Wild Western Scenes A Narrative of Adventures in the Western Wilderness, Wherein the Exploits of Daniel Boone, the Great American Pioneer are Particularly Described

CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVII. The bright morning—Sneak’s visit—Glenn’s heart—The snake hunt—Love and raspberries—Joe is bitten—His terror and sufferings—Arrival of Boone—Joe’s abrupt recovery—Preparations to leave the west—Conclusion. The sun rose the next morning in unusual glory. Not a breath of air stirred the entranced foliage of the dark green trees in the valleys, and the fresh flowers around exhaled a sweet perfume that remained stationary over them. The fawn stood perfectly still in the grassy yard, and seemed to contemplate the grandeur of the enchanting scene. The atmosphere was as translucent as fancy paints the realms of the blest, and quite minute objects could be distinctly seen far over the river many miles eastward. Nor were any sounds heard save the occasional chattering of the paroquet in the dense forest across the river, a mile distant, and yet they appeared to be in the immediate vicinity. The hounds lay extended on the ground with their eyes open, more in a listless than a watchful attitude. The kitten was couched on the threshold (the door having been left open to admit the pure air,) and looked thoughtfully at the rising sun. The large blue chanticleer was balanced on one foot with an eye turned upwards as if scanning the heavens to guard against the sudden attack of the far-seeing eagle. Nature seemed to be indulging in a last sweet morning slumber, if indeed not over-sleeping herself, while the sun rose stealthily up and smiled at all her charms exposed! “Hillo! ain’t you all up yit? Git up, Joe, and feed your hosses,” cried Sneak, approaching the gate on the outside, and thus most unceremoniously dispelling the charm that enwrapped the premises. “Who’s there?” cried Joe, springing up and rubbing his eyes. “It’s me—dod, you know who I am. Come, open the gate and let me in.” “What’s the matter, Sneak? Are the Indians after you?” said Joe, running out, but pausing at the gate for an answer before he drew back the bolt. “No—I thought-you had sense enough by this time to know no Indians ain’t going to come this time a-year. Let me in!” added he, impatiently. “What are you doing with them long sticks?” asked Joe, opening the gate and observing two hickory poles in Sneak’s hand. “Are you going to try your luck fishing?” “No, nor ducking nother,” replied he, sarcastically. “Plague it, Sneak,” said Joe, deprecatingly, “never mind that affair; you were mistaken about my being frightened. The next chance I get I’ll let you see that I’m not afraid of any thing.” “Well, I want you to go with me on a spree this morning that’ll try you.” “What are you going to do?” asked Joe, with some curiosity in his looks. “I’m going a snaking ,” said Sneak. At this juncture the dialogue was arrested by the appearance of Glenn, whose brow was somewhat paler than usual, and wore an absent and thoughtful cast; yet his abstract meditations did not seem altogether of a painful nature. “Joe,” said he, “I want you to exercise the horses more in the prairie. They are getting too fat and lazy. If they cannot be got on the boat when we leave here, we will have to send them by land to St. Louis.” “Dod—you ain’t a going to leave us?” cried Sneak. “Well, I thought something was in the wind,” said Joe, pondering, “but it’ll break Miss Mary’s—” “Pshaw!” replied Glenn, quickly interrupting him; “you don’t know what you are talking about.” “Well, I can’t say I do exactly,” said Joe; “but I know its a very mysterious matter.” “ What is such a mysterious matter?” asked Glenn, smiling. “Why, you—Miss Mary”—stammered Joe. “Well, what is there mysterious about us?” “Hang it, you know!” replied Joe. “Pshaw!” repeated Glenn, striding out of the inclosure, and descending the path leading to Roughgrove’s house, whither he directed Joe to follow when he had galloped the horses. “Have you got any licker in the house?” asked Sneak, staring at the retreating form of Glenn. “No—its all gone. Why do you ask?” returned Joe. “Becaise that feller’s drunk,” said Sneak, with a peculiar nod. “No he ain’t—he hasn’t drunk a drop for a month.” “Then he’s going crazy, and you’d better keep a sharp look-out.” “I know what’s the matter with him—he’s in love!” said Joe. “Then why don’t he take her?” asked Sneak. “I don’t know,” replied Joe; “maybe he will, some day. Now for a ride—how are you, Pete?” he continued, opening the stable door and rubbing the pony’s head that was instantly thrust out in salutation. “I’ll ride the hoss,” said Sneak. “Will you? I’m glad of it,” said Joe, “for that’ll save me the trouble of leading him.” “That’s jest what I come for,” said Sneak, “becaise this hot morning the snakes are too thick to fight ’em on foot.” “Can you see many of them at a time?” “Well, I reckon you kin.” “Won’t they bite the horses?” “No, the hosses knows what a snake is as well as a man, and they’ll keep a bright eye for ’emselves, while we stave out their brains with our poles,” said Sneak. In a few minutes the companions were mounted, and with the fawn skipping in advance, and the hounds in the rear, they proceeded gayly out toward the prairie on a snaking expedition. The sunlight was now intensely brilliant, and the atmosphere, though laden with