The Deerslayer

“’Tis natural you should feel this consarn for your own parent, Judith, and I suppose it’s equally so that you should feel it for Hurry Harry, too.”

Deerslayer then commenced a succinct but clear narrative of all that occurred during the night, in no manner concealing what had befallen his two companions, or his own opinion of what might prove to be the consequences. The girls listened with profound attention, but neither betrayed that feminine apprehension and concern which would have followed such a communication when made to those who were less accustomed to the hazards and accidents of a frontier life. To the surprise of Deerslayer, Judith seemed the most distressed, Hetty listening eagerly, but appearing to brood over the facts in melancholy silence, rather than betraying any outward signs of feeling. The former’s agitation, the young man did not fail to attribute to the interest she felt in Hurry, quite as much as to her filial love, while Hetty’s apparent indifference was ascribed to that mental darkness which, in a measure, obscured her intellect, and which possibly prevented her from foreseeing all the consequences. Little was said, however, by either, Judith and her sister busying themselves in making the preparations for the morning meal, as they who habitually attend to such matters toil on mechanically even in the midst of suffering and sorrow. The plain but nutritious breakfast was taken by all three in sombre silence. The girls ate little, but Deerslayer gave proof of possessing one material requisite of a good soldier, that of preserving his appetite in the midst of the most alarming and embarrassing circumstances. The meal was nearly ended before a syllable was uttered; then, however, Judith spoke in the convulsive and hurried manner in which feeling breaks through restraint, after the latter has become more painful than even the betrayal of emotion.

“Father would have relished this fish,” she exclaimed; “he says the salmon of the lakes is almost as good as the salmon of the sea.”

“Your father has been acquainted with the sea, they tell me, Judith,” returned the young man, who could not forbear throwing a glance of inquiry at the girl; for in common with all who knew Hutter, he had some curiosity on the subject of his early history. “Hurry Harry tells me he was once a sailor.”

Judith first looked perplexed; then, influenced by feelings that were novel to her, in more ways than one, she became suddenly communicative, and seemingly much interested in the discourse.

“If Hurry knows anything of father’s history, I would he had told it to me!” she cried. “Sometimes I think, too, he was once a sailor, and then again I think he was not. If that chest were open, or if it could speak, it might let us into his whole history. But its fastenings are too strong to be broken like pack thread.”

Deerslayer turned to the chest in question, and for the first time examined it closely. Although discolored, and bearing proofs of having received much ill-treatment, he saw that it was of materials and workmanship altogether superior to anything of the same sort he had ever before beheld. The wood was dark, rich, and had once been highly polished, though the treatment it had received left little gloss on its surface, and various scratches and indentations proved the rough collisions that it had encountered with substances still harder than itself. The corners were firmly bound with steel, elaborately and richly wrought, while the locks, of which it had no less than three, and the hinges, were of a fashion and workmanship that would have attracted attention even in a warehouse of curious furniture. This chest was quite large; and when Deerslayer arose, and endeavored to raise an end by its massive handle, he found that the weight fully corresponded with the external appearance.

“Did you never see that chest opened, Judith?” the young man demanded with frontier freedom, for delicacy on such subjects was little felt among the people on the verge of civilization, in that age, even if it be today.

“Never. Father has never opened it in my presence, if he ever opens it at all. No one here has ever seen its lid raised, unless it be father; nor do I even know that he has ever seen it.”

“Now you’re wrong, Judith,” Hetty quietly answered. “Father has raised the lid, and I’ve seen him do it.”

A feeling of manliness kept the mouth of Deerslayer shut; for, while he would not have hesitated about going far beyond what would be thought the bounds of propriety, in questioning the older sister, he had just scruples about taking what might be thought an advantage of the feeble intellect of the younger. Judith, being under no such restraint, however, turned quickly to the last speaker and continued the discourse.

“When and where did you ever see that chest opened, Hetty?”

“Here, and again and again. Father often opens it when you are away, though he don’t in the least mind my being by, and seeing all he does, as well as hearing all he says.”

“And what is it that he does, and what does he say?”

“That I cannot tell you, Judith,” returned the other in a low but resolute voice. “Father’s secrets are not my secrets.”

“Secrets! This is stranger still, Deerslayer, that father should tell them to Hetty, and not tell them to me!”

“There’s a good reason for that, Judith, though you’re not to know it. Father’s not here to answer for himself, and I’ll say no more about it.”

Judith and Deerslayer looked surprised, and for a minute the first seemed pained. But, suddenly recollecting herself, she turned away from her sister, as if in pity for her weakness and addressed the young man.

“You’ve told but half your story,” she said, “breaking off at the place where you went to sleep in the canoe—or rather where you rose to listen to the cry of the loon. We heard the call of the loons, too, and thought their cries might bring a storm, though we are little used to tempests on this lake at this season of the year.”

“The winds blow and the tempests howl as God pleases; sometimes at one season, and sometimes at another,” answered Deerslayer; “and the loons speak accordin’ to their natur’. Better would it be if men were as honest and frank. After I rose to listen to the birds, finding it could not be Hurry’s signal, I lay down and slept. When the day dawned I was up and stirring, as usual, and then I went in chase of the two canoes, lest the Mingos should lay hands on ’em.”

