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Authors: The Spirit of the Border
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columns of blue smoke. The scene was picturesque
and reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the Indians love of color
and ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of
sleeping away the hot noonday hours.
The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene
of animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves
dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many
a doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French fur
traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly
left their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-known
summons.
The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd,
presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded
him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an
extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave's
staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the
deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.
Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; he
had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the
lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his
captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachem
of the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, when
Wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes.
If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his
ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way
to ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt in
their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave
not the slightest sign.
"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.
The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the
procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces
expressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloud
in their native tongue:
"Le Vent de la Mort! Le Vent de la Mort! La Vent de la Mort!"
The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of
the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knew
them all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the
Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar—the
mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and
Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of
sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and these
three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an
awful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-called
White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;
Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like
little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the
demon of the frontier—Jim Girty.
The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves
pushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;
Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the
other Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperadoes had feared
this hunter.
Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling
horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.
The deadly foes were once again face to face. The chieftain's lofty
figure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over the
other Indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order to
look straight into the hunter's eyes.
Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great
chieftain's glance. Like a mountain-ash he stood, straight and
strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad
shoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the
knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his
legs—all denoted a wonderful muscular development.
The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his
features. His face was white and
and reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the Indians love of color
and ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of
sleeping away the hot noonday hours.
The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene
of animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves
dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many
a doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French fur
traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly
left their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-known
summons.
The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd,
presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded
him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an
extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave's
staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the
deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.
Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; he
had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the
lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his
captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachem
of the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, when
Wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes.
If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his
ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way
to ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt in
their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave
not the slightest sign.
"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.
The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the
procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces
expressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloud
in their native tongue:
"Le Vent de la Mort! Le Vent de la Mort! La Vent de la Mort!"
The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of
the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knew
them all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the
Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar—the
mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and
Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of
sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and these
three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an
awful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-called
White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;
Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like
little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the
demon of the frontier—Jim Girty.
The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves
pushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;
Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the
other Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperadoes had feared
this hunter.
Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling
horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.
The deadly foes were once again face to face. The chieftain's lofty
figure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over the
other Indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order to
look straight into the hunter's eyes.
Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great
chieftain's glance. Like a mountain-ash he stood, straight and
strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad
shoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the
knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his
legs—all denoted a wonderful muscular development.
The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his
features. His face was white and
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