Chapter XXV: The Captive Maiden

BUT what of Alice McElroy?

Let us go back in our narrative to her mysterious disappearance, the resulting search for her, and her flight from the wigwam of her captor.

Her father's soldiers were within call. A moment more, and, environed by those brave-hearted men, she would have been secure against a hundred Indians. But by one of those unaccountable coincidences with which human affairs are replete, just as she espied on the opposite bank the uniform of Captain Manly, the hand of the pursuing savage was placed upon her mouth, and flinging the struggling girl over his shoulder, he bore her to his waiting canoe.

What a terrible revulsion! So near escape, and so frightfully to fail!

The malignant-featured savage uttered not a word till he carried her the second time into his wigwam. Then, throwing her to the ground, he said, with a fiendish look,—

"White squaw fool; Injun killee her!"

What motive impelled her captor to spare her life at first, and then to be so anxious to hold her as to pursue and bring her once more to his hut, Alice tried fruitlessly to determine. That it was not hope of reward for ultimately restoring her to her parents, the rage he exhibited when she held out that bribe fully disproved. It was plain, however, that he held a deadly grudge against the general; for when Alice mentioned her father's name, the face of the savage glowed with hate, and he fiercely muttered,—

"White chief kill Injun—many! Injun killee him!"

It was evident, too, that the savage held a spite against her. As she pondered, she suddenly recalled where and under what circumstances she originally met her implacable foe. The recapitulation of certain incidents, and a brief historical statement, will show why the discovery filled her with the worst apprehensions.

One day Mrs. McElroy and her charming Alice, on their way home from a visit to friends in Northern Iowa, were detained at the hotel at L— for several days, while a party of Indians graced the village with their presence. And Alice, flitting hither and thither, bird-like, often tripped across the street to brighten Mrs. Mather's sitting-room with her coming, and fill the house with music as she swept the piano and sang her favorite songs.

Now, it chanced one morning, entering the back door of that lady's dwelling, she came suddenly upon an Indian helping himself from the good housewife's newly-packed "meat barrel." Startled, she cried out,—

"Mr. Mather! Here's a horrid savage stealing!"

The announcement brought quite a group of spectators to the spot, before whom, the town-owner, who was a quick-tempered, stern man when aroused, lifted the blanket of the copper-colored thief, disclosing to view, hugged under a dirty arm, a number of pieces of salted pork, which, with angry threats, he compelled the reluctant red-man to return to their places in the barrel.

That Indian was the chief. That chief was Alice McElroy's captor. The threatening expression of that evil face terrified her at the time, and it was the same evil expression, reproduced with increased intensity, that now enabled her shudderingly to identify the swarthy demon into whose power she had so strangely fallen.

Now that she was hopelessly in his power, her mind intensely revolved the awful question of her fate. Between the hut and stream was a solitary oak. Around this, the Indian began to heap brushwood.

"Is he intending to burn me to death?" she queried.

The preparations indicated it. The expression of his hideous face and glare of his diabolical eye confirmed the appalling inference. Unable to cope with the white soldiery, his breast rankling with traditional animosity and personal revenge, he would gloat over the slow agonies of the helpless member of the hated race he had captured.

With ghastly, white face, the maiden noted the ominous preparations. The pile was completed.

Repairing to a swamp at hand, he brought from thence fibrous grape-wood to bind her fast, and was trimming it with his scalping-knife, when, as if he heard a sound, he dropped the vines to listen. An instant after, there was a report, and a bullet pierced his chest. The wounded savage pitched forward, and commenced his death-song.

"It is the soldiers!" cried Alice, joyfully.

But to her surprise, a party of Indians rushed from out the bushes, the foremost of whom struck his tomahawk into the skull of the dying savage.

Alice fell to her knees, as, after slaying her captor, the Indian entered the wigwam. Instead of the dreaded stroke, he beckoned her to follow him, and, returning to the Indian village, took her into his own tent, and delivered her to his squaw.

Alice knew that her condition in that barbarous home depended largely on what sort of a being the woman was, for the chief would necessarily be absent much of the time, while his wife would dwell ever in the tent. The trembling captive therefore rapidly scrutinized the feminine form before her, to determine, if possible, her disposition and character.

But it is difficult to read the Indian countenance, young or old, male or female. This specimen was short and thick, untidy in person and apparel, with a broad, wrinkled, haggish face. Whether she was as old as she looked, Alice could not judge, as the Indian women, from exposure, want, and toil, become prematurely decrepit. Her face wore a gloomy, sullen expression, which Alice supposed was evidence of hatred to her.

From the squaw, Alice's eyes passed to the survey of the little habitation she was destined to occupy, how long and under what circumstances she knew not.

