The White Squaw

The aged patriarch felt his blood freshly warmed within his veins – he was young again!

In a few moments the excitement subsided, and the warriors, returning from the council-house, moved off towards their respective dwellings.

Oluski was the last to emerge from the council chamber.

As he stepped across the threshold, the fire that animated him seemed to have become suddenly extinguished.

His form was bent, his steps tottering and listless.

As he looked down the hill, he caught a glimpse of the white settlement, with its window-lights twinkling through the darkness.

One, more brilliant than the rest, attracted his attention.

It was the house of Elias Rody.

“I fear,” said the old chief, in a dreary voice, “my gift will prove fatal alike to him and me. When ambition enters the heart, honour and justice find no home therein. Our people cannot know that man in the past; they must judge him by his present. I would be generous – the Great Spirit knows that – but I must also be just. If I have raised angry feelings at this council, I have nothing to charge myself with; I did but my duty. May the white chief’s heart be turned from the covetous thoughts which fill it! Great Spirit, hear my prayer!”

With a natural and beautiful action, the aged Indian raised his hands in supplication to that Power alike cognisant of the thoughts of white and red.

Chapter Twelve.

The Situation

Several days had elapsed since the meeting in the council-house.

The answer of the Seminole warriors had been conveyed to the white governor by Oluski himself.

The old chief couched the decision in kindly words mingled with regrets.

Elias Rody was wonderfully self-possessed.

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, grasped the Seminole’s hand, and with a wave of his own seemed to dismiss the subject from his thoughts.

Nay, more, he presented the old warrior with a beautifully inlaid rifle, a bale of broad-cloth, and a keg of powder.

“Come, come,” said he speaking in the friendliest tone, “don’t let a mere whim of mine affect such a friendship as ours. You must accept these things – mere trifles. Your taking them will prove that you harbour no unkindness towards me or mine.”

Thus pressed, Oluski accepted the presents.

The governor smiled covertly as the old chief departed.

Nelatu had recovered from his wound; he daily spent hours in company with Warren, and there was no lack of diversion for the white youth or his red-skinned companion.

Their canoe darted through the blue waters of the bay, or stole dreamily along the river’s current.

Their rifles brought down the wild fowl upon the sea, or the quail and partridge upon the land.

Their fishing-rods and spears furnished many a dainty dish.

Sometimes, going farther afield, they would bring home a deer, or a brace or two of wild turkeys – or, bent on destruction, would penetrate some dark lagoon and slay the hideous alligator.

The opportunities which these pursuits presented were constantly improved by Warren.

He moulded his conduct and expressions to suit the simple faith and understanding of his companion.

He concealed beneath a considerate kindness the dark thoughts that were brooding in his bosom, and was the very semblance of what he professed to be – a friend.

Nelatu, generous and confiding, was flattered and charmed by his condescension; with the simple faith of a child he trusted his white associate.

“Ah, Nelatu,” would the latter say, “if I had only the power to do what I wish, I would prove myself a true friend to the Indians. Our race are afraid to show real sympathy with them on account of old and stupid prejudices. Wait until I am in a position to prove my words, and you will see what I will do. Why, even now, I’d rather sit near you fishing, or tramp with you across the country on a hunting excursion, than spend my time amongst my own people, who cannot understand either me or my ways.”

In a thousand designing ways he impressed himself on Nelatu’s mind as a chivalrous, self-sacrificing fellow, worthy the love of any maiden. Then, adroitly singing soft praises of Sansuta to the brother’s pleased ear, he insured in him a faithful ally and warm panegyrist.

Sansuta, pleased with an admiration which she never paused to question, blushed at her brother’s report of Warren’s good qualities.

Many articles of adornment had come into her hands, and were kept from her father’s sight.

She dared not wear them, but in secret gloated over their possession as over the feeling which had prompted the gift.

Sansuta, it will be seen, was a coquette, though one through vanity, not vice.

She was innocent as a child, but inordinately vain.

She had grown up without a mother’s care; had been so much thrown upon her own resources; that all her faults were those of an untrained nature.

Her heart was warm, her affection for her father and brother deep and true; but she was too prone to turn from the bright side of life, and tremble at anything with the appearance of dulness.

Differently placed, this Indian maid might have become a heroine. As it was she was nothing but a frivolous child.

With a generous man, her defenceless position would have ensured her safety.

Not thus with Warren Rody.

The son did not belie his father’s nature.

Crookleg had become useful to him in his scheme. This hideous creature proved far more subservient and trustworthy than the defunct Red Wolf, for he was all obsequious obedience.

True, he sometimes glanced askance with an ugly look bent upon his young master, but the look vanished in a hideous grin whenever the latter turned towards him.

What dark mystery lay hidden in the negro’s mind, no one white knew, but all, by a common impulse, gave way to him as he passed. Children ran shrieking, and hid their faces in their mother’s aprons; the boys paused suddenly in their play as he hobbled by, while the old gossips of both sexes shook their heads and thought of the devil as he approached them!

He seemed only flattered by these signs of detestation, and chuckled with glee at the aversion he inspired.

The Indians, meanwhile, pursued their usual avocations.

The waters of Tampa Bay were dotted with their canoes. Troops of their children frolicked on the plateau, or clucked the wild flowers that grew along the sloping sides of the hill.

The women of the tribe followed their domestic duties, and the whole scene around the wigwams was one of tranquil contentment.