the sweet perfume of the countless millions of wild flowers, began to assume a sultriness that soon caused the horses and hounds to loll out their tongues and pant as they bounded through the rank grass. Ere long the riders drew near a partially barren spot in the prairie, where from some singular cause the grass was not more than three inches high. This spot was circular, about fifty paces in diameter, and in the centre was a pool of bright water, some fifty feet in circumference. The grass growing round this spot was tall and luxuriant, and terminated as abruptly at the edge of the circle as if a mower had passed along with his sharp scythe. “Sneak, I never saw that before,” said Joe, as they approached, while yet some forty paces distant. “What does it mean?” “You’ll see presently,” said his companion, grasping more firmly the thick end of his rod, as if preparing to deal a blow. “When I was out here this morning,” he continued, “they were too thick for me, and I had to make tracks.” “What were too thick for you?” asked Joe, with a singular anxiety, and at the same time reining in his pony. “Why, the snakes ,” said Sneak with much deliberation. “I was a-foot then, and from the style in which they whizzed through the grass, I was afraid too many might git on me at a time and choke me to death. But now I’m ready for ’em; they can’t git us if we manage korect.” “I won’t go!” said Joe. “Dod, they ain’t pisen!” said Sneak; “they’re nearly all black racers , and they don’t bite. Come on, don’t be such a tarnation coward; the rattlesnakes, and copper-heads, and wipers, won’t run after us; and if they was to, they couldn’t reach up to our legs. This is a glorious day for snaking —come on, Joe!” Joe followed at a very slow and cautious pace a few steps farther, and then halted again. “What’re you stopping for agin?” asked Sneak. “Sneak, the pony ain’t tall enough!” “That’s all the better,” replied Sneak; “you can whack ’em easier as they run—and then they can’t see you as fur as they kin me. I’ll swap hosses with you.” “No you won’t!” replied Joe, whipping forward again. But he had not advanced many seconds before he drew up once more. This time he was attracted by the unaccountable motions of the fawn, a short distance ahead. That animal was apparently striking some object on the ground with its feet, and ever and anon springing violently to one side or the other. Its hair stood erect on its back, and it assumed a most ferocious aspect. Now it would run back toward the men a moment, and, wheeling suddenly, again leap upon the foe, when its feet could be heard to strike against the ground; then it plunged forward, and after making a spring beyond, would return to the attach. “Here, Ringwood! Jowler!” cried Joe, and the hounds ran forward to the spot pointed out to them. But no sooner had they gone far enough to see the nature of the enemy that the fawn was attacking, than they turned away affrighted, and with their tails hanging down retreated from the scene of action. They rode up and surveyed more closely the strange battle. The fawn, becoming more and more enraged, did not suspend hostilities at their approach. They paused involuntarily when, within a few feet of the object, which proved to be a tremendous rattlesnake, some five feet in length, and as thick as a man’s arm. It was nearly dead, its body, neck, and head, exhibited many bloody gashes cut by the sharp hoofs of the fawn. Every time the fawn sprang upon it, it endeavoured in vain to strike its fangs into its active foe, which sprang away in a twinkling, and before it could prepare to strike again, the fatal hoofs would inflict another wound on its devoted head. It grew weaker and weaker, and finally turned over on its back, when the infuriated deer, no longer compelled to observe cautionary measures, soon severed its head entirely from the body and stood over it in triumph. It grew weaker and weaker, and finally turned over on its back. “Pete can do that if a deer can!” said Joe, somewhat emboldened at the death of so formidable a reptile, and beholding the fixed though composed gaze of the pony as he stood with his head turned sideways towards the weltering snake. “Sartinly he kin,” said Sneak, standing up in his stirrups, and stretching his long neck to its utmost tension to see if any snakes were in the open area before them. “Do you see any, Sneak?” asked Joe, now grasping his rod and anxious for the fray. “I see a few—about forty, I guess, lying in the sun at the edge of the water.” “Sneak, there’s too many of them,” said Joe. “Dod—you ain’t a going to back out now, I hope. Don’t you see your pony snuffing at ’em? He wants to dash right in among ’em.” “No he don’t,” said Joe—“he don’t like the smell, nor I either—faugh!” “Why, it smells like May-apples—I like it,” said Sneak; “but there ain’t more than one or two copper-heads there—they’re most all racers. Come on, Joe—we must gallop right through and mash their heads with our sticks as we pass. Then after a little while we must turn and dash back agin—that’s the way to fix ’em.” “You must go before,” said Joe. The number that Sneak mentioned was not exaggerated. On the contrary, additions were constantly made to the number. The surface of the pool was continually agitated by the darting serpents striking at the tadpoles and frogs, while on the margin many were writhing in various