Not a living thing was stirring -
there was something awful in the scene. They rode up to the entrance
of the lodge, and there was no sound but the tramp of their horses.
A squaw came out and took charge of the animals, without speaking a
word. Entering, they found the lodge crowded with Indians; a fire
was burning in the midst, and the mourners encircled it in a triple
row. Room was made for the newcomers at the head of the lodge, a
robe spread for them to sit upon, and a pipe lighted and handed to
them in perfect silence. Thus they passed the greater part of the
night. At times the fire would subside into a heap of embers, until
the dark figures seated around it were scarcely visible; then a squaw
would drop upon it a piece of buffalo-fat, and a bright flame,
instantly springing up, would reveal of a sudden the crowd of wild
faces, motionless as bronze. The silence continued unbroken. It was
a relief to Shaw when daylight returned and he could escape from this
house of mourning. He and Henry prepared to return homeward; first,
however, they placed the presents they had brought near the body of
the squaw, which, most gaudily attired, remained in a sitting posture
in one of the lodges. A fine horse was picketed not far off,
destined to be killed that morning for the service of her spirit, for
the woman was lame, and could not travel on foot over the dismal
prairies to the villages of the dead. Food, too, was provided, and
household implements, for her use upon this last journey.
Henry left her to the care of her relatives, and came immediately
with Shaw to the camp. It was some time before he entirely recovered
from his dejection.
CHAPTER XI
SCENES AT THE CAMP
Reynal heard guns fired one day, at the distance of a mile or two
from the camp. He grew nervous instantly. Visions of Crow war
parties began to haunt his imagination; and when we returned (for we
were all absent), he renewed his complaints about being left alone
with the Canadians and the squaw. The day after, the cause of the
alarm appeared. Four trappers, one called Moran, another Saraphin,
and the others nicknamed "Rouleau" and "Jean Gras," came to our camp
and joined us. They it was who fired the guns and disturbed the
dreams of our confederate Reynal. They soon encamped by our side.
Their rifles, dingy and battered with hard service, rested with ours
against the old tree; their strong rude saddles, their buffalo robes,
their traps, and the few rough and simple articles of their traveling
equipment, were piled near our tent. Their mountain horses were
turned to graze in the meadow among our own; and the men themselves,
no less rough and hardy, used to lie half the day in the shade of our
tree lolling on the grass, lazily smoking, and telling stories of
their adventures; and I defy the annals of chivalry to furnish the
record of a life more wild and perilous than that of a Rocky Mountain
trapper.
With this efficient re-enforcement the agitation of Reynal's nerves
subsided. He began to conceive a sort of attachment to our old
camping ground; yet it was time to change our quarters, since
remaining too long on one spot must lead to certain unpleasant
results not to be borne with unless in a case of dire necessity. The
grass no longer presented a smooth surface of turf; it was trampled
into mud and clay. So we removed to another old tree, larger yet,
that grew by the river side at a furlong's distance. Its trunk was
full six feet in diameter; on one side it was marked by a party of
Indians with various inexplicable hieroglyphics, commemorating some
warlike enterprise, and aloft among the branches were the remains of
a scaffolding, where dead bodies had once been deposited, after the
Indian manner.
"There comes Bull-Bear," said Henry Chatillon, as we sat on the grass
at dinner. Looking up, we saw several horsemen coming over the
neighboring hill, and in a moment four stately young men rode up and
dismounted. One of them was Bull-Bear, or Mahto-Tatonka, a compound
name which he inherited from his father, the most powerful chief in
the Ogallalla band. One of his brothers and two other young men
accompanied him. We shook hands with the visitors, and when we had
finished our meal - for this is the orthodox manner of entertaining
Indians, even the best of them - we handed to each a tin cup of coffee
and a biscuit, at which they ejaculated from the bottom of their
throats, 'How! how!" a monosyllable by which an Indian contrives to
express half the emotions that he is susceptible of. Then we lighted
the pipe, and passed it to them as they squatted on the ground.
"Where is the village?"
"There," said Mahto-Tatonka, pointing southward; "it will come in two
days."
"Will they go to the war?"
"Yes."
No man is a philanthropist on the prairie. We welcomed this news
most cordially, and congratulated ourselves that Bordeaux's
interested efforts to divert The Whirlwind from his congenial
vocation of bloodshed had failed of success, and that no additional
obstacles would interpose between us and our plan of repairing to the
rendezvous at La Bonte's Camp.
For that and several succeeding days, Mahto-Tatonka and his friends
remained our guests. They devoured the relics of our meals; they
filled the pipe for us and also helped us to smoke it. Sometimes
they stretched themselves side by side in the shade, indulging in
raillery and practical jokes ill becoming the dignity of brave and
aspiring warriors, such as two of them in reality were.
Two days dragged away, and on the morning of the third we hoped
confidently to see the Indian village.
