence !”

“Yes, for good or evil—for punishment or reward.”

The thought expressed in this manner was too much for
the Governor. He dismissed the meeting with a hurried ad-
monition to be prepared for the worst.

As he reéntered his house, he encountered his daughter, face
to face.

“ Father, I was about to seek you,” said she. “ They tell
me that you have heard bad news !”

“Rad enough, girl; the red-skins are going to attack us!”

s

 
A LOOK, 119

“Ts there no hope?”

“ Hope—for what ?”

“That this bloodshed may be avoided, Will they not
listen to an offer of reconciliation ?”

“ And who would dare to make it ?” *

“Dare? Father, I do not understand you. It is the duty
of those who liave done wrong to try by concession to atone
for it, and, if possible, make peace.

“ And who has done wrong ?”

Alice did not answer in words, but the look she bestowed
upon her father was eloquence itself.

“JT see what you're thinking about, my girl. It’s hard
that inside of my own house I should meet with reproaches.
Isn’t it enough for me to have to bear the sneers and taunts’
of others, without being forced to listen to them from you ?”

“ Father !”

“Oh, yes; now you'll try to say you didn’t mean to re-
proach me, but it won’t do. I see it in your face, and—there,
your eyes are full of tears. That's the way with you girls;
when you can’t use your tongues, you have always a stock of
tears ready. But blubbering won’t mend this matter, it’s got
to be settled with blows.”

“Oh, father! Can nothing be done?”

- “Nothing but prepare for the worst. Now, girl! stop your
crying, or you'll drive me stark mad. I'll tell you what it is,
I’m just in that sort of state that if I don’t do something, I
shall go clean out of my mind. What with the worrying
work here, and the grumbling discontent of a few paltry
hounds about the settlement, I don’t know how I keep my
senses about me !” ;

The angry mood into which he had worked Ittmself, was,
however, no novelty to his daughter. She had, of late, seen
it too often, and sorrowfully noted the change.

 
    
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
   
  
   
   
    
  
 
        

120 THE WHITE SQUAW.

Still she was a brave girl, and knowing she hada duty to
perform, she did it fearlessly.

“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, apologizingly; “I did not
mean to reproach you. If my looks betrayed my thoughts,

I can not help them, much as I may regret giving you pain.
What I wanted to say was that if there is any honorable way
to avoid this bloodshed, it should be tried; there is no dis-
grace in acknowledging a fault.” ,

“ Who has committed one ?”

“You know wrongs have been done by white people
against the Indians, not alone now, but ever since the two
races have been brought together. We are no better than
others, but we can avoid their errors by trying to remedy the
grievances they complain of.”

Old Rody stamped the floor with rage. His daughter's
remarks made him wince. Conscience, which he deemed
asleep, was at work, and upon the tongue of his own child
had found utterance.

“ Begone, girl !” he cried, “ before I forget that you are my {
flesh and blood. You insult me beyond endurance. I will
manage my affairs my own way, without impediment from
you. Aye, not only my own affairs, but the affairs of all
here. I will have blind obedience. I demand it, and will
exact it. Begone!”

His daughter looked him boldly in the face.

“ Be it so, father,” she answered, firmly. “Ihave done my
duty, will always do it. Think, however, before it is too
late, that to your conduct in the matter the groans of widows
and the sighs of orphans may be laid. The happiness or mis-
ery of many rests upon your single word. It is an awful ‘
risk. Reffect upon it, dear father, reflect !” m

‘* Her proud bearing gave place to tears. Her womanly heart
was full to overflowing. It conquered her spirit for a time
 

  

THE LAST FRIEND. 121

and, as she parted from her father’s presence, sne felt that the
last hope of peace had vanished.

“ By the eternal powers,” cried he, “ this will prove too
much for me. It must come to an end!”

As Rody uttered these words, he drew from his pocket a
flask, and applied it to his lips.

It was a bottle of brandy. It seemed the last friend left
him !

CHAPTER XXXVI.
FORCED INTO SERVICE.

AFTER entering the narrow stretch of water, Nelatee for
some time plied his paddle with vigor.

He there paused to examine the place.

Ledges and canebrakes grew thickly down to the water’s
edge. There appeared no further passage through them.

Resuming his course he attentively watched for any sign
of habitation, but fora long time without success.

Just as he was about turning the head of the canoe again
in the direction of the lagoon, an object, floating on the sur-
face, attracted his attention.

It was an oar. A glance convinced him that it was the
fellow of the one he held in his hand.

Reanimuted by this assuring proof that he was going in
the right direction, he fished it up, and abandoning the more
laborious mode of paddling, he adjusted the two oars in the row-
locks, and bending to them, made more rapid way. He kept
his eye turning to right and left on the look-out for a landing:
place, which he now felt assured could not be far distant.

 

  
   

  

123 THE WHITE SQUAW.

His strutiny was at length rewarded.

A few hundred yards from where he had picked up the
floating oar, a@ post was seen sticking up out of the bank.

To this was attached a manilla rope, the broken strands of
whith showed it to be the other portion of that fastened to
the stern of the canoe.

‘The clue was found. Those he had dimly seen in the
morning, were doubtless close at hand.

He ran the craft in-shore, fastened it securely to the post,
and landed.

With cautious steps he followed the footprints now seen in
the soft mud of the bank.

They led to a sheltered spot, upon which a rude hut had
been erected.

The sound of a man’s voice arrested his steps.

“Te, he! I ’clare it makes dis chile laugh to tink about
de trubble dat’s brewin’ for dem. De long time am comin’
at last. I’s been a-waitin’ for it, but it am comin’ now.”

It was Crookleg who spoke, but for the time he said no
more.

A stunning blow from Nelatee’s clubbed rifle, which would
have crushed any skull but that of a negro, felled him sense-
less to the ground.

On recovering consciousness, he found himself bound in a
most artistic manner by thongs of deerskin, which Nelatee
had found near the hut.

“ Hush !” said the Indian, in a half-whisper. “ Not a word
except to answer my questions. Don’t move, dog, or I'll
dash out your brains !”

The negro trembled in every limb.

“Ts Warren Rody inside that hut ?”

Crookleg shook his head. —

“ Where is he ?”

 
IN BONDS 128

“Don’t know, Massa Injin, don’t know nuffin ’bout him !”

“ Liar !”

“ By him bressed life, massa, dis chile don’t know.”

“ Answer me—where is Warren Rody? I give you one
chance for your wretched life. Tell me where is Warren
Rody ?”

The raising of a tomahawk above the negro’s head, con-
vinced him that death would be the sure reward of his de-
nial.

“Don’t, massa, don’t kill de ole nigga. He'll tell you all
he knows. Oh! don’t kill him !”

“ Speak !”

“He war here, but he am gone!”

“ Where ?”

“ Out ob de swamp into de woods.”

“ And Sansuta ?”

“De gal am gone ‘long wid him.”

Nelatee groaned. Warren, then, was guilty.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

“Qh yes, massa, I knows you well. You am Sansuta’s
brodder. I tole Warren he war a-doin’ wrong, but he am so
headstrong, he would take your sister. Dis chile’s begged
him not to doit.” —

“ False dog, you are deceiving me!”

“T swear, Massa ’Latee, I’s speakin’ de bressed trufe.”

Not deigning to reply, the Indian strode on to the hut, and
entered it. i

It was deserted. A bead bracelet lying inside attested to
the truth of that portion of Crookleg’s store which told him
that his sister,had been there.

He returned to the negro,

“Rise !” he said, in a commanding tone.

“1 can’t, massa. You has tied me so tight, I can’t move.”

 
134 THE WHITE sQUAW.

“ Rise, I tell you !” repeated the Indian, with a threatening
gesture.

Feigning to obey, the negro rolled over the ground, in the
direction of the rifle which Nelatee had laid aside in order to
tie him.

Could he but reach that, he might defy his captor.

But the Indian was too quick for him. With a kick which
made Crookleg howl with pain, he forced him aside and se-
cured the weapon himself.

Seeing that his only chance was submission, the negro got
upon his feet with some difficulty, and stood awaiting further
orders.

Nelatee now unfastened the thongs that bound him,

“ Go before me!” he said.

Crookleg hobbled forward with a demoniac look upon his
face.

They reached the water's edge.

“Ts that your canoe ?”

“ Yes, massa, dat dug-out b’long to me.”

“You were upon the lake this morning ?”

Crookleg nodded in the affirmative.

“Get in!”

The black scrambled into the stern,

“ Not there—tbe other end.”

Crookleg obeyed.

Nelatee took ithe vacated seat.

“ Now lay hold of these oars, bend your back, and row
me to the place where you landed Warren Rody and my sister.
Remember that if you make the slightest attempt to deceive
me, I will bury this deep in your brain !”

As he spoke he held his tomahawk aloft. —_

Thus admonished, the negro plied the oars, and the canoe
darted rapidly through the water.

 

  

   

:
;
:
:
:

 

 
 
 

 
   
 

 

OUT OF PATIENCE. 126

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE LOST SISTER.

For more than an hour Crookleg was compelled to use the
oars, until they had reached the other side of the lagoon.

Nelatee, silent and rapt in his own gloomy thoughts,
watched his every motion.

It was twilight when they made a landing, within a shel-
tered bay upon that side of the swamp nearest the settle-
ment.

Beyond this lay the woods of which the negro had
spoken.

Compelling the black to precede him, Nelatee urged him
forwurd until they had reached a mound covered with
bushes. :

“Hush, Massa Injin ; we am near de place.”

“T see no sign of habitation.”

“ We is near it for all dat. It ain’t a easy ting to find a
place like dis ’ere whar dere am nuffin’ to show but de ground
and dese ’ere Lushes !”

* Quick, lead me to the place !”

“ By’m-by, massa. For a mercy’s sake hab jist a little pa-
tience. ’Twon’t do no good to be in a hurry—twon’t in-
deed !” .

Suspecting treachery, Nelatee would hear of no delay.

“ Remember, slave, what I threatened you with! Conduct
me at once to their hiding-place |”

“ Well, den, Massa Injin, if you must go step light, or we'll
gib Massa Warren de alarm. He’s as quick-eared as a rabbit,

 
   

  

126 THE WHITE sQUAW.

dat he am, and he may shoot us both afore we know—dat is
if he ’spects you am comin’ after de gal.”

With this caution, to which his companion silently agreed,
they skirted the mound to its extreme end, where it seemed
to terminate abruptly in a deep chasm,

Once there, Crookleg threw himself upon the ground, mo-
tioning the Indian to do the same.

Nelatee complied, still watching for any movement of be-
trayal on the part of his guide.

With a stealthy hand the negro parted the bushes, and
signed to the young man to look through the opening.

He did so.

Before his eyes was the entrance of a cave, or grotto.

Inside the entrance, a pine torch stuck im the ground illu-
mined a portion of the interior. .

The light was obscured by the bushes, and it was only
when these were parted that it became visible.

. Inside the grotto was Sansuta. She was reposing upon a
bed of moss.

Behind her, upon a large bowlder of rock, sat Warren Rody !

Nelatee was on the point of rushing forward, when he was
stayed by the negro’s hand clutching his arm.

“Not yet, massa,” he whispered ; “you'd be shot afore
you'd get two steps in dar, and dis poor ole nigga would
nebba get away ’gain. Let me go speak first, an’ gib Mass’
Rody de signal, and den I'll find a way to bring him out to

you. Don’t you see that'll be the best plan to fix him?”

“T can not trust you from my sight. Take your hand off
my arm! Let me go!”

“ Oh, massa, I shall be ruined, and murdered complete.
Don’t you see dat afore you could reach him he’d see you and
fire. De ole nigga’s plan am de best. Let me bring de fox

out ob his hole!”

 
HE! HE! HE! 127

Crookleg spoke reasonably. Nelatce might, it is true, have
easily killed Warren from where he lay; but his sister’s pres-
ence, Wacora’s command, and a certain reluctance to shed
blood, stayed his hand.

“ Well, then, do it ; but on conditions—”

“What condishuns, Massa Injin. Name ’em, an’ I’s obey.”

“That you bring him away from my sister’s side, out here
into the open ground—that every word you speak shall be
loud enough for me to hear. Go!”

“TIl go, massa.”

“See? °

As Nelatee uttered this monosyllable, he tapped his rifle.
Crookleg took the hint.

“Ys swear, massa, I do dis ting right. Dis ole nigga
don’t want no bullet through him karkiss. I’s swear I do as
you say!”

With this asservation, he rose erect and entered boldly
among the bushes, while Nelatee concealed himself behind
them.

Warren started to his feet, calling out:

“Who’s there ?”

“ Hush, Massa Warren! It’s only me, ole Crookleg.”

“Come in, Crookleg.”

“No, Massa Warren, you come out here. I’s want to speak
to you ’ithout disturbin’ de young gal. I’s want to show you
somethin’.”

With a hasty —_ at the slumbering maiden, Warren
Rody emerged from the cave. é

At the entrance he was suddenly confronted by Nelatee !

“ Nelatee !”

A yell of fiendish laughter from Crookleg answered the
exclamation.

“He! he! he! Ho! ho! he — Oh, dat am de best t’i

 
 

 

  

128 THE WHITE sQuaw.

dis ole nigga ever done. Ah, de time am comin’ now. Ho‘
ho! Massa Warren, who kicked. do ole dog of a nigga, w’at
fetch an’ carry for de white man to de Injin gal? Ha! ha!
ha! I ’clare to mercy it am splendid! Now Ill leave
you two friends togedder. But don’t quarrel—please don’t!
Onlv remember, Massa Warren—remember Crookleg to your
dyin’ day !”

With these words the negro darted off, and was soen Jost
. to sight behind the bushes.

Warren stood gritting his teeth in impotent rage. He saw
that he had fallen into a trap laid for him by Crookleg !

Nelatee stirred not an inch.

_ Again young Rody pronounced his name.

“ Nelatee !”