fantastic contortions in their sports. Nearly all of them were large, and some could not have been less than eleven feet long. They were evidently enjoying the warm rays of the sun, and at times skipped about with unwonted animation. Now one of the largest would elevate his black head some four feet from the ground, while the others wrapped themselves around him, and thus formed the dark and horrid spectacle of a pyramid of snakes! Then falling prostrate with their own weight, in less than a twinkling they were dispersed and flying over the smooth short grass in every direction, their innumerable scales all the time emitting a low buzzing sound as they ran along. Every moment others glided into the area from the tall grass, and those assembled thither rushed towards them in a body to manifest a welcome. “Now’s the time!” cried Sneak, rushing forward, followed by Joe. When Joe’s eyes fell upon the black mass of serpents, he made a convulsive grasp at the reins with an involuntary resolution to retreat without delay from such a frightful scene. But the violence of his grasp severed the reins from the bit, and the pony sprang forward after the steed, being no longer subject to his control! There was no retreating now! Sneak levelled his rod at a cluster just forming in a mass two feet above the ground, and crushed the hydra at a blow! Joe closed his eyes, and struck he knew not what—but Sneak knew, for the blow descended on his head—though with feeble force. In an instant the horsemen had passed to the opposite side of the area and halted in the tall grass. Looking back, they beheld a great commotion among the surviving snakes. Some glided into the pool, and with bodies submerged, elevated their heads above the surface and darted out their tongues fiercely. Others raced round the scene of slaughter with their heads full four feet high, or gathered about the dead and dying, and lashed the air with their sharp tails, producing sounds like the cracking of whips. The few copper-heads and rattlesnakes present coiled themselves up with their heads in the centre in readiness to strike their poison into whatever object came within their reach. So sudden had been the onset of the horsemen that the surprised serpents seemed to be ignorant of the nature of the foe, and instead of flying to the long grass to avoid a recurrence of bloodshed, they continued to glide round the pool, while their number increased every moment. “What’d you hit me on the head for?” asked Sneak, after regarding the snakes a moment, and then turning to Joe, the pony having still kept at the heels of the steed in spite of his rider’s efforts to the contrary. “Oh, Sneak,” cried Joe, in tones somewhat tremulous, “do, for goodness’ sake, let us go away from here!” “I sha’n’t do any such thing—what’d you hit me on the head for?” “I thought I was a killing a snake,” replied Joe. “Do I look like a snake?” continued Sneak, turning round, when for the first time he discovered the condition of his companion’s bridle. “Sneak, let’s ride away!” said Joe. “And leave all them black sarpents yander poking out their tongues at us? I won’t go till I wear out this pole on ’em. Ha! ha! ha! I thought you hadn’t spunk enough to gallup through ’em on your own accord,” said Sneak, looking at the pony, and knowing that he would follow the steed always, if left to his own inclination. “Come, Sneak, let’s go home!” continued Joe, in a supplicating tone. “Come! let’s charge on the snakes agin!” said Sneak, raising the rod, and fixing his feet in the stirrups. “Hang me if I go there again!” said Joe, throwing down his rod. “You’re a tarnation coward, that’s what you are! But you can’t help yourself,” replied Sneak. “I’ll jump off and run!” said Joe, preparing to leap to the ground. “You jest do now, and you’ll have forty sarpents wrapped round you in less than no time.” At that moment two or three racers swept between them with their heads elevated as high as Joe’s knees, and entered the area. “Oh goodness!” cried Joe, drawing up his legs. “Git down and git your pole,” said Sneak. “I wouldn’t do it if it was made of gold!” “If you say you’ll fight the snakes, I’ll git it for you—I’m a going to stay here till they’re all killed,” continued Sneak. “Give it to me, then—I’ll smash their brains out the next time!” said Joe, with desperate determination. “But you musn’t hit me agin!” said Sneak, dismounting and handing up the weapon to Joe, and then leaping on the steed again. “Sneak, you’re no better than a snake, to bring me into such a scrape as this!” said Joe, leaning forward and scanning the black mass of serpents at the pool. In a few minutes they whipped forward, Sneak in advance, and again they were passing through the army of snakes. This time Joe did good service. He massacred one of the coiled rattlesnakes at a blow, and his pony kicked a puffing viper to atoms. Sneak paused a moment at the pool, and dealt his blows with such rapidity that nearly all the black racers that survived glided swiftly into the tall grass, and one of the largest was seen by Joe to run up the trunk of a solitary blasted tree that stood near the pool, and enter a round hole about ten feet from the ground. But if the serpents were mostly dispersed from the area around the pool, they were by no means all destroyed; and when the equestrians were again in the tall grass, they found them whizzing