Майн Рид
The White Squaw
Chapter Twelve.
The Situation
Several days had elapsed since the meeting in the council-house.
The answer of the Seminole warriors had been conveyed to the white governor by Oluski himself.
The old chief couched the decision in kindly words mingled with regrets.
Elias Rody was wonderfully self-possessed.
He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, grasped the Seminole’s hand, and with a wave of his own seemed to dismiss the subject from his thoughts.
Nay, more, he presented the old warrior with a beautifully inlaid rifle, a bale of broad-cloth, and a keg of powder.
“Come, come,” said he speaking in the friendliest tone, “don’t let a mere whim of mine affect such a friendship as ours. You must accept these things – mere trifles. Your taking them will prove that you harbour no unkindness towards me or mine.”
Thus pressed, Oluski accepted the presents.
The governor smiled covertly as the old chief departed.
Nelatu had recovered from his wound; he daily spent hours in company with Warren, and there was no lack of diversion for the white youth or his red-skinned companion.
Their canoe darted through the blue waters of the bay, or stole dreamily along the river’s current.
Their rifles brought down the wild fowl upon the sea, or the quail and partridge upon the land.
Their fishing-rods and spears furnished many a dainty dish.
Sometimes, going farther afield, they would bring home a deer, or a brace or two of wild turkeys – or, bent on destruction, would penetrate some dark lagoon and slay the hideous alligator.
The opportunities which these pursuits presented were constantly improved by Warren.
He moulded his conduct and expressions to suit the simple faith and understanding of his companion.
He concealed beneath a considerate kindness the dark thoughts that were brooding in his bosom, and was the very semblance of what he professed to be – a friend.
Nelatu, generous and confiding, was flattered and charmed by his condescension; with the simple faith of a child he trusted his white associate.
“Ah, Nelatu,” would the latter say, “if I had only the power to do what I wish, I would prove myself a true friend to the Indians. Our race are afraid to show real sympathy with them on account of old and stupid prejudices. Wait until I am in a position to prove my words, and you will see what I will do. Why, even now, I’d rather sit near you fishing, or tramp with you across the country on a hunting excursion, than spend my time amongst my own people, who cannot understand either me or my ways.”
In a thousand designing ways he impressed himself on Nelatu’s mind as a chivalrous, self-sacrificing fellow, worthy the love of any maiden. Then, adroitly singing soft praises of Sansuta to the brother’s pleased ear, he insured in him a faithful ally and warm panegyrist.
Sansuta, pleased with an admiration which she never paused to question, blushed at her brother’s report of Warren’s good qualities.
Many articles of adornment had come into her hands, and were kept from her father’s sight.
She dared not wear them, but in secret gloated over their possession as over the feeling which had prompted the gift.
Sansuta, it will be seen, was a coquette, though one through vanity, not vice.
She was innocent as a child, but inordinately vain.
She had grown up without a mother’s care; had been so much thrown upon her own resources; that all her faults were those of an untrained nature.
Her heart was warm, her affection for her father and brother deep and true; but she was too prone to turn from the bright side of life, and tremble at anything with the appearance of dulness.
Differently placed, this Indian maid might have become a heroine. As it was she was nothing but a frivolous child.
With a generous man, her defenceless position would have ensured her safety.
Not thus with Warren Rody.
The son did not belie his father’s nature.
Crookleg had become useful to him in his scheme. This hideous creature proved far more subservient and trustworthy than the defunct Red Wolf, for he was all obsequious obedience.
True, he sometimes glanced askance with an ugly look bent upon his young master, but the look vanished in a hideous grin whenever the latter turned towards him.
What dark mystery lay hidden in the negro’s mind, no one white knew, but all, by a common impulse, gave way to him as he passed. Children ran shrieking, and hid their faces in their mother’s aprons; the boys paused suddenly in their play as he hobbled by, while the old gossips of both sexes shook their heads and thought of the devil as he approached them!
He seemed only flattered by these signs of detestation, and chuckled with glee at the aversion he inspired.
The Indians, meanwhile, pursued their usual avocations.
