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<h3>Chapter Twenty One.</h3> <h4>A Feat à la Tell.</h4> All eyes were turned upon the strange Indian. During the scene described he has stood silent, and calmly looking on. His eye now wanders over the ground, apparently in search of an object. A small convolvulus, known as the prairie gourd, is lying at his feet. It is globe-shaped, about the size of an orange, and not unlike one in colour. He stoops and takes it up. He seems to examine it with great care, balancing it upon his hand, as though he were calculating its weight. What does he intend to do with this? Will he fling it up, and send his bullet through it in the air? What else? His motions are watched in silence. Nearly all the scalp-hunters, sixty or seventy, are on the ground. Seguin only, with the doctor and a few men, is engaged some distance off, pitching a tent. Garey stands upon one side, slightly elated with his triumph, but not without feelings of apprehension that he may yet be beaten. Old Rube has gone back to the fire, and is roasting another rib. The gourd seems to satisfy the Indian, for whatever purpose he intends it. A long piece of bone, the thigh joint of the war-eagle, hangs suspended over his breast. It is curiously carved, and pierced with holes like a musical instrument. It is one. He places this to his lips, covering the holes, with his fingers. He sounds three notes, oddly inflected, but loud and sharp. He drops the instrument again, and stands looking eastward into the woods. The eyes of all present are bent in the same direction. The hunters, influenced by a mysterious curiosity, remain silent, or speak only in low mutterings. Like an echo, the three notes are answered by a similar signal! It is evident that the Indian has a comrade in the woods, yet not one of the band seems to know aught of him or his comrade. Yes, one does. It is Rube. “Look’ee hyur, boyees!” cries he, squinting over his shoulders; “I’ll stake this rib against a griskin o’ poor bull that ’ee’ll see the puttiest gal as ’ee ever set yur eyes on.” There is no reply; we are gazing too intently for the expected arrival. A rustling is heard, as of someone parting the bushes, the tread of a light foot, the snapping of twigs. A bright object appears among the leaves. Someone is coming through the underwood. It is a woman. It is an Indian girl, attired in a singular and picturesque costume. She steps out of the bushes, and comes boldly towards the crowd. All eyes are turned upon her with looks of wonder and admiration. We scan her face and figure and her striking attire. She is dressed not unlike the Indian himself, and there is resemblance in other respects. The tunic worn by the girl is of finer materials; of fawn-skin. It is richly trimmed, and worked with split quills, stained to a variety of bright colours. It hangs to the middle of the thighs, ending in a fringe-work of shells, that tinkle as she moves. Her limbs are wrapped in leggings of scarlet cloth, fringed like the tunic, and reaching to the ankles where they meet the flaps of her moccasins. These last are white, embroidered with stained quills, and fitting closely to her small feet. A belt of wampum closes the tunic on her waist, exhibiting the globular developments of a full-grown bosom and the undulating outlines of a womanly person. Her headdress is similar to that worn by her companion, but smaller and lighter; and her hair, like his, hangs loosely down, reaching almost to the ground! Her neck, throat, and part of her bosom are nude, and clustered over with bead-strings of various colours. The expression of her countenance is high and noble. Her eye is oblique. The lips meet with a double curve, and the throat is full and rounded. Her complexion is Indian; but a crimson hue, struggling through the brown upon her cheek, gives that pictured expression to her countenance which may be observed in the quadroon of the West Indies. She is a girl, though full-grown and boldly developed: a type of health and savage beauty. As she approaches, the men murmur their admiration. There are hearts beating under hunting-shirts that rarely deign to dream of the charms of woman. I am struck at this moment with the appearance of the young trapper Garey. His face has fallen, the blood has forsaken his cheeks, his lips are white and compressed, and dark rings have formed round his eyes. They express anger, but there is still another meaning in them. Is it jealousy? Yes! He has stepped behind one of his comrades, as if he did not wish to be seen. One hand is playing involuntarily with the handle of his knife. The other grasps the barrel of his gun, as though he would crush it between his fingers! The girl comes up. The Indian hands her the gourd, muttering some words in an unknown tongue—unknown, at least, to me. She takes it without