Oonomoo the Huron, Edward Sylvester Ellis [books under 200 pages .txt] 📗

week if he wan't into danger, out of grief. He don't do notting else; it's what he was made for," he added, growing enthusiastic in speaking of the Huron.

"I know he is a brave and true-hearted Indian, and is greatly esteemed by the Moravian missionaries. He hesitates at no risk when his friends are in danger."

"Ef he does run risk dey don't catch him, 'cause he knows how to run and fight, and ish shmarter dan de Shawnees. Where ish your parents?"

"My mother and sister happened to be absent on a visit to Falsington, which is fifteen or twenty miles distant from our place, while father, who is a Captain, is doing service somewhere on the frontier, in the American army. How thankful indeed I am that dear mother and Helen were away, for they have escaped this terrible captivity."

"You washn't left all alone?"

"Oh, no; there were several servants, and I saw them tomahawked, and heard their piercing cries."

The captive covered her face, and her frame shook like an aspen at the remembrance of the dreadful scenes through which she had so recently passed. It was several minutes before she recovered her self-command. When she did, Hans Vanderbum proceeded with his questions.

"Dey burnt de place, I shpose?"

"Yes, yes; they destroyed everything."

"I shpose your folks will feel bad when dey finds dese Shawnees have got you, won't dey?"

"Oh, yes, yes; do not speak of it."

At this point Hans Vanderbum began to get a sort of dim, vague idea that his style of conversation was not exactly calculated to soothe the feelings of the unfortunate prisoner; so he determined, if possible, to make amends for it. Patting her on the head, he said, gently:

"Don't feel bad, my darling; I ish shorry for you, but I wants to ax you anoder question."

"What is it?" queried the maid, with a wondering look.

"Will you answer it?" asked Hans Vanderbum, endeavoring to put on an arch, quizzical expression.

"If it is in my power I instantly will. Pray, do not hesitate to ask me anything you choose."

"Well, den, gits ready for it. I would shust like to know if dere ishn't some feller dat is in love mit you, and you is in love mit, and dat both ish in love mit each oder, eh?"

The crimson that suffused the cheeks and mounted to the very forehead of the captive, answered the question of Hans Vanderbum more plainly than words. Still, he insisted upon a verbal reply.

"There is no need of concealing the truth from you," she answered. "I have a dear young friend—"

"Who ish he?"

"Lieutenant Canfield, who is in service with my father," she replied.

"Oh, den he don't know notting about it?"

"I am not sure of that. Oonomoo has acted as a runner or bearer of messages between many of the men in the American army and their families, upon the frontier, and the last time I saw him he brought me word that Lieutenant Canfield intended shortly to visit me on furlough. He may have arrived immediately after the Indians burnt our place."

"A good t'ing; a good t'ing if he only has."

"Why would it be a good thing?"

"Does he know Oonomoo?"

"Certainly; he has known him for several years."

"Well, den, dey will come together, and dey'll fix up fings so dat dey will got you out of dis place afore long."

"I hope so; I hope so. Death would not be more terrible than the suffering I undergo here, especially at night. Oh! will you not stay by me?" asked the prisoner, the tears starting to her eyes.

Hans Vanderbum gouged his fists into his own visual organs, and muttered something about "de dunderin' shmoke," before he could reply.

"Yesh, yesh, I 'tends to you. You needn't be 'fraid. Dey won't hurt you, I doesn't t'ink. Dey jist keeps you. May be dey burns you, but dat ain't sartain. I must go to Oonomoo now, for I've been away from him a good long while."

"Tell him I am hopeful."

"Ain't dere notting else to tell him?" asked Hans Vanderbum, still lingering.

"I know of nothing else. He certainly needs no advice from me."

"Notting to send to Lieutenant Canfield, eh?" again queried Hans.

"Tell Oonomoo," said the girl, looking down to the earth, "that if he meets Lieutenant Canfield to say the same thing to him for me, that I am waiting and hopeful, and have a good friend constantly by me, which lightens, in a great measure, the gloom of my captivity."

"Who ish dat friend?"

"You."

"Yaw, I tells him. Good-by; be a good gal till I comes back. I bees back burty soon."

So saying, Hans passed out of the wigwam on his way to return to Oonomoo. His prolonged conversation with Miss Prescott had attracted the attention of the Indians who were lingering outside, and several asked him its purport. To these he invariably replied, "she didn't know wheder it was going for to rain or not, but she fought it would do one or toder."

From his long residence among the Shawnees and his family connection with them, Hans Vanderbum was not suspected of disaffection. Indeed, it could not properly be said that he felt thus toward them. He would not willingly do anything to injure them any more than he would have fought against his own race. Had he been dwelling among the whites, he would have befriended any hapless prisoner that might be in their power as he intended to befriend the poor girl with whom he had just been conversing.

It was about noon when he reached his own wigwam. He looked in, and seeing that the fish had been cooked and was ready, told his wife that he didn't feel very hungry and he guessed he would take a short walk for his health. She, however, ordered him at once to take his place inside and eat his dinner. The henpecked husband dared not refuse, and he was accordingly compelled to take part in the meal, while constantly occupied in thinking that the Huron was waiting for him; but, as patience is one of the cardinal virtues of the North American Indian, Hans was sure of finding him at the rendezvous upon his return.

