The New England Weekly Review

INDIAN TRAITS.
STORY OF NISKAGAH—BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

When a Pawnee Loup Brave has become weary of inaction, and desires to lead in some daring adventure, he may, according to the customs of his tribe, retire from the village, and erect, from the branches of trees, a temporary lodge, suspend in some prominent place, the belt of wampum, and then seat himself quietly to smoke his pipe, certain that the adventurous and chivalric spirits about him will soon collect, and be ready to participate in any peril. If the leader be brave and popular, his volunteers are assembled with far greater celerity than a Highland gathering, or the flocking of feudal retainers around the Barons of the olden time. In this way, too, the greatest secrecy prevails, as no one can know the object of the Brave, till it is his will to reveal it. The term, Brave, is an epithet of distinction conferred only on those who have become renowned for their military prowess.

In the summer of 18—, the son of old Thief Chief of the Pawnee Loups, residing upon a branch of the Platte river, was observed in this way to retire from his people. The young chief, though scarcely upon the verge of manhood, was already distinguished in all the skill, daring and hardihood of an accomplished savage warrior, and had earned the envied appellation of 'the bravest of the Braves.'

It was in vain that the beautiful wife of the Chief timidly approached the lodge, and tossing her infant before him, sought to engage his attention. He motioned her away, and resumed his pipe, neither by look nor gesture betokening that he marked the drooping sadness of her eye, and the lingering of her footsteps, as she turned to depart.

It may well be supposed that he remained not long in solitude. The best and bravest of the tribe sought his retirement—one by one they entered the lodge, took down the belt of wampum from the buffalo horns on which it was suspended, drew it slowly through the left hand, restored it to its position, and then seated themselves beside him.

When the requisite number had assembled, the ceremonies preceding the adventure of the kind, commenced. Fasting and prayers, with mystical and varied incantations, were observed for many days. No one returned to his cabin to exchange greeting with his wife or kindred; every thing yielded to the solemn preparations of the warrior. They threw themselves, at night, upon mats of skin, and waited the visitation of sleep, for then the Great Spirit would descend, and in dreams, make known his will to his children.

Morning came—the Pawnee Brave sprang from his couch with a flashing eye, his natural bearing of self defiance made still more terrible by the streaks of black paint on his visage, which had been put on for the ceremonial. Grimly the chiefs eyed one another; for their dreams had been wild and disconnected, and the voice of the Great Spirit had failed to reach the ears of his children. The Chief advanced, his eyes gleamed red from beneath his helmet, and stretching forth his arm, upon which rattled the quills of his feathered robe, he thus addressed them;

Warriors, all night could hear the whispering of the Great Spirit, but the words were borne away by a strong wind. I tried to listen, but I could not. There is a serpent in our midst. Let him depart.

His hand dropped by his side, and he stood with foot advanced, head inclined, and looking fiercely upon the group before him. Slowly a young warrior arose, and left the lodge.

A smile of derision passed over the face of the youthful Brave, and a low guttural expression of scorn escaped the lips of the grim chieftains. The recreant Brave had but lately married his bride, and in the silence of midnight he had stolen to her side. Thus had all their incantations been counteracted, and the expedition delayed.

All day were their warriors engaged in their mysterious rites, practised with renewed and awful solemnity. The dim shadows of the old woods rested upon the lonely lodge, the pale stars looked down, and the night breeze trembled into silence, while the Great Spirit passed over them revealing his will.

When the morning came, the leader stood ready to disclose his intentions. He spoke of a tribe distant a journey of many days, by whom their warriors had once been defeated, and the insult remained unavenged.

Warriors, upon the land of our foe were many saplings; they were small—our children might have rooted them up. They are now mighty trees, casting their shadow upon the earth.—They grew with the blood of our warriors. Chiefs, the old men of our foe, tell over their scalps, and they say, this, and this, and this, is the scalp of a Pawnee Loup. Let us avenge them. The hatchet has slept till it is covered with rust. We will dig it up, and make it bright till the blood of our people is revenged.'

