The Last of the Mohicans. Джеймс Фенимор Купер

my own bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder by the wolves. But where are to be found those of your race who came to their kin in the Delaware country so many summers since?’

      ‘Where are the blossoms of those summers!—fallen, one by one: so all of my family departed, each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on the hill-top, and must go down into the valley; and when Uncas follows in my footsteps, there will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores, for my boy is the last of the Mohicans.’

      ‘Uncas is here!’ said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones, near his elbow; ‘who speaks to Uncas?’

      The white man loosened his knife in his leathern sheath, and made an involuntary movement of the hand towards his rifle, at this sudden interruption; but the Indian sat composed, and without turning his head at the unexpected sounds.

      At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with a noiseless step, and seated himself on the bank of the rapid stream. No exclamation of surprise escaped the father, nor was any question asked, or reply given, for several minutes; each appearing to await the moment when he might speak, without betraying womanish curiosity or childish impatience. The white man seemed to take counsel from their customs, and, relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he also remained silent and reserved. At length Chingachgook turned his eyes slowly towards his son, and demanded—

      ‘Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in these woods?’

      ‘I have been on their trail,’ replied the young Indian, ‘and know that they number as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid like cowards.’

      ‘The thieves are out-lying for scalps and plunder!’ said the white man, whom we shall call Hawkeye, after the manner of his companions. ‘That busy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our very camp, but he will know what road we travel!’

      ‘’Tis enough!’ returned the father, glancing his eye towards the setting sun; ‘they shall be driven like deer from their bushes. Hawkeye, let us eat to-night, and show the Maquas that we are men to-morrow.’

      ‘I am as ready to do the one as the other: but to fight the Iroquois ’Tis necessary to find the skulkers; and to eat, ’Tis necessary to get the game—talk of the devil and he will come; there is a pair of the biggest antlers I have seen this season, moving the bushes below the hill! Now, Uncas,’ he continued, in a half-whisper, and laughing with a kind of inward sound, like one who had learnt to be watchful, ‘I will bet my charger three times full of powder, against a foot of wampum, that I take him atwixt the eyes, and nearer to the right than to the left.’

      ‘It cannot be!’ said the young Indian, springing to his feet with youthful eagerness; ‘all but the tips of his horns are hid!’

      ‘He’s a boy!’ said the white man, shaking his head while he spoke, and addressing the father. ‘Does he think when a hunter sees a part of the creatur’, he can’t tell where the rest of him should be?’

      Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skill, on which he so much valued himself, when the warrior struck up the piece with his hand, saying:—

      ‘Hawkeye! will you fight the Maquas?’

      ‘These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it might be by instinct!’ returned the scout, dropping his rifle, and turning away like a man who was convinced of his error. ‘I must leave the buck to your arrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, to eat.’

      The instant the father seconded this intimation by an expressive gesture of the hand, Uncas threw himself on the ground, and approached the animal with wary movements. When within a few yards of the cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlers moved, as if their owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In another moment the twang of the cord was heard, a white streak was seen glancing into the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged from the cover to the very feet of his hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal, Uncas darted to his side, and passed his knife across the throat, when bounding to the edge of the river it fell, dyeing the waters with its blood.

      ‘‘Twas done with Indian skill,’ said the scout, laughing inwardly, but with vast satisfaction; ‘and ‘twas a pretty sight to behold! Though an arrow is a near shot, and needs a knife to finish the work.’

      ‘Hugh!’ ejaculated his companion, turning quickly, like a hound who scented game.

      ‘As I live, there is a drove of them!’ exclaimed the scout, whose eyes began to glisten with the ardour of his usual occupation; ‘if they come within range of a bullet I will drop one, though the whole Six Nations should be lurking within sound! What do you hear, Chingachgook? for to my ears the woods are dumb.’

      ‘There is but one deer, and he is dead,’ said the Indian, bending his body till his ear nearly touched the earth. ‘I hear the sounds of feet!’

      ‘Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are following on his trail.’

      ‘No. The horses of white men are coming,’ returned the other, raising himself with dignity, and resuming his seat on the log with his former composure. ‘Hawkeye, they are your brothers; speak to them.’

      ‘That will I, and in English that the king needn’t be ashamed to answer,’ returned the hunter, speaking in the language of which he boasted; ‘but I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of man or beast; ’Tis strange that an Indian should understand white sounds better than a man who, his very enemies will own, has no cross in his blood, although he may have lived with the red-skins long enough to be suspected! Ha! there goes something like the cracking of a dry stick, too—now I hear the bushes move—yes, yes, there is a trampling that I mistook for the falls—and—but here they come themselves. God keep them from the Iroquois!’

¹ See Appendix, Note B.

² The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole body; a small tuft only was left on the crown of his head, in order that his enemy might avail himself of it, in wrenching off the scalp in the event of his fall. The scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory. Thus, it was deemed more important to obtain the scalp than to kill the man. Some tribes lay great stress on the honour of striking a dead body. These practices have nearly disappeared among the Indians of the Atlantic States.

¹ The hunting-shirt is a picturesque smock-frock, being shorter, and ornamented with fringes and tassels. The colours are intended to imitate the hues of the wood, with a view to concealment. Many corps of American riflemen have been thus attired, and the dress is one of the most striking of modern times. The hunting-shirt is frequently white.

² The rifle of the army is short; that of the hunter is always long.

³ The Mississippi. The scout alludes to a tradition which is very popular among the tribes of the Atlantic States. Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced from the circumstances, though great uncertainty hangs over the whole history of the Indians.

¹ See Appendix, Note C.

¹ See Appendix, Note D.

       CHAPTER 4

      Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove

      Till