The waters of Tampa Bay were dotted with their canoes. Troops of their children frolicked on the plateau, or clucked the wild flowers that grew along the sloping sides of the hill.
The women of the tribe followed their domestic duties, and the whole scene around the wigwams was one of tranquil contentment.
The white settlers were not idle neither. The fields were swelling with crops, which the planters had commenced to gather in. A goodly store of merchandise was collected upon the wharf, and several schooners had come to an anchor in the bay.
Peace and plenty abounded in the settlement.
But, as before the storm a small, dark cloud specks the bright sky, gathering as it grows, so was there a cloud, too small for human view, drifting over this peaceful scene which should carry death and destruction in its wake.
Slowly and surely it was coming!
Chapter Thirteen.
A Subterranean Snare
A morning in the forest.
What beauty! What delight!
The wild flowers gemmed with dew – the quivering foliage vieing in colour with the emerald sward – the vistas dreamily grey and endless – the air balmy – the light soft and grateful.
What a melody the birds make – a very paradise of sound!
What flashes of splendid blues, reds, and yellows, as they dart from branch to branch!
What a succession of novelties, and charms for eye and ear!
Thoughts like these filled the mind of an individual seen near the settlement on a lovely morning, a few days after the council held by Oluski with his warriors.
The individual in question was a woman. She was on horseback, and as she checked her steed to gaze upon the scene before her, she presented to view a face and form signally beautiful.
A frank, fearless, young face withal, of true maiden modesty. Her hair, in a rich golden shower of curls, fell over a forehead of snowy whiteness, and a neck and shoulders admirably rounded.
Her figure was graceful and striking; its contour shown off by the dark riding-dress she wore.
A hat, with a heron’s plume, stuck saucily on one side, covered her head.
The horse she rode was a Seminole steed – of the Andalusian race – small, but well proportioned, as evidenced by the arching of its neck, proud of its fair burden.
She remained for some time silently feasting her senses with the lovely prospect, herself a charming addition to its interest.
After a while, she gave the reign to her horse, and allowed it, with a dainty, mincing step to pick its way along the path, occasionally making a pretence of alarm, pricking up its ears, drawing its head one side, and doubly arching its pretty neck as some idle butterfly, or quick-winged humming bird, darted across the road, or rose suddenly from a bed of wild flowers.
Por a considerable distance the young lady proceeded without adventure or mischance, whilst her horse, having little affected airs, stepped.
The fair equestrian’s thoughts had not, it seemed, undergone any change, for the same pleasant smile illumined her countenance.
Her thoughts were gay and happy, in unison with the surroundings.
In this mood was she proceeding on her journey.
Suddenly – indeed so suddenly as to cause her alarm – her steed came to a stop, showing signs of being scared.
His eyeballs were distended, his fore-feet planted stiffly in advance, his mane standing almost straight, while he trembled in every limb.
Another step, and horse and rider would have suddenly disappeared beneath the surface of the earth, and for ever.
They were on the brink of one of those subterranean wells, or “rinks,” common in that part of the country, whose dangerous concavity is concealed by a light crust of earth; and only by the sudden sinking of the support beneath him is the unwary traveller apprised of the peril.
Over the covering of the abyss the grass grew as greenly, the flowers bloomed as brightly as elsewhere.
And yet under that fair seeming was a trap that conducted to death.
In an instant the fair rider comprehended her peril.
To advance would be certain death; to attempt to back her steed upon its own tracks almost as certain destruction.
She knew but one thing to do, and she did it.
Gently patting the creature’s neck she addressed it in soothing words, whilst with a wary hand she held the bridle, her touch upon the horse’s mouth so delicate that the very breeze might have swayed it.
Her hand did not tremble, nor her eye quail, although the ruddy tinge upon her cheek had altogether disappeared.
After a time the horse seemed to gain confidence; his tremor became subdued, and, instead of the wild frenzy in his eye, there was a dull look, while the foam rose to his nostrils, and sweat bathed his limbs.
She continued to caress his neck, and soothe him with soft words.
Moving neither up nor down, to right or to left, with her delicate hand she still held the bridle.
But the danger still threatened.
She saw it as she cast her eyes below.