Grimly the chiefs arose, each adorned according to his rank as a Brave, or his skill as a huntsman. The plumes of the war eagle nodding up on their crest, and the hairs of the white buffalo, and the scalps of the slain depending from their arms and legs. The bow and quiver hung at their backs, one arm supported the shield of tough buffalo hide, and the right hand grasped the massy spear.

The Pawnee leader eyed for a moment, the gallant band, and then with measured pace, commenced their perilous march, the towering crest rising and falling to the long, undulating step, resembling the trot of one of their own forest deer.

With unerring sagacity, they threaded the pathless woods—forded the rapid torrent, and traversed the wide and monotonous prairie. As they approached the doomed village, their vigilance was redoubled. Not a twig snapped beneath their moccasins—not a shrub was suffered to remain crushed by the footstep. They laid in ambush till the last torch expired in the wigwam, and the last wail of the restless child was hushed on the breast of its mother Then arose the wild and appalling sound of the war-whoop. The battle-axe and the arrow found their victim, and the yell of the warrior, grappling with his foe, the stifled cry of childhood, and the shrill shriek of woman mingled with the tumult of battle, and the crackling of flames. Fierce and desperate was the strife, and fearful the destruction. Scarcely a warrior was left to the tribe, to tell the tale of death. The Pawnees weary with labor, and laden with trophies, mounted the horses of their foes, and prepared to depart.

Beside the Pawnee leader rode a beautiful captive, he had spared in the battle. Her father, rushing from his dwelling, had encountered the Pawnee Loup upon the threshold, and a long and desperate battle ensued. The Chief fell, and the victor found within, a matron sheltering a child in bosom, and her daughter by her side. The maiden approached the Brave with a faint smile, saying, 'Would you kill a Squaw?' The uplifted weapon fell to his side, and the cabin was spared.

The captive was scarcely fifteen, yet had she sprung to the maturity and rounded outline of early womanhood. A world of passion seemed slumbering beneath the dreamy lids, and there was a litheness of motion. and gleamings of vivacity through the voluptuous indolence of the untutored girl, that might have won the admiration of more cultivated observers. Her dress was a snowy robe made of the skin of the mountain goat, ornamented with quills of the porcupine, gorgeously colored. Leggins and moccasins of the same material, and similarly adorned. the springing curve of the latter giving promise of a small. elegantly formed foot. Her long, abundant hair, parted from the forehead, fell in braids far below the girdle. She managed the small restive animal which she rode, with a skill and dexterity not unmarked by her captor, who might thence be pardoned the display of the like accomplishment in the presence of one so fair. and so well qualified to appreciate it.

Dauntlessly all day did she ride beside the Pawnee Loup, a captive, yet with a lofty bearing, an air of proud indifference, that neither sought nor repelled sympathy; threading her way thro' the dense forests, galloping over the prairies, and plunging her horse into the streams to ford the rivers that impeded their progress. At night, she slept upon her couch of skins, nor dreamed of danger. The accidents of death and captivity were too frequent in the history of Indian life, to elicit much emotion, and the separation from her kindred was little different from what it would probably have been, had this been her bridal excursion, as scarcely ever did a maiden of her tribe marry one of their own people. True, her captivity might close in torture, and a lingering death, but she was a child of the woods, with a native apathy as to all evils in the possible future, and when trial should come, was ready to meet it in any shape, with a spirit worthy of any of her race.

Once she placed her finger upon the grey haired scalp of an old man, that hung at the girdle of the Brave, and said in a low voice, 'It was my father's.'

A flush passed over the brow of the Pawnee Loup, and he looked earnestly in the face of the poor girl.

'He died the death of a brave chief,' he at length replied.

'Yes,' responded the maiden, mournfully, 'but he has no son to avenge his death; his memory will be like the leaf of autumn when it is dry.—Would that Niskagah had been a son!'

