CHAPTER I.
AS THE SUN WENT DOWN.
With gloom in his heart, Black Partridge strode homeward along thebeach path.
The glory of a brilliant August sunset crimsoned the tops of thesandhills on the west and the waters of the broad lake on the east;but if the preoccupied Indian observed this at all, it was to see init an omen of impending tragedy. Red was the color of blood, and heforesaw that blood must flow, and freely.
"They are all fools. All. They know that Black Partridge cannot lie,yet they believe not his words. The white man lies, and works his owndestruction. His doom be on his head!"
As his thought took this line the chief's brow grew still morestern, and an expression of contempt curled the corners of his wide,thin lips. A savage though he was, at that moment he felt himselfimmeasurably superior to the pale-faces whom he had known; and in theconsciousness of his integrity he held his tall form even more erect,while he turned his face toward the sky in gratitude to that GreatSpirit who had made him what he was.
Then again he remembered the past, and again his feather-adorned headdrooped beneath its burden of regret, while his brown fingers claspedand unclasped themselves about a glittering medal which decorated hisnecklace, and was the most cherished of his few possessions.
"I have worn it for long, and it has rested lightly upon my heart; butnow it becomes a knife that pierces. Therefore I must return it whenceit came."
Yet something like a sigh escaped him, and his hands fell downstraight at his sides. Also, his narrow eyes gazed forward uponthe horizon, absently, as if their inward visions were much clearerthan anything external. In this manner he went onward for a littledistance, till his moccasined foot struck sharply against somethinglying in his path, and so roused him from his reverie.
"Ugh! Ugh! So. When the squaw dies the papoose must suffer."
The soft obstruction was a little child, curled into a rounded heap,and fast asleep upon this primitive public highway. The touch of thered man's foot had partially wakened the sleeper, and when he bent andlaid his hand upon her shoulder, she sprang up lightly, at oncebeginning to laugh and chatter with a gayety that infected even thestolid Indian.
"Ugh! The Little-One-Who-Laughs. Why are you here alone, so far fromthe Fort, Kitty Briscoe?"
"I runned away. Bunny rabbit runned away. I did catch him two times. Idid find some posies, all yellow and round and--posies runned away,too. Ain't that funny? Kitty go seek them."
Her laughter trilled out, bird clear, and a mischievous twinklelighted her big blue eyes.
"I runned away. Bunny rabbit runned to catch me. I runned to catchbunny. I caught the posies. Yellow posies gone--I go find them, too."
As if it were the best joke in the world, the little creature stilllaughed over her own conceit of so many runnings till, in whirlingabout, she discovered the remnants of the flowers she had lost uponthe heat-hardened path behind her. Indeed, when she had dropped downto sleep, overcome by sudden weariness, it had been with the coolleaves and blossoms for a couch. Now the love of all green and growingthings was an inborn passion with this child, and her face sobered toa keen distress as she gazed upon her ruined treasures. But almost atonce the cloud passed, and she laughed again.
"Poor posies, tired posies, sleepy, too. Kitty sorry. Put them in thewater trough and wake them up. Then they hold their eyes open, justlike Kitty's."
"Ugh! Where the papoose sleeps the blossoms wither," remarked BlackPartridge, regarding the bruised and faded plants with more attention.They were wild orchids, and he knew that the child must have wanderedfar afield to obtain them. At that time of year such blooms wereextremely rare, and only to be found in the moist shadows of sometree-bordered stream quite remote from this sandy beach.
"Oh, dear! Something aches my feet. I will go home to my little bed.Pick up the posies, Feather-man, and take poor Kitty."
With entire confidence that the Indian would do as she wished, thesmall maid clasped his buckskin-covered knee and leaned her dimpledcheek against it. It proved a comfortable support, and with a babyishyawn she promptly fell asleep again.
Had she been a child of his own village, even of his own wigwam, BlackPartridge would have shaken her roughly aside, feeling his dignityaffronted by her familiarity; but in her case he could not do this andon this night least of all.