Like the Arabs of the desert, the Dakotas live in tents—in their language, "teepees." Like the army-tent, they are usually of a conical shape, covered with buffalo-skins, or, when these are scarce, of cotton cloth, or bark, the latter being more pleasant and cool for the summer.

This of the chief's was composed of not less than a dozen buffalo-skins, dressed and sewed together by his squaw, and supported by a number of poles fastened together at the top, and spreading out at the bottom so as to suit the skin-covering, which was drawn around the poles and fastened in front with a row of pins, leaving a hole at the bottom for entrance, and one at the top for the smoke to pass out. The lower edge of the covering was confined by pins driven into the ground, while at the smoke-hole was a flap arranged so as to be accommodated to the wind. The "draught," however, was not perfect, Alice concluded, as she wiped the tears from her eyes caused by the smoke in the tent.

On the ground inside, dried grass had been spread by the squaw, on which were placed skin-mats and robes—the carpet by day and bed by night. In the centre was a space for the fire, the fuel for which the squaw always provided.

When the chief brought Alice there, he said something concerning her to the squaw. But as he used the Indian tongue, Alice was not able to understand the purport of it. That it was not ominously harsh, however, she gathered from the forbearance of the Indian woman to ill-treat her at the outset, as their way is towards captives.

The sharp pangs of hunger reminded Alice that she had "lived on excitement" already too long, and by signs she sought to signify to the squaw that she was hungry; and bringing her some hominy and a boiled egg on a wooden plate, with a horn spoon, Alice ate the food with avidity.

It was evident from what the chief's wife proffered Alice that provisions were not any too abundant in the "teepee;" and that was the reason the husband had left so soon. He did not return that night, nor the next. But each morning the squaw, with haggard looks and dishevelled hair, wearing a ragged skirt and leggins, with an old piece of buffalo-skin thrown over her shoulders, walked round the wigwam, wailing, "'Me-choonk-she! Me-choonk-she!'"

She was mourning for her only daughter, slain by the Ojibwas. Bitter was the lament of the Indian mother, which, if rendered in English, would be somewhat like that given by Mrs. Riggs—"'Me-choonk-she! Me-choonk-she!'" ('My daughter! My daughter!') "Alas, alas! My hope, my comfort has departed, and my heart is very sad. My joy is turned into sorrow, and my song into wailing. Shall I never more behold thy sunny smile? Shall I never more hear the music of thy voice? The Great Spirit has entered my 'teepee' in anger, and taken thee from me—my first-born, my only child! I am comfortless, and must wail out my grief. The pale-faces repress their sorrow; but we, children of nature, must give vent to ours, or die. 'Me-choonk-she! Me-choonk-she!'"

"I have cast from me all comfortable clothing, and robed myself in skins; for no clothing, no fire, can warm thee, my daughter. Unwashed and uncombed I will mourn for thee, whose long locks I can never more braid, and whose cheeks I can never again tinge with vermilion. I will cut off my dishevelled hair, for my grief is great. 'Me-choonk-she! Me-choonk-she!'"

The return of the Indians from the hunting expedition was announced, while they were yet far-off, by their rejoicing song. This showed, too, that they had been successful. And when they appeared, they brought quite a little supply of game, which, however, they staid at home to eat up, before getting more.

While the chief was at home day by day, Alice pleadingly inquired when he was to take her to the fort.

His vague guttural reply uniformly being, "Take pappoose dere bimeby!"

What motives led her present captors to show her special consideration we cannot say. Certain it is, however, that Alice McElroy was not subjected to the sufferings that befell her less fortunate captive sisters. Who can paint her thankfulness at their forbearance towards her! She resolved to show her appreciation of it. And as her grateful looks and winsome ways evoked additional kindness from her captors, she trusted that ere long their softening natures would yield, and they would grant her one consuming desire and oft-uttered prayer, and restore her to those she knew were mourning her loss,—a quenchless grief.

Conceive her dismay, then, when, one day, the childless couple gave her to understand that they had concluded to adopt her!

"O, no; carry me to my 'true' father and mother!" she cried, convulsed with agony.

But the brow of the chief grew portentous, and his squaw changed into a fury, and seemed about to pounce upon and tear her in pieces. In anguish and terror, she lay and pondered that night, and by morning had wisely resolved to submit to their whim,—making a virtue of necessity,—and patiently wait the issue. For were not her condition and prospects enviable, compared with other captives? Would it not be suicidal folly to offend those who held her prisoner? Moreover, as a chief's daughter, if she used discreetly the advantages of such a position, she could win the respect and confidence of the tribe, and when her plans were ripe and the opportunity opened, farewell, Indian captivity; welcome, liberty and home!