They had now approached within view of the village. It stood upon an elevated plain, rich in pasturage, the river sweeping by in front, with its perpetual beauty, and untiring melody, and flanked by a heavy forest, undulating in its distance, draping the hills in verdure, and lovingly embracing the little lakes that sparkled in the sunshine, like diamonds scattered in the great wilderness.—The party came to a halt, while a messenger was despatched to the village with notice of their arrival.

Instantly all was commotion, and a multitude approached to escort the victorious chief to the council lodge. The women brandished the weapons of war, elevated the trophies of victory,
and led the way with cries of exultation. The

wife of the leader conveyed the captive to her own

cabin, presented her with parched corn and venison,

and spread the mats for her repose.

Solemnly and in silence assembled the chiefs in

council, to hear the result of the expedition, and

determine the fate of the prisoner. The Pawnee

leader gave the particulars of the enterprise, with

a brevity becoming the character of a chief, already

renowned, not only for his skill in battle

but wisdom at the council hall. Revenge, rather

than plunder, had been the incitement to action

and they had returned, laden with the scalps of

the foe, and a daughter of the chief of the tribe,

to await the will of the council board. The warriors

of their foemen had fallen in battle, and women

and children alone remained to tell, in after

years, of the deadly vengeance of the Pawnee

Loup.

It was the great festival of the Buffalo Hunt,

but a mortality had appeared amongst them, and

the animals were sickly and scarce, and hardly

rewarded the labor of the hunter. Their Medicine

men had hinted at a solemn sacrifice necessary

to appease the wrath of the malignant

spirit.

An old man arose, trembling with age, his hair

white with the frosts of a century. He bowed

heavily upon his staff, and cast his dim eyes over

the assembly.

"Brothers, I am an old man; the hunters that

went with me to the chase, have departed. The

warriors that followed me to battle, are not.—

The sapling that I bent when a child, is now a

gnarled tree, gray with the moss of years—such

am I. Many suns ago the evil spirits destroyed

our game as they do now. We had forgotten

to do them honor. Then we offered them a human

sacrifice at our great festival, and they were

appeased, and the buffalo and the deer came down

to drink in our rivers, and feed upon the great

prairies. The Great Spirit has reserved the

captive maiden, that his children may do what is

right,"

Low sounds of applause spread over the assembly,

and when the chiefs separated, it was

to prepare, the next day, for the great sacrifice

which should avert the evils that threatened their

tribe.

Niskagah was in the cabin of her captor when

told of the fate that awaited her. An instant flush

mounted to her cheek and temples, as if a pang

had forced the blood, in a strong current, from the

heart, and then it retreated, leaving in its place

a fearful pallor. She raised her dark eyes imploringly

to the face of the Pawnee Loup, but she

met only the stolid look of an unsympathising

heart. Ashamed of her weakness, she raised

herself to her full height, threw back the masses

of her jetty hair, and addressed him in a tone

of defiance.

Niskagah is the daughter of a great chief—she

fears not to die. The Pawnee Loup is a brave

chief—he took the scalp of an old man; and she

laughed in scorn.

For a moment lightning seemed to dart from

the fierce eyes of the young chief; and then he

folded his arms and moved not while she continued—

"The Pawnee Loups know not how to torture

their enemies—they are faint-hearted. They

should have spared our chiefs to teach them.—

Our young men had eaten the hearts of the Pawnee

Loup warriors; it made them strong. Every

chief had the scalp of a Pawnee Loup at his girdle.

Would Niskagah might die by the hands

of a brave people—but the Pawnee Loups are

faint-hearted—they cannot torture her."

The night came on, burdened with wind and

rain. The tall grass of the prairies undulated

like the vexed waters of the ocean, and the river,

swollen by the mountain torrents, roared over

its rocky channel, foaming and tumultuous. Niskagah

rose from her bed of skins, and looked

forth into the darkness of the night. She thought

not of escape, for she had witnessed the defence

of the village, and knew the attempt was useless.