“You have not told us all, Deerslayer,” said Judith earnestly. “We heard rifles under the eastern mountain; the echoes were full and long, and came so soon after the reports, that the pieces must have been fired on or quite near to the shore. Our ears are used to these signs, and are not to be deceived.”

“They’ve done their duty, gal, this time; yes, they’ve done their duty. Rifles have been sighted this morning, ay, and triggers pulled, too, though not as often as they might have been. One warrior has gone to his happy hunting-grounds, and that’s the whole of it. A man of white blood and white gifts is not to be expected to boast of his expl’ites and to flourish scalps.”

Judith listened almost breathlessly; and when Deerslayer, in his quiet, modest manner, seemed disposed to quit the subject, she rose, and crossing the room, took a seat by his side. The manner of the girl had nothing forward about it, though it betrayed the quick instinct of a female’s affection, and the sympathizing kindness of a woman’s heart. She even took the hard hand of the hunter, and pressed it in both her own, unconsciously to herself, perhaps, while she looked earnestly and even reproachfully into his sun burnt face.

“You have been fighting the savages, Deerslayer, singly and by yourself!” she said. “In your wish to take care of us—of Hetty—of me, perhaps, you’ve fought the enemy bravely, with no eye to encourage your deeds, or to witness your fall, had it pleased Providence to suffer so great a calamity!”

“I’ve fou’t, Judith; yes, I have fou’t the inimy, and that too, for the first time in my life. These things must be, and they bring with ’em a mixed feelin’ of sorrow and triumph. Human natur’ is a fightin’ natur’, I suppose, as all nations kill in battle, and we must be true to our rights and gifts. What has yet been done is no great matter, but should Chingachgook come to the rock this evening, as is agreed atween us, and I get him off it onbeknown to the savages or, if known to them, ag’in their wishes and designs, then may we all look to something like warfare, afore the Mingos shall get possession of either the castle, or the ark, or yourselves.”

“Who is this Chingachgook; from what place does he come, and why does he come here?”

“The questions are nat’ral and right, I suppose, though the youth has a great name, already, in his own part of the country. Chingachgook is a Mohican by blood, consorting with the Delawares by usage, as is the case with most of his tribe, which has long been broken up by the increase of our color. He is of the family of the great chiefs; Uncas, his father, having been the considerablest warrior and counsellor of his people. Even old Tamenund honors Chingachgook, though he is thought to be yet too young to lead in war; and then the nation is so disparsed and diminished, that chieftainship among ’em has got to be little more than a name.

“Well, this war having commenced in ’arnest, the Delaware and I rendezvous’d an app’intment, to meet this evening at sunset on the rendezvous-rock at the foot of this very lake, intending to come out on our first hostile expedition ag’in the Mingos. Why we come exactly this a way is our own secret; but thoughtful young men on the war-path, as you may suppose, do nothing without a calculation and a design.”

“A Delaware can have no unfriendly intentions towards us,” said Judith, after a moment’s hesitation, “and we know you to be friendly.”

“Treachery is the last crime I hope to be accused of,” returned Deerslayer, hurt at the gleam of distrust that had shot through Judith’s mind; “and least of all, treachery to my own color.”

“No one suspects you, Deerslayer,” the girl impetuously cried. “No—no—your honest countenance would be sufficient surety for the truth of a thousand hearts! If all men had as honest tongues, and no more promised what they did not mean to perform, there would be less wrong done in the world, and fine feathers and scarlet cloaks would not be excuses for baseness and deception.”

The girl spoke with strong, nay, even with convulsed feeling, and her fine eyes, usually so soft and alluring, flashed fire as she concluded. Deerslayer could not but observe this extraordinary emotion; but with the tact of a courtier, he avoided not only any allusion to the circumstance, but succeeded in concealing the effect of his discovery on himself. Judith gradually grew calm again, and as she was obviously anxious to appear to advantage in the eyes of the young man, she was soon able to renew the conversation as composedly as if nothing had occurred to disturb her.

“I have no right to look into your secrets, or the secrets of your friend, Deerslayer,” she continued, “and am ready to take all you say on trust. If we can really get another male ally to join us at this trying moment, it will aid us much; and I am not without hope that when the savages find that we are able to keep the lake, they will offer to give up their prisoners in exchange for skins, or at least for the keg of powder that we have in the house.”

The young man had the words “scalps” and “bounty” on his lips, but a reluctance to alarm the feelings of the daughters prevented him from making the allusion he had intended to the probable fate of their father. Still, so little was he practised in the arts of deception, that his expressive countenance was, of itself, understood by the quick-witted Judith, whose intelligence had been sharpened by the risks and habits of her life.

