Ye who love the haunts of nature,
  Love the sunshine of the meadow,
  Love the shadow of the forest,
  Love the wind among the branches,
  And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
  And the rushing of great rivers. 
  Listen to these wild traditions. ­Hiawatha.

One day in the spring of 1820, a singular occurrence took place on one of the upper tributaries of the Mississippi.

The bank, some fifteen or twenty feet in height, descended quite abruptly to the stream’s edge.  Though both shores were lined with dense forest, this particular portion possessed only several sparse clumps of shrubbery, which seemed like a breathing-space in this sea of verdure ­a gate in the magnificent bulwark with which nature girts her streams.  This green area commanded a view of several miles, both up and down stream.

Had a person been observing this open spot on the afternoon of the day in question, he would have seen a large bowlder suddenly roll from the top of the bank to bound along down the green declivity and fall into the water with a loud splash.  This in itself was nothing remarkable, as such things are of frequent occurrence in the great order of things, and the tooth of time easily could have gnawed away the few crumbs of earth that held the stone in poise.

Scarcely five minutes had elapsed, however, when a second bowlder rolled downward in a manner precisely similar to its predecessor, and tumbled into the water with a rush that resounded across and across from the forest on either bank.

Even this might have occurred in the usual course of things.  Stranger events take place every day.  The loosening of the first stone could have opened the way for the second, although a suspicious observer might naturally have asked why its fall did not follow more immediately.

But, when precisely the same interval had elapsed, and a third stone followed in the track of the others, there could be no question but what human agency was concerned in the matter.  It certainly appeared as if there were some intent in all this.  In this remote wilderness, no white man or Indian would find the time or inclination for such child’s play, unless there was a definite object to be accomplished.

And yet, scrutinized from the opposite bank, the lynx-eye of a veteran pioneer would have detected no other sign of the presence of a human being than the occurrences that we have already narrated; but the most inexperienced person would have decided at once upon the hiding-place of him who had given the moving impulse to the bodies.

Just at the summit of the bank was a mass of shrubbery of sufficient extent and density to conceal a dozen warriors.  And within this, beyond doubt, was one person, at least, concealed; and it was certain, too, that from his hiding-place, he was peering out upon the river.  Each bowlder had emerged from this shrubbery, and had not passed through it in its downward course; so that their starting-point may now be considered a settled question.

Supposing one to have gazed from this stand-point, what would have been his field of vision?  A long stretch of river ­a vast, almost interminable extent of forest ­a faint, far-off glimpse of a mountain peak projected like a thin cloud against the blue sky, and a solitary eagle that, miles above, was bathing his plumage in the clear atmosphere.  Naught else?

Close under the opposite shore, considerably lower down than the point to which we first directed our attention, may be descried a dark object.  It is a small Indian canoe, in which are seated two white men and a female, all of whom are attired in the garb of civilization.  The young man near the stern is of slight mold, clear blue eye, and a prepossessing countenance.  He holds a broad ashen paddle in his hand with which to assist his companion, who maintains his proximity to the shore for the purpose of overcoming more deftly the opposition of the current.  The second personage is a short but square-shouldered Irishman, with massive breast, arms like the piston-rods of an engine, and a broad, good-natured face.  He is one of those beings who may be aptly termed “machines,” a patient, plodding, ox-like creature who takes to the most irksome labor as a flail takes to the sheafs on the threshing-floor.  Work was his element, and nothing, it would seem, could tire or overcome those indurated muscles and vice-like nerves.  The only appellation with which he was ever known to be honored was that of “Teddy.”

Near the center of the canoe, which was of goodly size and straight, upon a bed of blankets, sat the wife of the young man in the stern.  A glance would have dissipated the slightest suspicion of her being anything other than a willing voyager upon the river.  There was the kindling eye and glowing cheek, the eager look that flitted hither and yon, and the buoyant feeling manifest in every movement, all of which expressed more of enthusiasm than of willingness merely.  Her constant questions to her husband or Teddy, kept up a continual run of conversation, which was now, for the first time, momentarily interrupted by the occurrence to which we have alluded.