She was alone in the midst of the solitude of the

night, and the wild uproar of the elements, and

now her woman's nature returned, and she pressed

her hands upon her brow and wept bitterly.—

All that instinctive clinging to life that belongs to

humanity in every condition, pressed upon her,

and made her recoil from the prospect of its

speedy termination, with all the wildness of terror.

The mode too, protracted and horrible

glared up before the eyes of the lone girl, and

her flesh already palpitated under the tortures

of the burning pitch, or quivered under the knife.

The pride of her race, and the daring bitterness

of her own proud spirit forsook her, now that she

was alone with none to witness her weakness,

and powerful—very powerful became her woman's

ature, with its shrinking dependence, its

dread of solitary suffering, and tendril-like

reaching for support. It may be that a vague

dream of rescue from her gallant captor haunted

her imagination, but she remembered his cold,

unsympathising look, and the long night wore on:

and still he slept. Hope died within her, and

gave place to a wildness of excitement, and she

rushed forth into the tempest.

Passing a cabin door, she was arrested by low

moans from within, and companionship, even in

suffering, drew her towards it. Suddenly a young

mother raised the skins that concealed the entrance,

and stood in the tempest, her long hair

streaming in the wind, and she gave utterance to

her sorrow in words like these:

"Alas! why didst thou leave me, my child ?—

My bosom is full of nourishment; why didst thou

go? Who will nurse thee, my infant—who comfort

and shelter thee? I cannot stay in my cabin

while the cold wind is blowing about thee, and

the rain sinking into thy bed. The skins are

wet my child, and thy cheek is cold and damp

Come to my bosom! Let me feed thee; and dry

the rain from thy hair. I cannot rest in my wigwam—I

cannot be warm and sheltered, whilst

thou art cold in thy little grave."

Then she sank down upon the threshold, and

uttered low wailing. It was the first sorrow of

the young savage, the grief of the untutored mother

at the loss of her first born.

Niskagah envied the lot of the unconscious

child, that had thus gone to the land of spirits, ere

it had known the bitterness of life. Yet the grief

of another has allayed the excitement of her own

heart, and she returned to the cabin, with the renewed

apathy of her people, and the gleamings

of hope that can never quite desert the young

heart. She slept long and soundly, and awoke

only to the sound of the wild birds as they blithely

hailed the purity of the morning. The heavy

dew weighed down the herbage, and the clouds

rolled away where the mountain top seemed to

beckon their coming. The river poured on with

its swollen waters, chafing its rock bed, and its

hollow voice was heard where it plunged down a

chasm of rocks, sending up a volume of spray,

upon which the morning sun was showering

rainbow gems, and covering it as with a diadem.

The wife of the Pawnee Loup presented the

captive venison and fruits, but she motioned her

away, saying, 'Niskagah will talk with the Great

Spirit—she will soon be in the land of shadows,'

then turning her face to the wall, she folded her

robe over her bosom, and awaited those who

should lead her to the stake.

All things were in readiness. Women were

there, eager with expectation, and children, awed

by the presence of their seniors, looked breathlessly

at the elevated stake and instruments of torture.

Warriors were there adorned with paint

and the trophies of battle, and helmets nodding

with plumes, but conspicuous in the midst was

the son of the chief, with the eagle crest towering

above the chiefs of the tribe. Wildly did the

Medicine Man pursue the preliminary ceremonies,

singing chants in a low, guttural tone, keeping

time with a measured step, and then tossing

his arms in the air, raising his voice to a piercing

scream, the bells of his robe jingling, and

scalps fluttering in the wind. At length bounding

from the ground, he returned, slowly leading

in the victim, her wrists crossed meekly before

her, and her upbound hair falling like a black

veil nearly to her feet. Her step was feeble, and

her lips compressed, as if to crowd back all memory

of weakness.

As she approached the stake, she raised her

eyes timidly from the ground, and encountered

those of the young Pawnee Loup. Instantly the

shrinking girl became the proud child of the woods

sending back the gaze of the eager multitude with

a look of fearless defiance, and approaching the

instruments of torture, with a step almost of alacrity.

