Osceola the Seminole; or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land. Майн Рид
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ensemble of this strange youth was that of a noble and handsome boy that another brace of summers would develop into a splendid-looking man. Even as a boy, there was an individuality about him, that, when once seen, was not to be forgotten.
I have said that his costume was Indian. So was it—purely Indian—not made up altogether of the spoils of the chase, for the buckskin has long, ceased to be the wear of the aborigines of Florida. His moccasins alone were of dressed deer’s hide; his leggings were of scarlet cloth; and his tunic of figured cotton stuff—all three elaborately beaded and embroidered. With these he wore a wampum belt, and a fillet encircled his head, above which rose erect three plumes from the tail of the king vulture—which among Indians is an eagle. Around his neck were strings of party-coloured beads, and upon his breast three demi-lunes of silver, suspended one above the other.
Thus was the youth attired, and, despite the soaking which his garments had received, he presented an aspect as once noble and picturesque.
“You are sure you have received no injury?” I inquired for the second time.
“Quite sure—not the slightest injury.”
“But you are wet through and through; let me offer you a change of clothes: mine, I think, would about fit you.”
“Thank you. I should not know how to wear them. The sun is strong: my own will soon be dry again.”
“You will come up to the house, and eat something?”
“I have eaten but a short while ago. I thank you. I am not in need.”
“Some wine?”
“Again I thank you—water is my only drink.”
I scarcely knew what to say to my new acquaintance. He refused all my offers of hospitality, and yet he remained by me. He would not accompany me to the house; and still he showed no signs of taking his departure.
Was he expecting something else? A reward for his services? Something more substantial than complimentary phrases?
The thought was not unnatural. Handsome as was the youth, he was but an Indian. Of compliments he had had enough. Indians care little for idle words. It might be that he waited for something more; it was but natural for one in his condition to do so, and equally natural for one in mine to think so.
In an instant my purse was out; in the next it was in his hands—and in the next it was at the bottom of the pond!
“I did not ask you for money,” said he, as he flung the dollars indignantly into the water.
I felt pique and shame; the latter predominated. I plunged into the pond, and dived under the surface. It was not after my purse, but my rifle, which I saw lying upon the rocks at the bottom. I gained the piece, and, carrying it ashore, handed it to him.
The peculiar smile with which he received it, told me that I had well corrected my error, and subdued the capricious pride of the singular youth.
“It is my turn to make reparation,” said he. “Permit me to restore you your purse, and to ask pardon for my rudeness.”
Before I could interpose, he sprang into the water, and dived below the surface. He soon recovered the shining object, and returning to the bank, placed it in my hands.
“This is a splendid gift,” he said, handling the rifle, and examining it—“a splendid gift; and I must return home before I can offer you aught in return. We Indians have not much that the white man values—only our lands, I have been told,”—he uttered this phrase with peculiar emphasis. “Our rude manufactures,” continued he, “are worthless things when put in comparison with those of your people—they are but curiosities to you at best. But stay—you are a hunter? Will you accept a pair of moccasins and a bullet-pouch? Maümee makes them well—”
“Maümee?”
“My sister. You will find the moccasin better for hunting than those heavy shoes you wear: the tread is more silent.”
“Above all things, I should like to have a pair of your moccasins.”
“I am rejoiced that it will gratify you. Maümee shall make them, and the pouch too.”
“Maümee!” I mentally echoed. “Strange, sweet name! Can it be she?”
I was thinking of a bright being that had crossed my path—a dream—a heavenly vision—for it seemed too lovely to be of the earth.
While wandering in the woods, amid perfumed groves, had this vision appeared to me in the form of an Indian maiden. In a flowery glade, I saw her—one of those spots in the southern forest which nature adorns so profusely. She appeared to form part of the picture.
One glance had I, and she was gone. I pursued, but to no purpose. Like a spirit she glided through the daedalian aisles of the grove, and I saw her no more. But though gone from my sight, she passed not out of my memory; ever since had I been dreaming of that lovely apparition. “Was it Maümee?”
“Your name?” I inquired, as I saw the youth was about to depart.
“I am called Powell by the whites: my father’s name—he was white—he is dead. My mother still lives; I need not say she is an Indian.”
“I must be gone, sir,” continued he after a pause. “Before I leave you, permit me to put a question. It may appear impertinent, but I have good reason for asking it. Have you among your slaves one who is very bad, one who is hostile to your family?”
“There is such a one. I have reason to believe it.”
“Would you know his tracks?”
“I should.”
“Then follow me!”
“It is not necessary. I can guess where you would lead me. I know all: he lured the alligator hither to destroy my sister.”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the young Indian, in some surprise. “How learned you this, sir?”
“From yonder rock, I was a witness of the whole transaction. But how did you come to know of it?” I asked in turn.
“Only by following the trail—the man—the dog—the alligator. I was hunting by the swamp. I saw the tracks. I suspected something, and crossed the fields. I had reached the thicket when I heard cries. I was just in time. Ugh!”
“You were in good time, else the villain would have succeeded in his intent. Fear not, friend, he shall be punished.”
“Good—he should be punished. I hope you and I may meet again.”
A few words more were exchanged between us, and then we shook hands, and parted.
Chapter Eleven.
The Chase.
About the guilt of the mulatto, I had no longer any doubt. The mere destruction of the fish could not have been his design; he would never have taken such pains to accomplish so trifling a purpose. No; his intent was far more horrid; it comprehended a deeper scheme of cruelty and vengeance; its aim was my sister’s life!—Viola’s!—perhaps both?
Awful as was such a belief, there was no room left to doubt it; every circumstance confirmed it. Even the young Indian had formed the opinion that such was the design. At this season, my sister was in the habit of bathing almost every day; and that this was her custom was known to all upon the plantation. I had not thought of it when I went in pursuit of the deer, else I should in all probability have acted in a different manner. But who could have suspected such dire villainy?
The cunning of the act quite equalled its malice. By the merest accident,