Some twenty minutes later, Hans Vanderbum was at the tree, where he had first caught sight of Oonomoo. It was not long before the latter came from his concealment, and, after exchanging words upon unimportant subjects, for the purpose of concealing his curiosity, he inquired in regard to Miss Prescott.

"She tells me to tell you dat she's dere, and is hopeful, and ain't hurt, and hopes you won't hurt yourself to git her away."

"Oonomoo won't hurt his self—Shawnee won't hurt Oonomoo—he git gal away too."

"Oh, I like for to forgot. She tells me 'bout Lieutenant Canfield de same as she tells you. Will you see him?"

"See him dis mornin'—waitin' in woods fur me—see him 'gin—tell what gal said."

"I'm glad for to hear it, Oonomoo. I shpose you'll be back this way ag'in one dese days."

"Be back soon—have somebody with me—tell gal so—look out fur whistle—keep ears open—hear dis time."

"Yaw, I will. I heerd you dis oder time, too; but didn't t'ink 'twas you. I'll know de next time. You going now?"

The Huron signified that he was, and took his departure as quietly as he had come. Hans watched as the dusky figure flitted in and out among the trees and finally disappeared in the distance. Then, muttering to himself, he returned to the village.

The day was unusually warm for the season; there was little activity in the Indian town. Hans noticed that many of the Shawnees were still lingering along the Miami, although what object other than that of mere languor could induce them to remain, he could not possibly conceive. Reaching his own wigwam, he was confounded with joy to learn that the captive, Miss Prescott, was to be domiciled in it. He could scarce believe it until Keewaygooshturkumkankangewock told him that she was to be strictly guarded, used as her slave and never to be out of her sight for one minute. In case of her escape, Hans Vanderbum was to be held responsible for it, his life paying the forfeit.

"Dat is quare," he muttered. "I guess Oonomoo can fix it, if dey does do it."

It perhaps is well to remark here, by way of explanation, that the time in which the incidents occurred, which we intend to relate, was a few years subsequent to the great victory of Anthony Wayne over the combined forces of the various Indian tribes in the West. As a consequence of this splendid achievement and the no less splendid victory gained in the renowned treaty of Greenville, a long and almost undisturbed peace along the frontier was inaugurated, where, for years before, all had been strife of the most revolting kind. But, profound peace and security never existed on the border until the final removal of the Indians beyond the Mississippi. Isolated families, small bodies of men, and the lonely traveler through the forest, never were secure from the stealthy attacks of the red-men. Deep in the gloom of the solemn wilderness, many a deadly conflict occurred between the hunter and the Indian. Often the victim sunk noiselessly to the turf, and his bones bleached for years in these wilds, while none but his slayer knew of his fate.

Captain Prescott, placing great faith in the treaty of Greenville, had erected a fine mansion upon a tract of land received from Government. His residence was upon the extreme frontier. He had misgivings when he removed his wife and two daughters to that wilderness home. He provided a number of trusty servants for their protection in his absence with the army. Circumstances transpired which prevented his fulfilling his promise to return home to remain, and he continued absent nearly three years, occasionally making a short visit, and returning to his duties again before he had fairly greeted his family.

On one of these visits, Captain Prescott took, as his companion, a young Lieutenant named Canfield. It so happened that this visit lasted several days, and a period of greater happiness to the young Lieutenant probably never occurred. Mary Prescott, at that time, could not properly be called a woman, except in the grace and dignity of her character. She inherited the rich fancy, the nervous sensibility, and stern will of her father, and what may seem like a contradiction, the gentleness and modesty of her mother. She was the youngest child, and, naturally enough, the pet of the others; but, the parents were too sensible to spoil her by flattery or foolish indulgence. She was of that age when the female mind is most susceptible to the great passion of our nature in its most romantic phase, when Lieutenant Canfield visited their house. His frank bearing, his gentlemanly deportment, and, above all, the favorable reports which her father gave of his gallant conduct, conspired to enlist young Mary in his favor.

[Illustration: Mary Prescott.]

They were scarcely thrown into each other's society before the natural, though sometimes tardy, results of the virtues we have mentioned were seen. The tell-tale blush—the voice unconsciously lowered to the most thrilling softness—the timid glance—the deep-drawn sigh—the absent, vacant appearance when separated for a short time from each other—the supreme happiness when together—all were signs which escaped not the eyes of the sister and mother, although the matter-of-fact father failed to notice such trifles. His days of courtship had become a fable, if they were not forgotten.

If there were any displeasure at this state of affairs upon the part of her mother, it was only because she believed her daughter too young to entertain thoughts of marriage. Like a wise and prudent parent, however, she did not seek to accomplish an impossibility—that of preventing what no parent yet succeeded in preventing. Having great confidence in the young Lieutenant, from the representations of her husband, she merely resolved to be discreet with him. Accordingly, when, on the day of his departure, he found courage to mention his love of Mary to her parents, the mother took it upon her to reply that she entertained no objection to his suit, but, from the youth of her daughter, he must not expect their consent to a union for several years. At the same time she gracefully hinted that the suddenness of his passion might well excite suspicion that it was hardly genuine. Delighted beyond measure at this answer, Lieutenant Canfield added that he would not claim her hand until