A shout of exultation burst from the crowd

at the noble bearing of the prisoner.

There was a rush—and the whole multitude

sprang to their feet. The Pawnee Loup had

bounded into the arena, and borne the captive

from their midst—and off over the broad prairies,

and up the roar of the cataract was seen the tall

form of the warrior, and the robes of the fearless

maiden, as their fleet horses panted for the desert.

Not a bow was sprung, nor javelin poised. It was

an impulse from the Great Spirit, which it were

impious to counteract. Rapidly and in silence the

fugitives pursued their flight. The Pawnee Loup

scarcely glanced at his companion, as she gave

the reins to her steed, and kept by his side, fearless

and unhesitating, her eye dancing with renewed

hopes and happiness, and a smile playing

upon her lip as they welled up from her young

heart. At night, when the Chief spread her skins

in the shadow of the great forest, and watched her

slumbers at a distance, Niskagah slept with the

security of a child. When she awoke, she laved

her face in the brook that bubbled at her feet, and

braided her abundant hair, using it for a mirror

Seven days had they pursued their perilous way

through the wilderness, greeted only by the howl

of the wild beast, and the barking of Wish-ton

wish, when Niskagah knew they were approaching

the country of her own people.

They were now on the outskirts of the forest,

and the chief pointed to the hills behind which

arose the smoke of their cabins. Niskagah heard

him in silence. When he turned to depart, she

laid her hand timidly upon his arm, and with the

pathos of nature, said—

The home of Niskagah is desolate. Grass

grows in the footpath of our warriors, and the

council-fire is extinguished. The hunter has

ceased from the chase. The blood of our chiefs

is still wet upon the threshold. I would not behold

it.

'Niskagah is a proud maiden,' said the Brave.

'She will be Chief of her tribe, and she will teach

her young men to take vengeance on the Pawnee

Loups. Niskagah must be the wife of a great

chief, who has many wives, for she would scorn

to cook his venison, and make his wampum belts

and moccasins.'

The girl sprang to his side, all the passion of

her nature beaming from her dark flashing eyes.

The Chief bent his looks admiringly upon the

beautiful girl, and her lids fell under his ardent

gaze. Her head dropped, and her voice was low

and sweet.

'Niskagah is proud; she is the daughter of a

great chief—but she is not too proud to love—and

love would make her very gentle'—and her round

lip quivered with the timidity of her sex.

It may be that the Pawnee Loup remembered

his own fair bride, singing a lullaby to his child—

for he turned away, and Niskagah remained motionless

till the forest hid him from her view, and

then in weariness and solitude sought the ruins of

her village.

When the Brave returned to his own council

hall, none questioned his right to do as he had done

He was wise in council, and brave in battle, and

his will had the authority of law. But his wife

saw the glowing gloom upon his brow, and that

her own smiles could not dispel it. His wigwam

was lonely, and the game he killed in the chase

went to the cabins of others, for he had few to eat

it. She tried often to give utterance to the thoughts

of her heart, but they died upon her lips. But she

had determined on the great sacrifice, for her love

sought only the happiness of its object

She had nursed her infant to sleep, and laid him

on the skins beside its father, and then in a low

voice she said—

'The Brave grows weary of his cabin—it is

lonely. Niskagah is very beautiful, and she loves

the Pawnee Loup.'

She said no more, but pressed her lips to the

cheek of her child, and when she raised her head

a tear had fallen upon it. The Chief took her to

his bosom, and the wife wept long and bitterly.—

Yet she urged his departure, for she saw the beauty

of the captive was still fresh in his memory.

With woman, love is ever the same, whether in

the halls of elegance and refinement, or the simple

cabin of the savage—it is still true to its nature—still

self-sacrificing and enduring; twining

flowers and verdure about the shrine of its idol,

while its own heart is desolate and broken.