He has gone to-day to carry ducks and pigeons to the Fort. The promises of the Deer-killer are like the branch that breaks in my hand. Wenona's face is pale, and her eyes are red like blood from weeping. The Deer-killer promised to make her his wife, and now that he has broken his word to her, he tells Wanska that he will never take another wife, but she cannot trust him."

"Wanska was well named the Merry Heart," the warrior replied; "she laughs at Wenona and calls her a fool, and then she wishes me to marry her. Who would listen to a woman's words? And yet the voice of the Merry Heart is sweeter than a bird's--her laugh makes my spirit glad. When she sits in my lodge and sings to the children who will call me father, I shall be happy. Many women have loved the Deer-killer, but never has he cared to sit beside one, till he heard the voice of Wanska as she sang in the scalp-dance, and saw her bear the scalp of her enemy upon her shoulders."

Wanska's face was pale while she listened to him. She approached him, and laid her small hand upon his arm--"I have heard your words, and my heart says they are good. I have loved you ever since we were children.

When I was told that you were always by the side of Wenona, the laugh of my companions was hateful to me--the light of the sun was darkness to my eyes. When Wenona returned to her village with her parents, I said in the presence of the Great Spirit that she should not live after you had made her your wife. But her looks told me that there was sadness in her heart, and then I knew you could not love her.

"You promise me you will never bring another wife to your wigwam.

Deer-killer! the wife of the white man is happy, for her husband loves her alone. The children of the second wife do not mock the woman who is no longer beloved, nor strike her children before her eyes. When I am your wife I shall be happy while you love me; there will be no night in my teepee while I know your heart is faithful and true; but should you break your word to me, and bring to your lodge another wife, you shall see me no more, and the voice whose sound is music to your ears you will never hear again."

Promises come as readily to the lips of an Indian lover as trustfulness does to the heart of the woman who listens to them; and the Deer-killer was believed.

Wanska had been often at the Fort, and she had seen the difference between the life of a white and that of an Indian woman. She had thought that the Great Spirit was unmindful of the cares of his children.

And who would have thought that care was known to Wanska, with her merry laugh, and her never-ceasing jokes, whether played upon her young companions, or on the old medicine man who kept everybody but her in awe of him.

She seemed to be everywhere too, at the same time. Her canoe dances lightly over the St. Peter's, and her companions try in vain to keep up with her. Soon her clear voice is heard as she sings, keeping time with the strokes of the axe she uses so skilfully. A peal of laughter rouses the old woman, her mother, who goes to bring the truant home, but she is gone, and when she returns, in time to see the red sun fade away in the bright horizon, she tells her mother that she went out with two or three other girls, to a.s.sist the hunters in bringing in the deer they had killed. And her mother for once does not scold, for she remembers how she used to love to wander on the prairies, when her heart was as light and happy as her child's.

When Wanska was told that the Deer-killer loved Wenona, no one heard her sighs, and for tears, she was too proud to shed any. Wenona's fault had met with ridicule and contempt; there was neither sympathy nor excuse found for her. And now that the Deer-killer had slighted Wenona, and had promised to love her alone, there was nothing wanting to her happiness.

Bright tears of joy fell from her eyes when her lover said there was a spell over him when he loved Wenona, but now his spirit was free; that he would ever love her truly, and that when her parents returned he would bring rich presents and lay them at the door of the lodge.

Wanska was indeed "the Merry Heart," for she loved the Deer-killer more than life itself, and life was to her a long perspective of brightness.

She would lightly tread the journey of existence by his side, and when wearied with the joys of this world, they would together travel the road that leads to the Heaven of the Dahcotahs.

She sat dreaming of the future after the Deer-killer had left her, nor knew of her parents' return until she heard her mother's sharp voice as she asked her "if the corn would boil when the fire was out, and where was the bread that she was told to have ready on their return?"

Bread and corn! when Wanska had forgot all but that she was beloved. She arose quickly, and her light laugh drowned her mother's scolding. Soon her good humor was infectious, for her mother told her that she had needles and thread in plenty, besides more flour and sugar, and that her father was going out early in the morning to kill more game for the Long Knives who loved it so well.

CHAPTER II.

A few months ago, the Deer-killer had told Wenona that Wanska was noisy and tiresome, and that her soft dark eyes were far more beautiful than Wanska's laughing ones. They were not at home then, for Wenona had accompanied her parents on a visit to some relations who lived far above the village of Shah-co-pee.

While there the Deer-killer came in with some warriors who had been on a war party; there Wenona was a.s.sured that her rival, the Merry Heart, was forgotten.

And well might the Deer-killer and Wenona have loved each other. "Youth turns to youth as the flower to the sun," and he was brave and n.o.ble in his pride and power; and she, gentle and loving, though an Indian woman; so quiet too, and all unlike Wanska, who was the noisiest little gossip in the village.

Often had they wandered together through the "solemn temples of the earth," nor did she ever fear, with the warrior child for a protector.

She had followed him when he ascended the cliffs where the tracks of the eagle were seen; and with him she felt safe when the wind was tossing their canoe on the Mississippi, when the storm spirits had arisen in their power. They were still children when Wenona would know his step among many others, but they were no longer children when Wenona left Shah-co-pee's village, for she loved with a woman's devotion--and more than loved. She had trembled when she saw the Deer-killer watch Wanska as she tripped merrily about the village. Sleeping or waking, his image was ever before her; he was the idol to which her spirit bowed, the sun of her little world.

The dance to the giant was to be celebrated at the village where they were visiting; the father of Wenona and "Old John" the medicine man, were to join in it. The maiden had been nothing loth to undertake the journey, for the Deer-killer had gone on a war party against the Chippeways, and she thought that in the course of their journey they might meet him--and when away from Wanska, he would return to her side.

