CHAPTER X.

ONEOTAH.

To say that the boys were surprised by these words would inadequately describe the emotion that seized upon them as they listened to them—they were literally dumbfounded.

“Great heavens! this is wonderful!” cried Percy Vere. “What do you think of it?” he added, appealing to his cousin.

“I take all back; old Smo’ is by no means slow!” responded Cute. “I don’t wonder that he can bamboozle the benighted Indians, for he has completely kerflummixed me.”

The warriors, who had drawn nearer when Smoholler dismissed his spirit, uttered an approving grunt. It may be that the Prophet had purposely availed himself of this opportunity of displaying his divining power before them.

“Is what I have told you true?” he demanded of the boys.

“It is,” Percy Vere admitted.

“Every word of it,” added Cute. “This beats spirit-rapping all hollow; your spirit comes without a rap, and his information don’t cost a rap.”

“And having told me so much, I am led to believe you can also tell me where I can find my father?” cried Percy Vere, eagerly.

The Prophet shook his head.

“I can learn from my spirit whether he is alive or dead, perhaps,” he replied; “but _Monedo_ does not care to seek for a pale-face; he hates the white race, as I do.”

“You have a queer way of showing it,” exclaimed Cute. “I should have been like poor uncle Ned, without any hair on the top of my head, by this time, if it had not been for you.”

“Why have you spared our lives?” asked Percy. “The Indian seldom extends mercy to a captive, I have heard.”

The Prophet laughed disdainfully.

“You have heard and read many things about the Indian,” he replied; “but they are spoken and written by the pale-faces, and there is little truth in them. I have spared your life that you may bear a message to the surveyor’s camp for me. But first you shall partake of food with me. You must feel the need of some refreshment.”

“Well, I feel peckish, and no mistake,” answered Cute. “So if you have got any fodder, just tote it along.”

“Something to eat would not come amiss,” said Percy Vere. “We intended to have been back with game to our camp before this.”

The Prophet laughed in his forbidding manner.

“Your camp will not get any game on this side of the river,” he rejoined. “A dozen of my warriors guard the mouth of the ravine, and it will be sure destruction to the pale-face who attempts to pass through it. You would have fallen into the ambush, had you not turned to the right and ascended the cliff.”

“How did you know the direction we had taken?” asked Percy, curiously.

“A sentinel posted upon the cliff gave us warning. Nothing can escape the vigilance of my scouts. They have eyes like hawks. Yonder camp is hemmed in—they must recross the river or I shall drive them into it.”

He clapped his hands and an Indian boy came bounding toward him—a boy with a graceful, lithe form, and step as bounding as that of an antelope. He was handsomely dressed, and wore the same colors as the Prophet, and was, evidently, his familiar attendant, or page.

Like the Prophet, he wore a head-dress taken from an animal, but his was the head of an antelope. The sharp horns were left, and the whole face of the animal preserved in such a manner that the boy’s face was completely covered by it, and his dark eyes glistened through the eye-holes; and so nicely was the skin fitted to his face, that he appeared to be a boy with an antelope’s head.

“Jumping ginger!” exclaimed Cute, as the boy bounded lightly forward; “what kind of a critter is that, anyway?”

“Glyndon was mistaken,” remarked Percy, thoughtfully, as he watched the Indian boy’s approach.

“In what?”

“It was his tracks we saw. There’s no squaw in the party.”

“That’s so, by king! I never thought of it before; but you are right, there isn’t.”

“Oneotah,” said the Prophet to the boy; “prepare some venison steaks for us.”

The boy made a respectful obeisance.

“Yes, master,” he replied, in tones that were singularly clear and bell-like, and then he hastened to obey.

Cute smacked his lips.

“Venison-steaks, _a-la-mode de Indian_!” he exclaimed. “I think I can put myself outside of some without any difficulty.”

“I must confess to being rather sharp set myself,” replied Percy. “That tramp through the thicket, and the lively fight afterward, have freshened up my appetite to a degree.”

“The food will be quickly served,” said the Prophet. “See, Nature spreads her table for us. Come.”

He led the way to a square bowlder that reared its form from the turf beside a little streamlet that went purling by on its way to the river, its clear, crystal water looking cool and refreshing. The Prophet cast himself down beside the rock, and the boys followed his example. As they glanced through the arches of the forest they saw several fires blazing in different directions, and groups of Indians clustered around them. General preparations for a meal were in progress.

The boys were impressed by the romance of the scene, and Cute conveyed his idea of it by exclaiming, rather unpoetically:

“Say, Percy, ain’t this high? You said you would like to see Smoholler, the Prophet, and here we are, invited to take an _al fresco_ dinner with him.”

The Prophet raised himself upon his elbow, and regarded Percy Vere earnestly.

“Why did you wish to see me?” he asked.

“Because I thought you might give me some intelligence of my father,” answered Percy.

“Why should you think so?”

“Because you are a man of great intelligence. I heard so before I saw you, and I am satisfied of it now.”

The Prophet inclined his head as if pleased with the compliment.

“You possess a wonderful power over the Indians, I can see—and I think few parties of hunters could cross the river, which you watch so jealously, unknown to you.”

“You are right; my spies are everywhere, my commands implicitly obeyed. Along the course of yonder mighty river, from its rocky source to where it empties into the ocean, there is no chief who is respected and feared like Smoholler. Already my warriors outnumber the fighting men of the other tribes, and daily I am gaining accessions to my ranks. They come to listen to the recital of my dreams, and they remain, satisfied that the power I profess is not an idle boast. You shall pay me a visit to Priest’s Rapids, if you like, and I will show you the germ of a growing nation. Ah! the day will come, and it is not far distant, when the tribes of the Pacific Slope will be gathered into one grand confederacy which will acknowledge Smoholler as its chief.”

The Prophet’s breast heaved and his eyes dilated with a fervid enthusiasm, as he pronounced these words.

“An Indian emperor!” exclaimed Cute. “Bully for you!”

“And why not? The descendants of the Aztecs and Toltecs still roam these plains and mountains. Why should not I revive the glories of Montezuma’s empire?”

“Montezuma’s power fell before the white man’s advance, and I fear the white settlers crowd too closely upon your projected empire,” replied Percy Vere. “But it is a great idea, and that you may prosper is my sincere wish. I would like to see the red-man raised to a better position than that he now occupies. You are the best judge of his capabilities. The white hunters are too prone to regard him in the light of a savage beast—and not without some cause, either.”

“Cause? The first offense came from the white man!” cried the Prophet, fiercely.

“It may be so; but, in our particular instance, if you had let us alone, we should not have troubled you.”