“Yes, Nelatee! the brother of Sansuta—of your victim !
Does not the sight of me turn you into stone? Is your
heart so hardened that you do not. tremble ?”

Warren gave a short, mocking laugh.

“Go away from here,” he said ; “I owe no account of my
actions to any one.”

“Yes, you owe an account of them to that Great Spirit
who is alike your God and mine

“Pah! Stand aside, I say !”

“ My arm will brain you if you move a step. WNelatee isa
chief, and must be heard !”

“ Well, then, go on.”

“ You once said you were my friend. ‘Nelatee tears your
friendship from his heart, and casts it to the wind. You are
an assassin—a thief! You killed my father—you have
stolen my sister! What answer do you make ?”

“T make none.”

“You are right. Nothing can be said to palliate the
crime of falsehood, murder and robbery! Come with me ?”

E

 

   

 

  
  

  

 

 

LIFE OR DEATH.

 
 

 

 

“Indeed! Where to?”
“To our chief—to Wacora!”

“A prisoner ?”

“ Yes !”

“ And who is to take me *”

“Twill!” 7

“You!” retorted Rody, with a sneer.

“Yes; your life was in my hands but a minute ago. You
live only because I would not kill you in my sister’s presence.
Your very slave has proved false to you. You are in my
power. Wacora shall pass sentence on you, and that sentence
will be death.”

With a bound Warren rushed at Nelatee, who, suddenly
dropping his rifle, grappled with him.

A terrible struggle ensued.

The young men were about equally matched in size and
strength, while each knew that it was a contest for life or death.

Warren, by his unexpected onset, had at first some acvan-
tage over his antagonist, but the Indian speedily recovered it
by his great pewer of endurance.

All feeling of pity had vanished from his breast. His sis-
ter’s seducer was in his grasp. He had intended to take him
prisoner ; he would now kill him.

He made several unsuccessful efforts to draw his tomahawk,
while Warren, inspired by the certainty that death would be
the result, strove his utmost to prevent him from wielding the
weapon.

Long did they continue the struggle without either speak-
ing a word. Their heavy breathing, as they rolled over and
over on the grass, was the only audible sound.

Nelatee at length succeeded in getting his antagonist under
him, and with one arm he strove to hold him, ue with the
other he grasped for his tomahawk.

 

  
   

  

130 THE WHITE sQuAw.

At this moment Warren made a superhuman effort, threw
the Indian off, and with the speed of lightning snatched his
rifle from the ground.

Nelatee had stumbled as he was thrown off, and lay
sprawling upon the easth. f

Another instant, and he would have had a bullet tl rougk
his body.

Was it an echo that answered the cocking of the rifle held
in Rody’s hand ?

That was the last thought that crossed the seducer’s
mind.

The next moment he was a corpse.

A bullet had pierced his brain. It came from Marocota’s
gun, who had arrived upon the ground at the moment of
Nelatee’s fall.

Before either of the two Indians could speak a word, a
piercing cry echoed upon their ears, a girl came gliding
through the bushes, and flung herself prostrate over the dead
body !

It was Sansuta !

The air was filled with her lamentation as she kissed the
cold forehead of her betrayer, and with a thousand endearing
terms endeavored to recall him to life!

Nelatee approached and gently raised her from the ground.
He was about to address her, but he started back in horror.

Her wild, staring eyes, with the unmeaning smile upon her
lips, told the sad tale.
Her reason had departed !

 
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE STRUGGLE IN THE STOCKADE,

On that same night, the Indians, led by Wacora, stormed
the stockade upon the hill.

The combat proyedlong and desperate, but the place was
&t length taken.

Bravely as the settlers fought, they had a foe to deal with
implacable and determined.

As fast as the red warriors fell in the attack, others took
their places, and from out the darkness, legions seemed to rise
to avenge the death of their fallen comrades.

“The white women loaded the rifles, stood by their brothers
and husbands assisting them in the fearful strife. But valor
availed not—the settlers were doomed !

Never had Elias Rody been seen to greater advantage
He seemed ubiquitous, cheering and inspiring the men around
him. Many who had condemned him till then, gave him
credit for his bravery. He appeared to bear a charmed life,
and was seen wherever bu!lets whistled, unharmed and un-
daunted.

All his hopes on earth were centered in successfully main-
taining himself, and that strong physical courage which ho
undeubtedly possessed, stimulated by his frightful responsibility
made him for the moment heroic.

His daughter, the gentle Alice, showed herself equally
brave. She took under her care the wounded ; she, who at any
other time would have fainted at the sight of blood, bound up
the ghastly wounds, and stood on that dreadful night by more

 
182 THE WHITE SQUAW.

than one death-bed, calm and courageous, upheld by the
sustaining idea of duty. :

But, what availed courage and devotion against numbers *

The stockade was at length carried, and after it the house,
which was instantly given to the flames.

A horrible carnage ensued among those who, unable to fly,
were left to the besiegers’ fury. ;

The worst passions were displayed in their worst forma?

and helplessness plead in vain to hearts steeled with revenge.

The moon’s rays lighted up a fearful scene,

Corpses of Indians and settlers, with their wives and chil-
dren, strewed the ground of the inclosure.

The glare of the burning house added to the horror of the
sight.

Some few of the colonists fled across the country, pursue¢c
by their relentless foes.

Though a small number escaped with life, many perished
in their flight.

With vengeful cries, the Indians sought for Elias Rody,
but failed to find him.

Had he, too, escaped? It seemed so, for nowhere could
his body be «iscovered among the slain.

His daughter had also disappeared.

But half of their revenge seemed accomplished, and Wa-
cora felt that with Rody alive, his uncle’s death was not yet
avenged.

In vain did he send warrior after warrior in search of tha
missing man.

All returned with the same answer. The white chief was
not to be found.

Enraged at being thus baffled in his revenge, Wacora called
nis straggling forces together, and returned with them to the
Indian camp.

 
MISSING, 183

After their departure, there was profound stillness within
the stockade, more awful from contrast with the roar of
battle there so lately raging.

The dead were left to repose in peace.

For a time this stillness continued unbroken,

Then from afar sounds began to be heard, gradually draw-
ing nearer and nearer.

It was the howling of the gaunt Florida wolves, as they
scented a rich repast.

Ere long, they could be seen skulking through*the inclosure,
and quarreling over the corpses. Upon the morrow, above
them, with shadowy wings, the vultures would hover, waiting
to come in for their share of the spoil.

The moon sunk in the sky, and drew a pall over the dread-
ful sight.

At intervals, a flickering tongue of flame, shooting up from
the expiring embers of the burnt house, imparted a weird
aspect to the scene, lighting it up only to display its ghastly
horrors.

Where was Elias Rody?

He had proved deceitful to the last.

Wacora and his warriors had songht him everywhere, but
had failed to find him.

For all that he was near.

In the last attack made by the red-men, he had been
wounded, not severely, but sufficiently to make him feel faint
and giddy. He knew that he could no longer hope for success,
and determined if possible to save his own life, while there
was a Chance. ;

Amid the smoke and confusion he found no difficulty in
withdrawing from the combat. Remembering a species of
esllar he had caused to be dug in the rear of the house, he

5

 
  

   

 

134 THE WHITE sQUuAW.

staggered .owara it, and reached it unobserved by any of the
combatants,

He paused before entering. A thought of Alice arrested
him. He thought of the hopelessness of saving her; and
tottering forward, half blinded by his own blood, he descended
the steps of the cellar, at the bottom of which he fell insen- 7

 

sible upon the floor.

Of the yells of the victorious Indians; the glare of tze”
burning mansion ; the shrieks of the wounded and the agon- ;
izing wail of defenseless women and children, as they committed
their souls to heaven, Elias Rody, though the cause of all,
heard nothing.

Beneath his own burning house, miraculously sheltered by
some huge timbers which had fallen over the excavation, he

 

lay fora long time, insensilile to thought as to feeling.

When he atlength recovered consciousness, and crawled
forth from his concealment, the sun had risen, lighting up the
ruined pile.

He shuddered at the sight.

He suffered a thousand deaths in the contemplation of the
horrors his mad selfishness had caused.

Bitter remorse, stronger than his shattered physical frame i
could endure, gnawed at his heart. But it was selfish remorse
for all that.

Here was vengeance for Oluski, had the chief only been
alive to witness it! '

Too weak to get away frum the spot, Rody groaned in the}
bitterness of his spirit.

“Ten thousand times may I be accursed for all this. Fool,
blind, infatuated fool that I have been. Every aspiration
might have been gratified, every hope fulfilled, had not my im-
patience blinded me against caution. May the fiend of dark-
ness overtake these red—”

 

 
 

 

 

THE SKULKER. - 135

How long this tirade of blasphemous repentance of his
villainy might have lasted, it is impossible to say. It was
stopped, however, by a physical pain; and with a faint voice
he cried out: ‘“‘ Water! water !”

Blood there was in plenty around him, but not one drop
of water. :

Others had yelled for it through the long, dreadful night as
agonizingly as he, but had been answered by the same solemn
silence. They had died in their agony. Why should not he ?

“ Well, then, let death come. The full accumulation of
mortal torment has fallen on myself—it can not be greater.”

Wrong in this, as in every thing else.

See! skulking ulong the brow of the hill, stooping over,
and examining corpse after corpse with a look of demoniac
joy upon his hideous features, appears something in human
shupe, and yet scarce a man!

Horror of horrors, he is robbing the dead!

Rody saw him not, for he had again fainted.

With a harsh voice, rivaling the vulture’s croak, the skulker
continued his hideous task.

“Ha! ha! ha!” chuckled he to himself. “There am nice
pickin’s after all for dis chile; boaf from de bodies ob de
white man an’ de red, Bress de chance what sot ’em ag’in’
each oder. Oh! but dis ole nigga am glad! so glad! But
whar am fe—whar am fe? If dis chile don't find him,
why den his work ain’t more dan half done.”

Diligently did Crookleg, for it was he, continue his search,
turning over dead bodies, snatching some bauble from their
breasts, and so on to others, as if still unsatisfied.

For whom was he seeking ?

As he proceeded in his work, a voice that came from
amonz a heap of ruins, was heard feebly calling for “ Water !”
The negro started, sending forth a shout of triumph.

 
  

 

136 THE WHITE SQUAW. |

He had recognized it as ihe voice of Elias Rody, the man
for whom he had been searching.

As the latter recovered consciousness, he saw a hideous face
close to his own, that caused him to start up, at the same time
uttering a cry of horror!

CHAPTER XXIX.
AN EXULTING FIEND.

“T was found you, has I?”

“ Crookleg !”

“Yes, it am Crookleg !”

“ A drop of water for the love of God, a drop of water ?”

“Tf de whole place war a lake, dis chile wouldn’t sprmkle
your parched lips with a drop out ob it.”

“ What do you mean, Crookleg ?”

“Ha! the time I been waitin’ for ha’ come at last! It
hab been long, but it am come. Do you know whar your son
Warren am ?”

“Thank heaven! away from this, and in safety !”’

“Halha!ha! Safe! Yes, he am safe enough, wid a big
bullet through his brain !”

Elias Rody with an effort raised himself into a sitting
posture, and glared upon the speaker.

“ Dead ?”

“Yes, dead! and it war me dat bro’t him to it! Ha! ha!ha!”’

“Who are you? Has hell let loose its fiends to mock me ?”

“Perhaps it have! Who am I? Don’t you know me
yet, Rody ?—Massa Rody ?”

 

  

 
 

 

  

REUBEN, THE SON OF. ESTHER. 137

“ No, devil; I know you not! My son dead! Oh, Godt
what have I done to deserve all this ?”

“What hab you done? What hab you not done? You
hab done ebbery ting dat de black heart ob a white man can
do, an’ de day ob reck’nin’ am come at last! So you don’t
know me, don’t you ?”

“ Away, fiend, and let. me die in peace!”

“Tn peace! No, you shall die as you hab made oders
live—in pain! When you can’t hear dis nigga’s voice
plainly, he'll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your
infernal soul, in de last minutes ob your life!”

“Who—who are you?”

“JT am Reuben, de son of Esther !”

“ Esther ?”

“Yes! Esther, your father’s slave! You was de cause ob
her death. Do you know me now?”

Rody groaned.

“ Dey called me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who. made
me lame ?”

Still no answer.

“Tt war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, w’en you
war a boy, an’ I war de same. I have been close to you for
years, but you didn’t know me. I war too mean—too much
below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab
a good memory, and de oath I’'d taken to be even with ye,
am kept. My mother was a slave, but she was my mother
for all dat, an’ if I war a black man, 1 war still a human
bein’, although you and de likes of you didn’t think so. Do
you know me now ?”

Rody uttered not a word.

“ When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plan-

 

tation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de -

 

cruel massa, dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. _
   

138 THE WHITE SQUAW. -

Days and years hab pass since den, but de hate has kep hot
as ever; and I’s happy now when I knows dat de dyin’
planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d!
I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All
T’s a-goin’ to do, is to sit hya an’ watch ober you till you
am cold and stiff. Ebbery flutter your wicked soul makes to
get free from your ugly body, will be a joy to me!”

“Oh, devil!’ exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth
of his agony.

“Debbil! yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me
one !”

The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side, and
thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a
demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.

And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the gray
shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses
wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed
with the film of death.

A last scream burst from the lips of the dying man, fol-
lowed by some words in piteous appeal.

“Ha! Help! .Water! Water! My soul’s on fire!
Devils! Demons! Away—away! Let me go! Unloose
your burning hands from my heart—unloose! Ah! Horror!”

The cries ceased. Elias Rody was dead.

Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring
enemy, as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when the
spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to
exult over his now unconscious victim.

At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.

At some little distance from the spot, a man leaning upon
his rifle had stood, taking a survey of the smoking ruins.

He had been for some time ignorant that any living being
but himself was upon the hill.

