The Prairie Flower: A Tale of the Indian Border

Natah Otann rushed, into the room where he had left White Buffalo; the old Chief was quietly sleeping in an easy chair.

"Woe! woe!" the young man yelled, as he rushed toward him, and shook him vigorously, to rouse him.

"What is the matter?" the old man asked, opening his eyes, and sitting up. "What news have you?"

"That we are lost!" the Chief replied.

"Lost!" the White Buffalo said, "what is happening then?"

"The six hundred men we had here are drunk, the rest of our confederates are turning against us, and the only thing left to us is to die."

"Let us die then, but as brave men," the old man said, rising.

He asked Natah Otann for details, which he soon gave him.

"The situation is grave, but all is not lost, I hope," he said; "let us collect the few men still capable of fighting, and make head against the storm."

At this moment a tremendous fusillade was heard, mingled with war cries and shouts of defiance.

"The final struggle has commenced!" Natah Otann exclaimed.

"Forwards!" the old Chief said.

They rushed out. The situation was most critical. Major Melville, taking advantage of the intoxication of his keepers, had broken out of his prison at the head of some twenty Americans, and boldly charged the Redskins, while the hunters outside tried to scale the barricades.

The Indians of the prairie, ignorant of Red Wolf's death, and believing they were carrying out his plans, advanced, in a compact body, on the fort, with the intention of carrying it. Natah Otann had to contend against the enemies without and those within; but he did not despair; his energy seemed to increase with peril; he was everywhere at once; encouraging some, rebuking others, and imparting some of his own nerve to all. At his voice, many of his warriors sprang up, and joined him; then the battle was organized, and became regular.

Still the hunters, excited by the Count and Bright-eye, redoubled their efforts; climbing on each other's backs, they reached the top of the palisades, which they wished to scale. The Americans, though themselves surprised, when they expected to surprise their enemies, fought with indescribable fury, returning instantly to the attack in spite of the bullets that decimated them, and seemed resolved to fall to the last man, rather than give way an inch.

During the two hours that night still lasted, the fight was maintained without any decided advantage on either side; but when the sun appeared on the horizon, matters changed at once. In the darkness it was impossible for the Indians to recognize the enemies against whom they were fighting; but so soon as the gloom was dissipated, they saw, combating in the first rank of their enemies, and pitilessly cutting down the Redskins, the man on whom they counted most, whom their chiefs and medicine men had announced to them as their leader to victory, who would render them invincible. Then they hesitated, disorder broke out among them, and, in spite of the efforts made by Chiefs, they gave way.

The Count, having at his side Bright-eye, the squatter and his son, and Ivon, made a frightful butchery of the Indians; he was avenging himself for the treachery of which they had made him their victim, and, at each stroke, cut them down like corn ripe for the sickle. The Count at length reached the gate of the fort; but there he came in contact with a band of picked warriors, commanded by White Buffalo, who was effecting his retreat in good order, and without turning his back, closely pursued by Major Melville, who was already almost master of the interior of the fortress. There was a moment, we will not say of hesitation, but of truce between the hostile bands; each of them understood that the fate of the battle depended on the defeat of the other.

Suddenly Natah Otann made his appearance, mad with grief and rage; brandishing in one hand his totem, he guided with his knees a magnificent steed, with which he had already ridden several times into the thickest of the enemies' ranks, in the vain hope of reanimating the courage of his men, and turning the current of the action. Horse and rider were bathed in blood and perspiration; the shadow of death already brooded over the Chiefs contracted face; but his forehead still shone with enthusiasm. His eyes seemed to flash forth lightning, and his hand wielded an axe, the very handle of which dripped gore. Some twenty devoted warriors followed him, wounded like himself, but resolved, like him, not to survive defeat.

On reaching the front of the American line, Natah Otann stopped; his eyebrows were contracted, a nervous smile played round his lips; and, rising in his stirrups, he bent a fascinating glance around.

"Blackfeet, my brothers," he shouted, in a strident voice, "as you know not how to conquer, learn at least from me how to die!"

And burying his spurs in the flanks of his steed, which shrieked with pain, he rushed on the Americans, followed by a few warriors who had sworn not to abandon him. This weak band, devoted to death, was engulfed in the ranks of the hunters, when it entirely disappeared; for a few minutes there was a sullen contest, a horrible butchery, an ebb and flow of courage impossible to describe, a Titanic struggle of fifteen half naked men against three hundred; gradually the agitation ceased, the calm returned, and the ranks of the hunters were reformed. The Blackfeet heroes were dead, but they had a sanguinary funeral, for one hundred and twenty Americans had fallen, burying their enemies under their corpses.

White Buffalo's band alone resisted; but, attacked in the rear by Major Melville, and in front by the Count, its last hour had struck: still the collision was rude, the Indians resisted obstinately, and made the whites purchase their victory dearly; but, attacked on all sides at once, and falling helplessly under the unerring bullets of the white men, disorder entered their ranks, they disbanded, and the rout commenced.

One man alone remained calm and impassive on the field of battle. It was White Buffalo, leaning on his long sword; with pallid brow and haughty look, he still defied the enemies he could no longer combat.

"Surrender!" Bright-eye shouted, as he rushed upon him; "surrender, or I will shoot you like a dog."

