follows.
“We are now on the banks of this stream, and about this bend in it,” commenced the surveyor, pointing to the precise curvature of the river on a map he had spread before him, at which he supposed we were actually situated; “and the next thing is to find that ridge on which the moose was killed, and across which the line of the patent we seek is known to run. This abstract of the title tells us to look for a corner somewhere off here, about a mile or a mile and a half from this bend in the river—a black oak, with its top broken off by the wind, and standing in the centre of a triangle made by three chestnuts. I think you told me, David that you had never borne a chain on any of these ridges?”
“No, sir, never;” answered David, the old chain-bearer already mentioned; “my business never having brought me out so far east.—A black oak, with corner blazes on it, and its top broken down by the wind, and standing atween three chestnuts, howsomedever, can be nothing so very hard to find, for a person that’s the least acquainted. These Injins will be the likeliest bodies to know that tree, if they’ve any nat’ral knowledge of the country.”
Know a tree! There we were, and had been for many hours, in the bosom of the forest, with trees in thousands ranged around us; trees had risen on our march, as horizon extends beyond horizon on the ocean, and this chain-bearer fancied it might be in the power of one who often passed through these dark and untenanted mazes, to recognise any single member of those countless oaks, and beeches, and pines! Nevertheless, Mr. Traverse did not seem to regard David’s suggestion as so very extravagant, for he turned towards the Indians and addressed himself to them.
“How’s this?” he asked; “Jumper, do you know anything of the sort of tree I have described?”
“No,” was the short, sententious answer.
“Then, I fear, there is little hope that Trackless is any wiser, as you are Mohawk born, and he, they tell me, is at bottom an Onondago. What say you, Trackless? can you help us to find the tree?”
My eyes were fastened on Susquesus, as soon as the Indians were mentioned. There he stood, straight as the trunk of a pine, light and agile in person, with nothing but his breech-cloth, moccasins, and a blue calico shirt belted to his loins with a scarlet band, through which was thrust the handle of his tomahawk, and to which were attached his shot-pouch and horn, while his rifle rested against his body, butt downward. Trackless was a singularly handsome Indian, the unpleasant peculiarities of his people being but faintly portrayed in his face and form; while their nobler and finer qualities came out in strong relief. His nose was almost aquiline; his eye, dark as night, was restless and piercing; his limbs Apollo-like; and his front and bearing had all the fearless dignity of a warrior, blended with the grace of nature. The only obvious defects were in his walk, which was Indian, or in-toed and bending at the knee; but, to counterbalance these, his movements were light, springy and swift. I fancied him, in figure, the very beau-idéal of a runner.
During the time the surveyor was speaking, the eye of Susquesus was seemingly fastened on vacancy, and I would have defied the nicest observer to detect any consciousness of what was in hand, in the countenance of this forest stoic. It was not his business to speak, while an older runner and an older warrior was present—for Jumper was both—and he waited for others, who might know more, to reveal their knowledge ere he produced his own. Thus directly addressed, however, all reserve vanished, and he advanced two or three steps, cast a curious glance at the map, even put a finger on the river, the devious course of which it followed across the map, much as a child would trace any similar object that attracted his attention. Susquesus knew but little of maps, it was clear enough; but the result showed that he knew a great deal about the woods, his native field of action.
“Well, what do you make of my map, Trackless,” repeated the surveyor. “Is it not drawn to suit your fancy?”
“Good”—returned the Onondago, with emphasis. “Now show Susquesus your oak tree.”
“Here it is, Trackless. You see it is a tree drawn in ink, with a broken top, and here are the three chestnuts, in a sort of triangle, around it.”
The Indian examined the tree with some interest, and a slight smile illumined his handsome, though dark countenance. He was evidently pleased at this proof of accuracy in the colony surveyors, and, no doubt, thought the better of them for the fidelity of their work.
“Good,” he repeated, in his low, guttural, almost feminine voice, so soft and mild in its tone. “Very good. The pale-faces know everything! Now, let my brother find the tree.”
“That is easier said than done, Susquesus,” answered Traverse, laughing. “It is one thing to sketch a tree on a map, and another to go to its root, as it stands in the forest, surrounded by thousands of other trees.”
“Pale-face must first see him, or how paint him? Where painter?”
“Ay, the surveyor saw the tree once, and marked it once, but that is not finding it again. Can you tell me where the oak stands? Mr. Littlepage will give the man who finds that corner a French crown. Put me anywhere on the line of the old survey, and I will ask favours of no one.”
“Painted tree there,” said Susquesus, pointing a little scornfully at the map, as it seemed to me. “Pale-face can’t find him in wood. Live tree out younder; Injin know.”
Trackless pointed with great dignity towards the north east, standing motionless as a statue the while, as if inviting the closest possible scrutiny into the correctness of his assertion.
“Can you lead us to the tree?” demanded Traverse, eagerly. “Do it, and the money is yours.”
Susquesus made a significant gesture of assent; then he set about collecting the scanty remains of his dinner, a precaution in which we imitated him, as a supper would be equally agreeable as the meal just taken, a few hours later. When everything was put away, and the packs were on our shoulders—not on those of the Indians, for they seldom condescended to carry burthens, which was an occupation for women—Trackless led the way, in the direction he had already pointed out.
Well did the Onondago deserve his name, as it seemed to me, while he threaded his way through that gloomy forest, without path, mark or sign of any sort, that was intelligible to others. His pace was between a walk and a gentle trot, and it required all our muscles to keep near him. He looked to neither the right nor the left, but appeared to pursue his course guided by an instinct, or as the keen-scented hound follows the viewless traces of his game. This lasted for ten minutes, when Traverse called another halt, and we clustered together in council.
“How much further do you think it may be to the tree, Onondago?” demanded the surveyor, as soon as the whole party was collected in a circle. “I have a reason for asking.”
“So many minutes,” answered the Indian, holding up five fingers, or the four fingers and thumb of his right hand. “Oak with broken top, and pale-face marks, there.”
The precision and confidence with which the Trackless pointed, not a little surprised me, for I could not imagine how any human being could pretend to be minutely certain of such a fact, under the circumstances in which we were placed. So it was, however; and so it proved in the end. In the mean time, Traverse proceeded to carry out his own plans.
“As we are so near to the tree,” he said, for the surveyor had no doubt of the red-man’s accuracy, “we must also be near the line. The last runs north and south, on this part of the patent, and we shall shortly cross it. Spread yourselves, therefore, chain-bearers, and look for blazed trees; for, put me anywhere on the boundaries,