At the moment we introduce them the young man was holding his paddle stationary and gazing off toward his right, where the splash in the water denoted the fall of the third stone.  His face wore an expression of puzzled surprise, mingled with which was a look of displeasure, as if he were “put out” at this manifestation.  His eyes were fixed with a keen, searching gaze upon the river-bank, expecting the appearance of something more.

Teddy also was resting upon his paddle, and scrutinizing the point in question; but he seemed little affected by what had taken place.  His face was as expressionless as one of the bowlders, save the ever-present look of imperturbable good-humor.

The young woman seemed more absorbed than either of her companions, in attempting to divine this mystery that had so suddenly come upon them.  More than once she raised her hand, as an admonition for Teddy to preserve silence.  Finally, however, his impatience got the better of his obedience, and he broke the oppressive stillness.

“And what does ye make of it, Miss Cora, or Master Harvey?” he asked, after a few moments, dipping his paddle at the same time in the water.  “Arrah, now, has either of ye saan anything more than the same bowlders there?”

“No,” answered the man, “but we may; keep a bright look-out, Teddy, and let me know what you see.”

The Irishman inclined his head to one side, and closed one eye as if sighting an invisible gun.  Suddenly he exclaimed, with a start: 

“I see something now, sure as a Bally-ma-gorrah wake.”

“What is it?”

“The sun going down in the west, and tilling us we’ve no time to shpare in fooling along here.”

“Teddy, don’t you remember day before yesterday when we came out of the Mississippi into this stream, we observed something very similar to this?”

“An’ what if we did, zur?  Does ye mane to say that a rock or two can’t git tired of layin’ in bed for a thousand years and roll around like a potaty in a garret whin the floor isn’t stiddy?”

“It struck us as so remarkable that we both concluded it must have been caused purposely by some one.”

“Me own opinion was, ye remember, that it was a lot of school-boys that had run away from their master, and were indulging themselves in a little shport, or that it was the bears at a shindy, or that it was something else.”

“Ah!  Teddy, there are times when jesting is out of place,” said the young wife, reproachfully; “and it seems to me that when we are alone in this vast wilderness, with many and many a long mile between us and a white settlement, we should be grave and thoughtful.”

“I strives to be so, Miss Cora, but it’s harder than paddling this cockle-shell of a canoe up-shtream.  My tongue will wag jist as a dog’s tail when he can’t kape it still.”

The face of the Irishman wore such a long, woebegone expression, that it brought a smile to the face of his companion.  Teddy saw this, and his big, honest blue eyes twinkled with humor as he glanced upward from beneath his hat.

“I knows yees prays for me, Misther Harvey and Miss Cora, ivery night and morning of your blessed life, but I’m afeard your prayers will do as little good for Teddy as the s’arch-warrant did for Micky, the praist’s boy, who stole the praist’s shirt and give it away because it was lou ­”

“Look!”

From the very center of the clump of bushes of which we have made mention, came a white puff of smoke, followed immediately by the faint but sharp report of a rifle.  The bullet’s course could be seen as it skipped over the surface of the water, and finally dropped out of sight.

“What do you say, now?” asked the young man.  “Isn’t that proof that we’ve attracted attention?”

“So it saams; but, little dread need we have of disturbance if they always kaap at such a respictable distance as that.  Whisht, now! but don’t ye saa those same bushes moving?  There’s some one passing through them!  Mebbe it’s a shadow, mebbe it’s the divil himself.  If so, here goes after the imp!”

Catching up his rifle, Teddy discharged it toward the bank, although it was absolutely impossible for his bullet to do more than reach the shore.

“That’s to show the old gintleman we are ready and ain’t frightened, be he the divil himself, or only a few of his children, that ye call the poor Injuns!”

“And whoever it is, he is evidently as little frightened as you; that shot was a direct challenge to us.”

“And it’s accepted.  Hooray!  Now for some Limerick exercise!”

Ere he could be prevented, the Irishman had headed his canoe across stream, and was paddling with all his might toward the spot from which the first shot had been fired.

“Stop!” commanded his master.  “It is fool-hardiness, on a par with your general conduct, thus to run into an undefined danger.”

