Back Aa

Border Riflemen

Close

<h2 id="c4">CHAPTER IV. LITTLE FOX—NA-SHE-ESCHUCK.</h2> The Indian was one of the worst specimens of his race—a creature naturally brutal, who had been rendered more debased by an excessive use of fire-water. As he clung to the door-post and looked at them out of bleared and watery eyes, he was as disgusting a specimen of the genus homo as could be found between the two oceans. “Let me talk to this critter,” said Cooney Joe. “I calculate I understand the natur’ of the unadulterated, unb’iled, unwashed and unclean drunken red, as well as any man in the great Nor’-west. I do, by the livin’ hokies. Hyar, you ’possum, speak up, and speak quick; what ar’ ye looking fur now?” “Fire-water; poor Injun very dry,” replied this noble red-man. “Tire—much tire; walk durn good ways; mus’ hab fire-water.” “You got to airn it fust, my noble red,” replied Joe. “Come, agitate yer jaw; tell us what ye want.” <div class="pb" id="Page_30">30</div> “S’pose you give Little Fox fire-water, den talk. How can talk when no hab drink? Ugh!” “That’s the heathen philosophy, gents all,” said Joe, with a look of supreme disgust. “No whisky, no news. Got sech a thing as a drain of sperrits handy, ’square?” Mr. Wescott left the room, and returned shortly with a small flask of rum, from which he poured out a glass for the Indian, who drank it with avidity, smacked his lips, and held out the glass for more. “Hold on,” said Joe, pushing back the extended hand. “Not ef I know it, Injin. That tongue of yours begins to double, anyhow, and I reckon you’ll hev to do some talking afore you git any more rum.” “Pottawatomie big warrior, much brave,” replied the Indian, loftily, striking his clenched hand upon his broad breast. “Give Injun rum.” “I’ll give you a bat ’long side your old head ef ye ask fur more afore you’ve done the work,” said Joe, angrily. “Come now, speak up. What d’ye want?” “Want rifle—want blanket—want heap fire-water!” replied Little Fox. “Got heap story to tell.” “Lies, probably. Come, out with it, and ef it is any use to us, then we’ll pay han’sum. That’s the time of day.” “Want him now,” replied the Indian, with a surly glance at the speaker. “No tell news widout you put him down here.” “That won’t do, Injin,” said Joe. “You heard what the fellers done with Black-Hawk, just now. I’ve only got to say the word, and you go away the sorest Injin in the Nor’-west. Tell us any really important news, and we’ll give you a rifle, two blankets and a keg of rum, and you kin drink you’self to death in a week.” “Much promise—little do. Dat white man’s way,” replied the Indian. “Little Fox no speak.” “Will you speak if I promise to give you what you ask?” said Captain Melton, advancing. “Loud Tempest will do what he says,” replied the Indian, with a drunken leer. “Little Fox will believe him.” “Very well, then; I promise to give you the rifle, blankets and rum, if you tell us all you came to tell.” <div class="pb" id="Page_31">31</div> “Give Injun stool; sit down like white man. Floor much dizzy; whirl round fast. Ugh!” By the not very mild assistance of Cooney Joe the Indian was seated on a stool, with his back to the wall, and sat with drunken gravity waiting to be questioned. “Go on with yer story, you red nigger,” cried Joe. “And see yer, the minnit you begin to lie—and oh, Lord, how he kin lie when he lays his tongue to it!—that minnit I jump on you and yer ha’r comes off.” “Little Fox will speak with a straight tongue,” replied the savage, drawing himself up. “Give injun more rum, and he talk heap fast.” Cooney Joe poured out a very mild dose of rum and gave it to the savage, who gulped it down at once, and would have asked for more but that the expression of Joe’s face taught him that such a measure would bring down upon his head the wrath of the hunter, and he prudently refrained. “Black-Hawk much mad,” he said. “See—white man take his village and plant corn among the graves. That no right in white man.” “No moril reflections, bummer,” said Joe. “Git on with yer yarn, or off goes yer sculp.” “Black-Hawk has a great army,” said the Indian. “His braves are coming in from the plains and their faces are painted for war. The white men must not sleep or they will all die.” It is needless to follow word by word the disjointed narrative of the drunken savage, interrupted as it was by appeals for rum, which was doled out to him in very small quantities by Cooney Joe, who feared that he would get too drunk to articulate. He sat swaying unsteadily to and fro, and told a tale which confirmed their fears. Messengers had been sent out to the various tribes, and all had agreed to follow the standard of Black-Hawk and assist him in driving out the invaders of their land. Nearly all the principal chiefs except Keokuk had given in their adhesion, and bands of warriors were already on their way to the place of rendezvous, not far from Rock Island, where there was a Sac village and a fort. Doubtless the Indian misrepresented the plans of Black-Hawk, but he told enough truth to make his 32 story tally with the preconceived ideas of the whites, and they looked at one another in silent dismay. “This is very serious,” said the captain of scouts. “This Indian has earned his reward, and if he will come into the village to-morrow he shall have the liquor; the rifle and blankets I can give him now.” He went out and brought in a very good rifle and two blankets, which he had obtained from the men. A flask of powder was added, and a mold to run bullets, and Little Fox staggered away, happy as a lord, little knowing that the possession of these articles would prove his death-warrant. With the weapon in his hands he staggered toward the village, where he was met by a young warrior of the Sac nation, whom, in his drunken blindness, he did not recognize as the youngest son of Black-Hawk, who was lurking about for information. “My brother has a fine gun,” he said in the Indian tongue, endeavoring to lay his hand upon the weapon. But Little Fox tore it