Malaeska: The Indian Wife of the White Hunter

n the tram

beside h

son stream g

parting o

s on her bo

his Chris

for still h

o the same.-Fra

ered Martha, about an hour after her rescue, as she lay on the settl

ad been holding and turned

nes," she said humbly and very affectionately, "Jones, I did wro

ook that humbled her to the heart. In after years, when Martha was Arthur Jones' wife, and when the stirrings of va

from the settlement, amounting to about thirty fighting-men. The Indians, encamped about "the Straka,"

itting on the grass, and others leaning on their guns, consulting on their future movements, when a fiendish yell arose like the howl of a thousand wild beasts, and, as if the very ea

metimes rising hoarse, and like the growling of a thousand bears; then, as the barking of as many wolves, and again, sharpening to the shrill, unearthly cry of a tribe of wildcats. Oh, it was fearful, that scene of slaughter. Heart to heart, and muzzle to muzzle, the white and red man battle

rm of an Indian chief cast its shadow a few feet from him. He, too, had come down to clean his gun. The moment he had accomplished his purpose, he turned to the white man, who had been to him as a son, and drawing his muscular form up to its utmost height, uttered a defiance in the Indian

waves rippled playfully among the gorgeous feathers which had been his savage crown. A little back, on the green bank, lay Danforth, wounded unto

, resolved to defend the remnant of life, yet quivering at his heart, to the last moment. The sun went slowly down; the darkness fell like a vail over the like, and there he lay, wounded and alone, in the solitude of the wilderness. Solemn and regretful were the thoughts of the forsaken man as that night of agony wen

blood gushed afresh from his heart, and he fell back upon the sod, his white teeth clenched with pain, and his hands clutched deep into the damp moss. Still his keen eyes glittered in the moonlight with the fevered workings of pain and imagination. The shadow on which they turned was to him no shadow, but now a nest of serpents, creeping with their insidious coils toward him; and again, a pall-a black funereal pall, dragged forward by invisible spirits, an

of fear, sprang to his side. She flung her child on the grass and lifted her dying

his arms about her, "my poor girl, what will be

he saw the cold, gray shadows of death gathering there; then her black eyes kindled, her beautiful lip curved to an expression more loft

lden spire-bush and the ripe berries. A lake of bright waters is there. The Indian's canoe flies over it like a bird high up in the morning. The West has rolled back its clouds, and a great chief has passed through. He will hold back the clouds that his white son may go up to the face of the Great Spirit.

"My poor girl," he said, feebly drawing her kindling face to his lips, "there is no great hunting-ground as you

hunter's last words, and a feeling of cold desolation settled on her heart. He was dying on

n her heathen ignorance," he murmured, faintly, and his lips continued to move though there was no perceptible sound. Afte

our tribe when I am dead. Down at the mouth of the great river are many whites; among them are my father and mother. Find your way to them, tell them how their son died, and beseech them to cherish you and the boy for his sake. Tell them how much he loved you, my poo

e was choked, and tears fell like rain over

away in a faint smile and a tremulous mot

a passionate burst of grief, and her lips clung to his as if they would have drawn him back from the

eska; let me l

hy cheek of the dying man. There was a faint motion of the hands as if the father would have embraced his child, and then all was still. After a time, the child felt the cheek beneath his waxing hard and cold. He lifted his head and pored with breathless wonder over the face of his father's corpse. He

his rich, brown hair. The green moss on either side was soaked with a crimson stain, and the pale, leaden hue of dissolution had settled on his features. He was not alone; for on the same mossy couch lay the body of the slaughtered chief; the limbs were composed, as if on a bier-the hair wiped smooth, and the crescent of feathers, broken and wet, were arranged with care around his bronzed temples. A little way off, on a hillock, purple with flowers, lay a beautiful child, beckoning to the birds as they fluttered by-plucking up the flowers, and uttering hi

of the lake. She laid her husband and her father side by side, and piled sods upon them. Then she lif