Teddy reluctantly changed the course of the boat and said nothing, although his face plainly indicated his disappointment.  He had not been mistaken, however, in the supposition that he detected the movements of some person in the shrubbery.  Directly after the shot had been fired, the bushes were agitated, and a gaunt, grim-visaged man, in a half-hunter and half-civilized dress, moved a few feet to the right, in a manner which showed that he was indifferent as to whether or not he was observed.  He looked forth as if to ascertain the result of his fire.  The man was very tall, with a face by no means unhandsome, although it was disfigured by a settled scowl, which better befitted a savage enemy than a white friend.  He held his long rifle in his right hand, while he drew the shrubbery apart with his left, and looked forth at the canoe.

“I knew the distance was too great,” he muttered, “but you will hear of me again, Harvey Richter.  I’ve had a dozen chances to pick you off since you and your friends started up-stream, but I don’t wish to do that.  No, no, not that.  Fire away; but you can do me no more harm than I can you, at this moment.”

Allowing the bushes to resume their wonted position, the stranger deliberately reloaded his piece and as deliberately walked away in the wood.

In the meantime, the voyagers resumed their journey and were making quite rapid progress up-stream.  The sun was already low in the sky, and it was not long before darkness began to envelop wood and stream.  At a sign from the young man, the Irishman headed the canoe toward shore.  In a few moments they landed, where, if possible, the wood was more dense than usual.  Although quite late in the spring, the night was chilly, and they lost no time in kindling a good fire.

The travelers appeared to act upon the presumption that there were no such things as enemies in this solitude.  Every night they had run their boat in to shore, started a fire, and slept soundly by it until morning, and thus far, strange as it may seem, they had suffered no molestation and had seen no signs of ill-will, if we except the occurrences already related.  Through the day, the stalwart arms of Teddy, with occasional assistance from the more delicate yet firm muscles of Harvey, had plied the paddle.  No attempt at concealment was made.  On several occasions they had landed at the invitation of Indians, and, after smoking, and presenting them with a few trinkets, had departed again, in peace and good-will.

Not to delay information upon an important point, we may state that Harvey Richter was a young minister who had recently been appointed missionary to the Indians.  The official members of his denomination, while movements were on foot concerning the spiritual welfare of the heathen in other parts of the world, became convinced that the red-men of the American wilds were neglected, and conceding fully the force of the inference drawn thence, young men were induced to offer themselves as laborers in the savage American vineyard.  Great latitude was granted in their choice of ground ­being allowed an area of thousands upon thousands of square miles over which the red-man roamed in his pristine barbarism.  The vineyard was truly vast and the laborers few.

While his friends selected stations comparatively but a short distance from the bounds of civilization, Harvey Richter decided to go to the Far Northwest.  Away up among the grand old mountains and majestic solitudes, hugging the rills and streams which roll eastward to feed the great continental artery called the Mississippi, he believed lay his true sphere of duty.  Could the precious seed be deposited there, if even in a single spot, he was sure its growth would be rapid and certain, and, like the little rills, it might at length become the great, steadily-flowing source of light and life.

Harvey Richter had read and studied much regarding the American aborigines.  To choose one of the wildest, most untamed tribes for his pupils, was in perfect keeping with his convictions and his character for courage.  Hence he selected the present hunting-grounds of the Sioux, in upper Minnesota.  Shortly before he started he was married to Cora Brandon, whose devotion to her great Master and to her husband would have carried her through any earthly tribulations.  Although she had not urged the resolution which the young minister had taken, yet she gladly gave up a luxurious home and kind friends to bear him company.

There was yet another whose devotion to the young missionary was scarcely less than that of the faithful wife.  We refer to the Irishman, Teddy, who had been a favorite servant for many years in the family of the Richters.  Having fully determined on sharing the fortunes of his young master, it would have grieved his heart very deeply had he been left behind.  He received the announcement that he was to be a life-long companion of the young man, with an expression at once significant of his pride and his joy.

“Be jabers, but Teddy McFadden is in luck!”

And thus it happened that our three friends were ascending one of the tributaries of the upper Mississippi on this balmy day in the spring of 1820.  They had been a long time on the journey, but were now nearing its termination.  They had learned from the Indians daily encountered, the precise location of the large village, in or near which they had decided to make their home for many and many a year to come.