furiously about the hoofs of their horses. Once or twice Sneak’s horse sprang suddenly forward in pain, being stung on the ham or shoulder by the tails of the racers as they flew past with almost inconceivable rapidity. “Oh! St. Peter! Sneak!” cried Joe, throwing back his head, and lifting up his knees nearly to his chin. “Ha! ha! ha! did one of ’em cut you, Joe? They hurt like fury, but their tails ain’t pisen. Look what a whelk they’ve made on the hoss.” “Sneak, why don’t you get away from this nasty place! One of them shot right over the pony’s neck a while ago, and came very near hitting me on the chin.” “You must hit ’em as they come. Yander comes one—now watch me!” Saying this, Sneak turned the steed so as to face a tremendous racer about forty paces distant, that was approaching with the celerity of the wind with its head above the tall grass. When it came within reach of his rod, he bestowed upon it a blow that entirely severed the head, and the impetus with which it came caused the body to fly over the steed, and falling upon the neck of the pony, with the life yet remaining (for they are constrictors,) instantly wrapped in a half dozen folds around it! Pete snorted aloud, and, springing forward, ran a hundred paces with all the fleetness of which he was capable. But being unable to shake off the terrible incumbrance, with his tongue hanging out in agony, he turned back and ran directly for the horse. When he came up to the steed, he pushed his head under his neck, manifesting the greatest distress, and stamping and groaning as if becoming crazed. “Dod! let me git hold of him!” cried Sneak, bending forward and seizing the snake by the tail. The long head-less body gave way gradually, and becoming quite relaxed fell powerless and dead to the earth. “Oh, Sneak, let’s go!” said Joe, trembling, his face having turned as pale as death while Pete was dashing about in choking agony under the tight folds of the serpent. “Smash me if I go as long as there’s a snake left!” replied Sneak, striking down another huge racer; but this one, having its back broken, remained stationary. Thus he continued to strike down the snakes as long as any remained on the field; and, as they became scarce, Joe grew quite valorous, and did signal service. At length the combat ceased, and not a living serpent could be seen running. “Sneak, we’ve killed them all—huzza!” cried Joe, flourishing his rod. “Yes, but you didn’t do much—you’re as big a coward as ever.” “Oh, I wasn’t afraid of them, Sneak,” said Joe; “I was only a little cautious, because it was the first time I ever went a snaking.” “Yes, you was mighty cautious! if your bridle hadn’t broke, you’d have been home long ago.” “Pshaw, Sneak!” said Joe; “you’re much mistaken. But how many do you think we’ve killed?” “I suppose about a quarter of a cord—but I’ve heard tell of men’s killing a cord a day, easy.” “You don’t say so! But how does it happen so many are found together? When I go out I can never find more than a dozen or so.” “There’s a snake den under that clear place,” said Sneak, “where they stay all winter—but its not as big a den as some I’ve seen.” “I don’t want to see more than I have to-day!” said Joe, whipping past the steed as they started homewards, having mended his bridle. But as he paced along by the decayed tree mentioned above, he saw the glistening eyes of the large racer peering from the hole it had entered, and he gave it a smart blow on the head with his rod and spurred forward. The next moment, when Sneak came up, the enraged serpent sprang down upon him, and in a twinkling wound himself tightly round his neck! Sneak’s eyes started out of his head, and being nearly strangled he soon fell to the earth. Joe looked on in amazement, but was too much frightened to assist him. And Sneak, unable to ask his aid, only turned his large eyes imploringly towards him, while in silence he vainly strove to tear away the serpent with his fingers. He thrust one hand in his pocket for his knife, but it had been left behind! He then held out his hand to Joe, and in this dumb and piteous manner begged him to lend him his knife. Joe drew it from his pocket, but could not brace his nerves sufficiently to venture within the suffocating man’s reach. At length he bethought him of his pole, and opening the blade thrust it in the end of it and cautiously handed it to Sneak. Sneak immediately ran the sharp steel through the many folds of the snake, and it fell to the ground in a dozen pieces! The poor man’s strength then completely failed him, and he rolled over on his back in breathless exhaustion. Joe rendered all the assistance in his power, and his companion soon revived. “Dod rot your skin!” exclaimed Sneak, getting up and seizing Joe by the collar. “Hang it, it wasn’t me ! it was the snake! ” said Joe, extricating his neck from his companion’s grasp. “What’d you hit the sarpent for?” “Why, I wanted to kill him.” “Then why didn’t you help me to get it away from my neck?” “You didn’t ask me,” said Joe, with something like ingenuousness, though with a most provoking application. “I couldn’t speak! The tarnation thing was squeezing my neck so tight I couldn’t say a word. But I looked at you, and you might ’ave understood me. Never mind, you’ll git a snake hold of you some of these days.” “I’ll keep a sharp look out after this,” said Joe. “But Sneak, I’ll swear