Part 2 (1/2)

The path of coals outstretches, white with heat, A forest fir's length--ready for his feet.

Unflinching as a rock he steps along The burning ma.s.s, and sings his wild war song; Sings, as he sang when once he used to roam Throughout the forests of his southern home, Where, down the Genesee, the water roars, Where gentle Mohawk purls between its sh.o.r.es, Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell; Songs of the Iroquois invincible.

Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes, Dancing a war dance to defy his foes.

His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink, But still he dances to death's awful brink.

The eagle plume that crests his haughty head Will _never_ droop until his heart be dead.

Slower and slower yet his footstep swings, Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings, Fiercer and fiercer thro' the forest bounds His voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds.

One savage yell--

Then loyal to his race, He bends to death--but _never_ to disgrace.

THE PILOT OF THE PLAINS

”False,” they said, ”thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn; Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, n.o.bler warrior ne'er was born; Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming, Show the white thine Indian scorn.”

Thus they taunted her, declaring, ”He remembers naught of thee: Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.”

But she answered ever kindly, ”He will come again to me,”

Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies; But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes, As she scanned the rolling prairie, Where the foothills fall, and rise.

Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains, Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter's crystal chains, Still she listened for his coming, Still she watched the distant plains.

Then a night with nor'land tempest, nor'land snows a-swirling fast, Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast, Calling, calling, ”Yakonwita, I am coming, love, at last.”

Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread; Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led; Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowed On the drifting snows his head,

Saying, ”O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide To the lodge beyond the prairie--for I vowed ere winter died I would come again, beloved; I would claim my Indian bride.”

”Yakonwita, Yakonwita!” Oh, the dreariness that strains Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains, ”Yakonwita, Yakonwita, I am lost upon the plains.”

But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew, ”Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.

Yakonwita, Yakonwita, I am dying, love, for you.”

Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed, Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: ”He has come to-night,” she said.

”I can hear him calling, calling; But his voice is as the dead.

”Listen!” and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew, And a spirit-voice called faintly, ”I am dying, love, for you.”

Then they wailed, ”O! Yakonwita.

He was Pale, but he was true.”

Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door, Saying, ”I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore, Yakonwita, Yakonwita;”

And they never saw her more.

Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes, Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains, Guiding with her lamp of moonlight Hunters lost upon the plains.

THE CATTLE THIEF

They were coming across the prairie, they were galloping hard and fast; For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted their man at last-- Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree encampment lay, Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and miles away.

Mistake him? Never! Mistake him? the famous Eagle Chief!

That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle Thief-- That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over the plain, Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like a hurricane!

But they've tracked him across the prairie; they've followed him hard and fast; For those desperate English settlers have sighted their man at last.

Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British blood aflame, Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing down their game; But they searched in vain for the Cattle Thief: that lion had left his lair, And they cursed like a troop of demons--for the women alone were there.

”The sneaking Indian coward,” they hissed; ”he hides while yet he can; He'll come in the night for cattle, but he's scared to face a _man_.”