“I understand what you mean,” she continued, hurriedly, “and what you would say, but for the fear of hurting me—us, I mean; for Hetty loves her father quite as well as I do. But this is not as we think of Indians. They never scalp an unhurt prisoner, but would rather take him away alive, unless, indeed, the fierce wish for torturing should get the mastery of them. I fear nothing for my father’s scalp, and little for his life. Could they steal on us in the night, we should all probably suffer in this way; but men taken in open strife are seldom injured; not, at least, until the time of torture comes.”

“That’s tradition, I’ll allow, and it’s accordin’ to practice—but, Judith, do you know the arr’nd on which your father and Hurry went ag’in the savages?”

“I do; and a cruel errand it was! But what will you have? Men will be men, and some even that flaunt in their gold and silver, and carry the King’s commission in their pockets, are not guiltless of equal cruelty.” Judith’s eye again flashed, but by a desperate struggle she resumed her composure. “I get warm when I think of all the wrong that men do,” she added, affecting to smile, an effort in which she only succeeded indifferently well. “All this is silly. What is done is done, and it cannot be mended by complaints. But the Indians think so little of the shedding of blood, and value men so much for the boldness of their undertakings, that, did they know the business on which their prisoners came, they would be more likely to honor than to injure them for it.”

“For a time, Judith; yes, I allow that, for a time. But when that feelin’ dies away, then will come the love of revenge. We must indivor,—Chingachgook and I,—we must indivor to see what we can do to get Hurry and your father free; for the Mingos will no doubt hover about this lake some days, in order to make the most of their success.”

“You think this Delaware can be depended on, Deerslayer?” demanded the girl, thoughtfully.

“As much as I can myself. You say you do not suspect me, Judith?”

“You!” taking his hand again, and pressing it between her own, with a warmth that might have awakened the vanity of one less simple-minded, and more disposed to dwell on his own good qualities, “I would as soon suspect a brother! I have known you but a day, Deerslayer, but it has awakened the confidence of a year. Your name, however, is not unknown to me; for the gallants of the garrisons frequently speak of the lessons you have given them in hunting, and all proclaim your honesty.”

“Do they ever talk of the shooting, gal?” inquired the other eagerly, after, however, laughing in a silent but heartfelt manner. “Do they ever talk of the shooting? I want to hear nothing about my own, for if that isn’t sartified to by this time, in all these parts, there’s little use in being skilful and sure; but what do the officers say of their own—yes, what do they say of their own? Arms, as they call it, is their trade, and yet there’s some among ’em that know very little how to use ’em!”

“Such I hope will not be the case with your friend Chingachgook, as you call him—what is the English of his Indian name?”

“Big Sarpent—so called for his wisdom and cunning, Uncas is his ra’al name—all his family being called Uncas until they get a title that has been ’arned by deeds.”

“If he has all this wisdom, we may expect a useful friend in him, unless his own business in this part of the country should prevent him from serving us.”

“I see no great harm in telling you his arr’nd, a’ter all, and, as you may find means to help us, I will let you and Hetty into the whole matter, trusting that you’ll keep the secret as if it was your own. You must know that Chingachgook is a comely Injin, and is much looked upon and admired by the young women of his tribe, both on account of his family, and on account of himself. Now, there is a chief that has a daughter called Wah-ta-Wah, which is intarpreted into Hist-oh-Hist, in the English tongue, the rarest gal among the Delawares, and the one most sought a’ter and craved for a wife by all the young warriors of the nation. Well, Chingachgook, among others, took a fancy to Wah-ta-Wah, and Wah-ta-Wah took a fancy to him.” Here Deerslayer paused an instant; for, as he got thus far in his tale, Hetty Hutter arose, approached, and stood attentive at his knee, as a child draws near to listen to the legends of its mother. “Yes, he fancied her, and she fancied him,” resumed Deerslayer, casting a friendly and approving glance at the innocent and interested girl; “and when that is the case, and all the elders are agreed, it does not often happen that the young couple keep apart. Chingachgook couldn’t well carry off such a prize without making inimies among them that wanted her as much as he did himself. A sartain Briarthorn, as we call him in English, or Yocommon, as he is tarmed in Injin, took it most to heart, and we mistrust him of having a hand in all that followed.”

“Wah-ta-Wah went with her father and mother, two moons ago, to fish for salmon on the western streams, where it is agreed by all in these parts that fish most abounds, and while thus empl’yed the gal vanished. For several weeks we could get no tidings of her; but here, ten days since, a runner, that came through the Delaware country, brought us a message, by which we learn that Wah-ta-Wah was stolen from her people, we think, but do not know it, by Briarthorn’s sarcumventions,—and that she was now with the inimy, who had adopted her, and wanted her to marry a young Mingo. The message said that the party intended to hunt and forage through this region for a month or two, afore it went back into the Canadas, and that if we could contrive to get on a scent in this quarter, something might turn up that would lead to our getting the maiden off.”

“And how does that concern you, Deerslayer?” demanded Judith, a little anxiously.

“It consarns me, as all things that touches a fri’nd consarns a fri’nd. I’m here as Chingachgook’s aid and helper, and if we can get the young maiden he likes back ag’in, it will give me almost as much pleasure as if I had got back my own sweetheart.”

“And where, then, is your sweetheart, Deerslayer?”