now you were not born to be hung.” “You be dod rot!” replied Sneak, leaping on the steed, and turning towards the river. “I would have cut him off myself, Sneak,” said Joe, musing on the odd affair as they rode briskly along, “if I hadn’t been afraid of cutting your throat. I knew you wasn’t born to be hung.” “Ha! ha! ha! that was the tightest place that ever I was in,” said Sneak, regaining his good humour, and diverted at the strange occurrence. “Didn’t he bite you?” asked Joe. “No, a black snake can’t bite—they havn’t got any fangs. If it had been a rattlesnake or a viper, I’d been a gone chicken. I don’t think I’ll ever leave my knife behind again, even if I wasn’t to go ten steps from home. Dod—my neck’s very sore.” The companions continued the rest of the way in silence. When they reached home, and returned the horses to the stable, they proceeded down the path to Roughgrove’s house to report their adventure. Glenn and Mary, William and La-u-na, were seated under the spreading elm-tree, engaged in some felicitous conference, that produced a most pleasing animation in their features. Mary immediately demanded of Joe a recital of his adventures that morning. He complied without reluctance, and his hearers were frequently convulsed with laughter as he proceeded, for he added many embellishments not narrated by the author. Sneak bore their merriment with stoical fortitude, and then laughed as heartily as themselves at his own recent novel predicament. La-u-na asked Sneak if he had been bitten by any of the poisonous snakes. Sneak of course replied in the negative, but at the same time desired to know the name of the plant that was used by the Indians with universal success when wounded by the fangs of the rattlesnake. The girl told him it was the white plantain that grew in the prairies. “I’ll go and get some right straight,” said Joe, “because I don’t know what moment I may be bitten.” “Never mind it, Joe,” said Glenn, rising. “We are now going to gather wild raspberries on the cliff south of and we want you and Sneak to assist us.” “Well—I like raspberries, and they must be ripe by this time, if the chickens havn’t picked them all before us.” “Dod—if the chickens have ett ’em can that make ’em green agin?” replied Sneak to Joe’s Irishism. “You’d better learn how to read before you turn critic,” said Joe, taking up the baskets that had been brought out of the house. He then led the way, quarrelling all the time with Sneak, while Glenn, placing Mary’s arm in his, and William imitating the example, followed at a distance behind. When the party reached the raspberry thicket, they found truly that the fowls were there before them, though quite an abundance of the delicious berry still remained untouched. A few moments sufficed to drive the feathered gatherers away, and then without delay they began to fill their baskets. Many were the hearty peals of joyous laughter that rang from the innocent lovers while momentarily obscured by the green clustering bushes. Ere long they were dispersed in various parts of the thicket, and Glenn and Mary being separated from the rest, our hero seized the opportunity to broach a tender subject. “Mary,” said he, and then most unaccountably paused. “Well,” said she turning her glorious dark blue eyes full upon him. “I have something of moment to say to you, if you will listen attentively—and I know not a more fitting time and place than this to tell it. Here is a natural bower surrounded by sweet berries, and shielded from the sun by the fragrant myrtle. Let us sit on this mossy rock. Will you listen?” he continued, drawing her close to his side on the seat in the cool retreat. “Have I ever refused to listen to you? do I not love to hear your voice?” said the confiding and happy girl. “Bless you, Mary—my whole heart is yours!” exclaimed our hero, seizing a rapturous kiss from the coral lips of the maiden. Mary resisted not, nor replied; while tears, but not of grief, glistened on her dark lashes. “You will not reject my love, Mary? Why do you weep?” “It is with joy—my heart is so happy that tears gush out in spite of me!” “Will you then be mine?” continued Glenn, winding his arm round her yielding waist. “Forever!” she replied, and, bowing her head slightly, a shower of dark silken tresses obscured her blushing face, and covered our hero’s panting breast. Thus they remained many moments in silence, for their feelings were too blissful for utterance. “Are you always happy, Mary?” said Glenn, at length, taking her little white hand in his. “No!” she replied, with a sigh. “Why?” “When you are away, I sometimes fear the Indians—or a snake—or—or something may harm you,” said she, falteringly. “I thank thee, Mary, for thinking of me when I am away.” “I always think of thee!” said she. “Always, Mary?” “Ay, by day—and thou art ever with me in my dreams.” “And I will be with thee always!” “Do!” said she. “But dost thou not sometimes repine that thy life is thus spent in the wilderness far from the busy world?” “I sometimes wish I could see the beautiful cities I read of—but when I think of the treacheries and miseries of the world, I look at the pure fresh flowers, and list to the sweet birds around me, and then I think there is more happiness to be enjoyed here than anywhere else.” “And such is truly the case,” said Glenn, pondering “But then, Mary, we all have obligations to