     

 

-—

 
   

 

 
 

A SPRING OUT OF EXISTENCE. 189

His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of
his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his savage joy,
but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.

“Hotho! Dead! It am splendid sport to de ole nigga!
Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darky hab been de cause

,ob a war ‘tween de whites an’ de red-skins! Ha! ha! ha!
It am most too good to be believed! But it am true! it am
true !”

As the monstrous creature concluded the speech, he was
seen to spring suddenly into the air, and then fall flat upon
his face, a corpse.

A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back.

“There, durn ye, ye black hound! If you have been the
cause of one war, you'll never have a hand in another. I
swore not to fight ag’in’ my own blood, nor to take part ag’in’
the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain !”

Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his knife from the negr)’s
body, and coolly sauntered away from the spot.

CHAPTER XXX.
ROBBED OF HIS REVENGE.

Wacona, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors

~ and entered his tent alone.

The remainder of that night he passed in medftation.

Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his
veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed
and taken part in?

Strange inconsistency of Nature,

 
 

     

140 THE WHITE sQUAW.

The heroic chief, still decked in the war-paint of his
father’s race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours,
could not restrain himself from. shuddering.

His mother’s spirit seemed to hover around him—her eyes
sad and reproachful—her heart heavy.

“They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that
you have immolated on the shrine of your vengeance.”

So seemed it to say !

His head sunk upon his breast. He sighed: heavily.

Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction, his thoughts
deeper than plummet ever sounded.

The weary hours of night crept slowly past; and yet he
stirred not. Fears and forebodings filled his warrior’s heart.

“JT have done all for the best,” muttered he to himself.
“Witness it thou, Great Spirit, all for the best! For the
future of my father’s race, I have closed my heart to pity.
It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on our
people to the slaughter. It was that they might begin the
great work of regeneration assured in their strength, conscious
of their invincibility.”

Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of
despondency. With want of action this had come upon him.
The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright
hope.

The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir him-
self and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the
effort, and: emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors,
of his tribe.

As he stepped ferth, he perceived Marocota slowly ap-
proaching.

In an instant, the slumbering passion of hate was re-
awakened: he saw in the young Indian’s eye that be had
news to communicate.

 

 

 

 

 
 

DISOBEDIENCE 141

“Speak! have you found him ?”

“Yes! He is found.”

“T mean Warren Rody. Make no error, Marocota—tell
me is it Warren Rody you have found ?”

“He has been found !”

“Then all is well. Quick, bring him to me—let me look
upon this dog of a pale-face !”

Marocota made no answer, but stood silent.

“Do you hear me? Bring the dog before me. My eyes
hunger for a sight of his crayen countenance. I would see
his white-livered face of fear—watch his trembling frame as
he stands in my presence.”

Still Marocota did not speak.

“By the Great Spirit, Marocota, why do you not go for
him? Why do you not answer me ?”

“*Marocota dreads your anger.”

“You, an Indian warrior, and afraid. What do you mean ?”

“That I have disobeyed your commands.”

“Ha, wretch, I understand. You found him, but he escaped.”

“Not that—”

“What is it, then? Speak. Did he defy you? Was he
too powerful ? Then summon our warriors, and if itcost the
life of every Indian in Florida, I swear he shall be captured.
Answer me, orI shall do you mischief”

“Marocota deserves punishment.”

The young chief, now fully aroused to anger, cast a signifi-
cant look at his subordinate. He could scarce refrain from
striking him to the ground, and it was with an effort that he
resumed speech :

“No more mystery! Speak! Where is he?”

“Dead |”

- Wacora made a bound toward the speaker as he cried
“ did you kill him ?”

 
  

142 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“T did!”

Marocota fearlessly stood to await the stroke of the upraised
tomahawk.

It fell, but not on the Indian’s skull.

With a curse, Wacora flung his weapon on the grass.

“ Wretch !” he cried, “ you have robbed me of my revenge.
May the arm that took that man’s life hang palsied by your
side forever. May—oh, curse you! curse you!”

Marocota’s head fell upon his breast. He dared not meet
his chief’s angry glances, more dreaded than the blow of his
hatchet. :

For some moments there was silence, while Wacora paced
to and fro like a tiger in its cage.

CHAPTER XXXI.
A SAD SPECTACLE.

AFTER a time the enraged chief, pausing in his steps, stood
by the side of the silent warrior.

“Tell me how it happened,” he said, apparently becoming
calmer. “ Tell me all!”

-Marocota related the circumstances as they had happened.

“Tt was to save Nelatee’s life that you fired upon the
monster ?”

“Tt was !”

“And he? Where is Nelatee ?”

“He is close by with Sansuta. See, they come this way !”

‘As Wacora looked in the direction indicated, he perceived
his two cousins approaching.

 

2

  

 
 

 

  
\

et

 

A SAD SIGHT. 148

At the sight a deep groan escaped from his bosom.

The beautiful maiden, now wan and sad, with her head
leaning on Nelatee’s shoulder, seemed absorbed in the contem-
plation of some wild-flowers which she heid in her hand.
There were others wreathed in her hair.

It was the only way that her brother had been able to en-
tice her away trom the spot where her seducer had perished,
He had humored her as best he could, stopping every now and
then, to allow her to pluck the flowers upon their path.

In this manner had she been conducted to the camp.

On coming up to Wacora, Nelatee held his hand out to his
cousin, and the two, with tears in their eyes, exchanged a
distracted grasp of the hand.

As for Sansuta, she did not look up from her boquet, but
with restless fingers continued arranging and rearranging the
flowers, all the while singing to herself asad, soft Indian air.

“ Nelatee,” said Wacora, “ this is a sad sight !”

“ Hush! she is quiet now! Twice this morning she has
had passionate fits of weeping. See, she is unconscious of
our presence. Has Marocota told you ?”

“He has told me all! I would (ten thousand times more,
now that I have seen her) have gladly given my own life to
have taken his!”

“Tt was fated otherwise !’”

“Tt was! But what is to be done with her? She must
not stay here. We are now on the war-path. She must go
along With the other squaws to our town.”

“Then let me take her there—with me she is quiet. I
will not be long away from you. I pant for action.”

“ Be it so!”

Nelatee turned to his sister, put his arm in hers, and was
ebout to lead her off, when a man rushed into the presence
of the chief, crying out as he approached :

 
 

144 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“Good news! The body of the white chief, Rody, has
‘been found, and—”

The warning gesture had been lost upon the impatient
speaker.

It was too late now. Sansuta had heard the fated name.

Casting from her the flowers she had been trifling with,
she uttered shriek upon shriek, running wildly and beseech-
ingly backward and forward from ber brother to her cousin,
who both stood spell-bound with surprise and grief.

“Where-have you hid him? Give him to me. You shall
not kill him. No, no, no. Isay you shall not hurt him!
Warren! Warren! ’tis Sansuta calls. Murderers! would you
kill my love? “He never injured you. Take my life, not his!
Warren! Warren! Oh, donotkeephim from me. See, that
is his blood upon your hands. His eyes are closed in death!
It is you, wretches, that have murdered him. No, no-—stand
back. I would not have you touch me while your hands are
red with his blood. Back! back! I will find him. No, you
shall kill me first. I will find Warren Rody! Help! help!
Save me from his murderers! Help me to find my murdered
lover !”

With renewed screams of agony that struck horror into the
listeners’ hearts, the girl, eluding their grasp, darted away into
the forest.

At a signal from Wacora, Nelatee started in pursuit.

“ May the lightnings blast all who have brought about this.
Fool that I was, just now;’to feel pity for the pale-faces.
Nothing that revenge can accomplish will make up for this!
Here I swear to take vengeance, far more terrible venge-
ance, to which that of last night shall be but a mockery !”

With these words, the young chief hastened away from
the spot, followed by Marocota and the messenger.

   

  
  

CHAPTER’ XXXII.
.SPARE HER! SPARE HER!

{ Tm. yportunity of this vengeance was already close at
hand,

Witki. the space inclosed by the Indian tents, under guard
of some sarriors, stood a group of pale-face prisoners.

It conrtsted of several men, and among them a young girl.

Wacorr stopped on perceiving the group. His features
were illumiacd with a savage joy.

One of the chiefs, advancing, reported their having been
captured whi's 1ttempting to escape through the adjoining
forest.

“ What’s to bo Jone with them ?” he asked.

“They shall ce by torture !”

“The girl?”

“She, too, shall aie! Who is she?”

“T do not know tf”
| . Turning to Maroctta, he propounded a similar question.
Marocota was equally ignorant of the person of the captive.

The chief ordered he, to’be brought before him.

With an undaunted stp, although evidently suffering from
febility and sorrow, the girl allowed herself to be led along.

Once in Wacora’s presence, with a modest courage ‘she
gazed into his face.

“ Who are you ?” he asked.

“ Your prisoner !”

“ When were you captured?”

“ About two hours ago!”

}
;
|
;
:
i
t
{

 

 
146 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“ You were trying to escape ?”
“T was!”
“Your companions, who are they ?”
“T know nothing of them except that they are people be-
longing to the settlement. They were kind to me, and en
deavored to help me in my escape.”

“ You know your doom ?”

She answered, sadly, “ I expect no mercy.”

Wacora, struck with this reply, felt an interest in the cour-
ageous girl which he could not account for.

“You have been taught to think of the red-man as a re-
morseless savage ?”

“ Not as remorseless, only as revengeful.”

“Then you acknowledge that we have just cause for re-
vengeful feelings ?”

“T did not say so.”

“But you implied it.”

“All men have enemies; the truly great are the only ones
' who can forego revenge.”

“ But savages must act according to their instincts.”

“ Savages, yes! but men who know right from wrong should
act from judgment.”

“Tf I spared your life, you would still consider me a say-
age.”

“My life is nothing to me. Those I loved are now dead.”

“Your mother ?” .

“She died when I was a child.”

“Your father ?”

“Was killed last night.”

Wacora seemed lost in thought as he said, half aside, “So
young, and yet with no fear of death.”

The young girl overheard the muttered soliloquy, and made
answer to it

     
   

  

 
  
 
 
 
 

 

  

Rs

 
 
   
wo

 

A NAME. 47

“To the unhappy, death is welcome !”

“ Unhappy ?”

“T have told you that all I loved are dead.”

“Yet, death is terrible.” :

With a mournful cadence in her voice, the young girl simply
said, “ Is it ?”

Wacora was astonished. His dauntless spirit felt for the
captive. Another question rose to his mind. He gave it ut-
terance.

“Your name ?”

“ Alice Rody.”

With a yell of fiendish delight he grasped the maiden’s
arm.

“You! the daughter of that accursed man, the sister of
that demon in human form? Then, by the Great Spirit above
us, by the ashes of my ancestors, you shall die!) My own
hand shall inflict the blow !”

As he uttered these words, he drew a knife from his belt,
and was on the point of sheathing it in her heart, when his
arm was seized, and a voice, full of agony, vibrated in his ear.

“Spare her! Oh, spare her! Take my life instead.”

“Nelatee ?”

“ Yes, Nelatee, your cousin, your slave, if you will, only
spare her life !”

“You forget her name?

~ “ No, no, I know it but too well.”

“You forget that her father has been the accursed cause
of all this misery.”

“ No, I remember that, too.”

“That her brother was Sansuta’s—”

“No, Wacora, I remember all !”’

“Then you are insane thus to beg for her life. She must
die” -

 
         

   

148

 

THE WHITE SQUAW.

“Tam not insane. Oh, Wacora! on my Knees I implore
you to spare her !”

“Rise, Nelatee; the son of Oluski should not bend his
knee to man. At your intercession her life shall be spared.”

Nelatee rose from the ground.

“You are indeed our chief, Wacora ; your heart is open and
generous.”

“ Stay yet, before you mistake me. I give you her life,
but, ‘an eye for an eye;’ she shall suffer what Sansuta has
suffered. I spare her life, but not her honor!”

“ Wacora !”

“JT have said it. Here,” turning to the assembled warriors,
who had been amazed witnesses of the scene; “this is the
child of our enemy, Elias Rody. Ihave, at Nelatee’s entreaty,
spared her life. I bestow her upon the tribe—do with her
what you will !”

Nelatee leaped before the advancing braves

“Back! he cried. “ The first who lays hand upon her
dies !”

Wacora gazed upon his cousin. In his breast, rage con-
tended with wonder.

“ Heed him not, he is insane !”

“No, not insane !”

“Speak: what then ?”

“T love her! I love her !”

The young girl, who had stood like a statue throughout all
_ the previous scene, gave a start, and, cowering to the ground,
buried her face in her hands.

To Wacora, the words of Nelatee were no less surpris-
ing.

Turning to the shrinking maiden, he said:

* You hear what Nelatee says. He loves you.”

She murmured faintly, “ I hear.”
 

   

149

  

SENTENCE AND EXECUTION.

  

 

“ He loves you. Wacora, too, has loved. That love has
been trampled upon, and by your wretch of a brother! Yet,
still it shall plead for Nelatee. His request is granted. You
are spared both life and honor, but must remain a prisoner.
Conduct her hence !”

“ And these men ?” asked a warrior, pointing to the other
prisoners.

Wacora’s heart, touched for an instant by his cousin’s plead-
ing, as well as by Alice Rody’s heroic bearing, became again
hardened. He replied :

“They must die! not by the torture, but at once. Let them
be shot !”

The brave fellows, discaining to sue for mercy, were léd
away from the spot.

Nelatee approached the girl, and offered her his hand, in-
tending to take her away. Shudderingly she drew back, and,
with a calm grief, went forward alone.

Wacora, left to himself, fell again into a fit of abstraction,
and paced back and forward, in front of his tent.

Soon after he heard several shots, that came echoing from
tne woods.

His captives had been released from all earthly care.

  
  

  
   

    

THE WHITE SQUAW

CHA P TER XX X1E-
RUIN AMONG THE RUINS.