He could not despise the love she had given him. Hope, that bright star of youth, hovered over her, and its light was reflected on her heart.

When they arrived at the village of the chief Markeda, or "Burning Earth," the haughty brow of the chief was subdued with care. He had dreamed of Haokah the giant, and he knew there was sorrow or danger threatening him. He had sinned against the giant, and what might be the consequence of offending him? Was his powerful arm to be laid low, and the strong pulse to cease its beatings? Did his dream portend the loss of his young wife? She was almost as dear to him as the fleet hunter that bore him to the chase.

It might be that the angry G.o.d would send their enemies among them, and his tall sons would gladden his sight no more. Sickness and hunger, phantom-like, haunted his waking and sleeping hours.

There was one hope; he might yet ward off the danger, for the uplifted arm of the G.o.d had not fallen. He hoped to appease the anger of the giant by dancing in his honor.

"We have travelled far," said old John the medicine man, to Markeda, "and are tired. When we have slept we will dance with you, for we are of the giant's party."

"Great is Haokah, the giant of the Dahcotahs," the chief replied; "it is a long time since we have danced to him."

"I had been hunting with my warriors, we chased the buffalo, and our arrows pierced their sides; they turned upon us, bellowing, their heads beating the ground; their terrible eyes glared upon us even in death; they rolled in the dust, for their strength was gone. We brought them to the village for our women to prepare for us when we should need them. I had eaten and was refreshed; and, tired as my limbs were, I could not sleep at first, but at last the fire grew dim before my eyes, and I slept.

"I stood on the prairie alone, in my dream, and the giant appeared before me. So tall was he that the clouds seemed to float about his head. I trembled at the sound of his voice, it was as if the angry winds were loosed upon the earth.

"'The warriors of the Dahcotahs are turned women,' said he; 'that they no longer dance in honor of the giant, nor sing his songs. Markeda is not a coward, but let him tremble; he is not a child, but he may shed tears if the anger of the giant comes upon him.'

"Glad was I when I woke from my dream--and now, lest I am punished for my sins, I will make a sacrifice to the giant. Should I not fear him who is so powerful? Can he not take the thunder in his hand and cast it to the earth?

"The heart of the warrior should be brave when he dances to the giant.

My wigwam is ready, and the friends of the giant are ready also."

"Give me your moca.s.sins," said the young wife of Markeda to old John; "they are torn, and I will mend them. You have come from afar, and are welcome. Sleep, and when you awake, you will find them beside you." As she a.s.sisted him to take them off, the medicine man looked admiringly into her face. "The young wife of Markeda is as beautiful as the white flowers that spring up on the prairies. Her husband would mourn for her if the giant should close her eyes. They are bright now, as the stars, but death would dim them, should not the anger of the giant be appeased."

The "Bounding Fawn" turned pale at the mention of the angry giant; she sat down, without replying, to her work; wondering the while, if the soul of her early love thought of her, now that it wandered in the Spirit's land. It might be that he would love her again when they should meet there. The sound of her child's voice, awakening out of sleep, aroused her, and called to her mind who was its father.

"They tore me away from my lover, and made me come to the teepee of the chief," was her bitter reflection. "Enah! that I cannot love the father of my child."

She rose and left the teepee. "Where is the heaven of the Dahcotahs,"

she murmured, as she looked up to the silent stars. "It may be that I shall see him again. He will love my child too, and I will forget the many tears I have shed."

CHAPTER III.

The dance to the Giant is always performed inside the wigwam. Early in the morning the dancers were a.s.sembled in the chief's lodge. Their dress was such as is appointed for the occasion. Their hats were made of the bark of trees, such as tradition says the Giant wears. They were large, and made forked like the lightning. Their leggins were made of skins.

Their ear-rings were of the bark of trees, and were about one foot long.

The chief rose ere the dawn of day, and stood before the fire. As the flames flickered, and the shadows of the dancers played fantastically about the wigwam, they looked more like Lucifer and a party of attendant spirits, than like human beings worshipping their G.o.d.

Markeda stood by the fire without noticing his guests, who awaited his motions in silence. At last, moving slowly, he placed a kettle of water on the fire, and then threw into it a large piece of buffalo meat.

Lighting his pipe, he seated himself, and then the dancers advanced to the fire and lit theirs; and soon they were enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

When the water began to boil, the Indians arose, and, dancing round the fire, imitated the voice of the Giant.

"Hah-hah! hah hah!" they sung, and each endeavored to drown the voice of the other. Now they crouch as they dance, looking diminutive and contemptible, as those who are degrading themselves in their most sacred duties. Then they rise up, and show their full height. Stalwart warriors as they are, their keen eyes flash as they glance from the fire to each others' faces, distorted with the effort of uttering such discordant sounds. Now their broad chests heave with the exertion, and their breath comes quickly.

They seat themselves, to rest and smoke. Again the h.e.l.lish sounds are heard, and the wife of the chief trembles for fear of the Giant, and her child clings closer to her breast. The water boils, and, hissing, falls over into the fire, the flames are darkened for a moment, and then burst up brighter than before.

Markeda addresses the dancers--"Warriors! the Giant is powerful--the water which boils before us will be cold when touched by a friend of the Giant. Haokah will not that his friends should suffer when offering him a sacrifice."

The warriors then advanced together, and each one puts his hand into the kettle and takes the meat from the boiling water; and although suffering from the scalds produced, yet their calmness in enduring the pain, would induce the belief that the water really felt to them cool and pleasant.