discharge. We were created for society—to associate with our species, and while mingling with kindred beings, it is our duty to bestow as many benefits on them as may be within the scope of our power.” “You think, then, we should leave our western home?” she asked, with undisguised interest. “Wilt thou not consent to go?” “If you go, I will go!” said she. “And now I declare I will not go unless thou art willing.” “But is it a duty ?” she asked. “Your fa—Mr. Roughgrove says so.” “Then let us go! But why did you not say father ?” “He is not your father.” “No!” exclaimed the maid, turning pale. “I will tell thee all, Mary.” And Glenn related the story of the maiden’s birth. “Now, Mary,” he continued, “thou knowest thine own history. Thou art of a noble race, according to the rules of men—nay, thy blood is royal—if thou wouldst retract thy plighted faith (I should have told thee this before,) speak, and thy will shall be done!” “Oh! Charles! I am thine, THINE ONLY, were I born an angel!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms. At this juncture a violent rustling was heard in the bushes not far distant, and the next moment Joe’s voice rang out. “Oh me! Oh St. Peter! Oh murder! murder! murder!” cried he. Instantly all the party were collected round him. He lay in a small open space on the grass, with his basket bottom upward at his side, and all the berries scattered on the ground. “What is the matter?” asked Glenn. “Oh, I’m snake-bitten! I’m a dead man! I’m dying!” cried he, piteously. “That’s a fib,” said Sneak, “bekaise a dead man can’t be a dying.” “Let me see,” said William, stooping down to examine the place on which Joe’s hands were convulsively pressed. With some difficulty he pulled them away, and tearing down the stocking, actually saw a small bleeding puncture over the ankle bone! “What kind of a snake was it?” asked Glenn in alarm. “A rattlesnake—Oh!” “Did you see it?” continued Glenn, knowing Joe’s foible, though it was apparent he suffered from some kind of a wound. “I heard it rattle. Oh, my goodness! I’m going fast! I’m turning blind!” La-u-na told him to run to the house and cover the wound with salt, and remain quiet till Sneak could obtain some plantain leaves from the prairie. Joe sprang up and rushed down the hill. Sneak set out in quest of the antidote, and the rest directed their steps homeward. When they reached Roughgrove’s house, they found Joe lying in the middle of the floor on his back, and groaning most dolefully. He had applied the salt to the wound as directed, and covered it and his whole leg so plentifully with bandages that the latter seemed to be as thick as his body. “How do you feel now, Joe?” asked Glenn. “I’m a dead man!” said he. La-u-na told him not to be alarmed, and assured him there was no danger. “But I’ll die before Sneak can get back!” “Your voice is too strong to fear that,” said William; “but do you suffer much pain?” “Oh, I’m in agony!” said he, rolling back his eyes. “Where does the pain lie?” asked Glenn. “Oh, St. Peter! all over me! In my toes, ankles, legs, arms, heart, throat, mouth, nose, and eyes! Oh, I’m in tortures! I’m blind—I can’t see any of you!” At this moment Roughgrove, who had been over the river on a visit to Boone, entered the apartment with the renowned hunter at his side. When fully informed of the circumstances, Boone stooped down and felt Joe’s pulse. “The strokes are irregular,” said Boone. “Oh heaven!” exclaimed Joe. “But that may be caused by fright,” continued Boone. “Oh goodness! it ain’t that—I’m a dying man!” “Is the leg much swollen?” asked Boone, endeavouring to ascertain without taking off the bandages. “Oh! oh! don’t do that! it’ll kill me in a minute—for its swelled fit to burst!” cried Joe, shrinking from Boone’s grasp. “All the cases of snake-bite that I have seen differ from this. I have always found the swollen limb nearly devoid of feeling. Did you kill the snake?” “No—Oh!” “Tell me precisely the place where you were standing when it bit you—there is a mystery about it that I must solve.” “Oh—it was—I can’t speak! my breath’s going fast! Oh! Paternoster—” William then described the spot to Boone in such precise terms that the old woodman declared he would immediately repair thither and endeavour to find the snake. He accordingly set out in the direction indicated without further delay; while Roughgrove, believing that poor Joe was really on the verge of eternity, strove to comfort his departing spirit with the consolation that religion affords. “Oh! that ain’t the right one!” exclaimed Joe, pushing away the Episcopal prayer-book held by Roughgrove. “Then here is one you cannot object to,” said Roughgrove, opening the Bible. “Oh, that’s not it, either!” cried Joe, in great distress. “Is there no priest in this region? I’m a Roman Catholic—oh!” “Can you not confess your sins directly to God—the God who is everywhere, and governs all things?” said the aged man, impressively, and with animation. “I have prayed,” said Joe; “but now I want the ointment!” “Your body, which must be placed in the damp cold earth, needs no oil. It is far better to purify the soul, which perishes not,” said Roughgrove, in fervent and tremulous tones. “Oh!