making any reply, and walks off towards the spot where Rube had stood, which has been pointed out to her by her companion. She reaches the tree, and halts in front of it, facing round as the trapper had done. There was something so dramatic, so theatrical, in the whole proceeding, that up to the present time we had all stood waiting for the dénouement in silence. Now we knew what it was to be, and the men began to talk. “He’s a-goin’ to shoot the gourd from the hand of the gal,” suggested a hunter. “No great shot, after all,” added another; and indeed this was the silent opinion of most on the ground. “Wagh! it don’t beat Garey if he diz hit it,” exclaimed a third. What was our amazement at seeing the girl fling off her plumed bonnet, place the gourd upon her head, fold her arms over her bosom, and standing fronting us as calm and immobile as if she had been carved upon the tree! There was a murmur in the crowd. The Indian was raising his rifle to take aim, when a man rushed forward to prevent him. It was Garey! “No, yer don’t! No!” cried he, clutching the levelled rifle; “she’s deceived me, that’s plain, but I won’t see the gal that once loved me, or said she did, in the trap that a-way. No! Bill Garey ain’t a-goin’ to stand by and see it.” “What is this?” shouted the Indian, in a voice of thunder. “Who dares to interrupt me?” “I dares,” replied Garey. “She’s yourn now, I suppose. You may take her whar ye like; and take this too,” continued he, tearing off the embroidered pipe-case, and flinging it at the Indian’s feet; “but ye’re not a-goin’ to shoot her down whiles I stand by.” “By what right do you interrupt me? My sister is not afraid, and—” “Your sister!” “Yes, my sister.” “And is yon gal your sister?” eagerly inquired Garey, his manner and the expression of his countenance all at once changing. “She is. I have said she is.” <ANTIMG src="images/sclph112.jpg" alt=""> “And are you El Sol?” “I am.” “I ask your pardon; but—” “I pardon you. Let me proceed!” “Oh, sir, do not. No! no! She is your sister, and I know you have the right, but thar’s no needcessity. I have heerd of your shootin’. I give in; you kin beat me. For God’s sake, do not risk it; as you care for her, do not!” “There is no risk. I will show you.” “No, no! If you must, then, let me! I will hold it. Oh, let me!” stammered the hunter, in tones of entreaty. “Hollo, Billee! What’s the dratted rumpus?” cried Rube, coming up. “Hang it, man! let’s see the shot. I’ve heern o’ it afore. Don’t be skeert, ye fool! he’ll do it like a breeze; he will!” And as the old trapper said this he caught his comrade by the arm, and swung him round out of the Indian’s way. The girl, during all this, had stood still, seemingly not knowing the cause of the interruption. Garey’s back was turned to her, and the distance, with two years of separation, doubtless prevented her from recognising him. Before Garey could turn to interpose himself, the rifle was at the Indian’s shoulder and levelled. His finger was on the trigger, and his eyes glanced through the sights. It was too late to interfere. Any attempt at that might bring about the dreaded result. The hunter, as he turned, saw this, and halting in his tracks, stood straining and silent. It was a moment of terrible suspense to all of us—a moment of intense emotion. The silence was profound. Every breath seemed suspended; every eye was fixed on the yellow object, not larger, I have said, than an orange. Oh, God! will the shot never come? It came. The flash, the crack, the stream of fire, the wild hurrah, the forward rush, were all simultaneous things. We saw the shivered globe fly off. The girl was still upon her feet; she was safe! I ran with the rest. The smoke for a moment blinded me. I heard the shrill notes of the Indian whistle. I looked before me. The girl had disappeared. We ran to the spot where she had stood. We heard a rustling in the underwood, a departing footstep. We knew it was she; but guided by an instinct of delicacy, and a knowledge that it would be contrary to the wish of her brother, no one followed her. We found the fragments of the calabash strewed over the ground. We found the leaden mark upon them. The bullet itself was buried in the bark of the tree, and one of the hunters commenced digging it out with the point of his bowie. When we turned to go back we saw that the Indian had walked away, and now stood chatting easily and familiarly with Seguin. As we re-entered the camp-ground I observed Garey stoop and pick up a shining object. It was the gage d’amour, which he carefully readjusted around his neck in its wonted position. From his look and the manner in which he handled it, it was plain that he now regarded that souvenir with more reverence than ever. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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