Tue Indian encampment near Tampa bay was broken up

The women and children, attended by a few warriors, had
departed for the town.

Alice Rody, a prisoner, went along with them
_ Wacora, Nelatee, and the rest of the tribe, joined others of
their race in the war which now rapidly spread over the
whole peninsula.

For a time, the Seminole tribes led a wandering life. The
varying successes or defeats of the protracted contest entaileJ
upon them hoth vigilance and activity.

It was therefore only occasionally that the cousins were eu-
abled to visit the town in which their people permanently ie-
sided. ,

Sansuta had now seldom any relapses of her fits of violent
madness, She was silent and melancholy, and wandered
about, rapt in her own bewildered thoughts.

Alice, although a prisoner, was suffered to come and go as
it pleased her. The poor girl had, with the loss of her father
and brother, no aspiration for liberty. A dull apathy, which
she did not endeavor to dispel, had come over her.

She spoke to no one but Sansuta, and the crazed victim of
her brother’s heartless selfishness was the only object which
seemed to interest her.

Nelatee’s love for the pale-faced maiden made no progress,

A wan smile was all the reward the Indian youth received
for his patient devotion.
TWO GIRLS. 151

In those intervals of the war which permitted him a resi-
dence in the Indian town, he became her very slave, and
sought by a thousand attentions to win her regard.

To this end, vainly, he tried every means.

Vainly he rose at earliest dawn and made his way to the
woods in order to secure for her the beautiful plumage of
Lirds, or to gather rare flowers with which to gratify her.

When he presented such things, she thanked him without_
emotion, and surveyed them without pleasure.

She remained equally indifferent to his assiduous cares for
her comfort, and seemed to ignore alike his presence and his
passion.

Not that he ever breathed a word of it in her ears.

That confession had been wrung from him in his desire to
save her life—it had never since found voice.

He felt that his passion was hopeless, but still he nursed
it.

To-Sansuta, Alice indeed proved a guardian angel.

At first, the Indian girl repelled the tender solicitude ex-
pressed by the white maiden, and with an alarmed look
seemed to dread even her voice.

In time, however, won by the magic of kindness, she sought _
the company of the captive, and in her presence seemed
happy.

Often they would stroll away from the town, and in some
quiet spot pass hours together, Alice in silent thought, San-
suta in such childish employments as stringing beads or making
baskets with the flowers, and tendrils of the wild vine.

A favorite haunt with them was the old fort.

Among its ruins they would seat themselves in silence,
gach busy with her own thoughts.

And thus was their time tranquilly passed, while war was
raging around them. ‘

*

 
   

  

152 THE WHITE SQUAW.

But the first storm of conflict had been passed, and was
succeeded by a temporary calm.

The pale-faces had abandoned the smaller settleraents and
detached plantations, and in the neighboring towns awaited
the arrival of the government “troops on their way to prose-
cute the campaign throughout the whole peninsula.

The Indians had sought their respective rendezvous’, there
to mature plans for a more perfect organization.

Nelatee and Wacora had returned home—for such was the
title Wacora now gave to the place where Oluski’s tribe had
their permanent residence.

The exigencies of the contest had compelled the with-
drawal of his own warriors from his father’s town, and the
two tribes, Oluski’s and his own, had become fused into one
powerful community.

The chief’s feeling toward his captive had undergone a
marked change. He no longer wished to harm her, and, had

‘she demanded her liberty, he would have granted it freely.

Of what use is liberty to the homeless?

The prisoner’s aspiration ever turns to home; that once de-
stroyed, all places else seem the same.

Like those poor wretches mentioned in history, whose in-
carceration outlived the memory of the past, and whose friends
and relatives were engulfed in the sea of forgetfulness, Alice
Rody had become careless of her freedom, nay, in a manner,
preferred her captivity to the uncertainties of an unknown
future, where no kindred waited her return, no friends stood
expectant to receive her !

Hope, the brightest possession to the wretched, was no
longer hers.

A sense of security, almost contentment, had stolen inte
her heart. Time had done much to assuage the terrible sor -
row from which she had suffered. e

 
ene.

A DREAM. 158

Jt was a wonderfal transformation to the once high-spirited
girl who had shown such energy and fortitude in the midst
of danger.

So thought the young chief, Wacora.

To Nelatee it was a negative happiness. She had not
energy to chide his ardent devotion, but submitted to it
passively, without bestowing the slightest encouragement.

One lovely afternoou, Sansuta, conducted ‘by Alice, strolled
to the ruined fort.

Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she
had commenced to make. Alice, seated on ‘a fragment of
stone, watched her companion’s trivial employment.

As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden,
she seemed on the point of fainting. She had grown thinner
during the last few weeks, and her hollow cheeks were
tinged with a hectic flush.

“Rest your head on my lap, Sansuta !”

As Alice spoke, she gently caught the poor girl in her
arms.

“T am tired—oh, so tired,” said Sansuta.

“You must not walk so far another time. We must seek
some place nearer to the town.”

The Indian girl did not appear to heed her, but commenced
singing softly i, herself.

She paused abruptly in her song, and looked ‘up into her
companion’s face.

“Last night I dreamed I was in another land, walking
along a wood-path. It was strewn with lovely flowers; on
bota sides were beautiful creeping plants, over which bright
butterflies sailed; there were birds, too—such birds—with
plumage of silver and gold. I heard music. Was it the
land of the Great Spirit? Do you think it was ?”

“Who knows? It might have been !”

 
   

154 THE WHITE sQUuAw.

“There I met my father. Not stern as our warriors are
—but sad and weeping. Why did he weep 2”

Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from
making answer to the artless question.

“ When £ saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him.
He spoke kindly to me—but:why did he weep 2”

Still no answer from her listening companion.

“Then I dreamed—no, I can not remember what else I
dreamed—yet there was some one else there. I seemed to
know his face, too—but a great storm arose, and all became
dark, and I grew frightened. What was that ?”

“ Alas! Sansuta, I can not read my own dreams—far less
yours.”

But Sansuta had already forgotten her questions, and was
again singing softly to herself.

Presently, she stopped once more, and putting both arms
around Alice’s neck, murmured that she was tired.

The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and as she did so, the
tears from her eyes fell on Sansuta’s cheek.

“Why do you weep? Who has injured you ?”

Had Alice framed thoughts into words, she would have
answered “the whole world;” but instead of this she only replied
to her companion with gentle endearments, and at length
caressed her into a gentle sleep. \

It was a beautiful tableau for a painter to delineate—
beautiful, but at the same time sadly impressive.

A young Indian chief, who had been a silent witness to it,
must have thought so, by the sigh that escaped him, as he
turned his face away.

Wacora was the chief who thus sighed.

    

 

 
 

 

  

THE CONQUEROR CONQUERED.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
STRANGE CHANGES.

Wacora’s love for Sansuta had long since changed inta
pity.

A new feeling now possessed his heart.

A new love had arisen from the ashes of the past. Alice
Rody was its object !

He had at first been struck with admiration at her courage ;
afterward, he had witnessed her. discretion and tenderness,
and then noted her beauty.

His thoughts, thus stirred, soon ripened into a passion far
stronger than respect.

Pity and love had exchanged places within his bosom.

He and his captive had done the same.

The girl was free—her jailer had become her prisoner.

This new phase of feeling was not accomplished suddenly.
It grew silently and slowly, but surely. One thought troubled
Wacora. It was Nelatee’s admiration for Alice Rody.

He saw that she cared not for his cousin: but he forebore
to urge his own suit, out of compassion for Sansuta’s brother,
His love, therefore, was speechless, and his captive was uncon-
scious of it.

But what of her. j

She, too, had changed.

By one of those marvelous transformations of which the
human heart is capable, Alice Rody not only became recon-
ciled to her residence among the Indians, but soon found
much that interested her, even to the awakening of pleasant
thoughts,

 

  
   

156 THE WHITE SQUAW.

Many of the Seminoles were, as has been stated, weil
educated, and with education had come the usual chastening
influence.
This was especially true of the young chief, Wacera, and
she had not failed to observe it.
The first reflection was: what he might have been had le
been brought up among her own race—for, although she had
not been told of his mother being a white woman, she did
not doubt that he had white blood in his veins.
What might not’a man of his intelligence, chivalric courage,
and purity of thought, have become in a society where civiliza-
tion would have developed all these mental qualities ?
The question was a-natural one when viewing only the
advantages which high culture presented; but its obverse
‘was unfavorable when considering that civilization is often
an approach to barbarism through selfishness and rapacity.
She answered the query herself, and favorably for him.
This mental questioning once commenced, did not pause,
but went on to further consideration of the character of the
young chief.
His thoughtfulness seemed as much sprung from regret at
the compulsory warfare he was waging against her race,as the
noble enthusiasm with which his soul was filled.
The heart of woman easily yields its admiration to an
enthusiast !
The motive may be condemned, but the spiritual essence of
thought that prompts to action still remains to be admired.

It will thus be seen that the first abhorrence had given place
to interest, and interest had ripened into —

Into what ? ;

There was no answer to that question, as it came before
Alice Rody’s mind. She evaded it, ‘and strove calmly to
consider Wacora as her captor.

   
w

WASTING AWAY. “157

But it soon seemed impossible to look upon him in this light.

No preux chevalier could be more courteous in his bearing.
No prince more calmly conscious of his own birthright.

His was of the oldest patent. Whether thinking so or
not, he was one of Nature’s noblemen.

A few months had wrought these marvelous changes in
the personages of our tale, and upon Wacora’s sudden
departure to the scene of war, both he and his captive felt a
strange void in their hearts, unaccountable because novel,

Nelatee, whose hope of winning the regard of the pale-
faced maiden had sunk into a calm state of despair, departed
with his cousin, hoping that on the field of battle he might
find a still calmer rest.

His fate, wrapped in the dark mystery of the future, was
veiled from him

CHAPTER XXXYV.

A PEACEFUL PARTING.

THE summer nad waned into autumn.

With the change of season came algo a change over the
hapless Indian maiden, Sansuta.

Her weakness, which had been continually increasing, was
now so great that she could no longer stray with Alice to
their favorite haunts. ;

The poor girl’s form had wasted away, and her features
become shrunken. Her dark, lustrous eyes alone seemed to
retain their vitality.

All her former violence had disappeared, and a change had
also made itself manifest in her mental condition.

 
   

158 THE WHITE sQUuAW.

Now and then, she had lucid moments of thought, during
which she wou.d shed torrents of tears on Alice’s shoulder—
only with the return of her malady would she appear happy
and at peace.

Toward sunset of a lovely day the two girls sat together
at the door of Sansuta’s dwelling.

“ See !” said the Indian girl, “the flowers are closing, the
birds have gone into the deep forest. I have been expecting
some one, but he has not come yet. Do you know who it is ?”

“No, I do not.”

“Tis Warren, Why do you start and tremble? He will
not hurt you.- Who was it you thought I meant ?”

“TJ can not tell, dear Sansuta.”

“No one but him. I think of him always, although—”
she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, “I dare not cail
his name. I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid of my brother
Nelatee, and my cousin Wacora. Why does the sun look so
fiery? It is the color of blood—blood—blood! That red
color, is it on your hands, too? Ah, no! you are no mur-
derer !”

“Hush, Sansuta! you are excited.”

“Oh, yonder sun! Do you know that I feel as if it were
the last time I shall ever see it set. Sée, there are dark lines
across the sky, ribbed with bands of black clouds. It is the
last day, the last day !”

“T see nothing, only the approach of night.’

“But you hear something! Don’t you hear the spirits
singing their death march over Oluski’s grave. He was my
father. Ihearit. Itisasummons. Itis forme. I must go.”

“Go! where?”

“Far avay. No, it is of no use clasping me to your heart
It is not Sansuta’s body that will leave you—it is her spirit.
In the happy hunting-grounds I shall meet with him.”

   

me
  

 

PITY AND FORGIVENESS. 158

A few moments after she became tranquil; but the lucid
interval succeeded, and hot tears coursed down her hollow
cheeks.

Again her mind wandered, and for two or three hours, re
fusing to enter the house, she sat muttering to herself the
same fancies.

Alice could but sit beside her and listen. Now and then
she sought to soothe her, but in vain. :

By-and-by, Sansuta’s voice grew faint. She seemed to lean
beavier on the arm of her pale-faced friend, and the luster of
her eye gradually became dimmer.

The change was alarming, and Alice would nates risen and
ca'ed for help, but an imploring glance from Sansuta pre-
vented her.

“Don’t leave me !” she murmured, gently.

Her voice was changed. She had recovered reason, and
her companion perceived it.

“Donot leave me! I shall not detain you long. I know
you now—have known yot, it seems, for years. You are
‘Warren's sister. In his sister’s arms let his Sansuta lie. All the
terrible past returns to me, I know it all, but yet I do not grieve,
for there is peace in my heart toward all, even to those who
took his life. Forgiveness has come back with reason, and my
last prayers shali be, that they who made Sansuta unhappy

may be forgiven !”

She spoke in so low a voice, that it was with difficulty her
companion could hear what she said.

“ Kiss me, Alice Rody! Speak to me! Let me hear you
say that Sansuta was your friend 2?”

“ Was—is my friend !”

“No; let me say was, for Iam about to leave you. The
time is come. I am ready! My last prayer is ‘Pity and
Forgiveness! Pity and—”

 

  
 

  

160 THE WHITE 8QUAW.

By the gentle m >tion of her lips, she appeared to be pray
ing.

That motion ceased, and with it her unhappy life.

Alice still continued to hold her in her arms long after her
soul had passed into eternity !

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE BURNT SHANTY.

Tue ghost of Crookleg did not in any way disturb Uns
Carrol, either sleeping or awake.

The worthy backwoodsman believed that he had done a
highly meritorious action, in forever disposing of that malevo-
lent individual.