—Oh! Ugh!” cried Joe, in a deep guttural voice, and turning over on his face. His fears had evidently been increased by the solemn tone and look of Roughgrove. “Don’t be alarmed, Joe,” said Glenn, turning him again on his back. “Sneak will soon be here, and La-u-na says the plantain will be sure to cure you. William tells me that he has seen the Indians permit the snakes to bite them for a mere trifle in money, so certain were they of being restored by the plant. And indeed he never knew a bite to terminate fatally.” “But I’m afraid Sneak won’t come in time,” replied Joe, somewhat comforted. “Pshaw! he won’t loiter in a case of this kind—he knows it is no joke,” continued Glenn. “But suppose he can’t find any plantain—then I’m dead to a certainty! Oh me!” “Does the pain increase much?” asked Mary. “Oh, yes! its ten times worse than it was ten minutes ago! I’m going fast—I can’t move either leg now,” he continued, in a weak utterance. Glenn grew uneasy. Joe was pale—very pale, and breathed hard. Boone entered, with a smile on his lip. “Have you got the plantain?” asked Joe, in feeble accents, with his languid eyes nearly closed, thinking it was Sneak. “Sit up and tell me how you feel,” said Boone, in vain striving to repress his smile. “Oh, St. Peter! I haven’t strength enough to lift my hand,” said Joe, his eyes still closed. “Did you find the snake?” asked Glenn. “Yes,” replied Boone. Joe groaned audibly. “I will tell you all about it,” he continued; “I found the spot where Joe had been gathering the berries, and tracked him without difficulty to every bush he visited by the bruised grass under his foot-prints. At length I came to the cluster of bushes where he received the wound. I stood in his cracks and saw where he had plucked the raspberries. When about to cast down my eyes in quest of the snake, suddenly I felt a blow on my own ankle!” “Did the same snake bite you?” asked Mary, quickly. “Yes,” replied Boone, still smiling. Joe opened his eyes, and after gazing a moment at Boone, asked him if he did not suffer much pain. “Fully as much as you do—but hear me through. I sprang back with some violence, I admit, but I did not run away. Lifting my cane, I returned with a determination to kill the snake. I stooped down very low to ascertain the precise position of its head, which was concealed by a large mullen leaf—I saw its eyes and its bill —” “What!” exclaimed Joe, rising up on his elbow with unwonted vigour, and his eyes riveted on the speaker. “Yes, its bill ”, continued Boone. “And while my cane was brandished in the air and about descending on its devoted head, a low clucking arrested my arm, and approaching closer to it than before, and gazing steadfastly a moment, I lowered my cane to its usual position, and fell back laughing on the grass among the raspberries you had dropped.” “Mr. Boone—Mr. Boone!” cried Joe, springing up in a sitting attitude, and seizing the hand of the veteran, “for Heaven’s sake tell me what it was?” “It was an old SITTING HEN!” said Boone. “Upon your honour?” continued Joe, leaping upon his feet, and staring the aged hunter in the face, while his eyes gleamed with irrepressible hope and anxiety. “It was nothing else, upon my honour,” replied Boone, laughing in concert with the rest. “Huzza! huzza!! huzza!!!” shouted Joe, casting the bandages hither and thither, and dancing nimbly over the floor. “Fal-de-lal—tider-e-i— tider-e-o— tider-e-um!” he continued, in frenzied delight, and, observing Sneak at the door with an armful of plantain (who had returned in time to witness his abrupt recovery, and now continued to regard him with wonder and doubt—at times thinking he was delirious,) skipped up and held out both hands, as if inviting him to dance. “Dod rot it, your leg ain’t swelled a bit!” said Sneak. “Don’t use that bad word, Sneak,” said Mary. “I won’t—but dod—he’s had me running all over—” “Tider-e-i—tider-e-um!” continued Joe, still dancing, while the perspiration streamed over his face. “Have done with this nonsense, Joe!” said Glenn, “or else continue your ridiculous exercises on the grass in the yard. You may rejoice now, but this affair will be sport for others all your life. You will not relish it so much to-morrow.” “I’d rather all the world would laugh at me alive and kicking, than that one of you should mourn over my dead body,” replied Joe, leaping over Sneak, who was sitting in the door, and striding to the grass plot under the elm, where he continued his rejoicings. Sneak followed, and, sitting down on the bench in the shade, seemed to muse with unusual gravity at the strange spectacle presented by Joe. This was Joe’s last wild western adventure. The incident was soon forgotten by the party in the house. Serious and sad thoughts succeeded the mirthful scene described above. Roughgrove had brought Boone thither to receive their last farewell! The renowned woodman and warrior wore marks of painful regret on his pale features. The rest were in tears. “William,” said Roughgrove, “listen to a tale concerning thy birth and parentage, which I feel it to be my duty to unfold. Your sister has already learned the story from your friend, who sits beside her. But I will repeat it to all present. You who are the most interested can then determine whether it shall ever be disclosed to other ears. The secret was long locked in my bosom, and it was once my purpose to bury it with my body in the grave. I pondered long on the subject, and prayed to Heaven to be instructed. I have satisfactory evidence in my own heart that I have acted