away from him in drunken wrath. “Wagh! It is the gun of the white man, and the Sacs will fall before it as the leaves when they are yellow,” he said. “My brother is very rich. He must have taken much fur to buy so fine a gun,” said the young Indian, who already showed the qualities which afterward gave him a leading place in the tribe. “Little Fox is the friend of the white man, and he can get a gun for nothing,” was the reply. “When Black-Hawk comes with his warriors he will find the white men ready.” “Has my brother told the white men what Black-Hawk is doing?” said the young Sac, vailing his rage. “Little Fox can speak or Little Fox can be silent,” replied the Pottawatomie. “Look: to-morrow he is to have enough rum to last him a whole moon, because he is the friend of the white man.” “Fire-water is good,” said the Sac. “Has my brother a canoe to carry it across the river?” The Indian shook his head, and a sort of hazy idea passed through his clouded brain that he had already said as much as he ought concerning the affair. <div class="pb" id="Page_33">33</div> “I have a fine canoe,” continued the son of Black-Hawk. “Let my brother bring the rum to the Point, and I will help him carry it away.” The Pottawatomie nodded gravely, and went on his sinuous way, while the young chief darted into the forest, and taking a circuitous course, reached his father’s village at early morning. The old chief was in his lodge, in an attitude of the deepest dejection, for he had not sought a quarrel with the whites. Near him, seated upon a pile of skins, and with a look of deep malice on his face, sat Black Will, holding his rifle in his brown right hand. “Ha! here comes Na-she-eschuck,” he said. “Now, Black-Hawk, let your great heart awake and listen to the words of your son. Speak, Na-she-eschuck; what are the white men doing?” “They go about among the lodges they have built above our fathers’ graves and laugh because they have insulted Black-Hawk,” replied the young Sac, fiercely. “Their ears are stopped to all thoughts of peace, and they long for war. Let them get what they seek, since they will have it so.” “What did I tell you, Black-Hawk?” said Black Will. “The scoundrels do not care for your great name, and they throw mud at you as if you were a common Pottawatomie, and not the head chief of a great nation. Will you bear this tamely?” “Black-Hawk is an Indian,” replied the proud old man, drawing up his stalwart form to its full hight. “But he does not seek for war. If the white men will let us rest where we now are, I will send the warriors back, and we will be friends.” “Friends! Friends with the men who threw mud in your face and beat you like a dog?” cried Black Will. “Come, I have been mistaken in you. I thought you were a man ready to revenge your injuries, but the white men have cowed you until you dare not lift a hand against them.” Black-Hawk bounded to his feet with a terrible cry, and laid his hand upon a weapon. But that Na-she-eschuck sprung between him and the object of his wrath, it is doubtful whether the career of Black Will would not have ended upon the spot. <div class="pb" id="Page_34">34</div> “Hold your hand, great chief,” cried his son, forcing him back. “He sits under the shadow of your lodge, and you have smoked the pipe with him. Do not make yourself a dog since you have taken his hand.” “He has insulted a great chief,” replied the old warrior, fiercely. “But, he is right; Black-Hawk is a dog to listen to the words of the white men, and to refuse to dig up the hatchet when so many warriors are ready to follow him to the fight.” “We must fight,” said Na-she-eschuck. “Little Fox has been among the white men, and has told them that the braves are gathering at the call of Black-Hawk. He is a dead dog, and has taken a rifle and blankets, and is to have much fire-water, because he has betrayed us.” Black Will began to look uneasy. “Has the scoundrel told them that I am here?” he asked. “I can not tell. He is to come to the point above the island with the price of his guilt, to-morrow, and I will be there to help him over the river.” A grim look crossed the face of Black-Hawk, as his son spoke. “It is good,” he said. “One traitor shall die, because he has sold himself for the fire-water of the white men. As for us, we will not strike the first blow, but if they take up the hatchet against us, then we will fight. But I will not remove.” “It is better for us to strike the first blow,” said Black Will. “That is the main thing in war—to strike such a terrible blow, that their hearts will turn water in their bosoms. Look at me; I am of the blood of the white men, but I am not all white. A chief of the Sacs was my father, and he is dead. He died in chains, because he dug up the hatchet against the cowardly Chippewas. You have known and loved him, for you fought by his side. Black-Hawk, Red-Bird was the father of the man who speaks.” “Ha!” cried the chief. “Red-Bird was a man, but he could not bear the chains of the white man, and he died. Is my son the child whom he lost, who was born of the French squaw, who followed him from Detroit?” Black Will inclined his head slowly, and Black-Hawk took 35 his hand in his own and pressed it again and again to his bosom. “Black-Hawk can understand how the son of Red-Bird should hate the white man,” he said. “We will fight side by side in this war, and if we die, let us die bravely. Are the warriors coming in, Na-she-eschuck?” “They are gathering from every side. They have heard of the insult to Black-Hawk, and their hearts are hot in their bosoms. They will behave like men.” “It is good,” said the chief. “Now we will go forth, and you shall see how Black-Hawk shall give a traitor his dues.” They left the lodge, and followed by the brother of Black-Hawk, and Napope, a celebrated chief, moved down toward the river, where the rest of the party concealed themselves while Na-she-eschuck brought out his canoe and crossed to the other shore. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2