“The infernal black skunk, to be cuttin’ his capers over the
bodies of brave men, who had laitl down their lives in a war
he and sich as he brought about. It war no more nor an
act of justice to send him to everlastin’ perdiction, and if I
never done a more valuable thing to society than stickin’ three
inches of cold steel atween his two shoulder-blades, I think
I desarves the thanks o’ the hull commoonity.”

This consolation Cris indulged in whenever he thougLt

of that terrible episode upon Tampa hill.

He had returned afew days after the massacre, and had
found the dead decently buried.

‘Wacora had commanded it to be done.

The charred ruins of Rody’s house, however, recalled the
memory of that eveatful night.

For some time after his last visit to Tampa bay, Cris Carrol

 

  
THE FORTUNE OF WAR. “si

had not been seen. Neither the pule-faces nor the :ed-
skins had been able to discover his whereabouts.

The truth is, that the backwoodsman was glad to get
away from scenes where so much violence had been. done te
his feelings.

As he had said, he couwldn’t fight against the Indians, and
he wouldn't take up arms against the whites.

“Tt ain’t in human natur to shoot and stab one’s own sort,
eyen when they’re in the wrong, unless they’d done somethin’
agin’ one’s self, and that they hain’t, sofurasregardsme. Tl
be eternally dog-goned if I think the red-skins are to blame,
for rising ag’in’ oppression and tyranny; which is what old
Rody did to them, to say nothin’ ag’in’ him now he’s dead, but
to speak the truth, and that’s bad enough for him. No; they
war not to blame for what they did arter his conduct to them,
the old cuss, who, bad as he war, had one redeemin’ feature in
his karactur, and that war hisangeliferous darter. Where kin
she have gone a-hidin’? That puzzles this chile, it do.”

Cris was unaware of Alice’s capture and imprisonment.

As suddenly as he had taken departure from Tampa, Cris
returned to the same neighborhood. He expected the war
to be transferred to a more distant point, and wished, still, to
keep out of the way.

“Tt’s the durnedest kind of fightin’ I ever heard on,” said
he, to himself. “First it’s here, then it's there, and then it
ain’t nowhere ’till it breaks out all over ag’in where it was
before, and they’re as far off the end of it as I am from
Greenland. Durn it, I never knowed nothin’ like it.”

On his return to Tampa, he found the country around
altogether deserted. Most of the buildings and planters’
houses had been destroyed. Even his own wretched hut had
been burned to the ground.

“This is vhat they call the fortun’ of war,I s’pose,” he

 
   

162 THE WHITE SQUAW.

remarked as he stood gazing at the ruins. ‘ Wal, it war a
ramshackle crazy ole shanty, any how, and I allers despised
four walls an’ a roof at the best o’ times. Still, it war ‘home.’
Pshaw !” he added, after a moment’s silence, “ what have I to
grow molloncholly about, over sich a place as this, calling it
y home,’ when I sti! have the savannas to hunt over an’ sleep
upon. If that’s sich a place as home for me, that’s it and
no other.”

For all his stoicism, the old hunter sighed as he turned
from the blackened spot which marked the site of his former
dwelling.

He paused at the bend of the road, where Crookleg had
first met Nelatee, to gaze again at his ruined home. Not
only paused, but sat down on the self-same rail that the negro
had perched upon, and from gazing upon it, fell to reflecting.

So absorbed was he in its contemplation, that, contrary to
his usual caution, he took no note of time, nor once removed
his eyes from the subject of his thoughts.

He did not perceive the approach of a danger.

It came in the form of four individuals, who had silently
and stealthily crept close to the spot where he was sitting.
Before he knew of their proximity, he was their prisoner.

“ Red-skins !” he exclaimed, struggling to free himself.

His captors smiled grimly at his vain efforts.

“ By the etarnal! I’m treed this time! Durn my stupid
carcass for not havin’ eyes sot in the back o’ the head. Wal,
you may grin, old copper-skins ; it’s your turn now—msybe
itll be mine next. What are you a-doin’ now ?”

Without deigning a reply, the Indians bound his arms se-
eurely behind him.

That done, they made signs to him to follow them.

“Wal, gentlemen,” said Cris,“ yur about as silent a party
asaman might wish to meet, durn me if you ain't! I’m

   
CRIS IN TROUBLE. 163

comin’ Much obleeged to you for your escort, which I ked
’a done without. So, thanks to your red-skiu perliteness for
nothin! Go ahead, I kin walk without your helpin’ me,
Where air ye bound for?”

“To the chief,’ answered one of the men.

“ The chief—what chief ?”

“ Wacora.”

Cris uttered an emphatic oath.

“Wacora! eh? If that’s the case, I reckon the days 0’
Cris Carrol air drawin’ to a close. The fiercest and most
vengeful cuss of them all, ’'ve heard say. Lead on. Tl go
along with ye willin’, but not cheerful. If they kill me like
a man, I'll not tremble in a j’int ; but if it’s the torture—there,
go ahead! Jon’t keep the party waitin’ !”

Brave heart, as he was, he followed them with as bold and
free a step, to what he believed to be his death, as if alone,
and at liberty on the savanna.

The Indians, without exchanging a word, either among
themselves or with him, proceeded toward Oluski’s town.

At night they encamped in the forest.

Lighting no fires, lest these might betray them to their en
emies, they produced from their packs some dried meat and
meal-cake.

Cris did full justice to the humble fare, although he made
rather a wry face at the gourd of spring water, with which
he was invited by his captors to wash down the frugal repast.

Mastering his aversion, he, however, managed to swallow
a few mouthfuls.

Supper over, two of his captors wrapped themselves in
their blankets, and immediately fell asleep. The other two
remained awake, watching him.

Carrol saw that any attempt to escape under the eyes of
two Indians would be idle.

 
  

   

 

164 THE WHITE sQuAY.

One he might have coped with, even unarmed as he was
Two would be more than a match for him, and he knew that
on the slightest alarm the sleeping men would awake, making
it four to one.

With the philosophy of a stoic he threw himself upon the
ground, and also fell asleép.

He awoke once in the night to find that his guards had
been changed. There was no better prospect of freedom than
before.

“Durn them ! they’re bound to fix me, I kin see that plain
enough. Besides, with these ’tarnal, all-fired thongs cuttin’
into my elbows, what could I do ?”

Apparently nothing, for, with a muttered curse at his own
stupidity, he again composed himself to slumber.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
DEATH AT THE STAKE.

Wir the dawn of morning, Cris Carrol and his captors
continued their journey.
They made no other halt before reaching the town.
Carro}, in vain, tried to draw from them the reason of their
unexpected presence at so great a distance from the residencej
of the tribe. &
They gave him no satisfaction.
He discovered, however, that, whatever errand they had
been sent on, they had failed in accomplishing it, and his own we
capture began to be considered by hing as a peace-offering
with which they irtended to mollify Wacora’s wrath at their
Sian .

TAUNTS AND JEERS. 165

want of success in the mission with which they had been
charged.

“ Wal,” reflected he, “ I suppose ’'m in some poor devil’s
place. Perhaps I mout take more pleasure in doing him this
good turn if I only knowed who he is. No doubt, he’s got
some folks as ’ud grieve over him, but there ain’t a many as
will fret over Cris Carrol, not as I knows on. Yes, all right !
go ahead ! let's go whar glory ’waits us, ye catawampous
scamps you. Ah, four to one; if it had been two to one, or,
at a pinch, three to one, I'd have tried it on if it hed cost me
all I’ve got, and that’s my life. Wagh! it’s almost enough to
make one turn store-keeper to think on’t!” $

Unmoved by the taunts and jeers which Cris liberally
showered upon them during the journey, the Indians contin-
ued to watch him narrowly.

It was about mid-day when they arrived at their destina-
tion.

On entering the Indian town, Carrol was thrust into one
of the houses, where he was left to await the order of Wacora
as to his-final disposition. Four guards were kept over himn—®
two inside the house, the other two without. 3

He expected immediate death, but he was left Gndisturbed
for the rest of the day, and at night received some supper,
consisting of dried meat, bread and water. He was then per-
initted to pass the bours till morning as seemed best to him.

The hunter soon arranged his plans. He wrapped the

«blanket that had been given him around his body, and in a
few moments was in a sound slumber.

His sleep lasted until a hand upon his shoulder, along with
@ summons to awake, aroused him. It was one of his guards
of yesterday who addressed him.

“Come !”

“Is that you, old dummy?” asked he, recognizing the

6

 
 

  

166 THE WHITE sQUAW.

Indian. “T can’t say I'm glad to see you, since you’ve broke
in on the pleasantest dream I’ve had fora long time. But,
never mind ! how shed you know you war a-doing it, you
peor, savage critter you, that don’t know nothiu’ but to hande
a tomahawk, and raise the ha’r off a human head What do.
you want with me now ?”

“The warriors are assembled !”

“Air they? Wal, that’s kind of them, only they neein’t*
have put themselves out of the way to get up so early on wy
account. 7 I could have waited.”

“Come !”

“Wal, ’m comin’ ; d’ye think I’m afraid, durn ye? D’ye
think Pm afraid of you, or all the warriors of y’ur tribe, or
yur chief, Wacora, either?”

“ Wacora is not here !”

“Not here! Where is he?” ;

“JT can not answer the pale-face’s question. I come &
bring you before the council.”

“Wal, I’m ready to go afore the council.”

e As they were about to emerge from the house, a sudder
idea seemed to strike Carrol, and he stopped his conductor.

“Say, friend, will you tell me one thing ?”’

“ Speak.”

“Whar air we ?”

“ At Oluski’s town.”

Carrol’s face beamed with a sudden joy.

“ And his son, Nelatee, is this his house ?”

“Tt is.”

“Hurray! Now, I dare say you wonder at my bein’
struck all of a heap wi’ delight. But I'll tell you one thing,
red-skin—no offense, not knowin’ your name—you and y’ur
three partners have tuk a most uncommon sight of trouble
all for nothin’.””

 

9

 

  
 

 

 

  

FOREDOOMED. 167

“ What do you mean ?”

“Jist this: Go and tell Nelatee that Cris Carrol is the
party as you sneaked up to and took prisoner, and arter that,
streak it for your precious lives.”

“ Nelatee ?”

“Yes, Nelatee; he’s a friend o’ this ole coon, and one that'll
prove himself so, too, in givin’ you skunks as took me a deal
more nor you bargained for.”

“ Nelatee is not here.”

“ Not here? Why, didn’t you tell me jist now that this
war his father’s town ?”

“T did, but Nelatee is not here.”

“ Not now, perhaps, but I s’pose he’ll be here.”

“ He will not return for weeks.”

Carrol’s countenance fell.

“Then, dog-gone your skins, lead on! I throw up the
deck of cards, now that the trump’s out of them. ’Tis my
luck, and it’s the darnedest luck I ever seed. There’s no
standin’ ag’in’ it. Is’pose I must gin in.”

They entered the council-chamber, where the assembled
warriors awaited them. \

With his foot upon the threshold, his manner entirely
changed from the light, jeering hilarity ge had exhibited to
that of a calm, dignified bearing.

He saw in an instant that he was foredoomed.

The stern expression of his judges told him as much.

The mock-ceremonial of examination was proceeded with,
and a vain attempt made to extract from him intelligence of
the movements of the whites, especially of the numbers and
disposition of the gove:ament troops, some of whom had by
this time arrived on the peninsula.

His disdainful refusai to betray his own race did him no
service.

 

  
  

 

168 THE WHITE sQuAW.

True, he was already sentenced to die, but the manner of
his death might, perhaps, inflict horror upon him who had no
fear of dying.

Though the questions were skillfully put to him, the old
hunter saw through them all.

He did not, indeed, possess much knowledge of the mili-
tary invasion, but, had he been ‘in the secrets of the command-
ing officer himself, he could not have been more reticent in
his replies.

Utterly foiled in their questioning, the warriors played their
last card, and, with threats of the most terrible tortures, en-
Geavored to wring from his fears what his honor would not
reveal,

Vain effort. on their part.

Cris did indeed wince when they first spoke of torture ; but,
recovering himself, he became more proudly defiant than
before.

“Ye may shake my old body with rackin’ pains—I know
you've got devil’s inventions, and I don’t deny but they’re aw-
ful—but there’s somethin’ about me that ye can’t make
tremble, not if all the imps o’ Hades war yer slaves. That’s
my soul. It'll come out of y’ur fiery ordeal as calm as it is
now, and with its lags thoughts itll despise and dare ye!
Cris Carrol arn’t bin backwoods hunter for a matter goin’ on
forty year to be skeart at burnin’ sticks or hot lead, and he'll
die as he has lived, an honest man !”

A mingled murmur of admiration and anger ran through
the assembled crowd, and it was evident that many of the
‘warriors would have given consent to his being set free.

There is something about true courage which extorts ad-
miration even from an enemy.

A hurried consultation took place among the head men in
council.

 

  

 
 

STOICISM. 169

It was speedily over, and the oldest of their numter rose,
and pronounced sentence against the prisoner.

It was death by burning at the stake!

Cris Carrol was not surprised on hearing it!

The sentence had already lost half of its terror. He had
made up his mind that this would be his doom.

Only one word of response came from his lips:

“ When ?”

“To-morrow !” replied he who had pronounced judgment.

Without bestowing a glance upon those who had thus
fixed the limit. of his earthly career, the hunter strode from
the council-chamber with calm and measured steps.

As he passed out, the crowd made way for him; and many
of the faces expressed admiration—some even pity.

The stoic bravery of the Indian is marvelous, and for him
death has no terrors, With them it is a sort of fatalism.

What they do not dread themselves, they make but light
of in others.

For all that, they have the highest admiration for a man
who dares meet death calmly.

In their eyes the white captive had assumed all the im-
portance of a great warrior.

Yet was he an enemy—one of the race with whom they
were at war. Therefore he must die.

Thus strangely do civilization and barbarism meet on com-
mon ground.

 
   

THE WHITE sQuAw.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE SLEEPING-DRAUGHT.