correctly.” He then related the history of the twins, as we have given it to the reader. When he concluded, La-u-na, who had betrayed much painful interest during the recital, threw her arms round William’s neck, and wept upon his breast. “Why do you weep, La-u-na?” asked the youth. “La-u-na must die!” said she; “her William will leave her and forget her. The wild rose will bend over her grave—the brook will murmur low at her cold feet—the rabbit will nip the tender grass by her tombstone at night-fall—the katydid will chirp over her, and the whippor-will will sing in vain. William will forget her! Poor La-u-na!” “No—La-u-na! no! Thou shalt go with me and be my bride, or else I will remain with thee! Death only shall separate us!” said the youth, drawing the slight form of the Indian maiden closer to his heart, and imprinting a rapturous kiss on her smooth forehead. “We will all go together,” continued Roughgrove, “save our beloved friend here, who tells me that no earthly consideration could induce him to dwell in cities among civilized men.” “True,” said Boone; “I would not exchange my residence in the western wilds for the gorgeous palaces of the east. Yet I think you do right in returning to the society which you were destined to adorn. I shall grieve when I miss you, but I will not persuade you to remain. Every one should act according to the dictates of his conscience. It is my belief that Providence guides our actions. You, my friends, were fitted and designed to move in refined society, and by your example and influence to benefit the world around you. The benefits bestowed by me will not be immediate, nor altogether in my day. I am a PIONEER, formed by nature. Where I struggle with the savage and the wild beast, my great grandchildren will reside in cities, I must fulfil my mission.” At this moment Joe and Sneak appeared at the door. “There’s a covered flat-boat just landed down at the ferry,” said Joe. “It is from the island above,” said Roughgrove, “and the one I have had constructed for our voyage down the river.” “Are we going, sure enough?” asked Joe. “Yes; to-morrow,” said Glenn. “Dod—are you all going off?” asked Sneak, rolling round his large eyes, and stretching out his neck to an unusual length. “All but me, Sneak,” said Boone. “And you won’t be any company for me. Dod—I’ve a notion to go too! If I could foller any thing to make a living in Fillydelfa—” “If you go with us, you shall never want—I will see that you are provided for,” said Glenn. “It’s a bargain!” said Sneak, with the eager emphasis characteristic of the trading Yankee. “But poor Pete—the horses!” said Joe. “There are stalls in the boat for them,” said Roughgrove. “Huzza! I’m glad. Huzza!” cried Joe. The next morning beamed upon them in beauty—and in sadness. The sun rose in majesty, and poured his brilliant and inspiring rays on peak and valley and plain. But the hearts of the peaceful wanderers throbbed in sorrow as they gazed for the last time on the scene before them. Though it had been identified with the many perilous and painful encounters with savages, yet the quivering green leaves above, the sparkling brook below, and the soft melody of happy birds around, were intimately associated with some of the most blissful moments of their lives. La-u-na retired to a lonely spot, and poured forth a farewell song to the whispering spirits of her fathers. Long her steadfast gaze was fixed on the blue sky, as if communing with the departed kings from whom she descended. At length her tears vanished like a shower in the sunshine, and a bright smile rested upon her features, as if her prayer had been heard and all she asked were granted! Prophetic vision! While the race from which she separated is doomed to extinction in the forest, the blood she mingled with the Anglo-Saxon race may yet be destined to sway the councils of a mighty empire. William mused in silence, guarding at a distance the bride of his heart, and not venturing to intrude upon her devotions. The past was like a dream to him—the present a bright vision—the future a paradise! Glenn and Mary were seated together, regarding with impatience the brief preparations to embark. Boone, Roughgrove, Sneak, and Joe were busily engaged lading the vessel. Sneak had hastily brought thither his effects, and without a throe of regret abandoned his house for ever to the owls. Joe succeeded with but little difficulty in getting the horses on board. The fawn, the kitten, the hounds, and the chickens were likewise taken along. And now all was ready to push out into the current. All were on board. Boone bid them an affectionate adieu in silence—in silence, but in tears. The cable was loosened, and the boat was wafted down on its journey eastward. William and La-u-na sat upon the deck, and gazed at the receding shore, rendered dear by hallowed recollections. Glenn and Mary stood at the prow, and as they marked the fleeting waters, their thoughts dwelt on the happy future. Roughgrove was praying. Joe was caressing the pony. Sneak was counting his muskrat skins. And thus we must bid them adieu. THE END. Footnote: [1] Thousands have had similar dreams about similar notes since Joe’s dream.— Printer’s Devil . *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILD WESTERN SCENES *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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