Alice's acquiescence in their wishes gave great satisfaction to the swarthy pair; particularly as, with girl-tact, she became an Indian of the Indians, as Paul was "a Pharisee of the Pharisees," conforming to their habits, customs, and prejudices as far as she possibly could—outwardly at least.

The use of paints, the Dakotas aver, was taught them by their gods. I think their gods must have been poor artists—do you not? "Oon-ktay'-he" showed the first "medicine-men" how to paint themselves when they worshipped him, and what colors to use. "Ta'-koo-shkan-shkan'" whispers to his favorites what colors are most acceptable to him. "Ha-yo'-ka" hovers over them in dreams, and communicates how many streaks to make upon their bodies, and what tinge they must have. And no rite in worship was considered acceptable if destitute of the "wakan'," or sacred application of colors.

So Alice, from those skilled in plants that dye, obtained liquids to change her auburn locks to raven black, and her skin to a tawny hue—of course the gods directed in the transformation, and in the added hues and daubs.

Her manner became grave, composed, and dignified, as became the child of the chief. Here her birth and training helped her. Accustomed all her life to the sight of military discipline, and to her father's commanding carriage, she easily bore herself with a quiet authority eminently adapted to impress the savage mind.

One thing I liked to have forgotten. Alice could turn to black her eyebrows and lids, but her "eyes" were "'true' blue," and neither of the god painters, nor the trio combined, could undo what "the true God" had done for her as to color in those conspicuous parts of her visage. So, after all, I guess our God is God, and "the gods of the heathen are vanity."

In becoming an Indian, Alice was honored with a new name. The Dakotas, however, have no family names; so she was not named for her Indian parents, as would be the case among us. They employ proper names only, and these all have a significance. Generally they are formed of two nouns, or a noun and an adjective, as "Good-House," "Scarlet-End," "Good-Road," "Long-Buffalo," "Iron-Cutter." Sometimes they consist of a verb or participle, as "Walking-Spirit." And often the name is affixed to the individual because of some peculiarity or defect, as "Crooked-Feet," "Burnt-Legs," "Sleepy-Eyes," "Bit-Nose" (how would you like that?), "Big-Eyes." It was perfectly natural, therefore, that they should designate Alice, the chief's daughter, "Blue-Eyes." However, black eyelids cause the peepers beneath them to seem darker than they really are, and even in some lights to appear black; so Alice was not afflicted with a serious defect.

Many phases of life among the Sioux must have been terribly repugnant to the petted child of the general. But she had will and wisdom, and was working for a precious object; and one can do, and dare, and endure when inspired by a high purpose.

Blue-Eyes became the idol of the old chief and his squaw, while her queenly air and personal grace and beauty made her the admiration of the younger warriors, to win whose notice they wrestled, and ran, and exhibited feats of physical prowess, and sang their impassional love-songs.

I should insult the intelligence of my reader to explain, at this point, that the charming "child of nature," who broke so unexpectedly on Tom's wondering vision, the beautiful chief's daughter, she of the "coffin cough" and grave demeanor, was Alice McElroy, otherwise Blue-Eyes; and also that it was to her interposition the dwarf owed his escape.

Ah, had Tom known into whose yellow palm he poured the healing globules; had he been conscious of the concealed tremblings of those girlish limbs that walked so unswerving a gait, or noted the latent glances of the eyes that gazed straight ahead, as if unaware of his presence; if to the ear of the soul there had been conveyed the unwhispered word of recognition aching to burst from the voiceless lips,—then might he have comprehended, in part, what self-mastery and self-abnegation it cost her to preserve her composure, that he might not be put in jeopardy.

O, how she longed to send a message by him to her parents, letting them know that she still lived, and thought of them! Must she keep her secret, and remain a captive? Could she see him depart, not once dreaming who she was? Ah, how hateful then the Indian ornaments celebrated in the songs of admiring braves! Ah, how odious her disguise, if she might cast it off sufficiently to show that she was not Blue-Eyes, the chief's daughter, but only Alice McElroy!

But keen eyes and ears were in ambush. She must act her part for Tom's sake, and to secure a future chance. How magnificently she triumphed over the trying ordeal, the chief's personal application to Tom for "more medicine for pappoose," and Tom's unharmed dismissal, demonstrated.

From that test-hour, the confidence of the Indians in Alice's fidelity to them was almost unlimited.

She readily divined, however, that Tom was on his way to visit his mother at the fort. From that interview, she was on the alert for an opportunity to send a message to him. The coveted occasion came when the little Hunchback strayed into the chief's encampment, after the Indians had returned there.