Cris CARRoL’s fortitude did not desert him, when he once
more found himself alone in the prison.

He was not wholly unmoved by the reflection that on the
morrow he must die. For it was a death such as even a
brave man might not meet bravely ; but a lingering death by
torture.

The hunter knew what this meant.

“ A bullet ain’t nothin’,” said he to himself. “It’s into
yer body afore ye knows it, and if it’s in yer vitals there’s an
end on it. But to stand up to be prodded with burnin’
sticks, requires a philosophy a’most as much as this hyar child
have got. Dog-rot it, it won’t bear thinkin’ on, that it won’t!
But [ll be all-fired etarnally if them fellows shall know
how it hurts Cris Carrol! So, let’em do their worst, durn
7em !”

After this self-consoling soliloquy, he calmly went to work to
make himself comfortable, by laying his blankets on the bare
ground, and improvising a pillow out of some logs that lay.
within reach,

As he handled the billets, a strange desire seized him. It
was to knock his guard’s brains out, and make a dash for
-iberty ;. but a moment’s reflection convinced him that the at-
tempt at escape would be futile, the men outside being
doubtless prepared to oppose his exit.

A disinclination to shed blood uselessly, decided him; and
he lay down composedly, after lighting his pipe

 
   
 

 
¢

“«

 

A VISITOR. > 171

For some time he ruminated on his condition, puffing
curls of smoke into the air, and watching them as they dis-
appeared.

Once or twice he heard a scratching noise near the corner
of the room, but it ceased almost as soon as he had noticed it.

At length giving way to weariness, he composed himself
to sleep, and before long his loud snoring suggested to his
guards that they might relax their vigilance.

They accordingly retired outside the door, after having
assured themselves that his slumber was genuine.

There were still four of them, and they began chattering
to each other, for a time forgetting their prisoner.

He was at length awakened by a gentle tug at his arm,
which had to be repeated several times before it had the effect
of arousing him.

In an instant he sat up.

“Eh? What? By the etarnal!”

An admonition of silence checked him, and he surveyed
with an astonished countenance the cause of his disturbance.

In the darkest corner of the hut, he perceived an opening
through which the face of a young girl was visible. He
started on recognizing her.

“ Hush,” said she, in a whisper, “ remember you are watched,
Lie down again. Listen, but say nothing. Ha! they are
coming back !”

At these words the speaker withdrew. Just in time, as
two of the guards next moment reéntered the room.

TLey did not stay long. The heavy snoring, which Cris
improvised forthem, disarmed them of suspicion.

The moment they were again gone, he turned his e7¢s to-
ward the opening, and listened.

“Do you know me? Answer by a sign.”

Cris nodded in the affirmative.

 
  

   

172 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“You believe I am desirous to serve you?”

To this question he almost nodded his head off.

“ Listen, then, and be careful to obey my instructions. This
opening leads into the next house. The exit from it is through
another. Unfortunately it isa public room. Therefore you can
not escape that way withcut running as much risk as you would
in going directly out by the door. Don’t go that way, bat by
the window. You see that window ?”

Cris looked up. He had seen the window, certainly, and
had already looked at it in every possible light while con-
sidering a means of escape, but had come to the conclusion
that it wouldn’t suit.

In reply, he shook his head despairingly.

His visitor seemed to understand him.

“Tt is too high, perhaps ?”

Cris intimated by a sign that the difficulty was not in its hight.

“The bars would prevent your getting out ?”

The hunter’s head nodded like a mandarin’s.

“Js that all? Then I may as well tell y~:—hush ! some
one is coming.”

One of the sentinels had thrust his head inside of the
door. He quickly withdrew it, convinced that all was right.

On its disappearance, Carrol’s mysterious visitor returned,
and resumed the conversation.

“You think those bars would hinder your escape ?”

Another nod was the answer.

“You are mistaken.” i

The backwoodsman, now perfectly au fait with his panto-
mimic part of the dialogue, gave a modest but expressive
look of dissent.

“T tell you you are mistaken,” continued the young girl;
“they are all sawn through. I seeyou are curious to
know who did that!”

 

 
 

A BOTTLE. 173

Cris said “ yes,” without speaking a word.

“It was I!”

“You 2” he telegraphed.

Yes, [was once acluse prisoner in this very room; not watched
as you are, but still a prisoner. I broke a watch to pieces,
took out the main spring, filed a saw with the nail-cleaning
blade of a pen-kuife, and with that I sawed away the bars,
leaving barely enough to hold them together.

Carrol’s look expressed astonishment.

“Yes, it was hard work, and it tock weeks to accomplish
it. Idare say you wonder why I didn’t make my escape.
That’s too long a story to tell you now.”

The backwoodsman’s look was very eloquent, and his visitor
quick of comprehension. By that look he asked a question.

“No, Pm not a prisoner now,” she answered, “only in
name. You shall have the benefit of my labor. But you
must do every thing cautiously. And firstto get rid of your
guards.”

How was this to be done ?

It was the captive who asked himself this question.

“Here is a bottle,” continued she ; “ it contains a sleeping-
draught. When they return, ask them fora drink. They
will give it to you ina gourd. Manage to pour the contents
of this bottle into the gourd, and invite them to drink along with
you. They will do so, as they never refuse a condemned cap-
tive. In a few minutes the draught will take effect. Then
climb to the window, remove the bars without noise, let your-
self down softly, and make your way straight into the forest.
No thanks, ’till I see you again !”

With these words his visitor vanished, the opening in the
wall closed noiselessly, and Cris lay wondering whether he
had been sleeping or waking, listening to a soft, delicate voice,
or only dreaming that he heard it.

 
    
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
   
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
     
   

174 THE WHITE SQUAW.

The phial in his hand, however, gave token that he had :
not been dreaming. His visitor was no creature of another
world, but one of this mundane sphere.

The hunter scratched his head with bewilderment, and
men‘a'ly reviewed the situation.

“ Wal, of all the surprisingest things as ever I met, this air
the most tremenjous. Bite me to death with gallinippers if
ever I thought to have seed sich a thing, and not yell right {
out. And me a-lyin’ here while that splendiferous critter war
a-botherin’ her brain to sarve this old sinner. It’s the most
etarnal ’stonishing thing ever heerd on—that’s what it is.
Wagh ! so you’re come ag’in, are ye?” he continued, as two of
his guards retntered. ‘“ Wal, reckon I’ve got somethin’ as’ll
suit y’ur complaint. Come in, ye imps ye!”

The unconscious objects of his apostrophe haying entered
the room, seated themselves not far from him, chatting with
each other. The subject of their conversation was uninter-
esting to their prisoner, who lay revolving in his mind what
was best to be done. a

The time for putting his plan into execution had at length
arrived. His sentinels had ceased conversing, and were with
difficulty keeping themselves awake.

“ Look hyar, red-skins,”’ he said, addressing them, “ have
ye sich a thing as a drop of water. I’m chokin’ wi’ thirst,
and I see it’s no use waitin’ till you asks me, so I'll take the
trouble off your hands, and ask you.”

One of the Indians good-naturedly went outside, returning g
with a gourd which he handed to the prisoner.

Cris raised it to his lips and drank; then paused, as if for
breath.

~ « By the etarnal,” said he, “ if I didn’t think I seed one of
your comrades put his head in that thar.door, What kin he
want ?”

;

 
 

THE NARCOTIC. 175

The .xnen looked in the direction of the door.

The contents of the phial was poured into the gourd.

When the Indians looked again at their captive, he was
apparently enjoyiuig another long draught of water.

Not a drop, however, passed his lips.

“ Ah !” he exclaimed, after his seemingly exhausting imbib.
ation, and with the greatest difficulty suppressing a grimace,
“there’s nothin’ like water to refresh one. It a’most gives a
dyin’ man a new lease o’ his life. I wonder I never tried it ;
afore. There’s a smack of freedom about it that’s worth its
weight in goold. Try it yourselves, and don’t stand starin’
as if you was a-goin’ to swallow me.”

The comical expression of their captive’s face, more than
the speech he had made, induced them to oblige him. Put-
ting their lips to the gourd, each took a draught of the waier.

They did not seem to coincide with him in his opinion of
its virtues.

The old hunter laughed in his sleeve on perceiving their
wry faces.

“Don’t like it, eh ? Wal, ye don’t know what's good for
ye. Poor, benighted critters ! how should ye ?”

As he made the remark he fell back upon his log bolster,
and again seemed to compose himself to sleep.

If the Indians had been somnolent before drinking the
water, they were not rendered more wakeful by the indul-
gence, and it was almost ludicrous to see what useless efforts
they made to battle against the potent narcotic.

In vain they talked to each other, got up and paced the room,
and endeavored to stand up without leaning against the walls.

This struggle between sleep and watchfulness at length
came to a close.

In less than ten minutes after taking the draught, both lay
stretched along the floor in a deep, death-like slumber

 
 

176 THE WHITE SQUAW.

The backwoodsman fost no time. With an agile motion
he planted his feet in the interstices of the logs, and reached
the window.

A slight wrenching of the bars showed the skill with which
they had teen sawn asunder.

One after another gave way, and the whole framework was
in his hands.

He was on the point of dropping it gently, when outside
under the window he saw a human form.

It was that of an Indian!

CHAPTER XXXIX.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

On seeing the Indian, Cris Carrol felt himself in a di-
lerama.

But he did not pause long before taking action.

He saw that the man was not watching him, but seemed
to have his eyes fixed upon the windows of the adjoining
habitation.

Quietly pulling in the iron framework, which was begin-
ning to feel heavy, Cris deposited it without noise in the in-
terior of the room, and again clambered up to the window.
Before doing so, however, he stole his knife from one of tne
sleeping sentinels.

The Indian outside had still maintained his attitude. When
Cris looked forth again he saw him with his eyes fixed on the
same spot.

What was to be done?

  

ay

 

 

 

 

   
   
 

  
   

  

A PLEASANT SURPRISE. 177

The only thing that suggested itself to the hunter, was pre-
cisely what he did.

He crept out through the window.

So quietly, that ere the individual below was aware of his
presence, he had seized him by the throat and forced him to

, the ground.

A surprise awaited him when he had accomplished this
feat. The Indian’s face was revealed, and to Carrol’s surprise,
no less than his joy for not having plunged the knife into his
heart, he recognized it.

“ Nelatee !”

“ Carrol !” $

. “ Hush, or you'll alarm all the red-skins about the place!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Tve just dropped out of that thar window.”

He pointed to the opening above

“ How came you to go in there ?”

“T didn’t go in of my own will, You may bet hi,h on
that. I war brung.”

“ Who brought you ?”

“ Four o’ your own Injins.”

“ A prisoner ?”

“ That’s about the size of it. I shouldn’t have been one
much longer.”

“ What do you mean ?”

“ Why, that to-morrow I'd have been as dead as a man
could be with forty or fifty fellows playin’ blue blazes on his
karkiss.”

“ Ha, they have decreed on burning you ?”

“ That’s it, lad, and consarn me if I ain’t glad to be out
here in the open air a-tellin’ it you, ’stead of in thar a thinkin’
on it.”

“ Who condemned you ?”

 

  
  

   

178 THE WHITE sQuaw.

“Wal, thar names hey a kind o’ slipped my memory, bur
they war warriors and braves of y’ur enlightened community.”

“ Why did you not send for me ?”

“T thought of that, but they told me you war gone, ané
wouldn’t be back in time for the ceremony.”

“ How did you get out here? Who opened the window ”

“ That war done by a angel.”

“An angel! What do you mean ?”

“ Just this: that at one of the corners of that thar etarnas
hole, a angel appeared and showed me the road to liberty.”

“ Who was it ?”

“ Wal, it air no use keepin’ it from you—”

“Speak! Who was it ?”

“Tl tell you; but first listen a spell to somethin’ else.
Nelatee, lad, I once did you a sarvice.”

“You did. I shall never forget it.”

“ Durn it, it warn’t for that I made mention on it. It war
only this: Look me in the face, and tell me on the word of a
man you mean square with me. Do that an’ Pll put my
trust in ye, as I’m now puttin’ my life in your hands.”

“ Upon an Indian warrior’s word, I am your friend !”

“You air, Nelatee? Then dog-gorn me if I doubt you!
Your hand !”

They exchanged a friendly grasp.

“Tt is more nor my life—it air the good name and actions
of the most splendiferous, angeliferous critter the sun ever sot
eyes on; it air—”

“ Alice Rody ?”

The hunter showed some surprise as Nelatee uttered the
name.

“Yes, it war that same gal. But how on airth did you
come for to guess it so straight ?”

“ Because that one name is never absent from my thoughts.”

 

 
 

 

 

  

A FREE MAN. 179

The hunter uttered a strange exclamation.

“Ho-ho !” he muttered to himself, “the wind sets in that
quarter, do it? Poor lad! I'm afeard thar ain’t no chance |
for him.”

“T fear it,” said Nelatee, overhearing the muttered remark.
“But, come! What she has commenced, I will accomplish.
At all risks, I shall assist you in regaining your liberty.”

“ Wal, I'll be glad to git it.”

“Then follow me!”

The Indian rapidly crossed the open space at the back of
the house, and led the way to the edge of the forest. The
released captive strode silently after.

They paused under a grove of live-oaks, in the shadow of
which Carrol perceived a horse.

“Tt is yours,” said Nelatee ; “ follow the straight path, and
you are free.” :

“ Nelatee,” said the backwoodsman, “ you’ve done me a
great service. I’m going to give you a bit of advice in return
for it: Give up the angeliferous critter that’s your prisoner,
send her back to her own people, and forget her!” > *

“Tf I could forget her, you mean ?”

“Wal, I don’t know much myself about them thar things,
only my advice is, ‘Give her up!’ You'll bea deal happier,”
he added, suddenly waxing impassioned. “ That’ere gal air
as much above eyther you or me, or the likes of us, as the
genooine angels air above all mortals, Therefore give her up,
lad—give her up !”

