Part 24 (1/2)
What does he intend to do with this? Will he fling it up, and send his bullet through it in the air? What else?
His motions are watched in silence. Nearly all the scalp-hunters, sixty or seventy, are on the ground. Seguin only, with the doctor and a few men, is engaged some distance off, pitching a tent. Garey stands upon one side, slightly elated with his triumph, but not without feelings of apprehension that he may yet be beaten. Old Rube has gone back to the fire, and is roasting another rib.
The gourd seems to satisfy the Indian, for whatever purpose he intends it. A long piece of bone, the thigh joint of the war-eagle, hangs suspended over his breast. It is curiously carved, and pierced with holes like a musical instrument. It is one.
He places this to his lips, covering the holes, with his fingers. He sounds three notes, oddly inflected, but loud and sharp. He drops the instrument again, and stands looking eastward into the woods. The eyes of all present are bent in the same direction. The hunters, influenced by a mysterious curiosity, remain silent, or speak only in low mutterings.
Like an echo, the three notes are answered by a similar signal! It is evident that the Indian has a comrade in the woods, yet not one of the band seems to know aught of him or his comrade. Yes, one does. It is Rube.
”Look'ee hyur, boyees!” cries he, squinting over his shoulders; ”I'll stake this rib against a griskin o' poor bull that 'ee'll see the puttiest gal as 'ee ever set yur eyes on.”
There is no reply; we are gazing too intently for the expected arrival.
A rustling is heard, as of someone parting the bushes, the tread of a light foot, the snapping of twigs. A bright object appears among the leaves. Someone is coming through the underwood. It is a woman.
It is an Indian girl, attired in a singular and picturesque costume.
She steps out of the bushes, and comes boldly towards the crowd. All eyes are turned upon her with looks of wonder and admiration. We scan her face and figure and her striking attire.
She is dressed not unlike the Indian himself, and there is resemblance in other respects. The tunic worn by the girl is of finer materials; of fawn-skin. It is richly trimmed, and worked with split quills, stained to a variety of bright colours. It hangs to the middle of the thighs, ending in a fringe-work of sh.e.l.ls, that tinkle as she moves.
Her limbs are wrapped in leggings of scarlet cloth, fringed like the tunic, and reaching to the ankles where they meet the flaps of her moccasins. These last are white, embroidered with stained quills, and fitting closely to her small feet.
A belt of wampum closes the tunic on her waist, exhibiting the globular developments of a full-grown bosom and the undulating outlines of a womanly person. Her headdress is similar to that worn by her companion, but smaller and lighter; and her hair, like his, hangs loosely down, reaching almost to the ground! Her neck, throat, and part of her bosom are nude, and cl.u.s.tered over with bead-strings of various colours.
The expression of her countenance is high and n.o.ble. Her eye is oblique. The lips meet with a double curve, and the throat is full and rounded. Her complexion is Indian; but a crimson hue, struggling through the brown upon her cheek, gives that pictured expression to her countenance which may be observed in the quadroon of the West Indies.
She is a girl, though full-grown and boldly developed: a type of health and savage beauty.
As she approaches, the men murmur their admiration. There are hearts beating under hunting-s.h.i.+rts that rarely deign to dream of the charms of woman.
I am struck at this moment with the appearance of the young trapper Garey. His face has fallen, the blood has forsaken his cheeks, his lips are white and compressed, and dark rings have formed round his eyes.
They express anger, but there is still another meaning in them.
Is it jealousy? Yes!
He has stepped behind one of his comrades, as if he did not wish to be seen. One hand is playing involuntarily with the handle of his knife.
The other grasps the barrel of his gun, as though he would crush it between his fingers!
The girl comes up. The Indian hands her the gourd, muttering some words in an unknown tongue--unknown, at least, to me. She takes it without making any reply, and walks off towards the spot where Rube had stood, which has been pointed out to her by her companion.
She reaches the tree, and halts in front of it, facing round as the trapper had done.
There was something so dramatic, so theatrical, in the whole proceeding, that up to the present time we had all stood waiting for the _denouement_ in silence. Now we knew what it was to be, and the men began to talk.
”He's a-goin' to shoot the gourd from the hand of the gal,” suggested a hunter.
”No great shot, after all,” added another; and indeed this was the silent opinion of most on the ground.
”Wagh! it don't beat Garey if he diz hit it,” exclaimed a third.