The little estray was the orphan of Fort Dearborn; whose soldierfather had met a soldier's common fate, and whose mother had quicklyfollowed him with her broken heart. Then the babe of a few weeksbecame the charge of the kind women at the Fort, and the pet of thegarrison in general.
But now far graver matters than the pranks of a mischievous childfilled the minds of all her friends. The peaceful, monotonous life ofthe past few years was over, and the order had gone forth that thepost should be evacuated. Preparations had already begun for the longand hazardous journey which confronted that isolated band of whitepeople, and the mothers of a score of other restless young folk hadbeen too busy and anxious to notice when this child slipped away towander on the prairie.
For a brief time the weary baby slumbered against the red man's knee,while he considered the course he would best pursue; whether to returnher at once to the family of the commandant, or to carry her southwardto the Pottawatomie lodge whither he was bound. Then, his decisionmade, he lifted the child to his breast and resumed his homeward way.
But the bright head pillowed so near his eyes seemed to dazzle him,and its floating golden locks to catch and hold, in a peculiarfashion, the rays of the sunset. From this, with his race instinct ofpoetic imagery, which finds in nature a type for everything, he caughta quaint suggestion.
"She is like the sun himself. She is all warmth and brightness. Sheis his child, now that her pale-faced parents sleep the long sleep,and none other claims her. None? Yes, one. I, Black Partridge, theMan-Who-Lies-Not. In my village, Muck-otey-pokee, lives my sister, thedaughter of a chief, her whose one son died of the fever on that samedark night when the arrow of a Sioux warrior killed a brave, his sire.In her closed tepee there will again be light. The Sun Maid shall makeit. So shall she escape the fate of the doomed pale-faces, and soshall the daughter of my house again be glad."
Thus, bearing her new name, and all unconsciously, the little Sun Maidwas carried southward and still southward till the twilight fell andher new guardian reached the Pottawatomie village, on the Illinoisprairie, where he dwelt.
Sultry as the night was, there was yet a great council fire blazing inthe midst of the settlement, and around this were grouped many youngbraves of the tribe. Before the arrival of their chief there had beena babel of tongues in the council, but all discussion ceased as hejoined the circle in the firelight.
The sudden silence was ominous, and the wise leader understood it;but it was not his purpose then to quarrel with any man. Ignoringthe scowling glances bestowed upon him, he gave the customaryevening salutation and, advancing directly to the fire, plucked ablazing fagot from it. This he lifted high and purposely held sothat its brightness illuminated the face and figure of the childupon his breast.
BLACK PARTRIDGE AND THE SUN MAID. _Page 6._]
A guttural exclamation of astonishment ran from brave to brave. Theaction of their chief was significant, but its meaning not clearlycomprehended. Had he brought the white baby as a hostage from thedistant garrison, in pledge that the compact of its commandant wouldsurely be kept? Or had some other tribe anticipated their own inobtaining the gifts to be distributed?
Shut-Hand, one of the older warriors, whose name suggested hischaracter, rose swiftly to his feet, and demanded menacingly:
"What means our father, thus bringing hither the white papoose?"
"That which the Black Partridge does--he does."
Rebuked, but unsatisfied, the miserly inquirer sat down. Then, with agesture of protection, the chief raised the sleeping little one, thatall within the circle might better see her wonderful, glowing beauty,intensified as it was by the flare of the flames as well as bycont
rast to the dusky faces round about.
"Who suffers harm to her shall himself suffer. She is the Sun Maid,the new daughter of our tribe."
Having said this, and still carrying the burning fagot, he walked tothe closed tepee of his widowed sister and lifted its door flap.Stooping his tall head till its feathered crest swept the floor heentered the spacious lodge. But he sniffed with contempt at thestifling atmosphere within, and laying down his torch raised the otherhalf of the entrance curtain.
At the back of the wigwam, crouching in the attitude she had sustainedalmost constantly since her bereavement, sat the Woman-Who-Mourns. Shedid not lift her head, or give any sign of welcome till the chief hadcrossed to her side, and in a tone of command bade her:
"Arise and listen, my sister, for I bring you joy."