Again pressing Nelatee’s hand in his, the old hunter
climbed into the saddle, gave a kick to the horse, and rode
off, a free man.

“ Kim up,” you Seminole critter,” said he to the animal he
bestrode ; “ an’ tote me once more to the open savannas, for
durn me if this world ain’t gittin’ mixed up so thet it’s hard

 

  
  

   

180 THE WHITE SQUAW.

fer a poor, ignorant feller like me to know whether then
that call ’emselves civilized air more to be thought on than
them that air savages, or wicey wersey.”

The question was one that has puzzled clearer brains than
those of Cris Carrol.

CHAPTER XL.
: THE TALE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF,

As the old hunter has ridden out of our sight, and forever,
let us return to the Indian town, where Alice Rody was so
strangely domiciled.

Her people had buried the ill-fated Sansuta near the old
fort.

The wild-flowers she had loved so well had already blos-
somed over her grave.

Wacora and Nelatee had both been present—both much
affected.

The events of the contest had called them away immedi-
ately afterward. Wacora remained absent, but his cousin
had made a stolen visit to the town, as shown by the inci-
dents already related.

The search for the escaped captive was carried on for some’
time with vigor, but was at length abandoned.

Meanwhile the other captive’s life passed without inci-
dent. The aid she had given the backwoodsman had afforded
her the greatest pleasure. She had been informed of his cap-
ture immediately after his condemnation, and was resolved te
help him in his escape. She did not know of Nelatee’s pres-
ence near the scene, nor of his well-timed assistance.

 

 
 

FATE. 181

The Indian youth had ridden many miles that evening,
merely to stand and gaze at her window.

To feel that he was near her seemed a happiness to him.

He departed without even seeing her.

Weeks had elapsed since the Indian maiden had been laid
to rest within the old fort.

Alice often visited the spot.

And there Wacora, who once more returned to the town,
again saw her.

She was seated on the same stone, where Sansuta’s head
had rested on her bosom. . On perceiving the chief’s approach
she rose to her feet, as if to quit the spot.

“ Does my coming drive you away ?” he asked.

“Not that; but it is growing late, and I must return to

my prison.”

“ Your prison ?”

“Ts it not my prison ?”

“It is no more your prison than you are a prisoner. You
have long been free.”

There was a mournful sadness in her speech, which touched
the heart of the Indian chief.

“ Freedom is a boon only to those who can enjoy it.”

“ And you are unhappy ?”

“Can you ask that question—you who have done so
much—” She paused; her generpus nature hesitated to inflict
pain.

He concluded her speech for her.

“I who have done so much to make you unhappy. You
are right, I have been an instrument in the hands of Fate,
and you owe your misery to me. But I am only an instru-

‘ment, not the original cause. My will had no yoice in my

actions, and but one motive prompted me. That was duty P’
“ Duty ?” she asked, a smile curling her lip.

 
   

  

182 THE WHITE SQUAW.

“ Yes, duty! I-could prove it to you, had you the desire
to hear me.” ,

She resumed her seat, and said quietly : “I will hear you.”

“There was an Indian chief, the son of a Spanish woman.
Mfis father was a Seminole. Both are dead. He was reared
,#nong his father’s people, and learned from them all that
indian youths are tacght. Schools then existed among the
Seminoles. The white missionaries had established them,
ard were still at theirs heads. They had both the ability and
the desire to teach. ¥rom tiom Wacora learned all that the
pale-faced children are taught. His mind was of his mother’s
tace ; his heart inclined to that cf his father’s.”

“ But why this difference ?” she asked. -

“ Because the more he knew the more was he convinced
of the cruel oppression that had been suffered in all ages.
History was a tissue of it. Geography marked its progress.
Education only proved that civilization was spread at the
expense of honor and of right. This is what the schools
taught him.”

“That is but one side of the question.”

“You are right. So he resolved to make himself familiar
with the other. The story of the past might be inapplicable
to the events of the present. Believing this, he left the
schools, and sought the savanna and the forest. What did
he find there? Nothing but the repetition of that past he
had read of in books, aggravated by the lawlessness and
rapacity of the present.. The red-man was ignorant. But
did the pale-faces seek to educate him? No! They sought,
and still seek, to keep him ignorant, because in his ignorance
lies their advantage.”

“ Was that all the fault of our race?” Alice asked, as she
noted the enthusiastic flush upon the speaker's face.

“Not all. That were to argue falsely. The red-man’s

 
THE ANSWER. 183

vices grew greater as the chances of correcting them were
denied him. Tis instinct prompted him to retaliation, for
by this he sought to check oppression. ’Twas a vain effort.
He found it so, and was forced to practice cruelty. So the
quarrel progressed, till to-day the Indian warrior sees in every
white man only an enemy.”

} “But you? Surely you are not so?”

“T am the Indian chief I have attempted to describe
Take that for your answer.”

The young girl was silent.

“Tf my heart bleeds for suffering, it is my mother’s nature
pleading within me. I check it because it would be unworthy of
a warrior, and the leader of warriors. The storm bas arisen.
I am carried along with it !”

As he uttered the last words his form seemed to dilate;
while his listener stood wondering, as if spell-bound.

After a pause, he continued, in a tone more subdued, but
still full of feeling.

“Jf I have caused you unhappiness, think of me as the
involuntary instrument. My uncle was beloved by all his
‘tribe—by all our race. His injuries were ours. It was ours
to avenge them. And for her —” his voice trembled as he
pointed to Sansuta’s graye—‘ she was his only hope and
joy upon earth.”

Alice Rody’s tears fell in torrents over the last resting-
place of the Indian maiden. Wacora observed’ them, and
with a delicacy of feeling was about to withdraw from her
presence, when she stayed him with a motion of her hand.

For some time neither uttered a word. Alice at length
spoke through sobs which she vainly strove to check or
conceal.

“Forgive me!” said she, “for I have done you a great
‘wrong. Much that was dark and terrible, appears now just

 
   

  

184 THE WHITE SQUAW.

and natural. I can not say that Iam happier, but I am less
troubled than before.”

He would have kissed her hand, but with a slight shudder
she drew back.

“ No, no—do not touch me. Leave me to myself I
shall be more composed by-and-by.”

He cbeyed, without saying a word, leaving her alone.

For a long time she sat in the same place, a prey to
thoughts she scarce understood.

At length she rose, to all appearance more composed, and
tracing the forest path with slow, sad steps, she reéntered the
Indian town.

CHAPTER XUt,
A TREACHEROUS BRIDGE.

THERE was one among the Indians who viewed their fair
captive with no great favor.

It was Marocota.

His devotion to Oluski had been so blindly true, that in
dis narrow-minded memory of the old chief’s wrongs, he had
pecome bloodthirsty and remorseless, Naturally of a re-
vengeful disposition, he saw in the leniency of both Wacora
and Nelatee toward the pale-faced maiden, too much of
forgiveness.

This stirred his evil passions to their depth, and he sought
for an opportunity to do her an injury.

With a shrewd guess at the truth, he looked upon Cris
Carrol’s escape as another. evidence of that toleration which
ill-consorted with his sanguinary hatred of the white race.

He dared not take open measures, but insiduously strove
to turn the people of the tribe against their white captive, as
we.l as Wacora.

His success was not commensurate with his wishes. They
admired their chief too much to believe any thing to his
prejndice, and Marocota became himself looked upen as a
restless agitator—a subject more zeulous than loyal.

 
A SCHEMER, 183

He saw accordingly that any. injury to the eaptive must
be accomplished by his own agency; the more so as he had
already endeavored to excite a feeling of jealousy in Nelatce’s
mind, of which Alice and Wacora were the objects. The
generous youth not only refused belief, but, angrily reproved
the slanderer, for daring to couple his cousin’s name with an
act so unworthy. :

When a person resolves upon mischief, it is astonishing how
many opportunities present themselves,

Alice, although unsuspicious of the enmity of which she
was the object, avoided Marocota, She did so from a differ-
ent motive. She knew that it was he who fired the fatal shot at
her brother, and could not help regarding the act with abhor-
rence. His sister—how could she ?

And as his sister, how could she look upon ‘8 executioner
without repugnance ?—more than repugnance—with horror.

The exigencies of the war had kept Marocota away from
the town, and for long periods. But the same causes that
brought Wacora back, also controlled his return.

He felt that now, if ever, was the time te carry out his
schemes of malignity.

He accordingly watched her every movement, among
others the many lonely visits she paid to the ruined fort,

Here was the opportunity he wanted, if he could only find
the means to avail himself of it.

In a community of red-men, where every thing is reduced,
even in times of a temporary peace, to dull routine, it was not
difficult to devise a plan of revenge. But it must be unno-
ticed to go unpunished, for he had a wholesome dread of
‘Wacora’s displeasure, and was not disposed to incur it,

Some days had elapsed since the interview between the
chief and his captive, during which time they had seen noth-
ing more of each other. ‘

Wacora, with great delicacy, had avoided her, and she had
kept herself within the dwelling assigned to her, afraid to meet
him, yet pondering deeply over what he had said,

In spite of a natural prejudice against the Indian race, she
was startled and wonder-stricken at the nobility of thought and
Tare talent he had exhibited. She did not doubt but that a
portion, at least. of his argument was based on fulse reasoning,

 
   

  

186 THE WHITE 8Q%. i.

but she was not subtle enough, oz perhaps indisposed te
detect the erroneous argument. We are very apt to acknow
ledge the truth of what we admire, while admitting its er
rors.

Alice Rody was in this predicament

She had learned to respect the Indian chief, and her respect
was tinged with admiration of his many good qualities.

This mental ratiocination had occupied her during the days
of her seclusion.

She endeavored to divert her mini to other subjects, and to
this end determined to pay another visit to the old fort. She
was prompted to it by a thought of having too long forgotten
the Indian maiden who slept within the ruin.

It was a glorious morning as she set forth for a walk to the
place.

The way was through a belt of timbered land, leading to
a creek, spanned by a rude wooden bridge. On the other side
lay the ruin.

The wood was passed in safety, and she reached the wa-
ter’s edge. To her amazement, she found the creek greatly
swollen; this often happened after heavy rains, though she
had never before seen it in that condition.

She proceeded along the causeway leading to the bridge,
that seemed to offer a safe means of crossing.

She paused to contemplate the current, bearing upon its
bosom the torn trunks of trees, caught in its rapid course.

In another moment she was upon the bridge and had got
mid-way over it, when a tremulous motion of the planks
caused her to hesitate. As she stood still, the motion ceased,
and, smiling at her fears, she again proceeded.

Not far, however. Ere she had made three steps forward,
to her horror, the motion recommenced with greater violence.

She saw it was too late to retreat, and sped onward, the
planks swagging fearfully toward the water !

Believing it best to proceed, she took courage for a fresh
effort, and kept on toward the other side.

It was a fatal resolution.

Just as she had prepared for her last spring, the planks gave
way with a crashing sound, and she was precipitated into the
stream,

 
 

  

A SINISTER COUNTENANCE. 187

Her presence of mind was gone, and in an instant sue was
submerged beneath the seething current of the flood.

She rose again, gave utterance to a shriek, and was once more
swallowed up, her wail of agony being stifled by the water.

At that moment, « face that, expressed fiendish delight ap-
peared through the bushes on the bank. Nor did it vanish
nntil assured that all was over, and Alice Rody had sunk be-
low the surface, never more to return to it alive.

Then, and not till then, the form emerged from out the
underwood, and, scrambling to the rude pier from which the
planks had parted, a man stood surveying the scene.

It was Marocota ! j

“Good!” cried he. “So perish all who would make the
red-man forgive the injuries of his race. She was the child
of a villain, the sister of a fiend !”

He stooped down and examined the broken fragments of
the bridge.

“ Marocota’s ax has done the deed well,” said he, continu-
ing his soliloquy ; “and he has nothing to fear. . Her death
will be attributed to accident. It was a great thought, and
one that Oluski’s spirit will approve. Marocota was his favo-
rite warrior. To please his shade has he done this deed, and
will yet do more. Death to the pale-faces, death to their wo-
men and children! Death and extermination to the accursed
race !”

The vengeful warrior rose from his stooping posture, cast
one hurried glance upon the turbulent stream, and, once more
entering the underwood, disappeared from the spot.

CHAPTER XLII.
THE STREAM NOT A GRAVE,

Wacora came from the council-chamber, where the war-
riors had assembled, and passed over to the house where

dwelt his white captive.
This was no unusual thing for him when he deemed himselt

 

  
   

  

188 THE WHITE SQUAW.

safe from her observation. Upon the day in questions
however, he had resolved to see her.

The time had come when active measures were about to br
taken by the United States Government in order to “ suppress”
(such was the term used) the Indians in Florida, and although
none could know at that moment how difficult the undertak-
ing would prove, all were alive to the fact that the work was
about to commence in earnest.

Information of this had reached the young Seminole chief,
and he saw the necessity of removing his tribe from their
present residence.

Hence the council, hence also bis visit to Alice Rody.

He had determined to lay the facts fully. before her, in order
that she might name the time of return to her own people.

Can it be wondered at that the young chief heaved a sigh
when he thought of the departure of his captive ?

Duty and justice, however, both demanded that he should
afford her the opportunity, perhaps the only one that might
offer amid the troublous times that were approaching.

The noble savage was ready to sacrifice himself for her
welfare, and to stifle all selfishness, provided he could make
her happy.

“ Perhaps,” he said hopefully to himself, “she may not
wish to leave us. Her near friends are dead, and there may
be none she now longs to rejoin. Oh! if it should be so!
But I must not think of it. For me there is but one course.
I must use no compulsion—she is free to go or stay; and, if
she choose the former, I must submit, though the parting be
to me painful as death itself.”

Thus reflecting, he walked on toward the house tenanted
by his captive.

On arriving at the place he found she was not there. Some
children, playing near, told him that she had gone into the
woods,and pointed in the direction she had. taken.