The ground was crumbling slowly but surely beneath the horse’s feet, and a fissure had already opened wide enough to show the deep, black chasm underneath.
She shuddered, closed her eyes for a second, and then opened them, only to see the fissure widening – the blackness growing more intense.
A prayer rose up from her lips.
She waited for the catastrophe!
The tension on the horse’s nerves became too great.
Again the animal trembled!
Its knees began to yield!
The ground seemed all at once to give from beneath its feet!
His rider felt that she was lost!
No – saved!
Just as her closing eyes saw the courageous animal slide into the black chasm, and heard its last snort of her terror, she felt herself lifted from the saddle, borne from the spot, and then —
She knew no more.
She had fainted!
Chapter Fourteen.
A True Gentleman
It was Cris Carrol who had rescued the fair equestrian.
The old hunter had perceived her danger, and, with the quickness of thought, mastered the whole situation.
Without uttering a word, he stealthily approached the spot, until reaching a tree, one of whose branches extended over the horse’s head.
To clutch it, spring out on the projecting limb, and lift the young lady out of the saddle, were acts performed almost instantaneously.
What followed was not so easy.
He had not counted on the feminine weakness of fainting, and, with the dead weight of the swooning girl upon his arm, there was still a difficulty as to his future movements. How was he to get back along the limb?
He saw that nothing but sheer strength could accomplish it, and accordingly exerted all he had.
With one hand grasping the branch, and the other around the unconscious form, he made a superhuman effort, and succeeded in reaching the trunk of the tree. Against this he supported himself until he recovered breath and strength.
While thus resting, he was witness to the engulfing of the gallant steed, as the snorting animal sank into the chasm below.
The old hunter heaved a sigh. He was sorry for the creature, and would have saved it had the thing been possible.
“Wal, if it ain’t too bad for a good, plucky crittur like that to die sich a death! Confound them tarnal sink holes! They’ve been the misfortun’ o’ many a one. Thank goodness I’ve saved the feminine.”
The “feminine’s” condition now demanded his attention, as the temporary faintness was passing away, and she showed signs of returning animation.
With rare tact and delicacy, the old hunter, regardless of his own fatigue, softly lowered himself and his fair burden to the ground. Then, gently withdrawing his arm from her waist, he drew back a step or two.
Taking of his seal-skin cap, he wiped the perspiration from his brow, and, with the gallantry of a true gentleman, waited until she should address him.
The young lady he had rescued was no ordinary person.
The faintness which had come upon her endured only for a short while.
Recovering consciousness, she understood at a glance, not only the nature of the service rendered her, but also the character of the man who had rendered it.
“Oh, sir! I’m afraid that you have run a fearful risk. I can hardly tell you how grateful I am.”
“Wal, miss, it war rayther a toughish struggle while it lasted. But, bless ye, that’s nothin’ so long as it’s turned out all right. If you’d not been the plucky one you air, nothin’ I could ha’ done would have helped ye. It war your own grit as much as my muscle saved ye from fallin’ into that trap.”
“My horse. Where is he?”
“Yur right there, he’s gone, poor crittur. I’d ha’ liked to saved him, too, for the way he behaved. That dumb crittur had more sense in him than many a human; and it ’ud ha’ done me a sight o’ good to have pulled him thro’; but it wasn’t possible, nohow.”
“Tell me, sir, where did you come from? I did not see you.”
“Wal, I war clost by, and seed you ride right on to the danger. It war too late to holler, for that would only ha’ made things worse, an’ skeared you both; so I said nothin’, but jist dropped my rifle, and made track toarst ye. I spied the branch above you, an’ speeled up to it. The next war nothin’ – only a spell o’ twisting an’ wrigglin’.”
He did not tell her that the muscles of his arms were fearfully swollen, and that it demanded all his power of endurance to prevent him groaning at the intense agony he suffered.
But the young lady, with a quickness of apprehension, seemed to understand this, too.
“Nothing, do you say? Oh! sir, it’s another proof of your noble courage. I can never show you enough gratitude. For all that, I feel deeply grateful.”
Her voice trembled with emotion – tears welled into her eyes.