"There is no joy," answered the woman, obediently lifting her tallfigure to a rigidly erect posture; by long habit compelled to outwardrespect, though her heart remained indifferent.
"Put back the hair from your eyes. Behold. For the dead son I give youthe living daughter. In that land to which both have gone will herlost mother care for your lost child as you now care for her."
Slowly, a pair of lean, brown hands came out from the swathing blanketand parted the long locks that served as a veil to hide a haggard,sorrowful face. After the deep gloom the sudden firelight dazzled thewoman's sight, and she blinked curiously toward the burden upon herbrother's breast. Then the small eyes began to see more clearly and toevince the amazement that filled her.
"Dreams have been with me. They were many and strange. Is thisanother?"
"This a glad reality. It is the Sun Maid. She has no parents. You haveno child. She is yours. Take her and learn to laugh once more as inthe days that are gone."
Then he held the little creature toward her; and still amazed, butstill obedient, the heart-broken squaw extended her arms and receivedthe unconscious foundling. As the warm, soft flesh touched her own athrill passed through her desolate heart, and all the tenderness ofmotherhood returned.
"Who is she? Whence did she come? Where will she go?"
"She is the Sun Maid. From the Fort by the great lake, where are stillwhite men enough to die--as die they must. For there is treacheryafoot, and they who were first treacherous must bear their ownpunishment. Only she shall be saved; and where she will go is in thepower of the Woman-Who-Mourns, and of her alone."
Without another word, and leaving the still blazing fagot lying on theearthen floor, the chief went swiftly away.
But he had brought fresh air and light and comfort with him, as he hadprophesied. The small Sun Maid was already brightening the dusky lodgeas might an actual ray from her glorious namesake.
It was proof of her utter exhaustion that she still slept soundlywhile her new foster-mother prepared a bed of softest furs spread overfresh green branches and went hurriedly out to beg from a neighborsquaw a draught of evening's milk. This action in itself wassufficiently surprising to set all tongues a-chatter.
The lodge of Muck-otey-pokee had many of the comforts common to thewhite men's settlements. Its herd of cattle even surpassed that atFort Dearborn itself, and was a matter of no small pride to thePottawatomie villagers. From the old mission fathers they had learned,also, some useful arts, and wherever their prairie lands were tilled arich result was always obtainable.
So it was to a home of plenty, as well as safety, that Black Partridgehad brought the little Sun Maid; and when she at length awoke to see adusky face, full of wonderment and love, bending above her, she putout her arms and gurgled in a glee which brought an answering smile tolips that had not smiled for long.
With an instinct of yearning tenderness, the Woman-Who-Mourns hadlightened her sombre attire by all the devices possible, so thatwhile the child slept she had transformed herself. She had neatlyplaited her heavy hair, and wound about her head some strings of gaybeads. She had fastened a scarlet tanager's wing to her breast, nowcovered by a bright-hued cotton gown once sent her from the Fort, andfor which she had discarded her dingy blanket. But the greatestalteration of all was in the face itself, where a dawning happinessbrought out afresh all the good points of a former comeliness.
"Oh! Pretty! I have so many, many nice mammas. Are you another?"
"Yes. All your mother now. My Sun Maid. My Girl-Child. My papoose!"
"That is nice. But I'm hungry. Give me my breakfast, Other Mother.Then I will go seek my bunny rabbit, that runned away, and my yellowposies that went to sleep when I did. Did you put them to bed, too,Other Mother?"
"There are many which shall wake for you, papoose," answered thewoman, promptly; for though she did not understand about the missingblossoms, it was fortunate that she did both understand and speak thelanguage of her adopted daughter. Her dead husband had been thetribe's interpreter, and both from him and from the Fort's chaplainshe had acquired considerable knowledge.
Until her widowhood and voluntary seclusion the Woman-Who-Mourns hadbeen a person of note at Muck-otey-pokee; and now by her guardianshipof this stranger white child she bade fair to again become such.
The Sun Maid: A Story of Fort Dearborn Page 3