The young chief hesitated about following her. He was
urwilling to thrust himself into her presence at a time she
had perhaps devoted to selfcommunion and repose.

Turning in another direction, he wandered for some time
purposelessly, taking no note of the locality, until he had
reached the belt of woods which Alice had herself traversed

 
THE REAL AND THE IDEAL. 189

ou her road to the old ruin. Wacora, however, entered it at
some distance further off from the skirts of the town.

Once under the shadow of the trees, he abated his pace,
which had, up to this time, been rapid. Now walking with
slow step and abstracted air, he finally stopped and leant
against a huge live-oak, his eyes wandering afar over the sil-
yap scene. /

“Here,” he soliloquized in thought, “ here, away from men
and their doings alone is there peace! How my heart
sickens at the thought that human ambitions and vanities
should pervert man’s highest mission, for surely it is peace,
turning it into scenes of strife and bloodshed! I, an Indian
savage, as white men call me, would gladly lay down this
day and forever the rifle and the knife, would willingly bury
the war-hatchet, and abandon this sanguinary contest !

“Could Ido so with honor?” he asked, after a pause of
reflection. “No! To the endI must now proceed, half as-
sured that my early enthusiasm wus but a flash of conscious
right, and not the result of reason and knowledge. The
people of my mother’s race are indeed degenerate ; but what
of the red-men? Ah! there’s a fearful doubt involved in
that question, to which I dread to know the answer. Internal
feud is already at work among my people. What will it not
produce? My only hope is in their courage. That may de-
lay our overthrow, but it can not be for long. We shall be
driven into the impassable swamps, there in misery and des-
pair to enjoy the poor bvon of liberty. Pah! it’s but an
empty sound. I see the end with a prophetic eye; but I
must go on as I’ve begun, even if my tribe, with all our
people, should be swept from the earth! Fool that I’ve been,
to covet the leadership of a forlorn hope !”

At the end of this soliloquy, he stamped the ground with
fury. Petty dissensions had arisen among the people he
deemed worthy of the highest form of liberty. By this his
temper had been chafed, his hopes rudely discouraged. He
was bit partaking of the enthusiast’s ‘fate, finding the real
so unlike the ideal. It is the penalty usually paid intelligence
when it seeks to reform or better the condition of fallen
hamanity.

“And she,” he continued in his heart’s bitterness, “she can

 
   

  

190 THE WHITE sQUuAW.

only think of me as a vain savage; vain of the slight super!
ortity education appears to give me over others of my race.
I might as well aspire to make my home among the stars, as
in her bosom. She is just as distant, as unlikely to be mine.”

In the mood in which the Indian was at that moment, the
whole universe seemed leagued against him.

Bitterly he lamented the fate that had given him grind
aspirations, while denying him their enjoyment.

As he stood beneath the spreading branches of the live-oak,
a double shadow seemed to have fallen upon him—-that of
his own thoughts, and the tree thickly festooned with its
mosses. Both were of somber hue.

He took no heed of the time, and might have stood nursing
his bitter thoughts still longer, but for a sound that suddenly
startled him from his reverie.

It was a shriek that came ringing through the trees, as if”
of one in great distress or peril.

The yoice was a woman’s.

Lover-like, he knew it to be that of Alice Rody.

Without hesitating an instant, he rushed along the path in
the direction from which it appeared to come.

In that direction lay the stream. His instinct warned him
that the danger was from the water. He remembered the
rain-storm just past. It would be followed by a freshet. Alice
Rody may have been caught by it, and was in danger of
drowning.

He made these reflections while rushing through the under
wood, careless of the thorns that at every step penetrated his
skin, covering his garments with blood,

His demeanor had become suddenly changed. The som-
ber shadow on his brow had given place to an air of the
wildest excitement. His white captive—she who had made
him a captive, was in some strange peril.

He listened as he ran. The swishing of the branches, as
he broke through them, hindered him from hearing. No
sound reached his ears, but he saw what caused him a strange
surprise. It was the form of a man, who, like himself, was
making his way through the thicket, only in a different direc-
tion. Instead of approaching the creek, the man was going
from it; skulking off, as if desirous to shun observation.

 

 

 

 
ttt

teeeeeeeeee

 

 

 

RESCUED. 191

For all this Wacora:“eognized him. He saw it was Maro-
cota. The young chief did not stay to inquire what the war-
rior was doing there, or why he should be retreating from the
stream? He did not even summon the latter to stop. His
thoughts were all atserbed by the shriek he had heard, and
the danger it denoted. He felt certain it had come from the
creek, and if it wag the cry of one in the water, there was
no time to be lost.

And none was lort; not a moment, for in less than sixty
seconds after heariag it, he stood upon the bank of the
stream.

As he had anticipated, it was swollen to a flood, its tur-
bid waters carrying upon their whirling surface trunks and torn
branches of trees. hunches of reeds and grass uprooted by
the rush of the current. He did not stand to gaze idly upon
these. The bridge was above him. The cry had come from
there. He saw that it wasin ruins. All was explained !

But where was she who had given utterance to that fearful
shriek ?

He hurried along the edge of the stream, scanning its cur-
rent from ba»k to bank, hastily examining every branch and
bush borne upon its bosom.

A disc of whitish color come before his eyes. There was
something in the water, carried along under the surface. It
was the drapery of a woman's dress; and a woman’s form
was within it!

_ The young chief stayed not for further scrutiny ; but plung-
ing into the flood, and swimming a few strokes, he threw his
arms around it.

And he knew that in his arms he held Alice Rody! Ina
few seconds after, her form lay dripping upon the bank, ap-
perent?s lifeless!

 
   

   

THE WHITE SQUAW.

CHAPTER XLITTI.
AT LAST,

Wacora had saved his white captive. She still lived !

The struggle between life and death had been long and
doubtful. But life at Jength triumphed.

For days had she lingered upon the verge of existence,
powerless to move from her couch, scarce able to speak. It
was some time before she could shape words to thank her
deliverer, though she knew who it was. She had been told
it was Wacora.

The young chief was unremitting in his attentions, and
showed great solicitude for her recovery. He found time,
amid the warlike preparations constantly going on, to make
frequent calls at her dwelling, and make anxious inquiry
about her progress. The nurses who tended on her did bot
fail to note his anxiety.

Nelatee had been absent, and did not return to the town
until she was convalescent. He was grieved to the heart on
hearing what had happened.

Wacora, suspecting that Marocota was the guilty one,
sought him in every direction. But the vengeful warrior was
nowhere to be found. He had fled from the presence of his
indignant chief.

It was not until long after that his fate became known.
He had been captured in his flight by some of the settlers,
and shot, thus dying by the hands of enemies he so hated |

Several weeks elapsed, and no active movement had as yet
been made by the government troops. Wacora’s tribe still
continued to reside in their town undisturbed.

His captive continued to recover, and along with her re-
stored strength came a change over the spirit of her existence.
She seemed transformed into a different being.

The past had vanished like a dream. Only dimly did she
remember her residence at Tampa bay, her father, the conflict
on the hill, the massacre, her brother’s sad fate. All seemed

 
 

 

  

LOVE. 193

to have faded from her memory until they appeared as things
that had never been, or of which she bad no personal knowl-
edge, put had only heard of them long, long ago.

It is true they still had a shadowy existence in her mind,
but entirely disassociated with the events of her life since she
had been a captive among the Indians !

Nor was there much to regret in this impaired recollection,
for both the events and personages had been among the mis-
eries of her life.

Of her present, she had a more plausible appreciation.
She was living a new life, and thinking new thoughts.

Nelatee and Wacora both strove in a thousand kind ways
to render her contented and happy. They had no great lux-
uries to offer her, but such as they had were bestowed with
true delicacy.

Strange to say, that in this common solicitude there was
not a spark of jealousy between the two cousins !

Nelatee’s nature was generosity itself, and self-sacrifice ap-
peared to him as if it was his duty or his fate!

Still, while he basked in the sunshine of the young girl’s
beauty, he had not the courage to imagine to himself that she
could ever belong to another. Not to him might her love be
given, but surely not to another! He could not think of
that.

True that at times he fancied he could perceive a look be-
stowed on Wacora such as.she never vouchsafed to him—a
tremor in her yoice when speaking to his cousin which had
never betrayed itself in her discourse with himseif.

But he might be mistaken. Might? He was certain of
it. If she did not love him, at any rate he could not think
that she loved Wacora.

Thus did the Indian youth beguile himself.

Innocent as a child, he knew little of the heart of woman,

That look, that tremor of the voice, should haye told him
that she loved Wacora.

Yes, the end had come, and love had conquered. The
white maiden was in love with the young Indian chief!

 

Wacora and his captive—now more than ever his captive
—wWwere seated within the ruined fort, near Sansuta’s grave.

 

  
194 THE WHITE sQUAW.

“You are pleased once more to be here ?” he asked.

“Tam. During my illness I promised myself, if ever I
recovered, that my first visit should be to this spot.”

“ And yet it was in paying such a visit that you nearly lost
your life.”

“The life you saved.”

“Twas a happy chance. I can not tell what led me to
‘the forest on that occasion.”

“What were you doing there ?” she asked,

“Like the blind mortal that I am, I was blaming myself,
and my fate too, when I should have been blessing my
fortune.”

“For what ?”

“For conducting me to the spot where I heard your cry.”

“ What fortune were you blaming ?”

“That which made me unworthy.”

“ Unworthy of what ?”

He did not immediately answer her, but the look he gave
caused her to turn her eyes to the ground.

“Do you really wish to know of what I think myself un-

“worthy ?”

She smiled as she replied, “ If you betray no confidence in
telling me.” .

“ None—none but my own.”

“Then tell me if you like.”

Was it the faint tremor in her voice that emboldened him
to proceed ?

“ Unworthy of you /” was his answer.

“ Of me ?” she said, her face averted from his.

“Of you, and you only. But why should I withhold fur-
ther confidence. You have given me courage to speak ; have
I also your leave ?”

She made no answer to the last question, but her look was

eloquent of assent.

“T thought on that day,” he continued, “that I was ac-
cursed by man and heaven—that I, an Indian savage, was not
accounted worthy to indulge in thoughts of love—that love
had sprung up within my heart like a pure flower, only to be
blighted by the prejudices of race—that all my adoration for
the fair and excellent must be kept down by the accident or

   

 

 

    
A GROAN 195

birth, and that while nurturing a holy passion, I must crush
it out and stifle it forever.”

“But now ?” Her voice was low and tremulous.

“ Now all rests upon one word—upon that word depends
my happiness or misery, now and forever.”

“ And what is it 2”

“Do not ask it from me! It must come from your eyes

Frrom your lips, from your heart.”

There was an eloquence that spoke the answer without s
word being uttered.

It was the eloquence of love !

In another instant the lips of the white maiden touched
those of her Ind‘an lover!

From their rapturous embrace they were startled by a
sound. It was a groan!

It came from the other side of Sansuta’s grave, behind
which there was a clump of bushes.

Wacora rushed towaré the spot, while Alice kept her placa,
transfixed to it by a terrible presentiment.

The young chief uttered an exclamation of horror as he
locked in among the bushes.

His cousin was lying beneath them, stretched out, dead, a
dagger, which his right hand still clutched, sheathed in his
heart !

With his last groan, and his heart’s blood, the generous
youth had yielded up his leve along with his life!

L’ENVOL.

The Seminole war continued for eight years,

Eight years of bloodshed and horror, in which the white
man and the Indian struggled for supremacy.

The whites fought for conquest, the Indians to retain pos-
session of their own.

On both sides were acts of cruelty, terrible episodes, illus-
trating the derialionds as in all such contests.

The pale-faces were the victors, and the red-men were in
time subdued.

Such of the Seminoles as survived the war were alloted
lands beyond the Mississippi, and, far distant from their native
home, were commanded to be content and happy.

 
106 THE WHITE SQUAW.

They had no alternative but to submit to this adverse fate,
and in several detachments were transported to their new
homes.

Of one of the migratory bands who passed through New
Orleans, bound West of the’ Mississippi river, was a young
chief who attracted great notice by his commanding presence
no less than by a companion seen constantly at his side—a
white woman !

She was of great beauty, and those who saw her naturally"
made inquiry about her name, parentage and station, as
also the name of the young chief.

The Indians who were asked simply made answer that
the chief was Wacora, and that she by his side was his wife,
known among them as “ Tae WuitTE Squaw.”

 

 
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THE WHITE WITCH,

Deeply exciting and powerful stories that lift away the vail from City
Life and Character, and show the author to be a masterin that field,
as in the great DicK TALBOT SERIES he showed himself to be a
master in the Wild Western Field.

OTHER TWENTY-CENT NOVELS:

OVERLAND Krr. 18. ‘Tar CALIForNIA DETECTIVE.
Rocky Mounra: Ros. 14. Maum Guryza.

KENTUCK, THE SPORT. 15. Map Dan.

Inzun Dick. 16. Tat Wor Demon.

Tue Scatp Hunters. 17. Turkey Dan.

THe PrarRm MAzeppa. 18. Paciric Petr.

. Tae Sirent Honter. 19. Srwon Girry.

Tae MAN FROM TEXAS. 20. Daxotra Dan

. THe Rep Ragan. 21. Rep Ros, tHE Boy Roap-
. THe WINGED WHALE. AGENT.

. Tpano Tom, THE OvuTLAW. | 22. OLD DaN RACKBACK, THE
. THe Waite Squaw. GREAT EXTARMINATOR,

. Tae Poantom Hanp. By Albert W. Aiken.
. GENTLEMAN GrorGE. By Albert W. Aiken.
. THe Heart or Free. By Albert W. Aiken. Ready May 5.
. THe Wurre Wirce. By Albert W. Aiken. Ready June 5.

Sold by all newsdealers; or sent, post-paid, to any address, on re-
ceipt of price—Twenty Cents each—by

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, N. Y.

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