Her brave heart had well endured danger, but could not contemplate, without betraying its emotion, the self-generosity of her preserver.
“Wal,” said he, in order to change the conversation, which he thought too flattering towards himself, “what do you intend doing, now that your horse is gone?”
She wiped the tears from her eyes, and in a firm voice answered him —
“I’m not more than four or five miles from my home. I merely rode out for pleasure. I little thought that my excursion would end thus. Where do you live, sir? I don’t remember to have seen you before.”
“At the settlement?” he asked.
She nodded.
“No; I ain’t a resident of no place. I’m as you see me – a hunter. I’ve been at the settlement tho’ many a time; in fact, I used to live on that thar spot afore thar war any settlement. It war enough for me to know they war a-comin’, so I pulled up stakes and quit. You see, miss, it don’t do for a hunter to live among the clearins; besides, I’m a deal happier by myself.”
“No doubt. To a contented mind, such a life as yours must be a happy one.”
“That’s it, miss; to them as is contented. Do you know I’ve often and often puzzled over the expressin’ o’ that idear, and never could hit it; and yet you’ve gin it in the snapping of a jack-knife.”
“Perhaps you were going to the settlement when you saw me?”
“No; exactly t’other way. I war goin’ from it. I’ve been down beyont hyar to meet a friend o’ mine. It ain’t long ago tho’ since I war in the colony, and staid a spell there. Now I’m bound for the big Savanna, that is, arter I’ve seen you home, and out of danger.”
“Oh, no thank you, that’s not at all necessary. I’m used to wander about alone, although this part of the country is a little new to me.”
“If you’ll allow me, miss, I’ll go with pleasure.”
“That I cannot do. All I want to know now is your name?”
“Cris Carrol,” was the hunter’s reply.
“Then,” said she holding out her pretty white hand, “Cris Carrol, I thank you with my whole heart for what you have done for me. I will remember it to my dying day.”
Like a knight of ancient chivalry, the backwoodsman stooped and kissed the proffered hand.
When he stood erect again, a flush of pleasurable pride made his rugged face look as handsome as an Apollo’s. It was the beauty of honesty.
“Bless you, miss, bless you! Cris Carrol will allers be too glad to do a sarvice for one that’s real grit, as you air. That I’ll swar to. Bless you!”
As she turned to take her departure, a sudden idea struck the backwoodsman —
“Why, what a durn’d old fool I am; I never axed her for her name.”
“You’ll pardon me, miss,” said he, “I’m sure you will – but – ”
“But, what?” she asked, smilingly.
“But, might I ask you – I’d like to know – ” here he stammered and stuttered.
“You want to know my name; that’s it, isn’t it?”
“The very thing!”
“Alice Rody.”
The old backwoodsman started on hearing it.
Chapter Fifteen.
Brother and Sister
As Alice Rody left the spot, which had so nearly proved her tomb, she thought of the old hunter with admiration. His courage and honest courtesy had won her, but she had also noticed his surprise on hearing her name.
Of the feeling entertained by him for her father and brother she knew nothing.
The female mind loves riddles, and Alice, like a true woman, racked her brain for a solution of that one Carrol’s conduct seemed to embody.
Thus occupied, she emerged from the forest, and had proceeded some distance upon her road, when she perceived two individuals in close conversation.
Their backs were turned towards her, and, as her light footfall did not disturb them, she got close to the spot on which they stood without their perceiving her.
Near enough, in fact, to hear the following: —
“Hark you, you black rascal! If you betray me, it will be the worse for you. I have a means of silencing those who prove false to me.”
Whatever reply the “black rascal” would have made was prevented by an impetuous gesture of the speaker, who had caught sight of Alice.
“Ah, Alice, you here?” said he, facing towards her. “I did not know you were abroad – ”
It was her brother Warren.
Alice recognised in the “black rascal” no less a personage than Crookleg.
Warren thrust a piece of silver into the negro’s hands.
“There, there, that’ll do. I’ll forgive you this time, but remember! Now be off with you – be off, I say.”
Crookleg, cut short in his attempt to address Alice, hobbled away, muttering some words to himself.
“Why, Warren,” asked his sister, “what makes you speak so harshly to poor Crookleg?”