The Chief smiled disdainfully, and made no reply. The implacable hunter seized his rifle by the barrel, and whirled it round his head. The Count seized him sharply by the arm.

"Stay, Bright-eye," he said.

"Let the man alone," White Buffalo said, coldly.

"I do not wish him to kill you," the young man replied.

"I suppose you wish to kill me yourself, noble Count of Beaulieu," he said, in a cutting voice.

"No, sir," the young man said, with disdain; "throw down your weapons; I spare your life."

The exile gave him a withering glance. "Instead of telling me to throw down my weapons," he said, ironically, "why do you not try to take them from me."

"Because I pity your age and your grey hair,"

"Pity? confess rather, O noble Count, that you are afraid."

At this insult the young man trembled, and his face became livid. The Americans formed a circle round the two men, and anxiously awaited what was going to happen.

"Put an end to this!" Major Melville exclaimed, "kill that mad brute."

"One moment, sir, I beg; let me settle this affair,"

"As you wish it, air, act as you think proper."

"You desire a duel then?" the Count said, addressing White Buffalo, who still stood perfectly calm.

"Yes," he answered, through his clenched teeth, "a duel to the death! two principles, and not two men, will contend here. I hate your race, and you hate mine."

"Be it so."

The Count took two sabres from the hands of the men nearest him, and threw one at the exile's feet. The latter stooped to pick it up, but as he rose again, Ivon aimed a pistol at him, and blew out his brains.

The young man turned furiously on his servant.

"Wretched fellow," he shouted, "what have you done?"

"Kill me, if you will, sir," the Breton replied, simply, "but indeed it was stronger than myself, I was so frightened."

"Come, come," the Major said, interposing, "you must not be angry with the poor fellow, he fancied he was acting for the best, and for my part I think he was."

The incident had no other result; the exile died on the spot, taking with him the secret of his name.

While this scene was taking place in the courtyard of the fort, John Black, who was anxious to reassure his wife and daughter, went to look for them; but though he went through all the rooms and outbuildings of the fort, where he had concealed them for a few minutes previously, he could not possibly find them anywhere.

The poor squatter returned, with lengthened face and despair in his soul, to announce to the Major the disappearance of his wife and daughter, probably carried off by the Indians. Without losing a moment, the Major ordered a dozen hunters to go in search of the ladies; but just as the band was about to start, they arrived, accompanied by Bright-eye and two American hunters. Margaret and her daughter were with them. So soon as Prairie-Flower perceived the Count, she uttered a cry of joy, and rushed toward him.

"Saved!" she exclaimed.

But all at once she blushed, trembled, and went in confusion to seek refuge by her mother's side. The Count went up, took her hand, and pressed it tenderly.

"Prairie-Flower," he said to her, softly, "do you no longer love me now that I am free?"

The maiden raised her head, and looked at him for a moment with tear-laden eyes.

"Oh! ever, ever!" she answered.

"Look, daughter," Mrs. Black said to poor Diana.

"Mother," she replied, in a firm voice, "did I not tell you that I should forget him?"

The squatter's wife shook her head, but made no further remark. The Indians had fled without leaving a man, and a few hours later the fort returned to its old condition.

The winter passed away without any fresh incident, for the rude lesson given the Indians had done them good. Prairie-Flower, recognized by her uncle, remained at Fort Mackenzie. The girl was sorrowful and pensive; she often spent long hours leaning over the parapets, with her eyes fixed on the prairie and the forests, which were beginning to reassume their green dress. Her mother and the Major, who were so fond of her, could not at all understand the gloomy melancholy that preyed upon her. When pressed to explain what she suffered from, she replied, invariably, that there was nothing the matter with her.

One day, however, her face brightened up, and her joyous smile reappeared. Three travellers arrived at the fort. They were the Count, Bright-eye, and Ivon; they were returning from a long excursion in the Rocky Mountains. As soon as he arrived, the Count went up to the maiden, and took her hand, as he had done three months before.

"Prairie-Flower," he asked her once again, "do you no longer love me?"

"Oh! yes, and for ever!" the poor child answered, gently, for she had grown timid since she gave up her desert life.

"Thank you," he said to her; and, turning to the Major and his sister, who were looking at each other anxiously, he added, without loosing the hand he held, – "Major Melville, and you, Madam, I ask you for this lady's hand."

A week later the marriage was solemnized; the squatter and his family were present. And a month previously, Diana had married James. Still, when the "yes" was uttered, she could not suppress a sigh.

"You see, Ivon, that you are never killed by the Indians – and here is a proof of it," Bright-eye said to the Breton, on leaving the chapel.

"I am beginning to believe it," the latter made answer, "but no matter, my friend, I shall never get accustomed to this frightful country; it makes me so afraid."

"The old humbug!" the Canadian muttered; "he will never alter."

And now, to satisfy certain curious readers who like to know everything, we will add the following in the shape of a postscript.

A few months after the 9th Thermidor, several members of the Convention, in spite of the part they played on that day, were not the less transported to French Guyana. Two of them – Collot D'Herbois and Billaud Varenne – succeeded in escaping from Sinnamori, and buried themselves in the deserts, where they endured horrible sufferings. Collot D'Herbois succumbed, and we have told his comrade's fate.

THE END

1

The felis discolor of Linnæus, or American lion.