“Because he’s a pestilent fellow. I want him to know his place.”
“But a kind word doesn’t cost much.”
“There, sister! no scolding, if you please. I’m not in the best of humours now. Where is your horse?”
Alice told her brother of the incident, and spoke warmly of Carrol.
“So the old hunter did you a good service, did he? I didn’t think he had it in him, the old bear.”
“How unjust you are, Warren. Bear, indeed! I tell you that Cris Carrol is as good a gentleman as ever lived!”
As she said this she showed signs of indignation.
“Is he, indeed!” was the brother’s mocking retort.
“Yes – a thorough gentleman! One who wouldn’t wound another’s feelings if he could help it – and that’s my idea of a gentleman!”
“Well, we won’t argue the point. He has done good this time, and that’ll go to his credit; for all that, I don’t like him!”
Alice bit her lip with vexation, but made no reply.
“He’s too officious,” continued Warren; “too free with his advice – and I hate advice!”
“Most people do, especially when it is good,” quickly answered his sister.
“Who said it was good?”
“I know it is, or you would have liked it, and have followed it.”
“You are sarcastic.”
“No – truthful.”
“Well, as I am in no mode for quarrelling, we’ll drop the subject, and Cris Carrol too.”
“You may, but I shall never drop him. He is my friend from this time forward!”
“You are welcome to choose your friends – I’ll select my own.”
“You have done so already.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Nelatu, the Indian, seems to be one of them.”
“Have you anything against him?”
“Oh, no. I am only afraid he’ll be the loser by the intimacy.”
“Am I so dangerous?” asked her brother.
“Yes, Warren, you are dangerous, for, with all your pretended goodness, you lack principle. You cannot conceal your real character from me. Remember, I am your sister.”
“I am glad you remind me. I should forget it.”
“That’s because you avoid me so much. If you believed in my wishes for your welfare, you would not do that.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Indeed, then I beg you won’t waste your sympathy on me. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”
“You think you are.”
“Well, have it that way if it pleases you better. But what has this to do with my friendship for the Indian?”
“A great deal. I don’t like your intimacy with him. Not because he’s an Indian – although that is one reason – but because you have some purpose to serve by it that’ll do him no good.”
“Why, one would think you were in love with the young copper-skin!”
“No, but they might think he’s in love with me.”
“What! has he dared – ”
“No, he has dared nothing; only a woman’s eye can see more than a man’s. Nelatu has never spoken a familiar word to me, but, for all that, I can see that he admires me.”
“And you – do you admire him?”
The young girl stopped in her walk.
Her eyes sparkled strangely as she answered —
“Shame, brother, to put such a question! I am a white woman – he is an Indian. How dare you speak of such a thing?”
Warren laughed lightly at his sister, as he answered.
“Why, you don’t think that I care for the fellow, do you?”
The young girl saw her opportunity, and seized it.
“And yet you pretend to be his friend. Ah! have I caught you by your own confession?”
“Again, what do you mean?”
“That my doubts are now certainties – that some wicked scheme is concealed under this false friendship for Nelatu.”
“You are mad, Alice.”
“No, perfectly sane. You have some design, and I advise you, whatever it be, to abandon it. You don’t like my tears, so I’ll try to suppress them if I can; but I implore you, Warren, brother, to give it up now and for ever.”
She dashed a few bitter drops from her eyes ere she spoke again.
“I have only you and my father to look to for support and comfort; my heart has yearned towards you both, but has met with nothing but coldness. Oh, Warren, be a brave man – brave enough to despise wickedness, and you will not only make me happy, but, perhaps, avert that terrible retribution which overtakes transgression. There is time yet; hear my prayer before it is too late.”
Her pleading voice fell upon an ear that heard not.
The appeal did not reach her brother’s stony heart.
With a few commonplaces he endeavoured to exculpate himself from any evil intentions towards the young Indian.
All in vain.
Her woman’s instinct saw through his hypocrisy, and showed him to her as he was – wicked!
That night Alice Rody prayed long and earnestly for support in an affliction which she felt was but too surely coming; and she wept till her pillow was bedewed with tears!