After landing, and before starting his fire, Teddy pulled the canoe up on the bank.  It was used as a sort of shelter by their gentler companion, while he and his master slept outside, in close proximity to the camp-fire.  They possessed a plentiful supply of game at all times, for this was the Paradise of hunters, and they always landed and shot what was needed.

“We must be getting well up to the northward,” remarked the young man, as he warmed his hands before the fire.  “Don’t you notice any difference in the atmosphere, Cora?”

“Yes; there is a very perceptible change.”

“If this illigant fire only keeps up, I’m thinking there’ll be a considerable difference afore long.  The ways yees be twisting and doubling them hands, as if ye had hold of some delightsome soap, spaaks that yees have already discovered a difference.  It is better nor whisky, fire is, in the long run, providin’ you don’t swaller it ­the fire, that is.”

“Even if swallowed, Teddy, fire is better than whisky, for fire burns only the body, while whisky burns the soul,” answered the minister.

“Arrah, that it does; for I well remimbers the last swig I took a’most burnt a hole in me shirt, over the bosom, and they say that is where the soul is located.”

“Ah, Teddy, you are a sad sinner, I fear,” laughingly observed Mrs. Richter, at this extravagant allusion.

“A sad sinner!  Divil a bit of it.  I haven’t saan the day for twinty year whin I couldn’t dance at me grandmother’s wake, or couldn’t use a shillalah at me father’s fourteenth weddin’.  Teddy sad?  Well, that is a ­is a ­a mistake,” and the injured fellow further expressed his feelings by piling on the fuel until he had a fire large enough to have roasted a battalion of prize beeves, had they been spitted before it.

Darkness at length fairly settled upon the wood and stream; the gloom around became deep and impressive.  The inevitable haunch of venison was roasting before the roaring fire, Teddy watching and attending it with all the skill of an experienced cook.  While thus engaged, the missionary and his wife were occupied in tracing the course of the Mississippi and its tributaries upon a pocket map, which was the chief guide in that wilderness of streams and “tributaries.”  Who could deny the vastness of the field, and the loud call for laborers, when such an immense extent then bore only the name of “Unexplored Region!” And yet, this same headwater territory was teeming with human beings, as rude and uncultivated as the South Sea Islanders.  What were the feelings of the faithful couple as their eyes wandered to the left of the map, where these huge letters confronted them, we can only surmise.  That they felt that ten thousand self-sacrificing men could be employed in this portion of the country we may well imagine.

As the evening meal was not yet ready, the missionary folded the map and fell to musing ­musing of the future he had marked out for himself; enjoying the sweet approval of his conscience, higher and purer than any enjoyment of earth.  All at once came back the occurrence of the afternoon, which had been absent from his thoughts for the hour past.  But, now that it was recalled, it engaged his mind with redoubled force.

Could he be assured that it was a red-man who had fired the shot, the most unpleasant apprehension would be dissipated; but a suspicion would haunt him, in spite of himself, that it was not a red-man, but a white, who had thus signified his hostility.  The rolling of the stones must have been simply to call his attention, and the rifle-shot was intended for nothing more than to signify that he was an enemy.

And who could this enemy be?  If a hunter or an adventurer, would he not naturally have looked upon any of his own race, whom he encountered in the wilderness, as his friends, and have hastened to welcome them?  What could have been more desirable than to unite with them in a country where whites were so scarce, and almost unknown?  Was it not contrary to all reason to suppose that a hermit or misanthrope would have penetrated thus far to avoid his brother man, and would have broken his own solitude by thus betraying his presence?

Such and similar were the questions Harvey Richter asked himself again and again, and to all he was able to return an answer.  He had decided who this strange being might possibly be.  If it was the person suspected, it was one whom he had met more frequently than he wished, and he prayed that he might never encounter him again in this world.  The certainty that the man had dogged him to this remote spot in the West; that he had patiently plodded after the travelers for many a day and night; that even the trackless river had not sufficed to place distance between them; that, undoubtedly, like some wild beast in his lair, he had watched Richter and his companions as they sat or slumbered near their camp-fire ­these, we may well surmise, served to render the missionary for the moment excessively uncomfortable, and to dull the roseate hues in which he had drawn the future.

The termination of this train of thought was the sudden suspicion that this very being was at that moment in close proximity.  Unconsciously, Harvey rose to the sitting position and looked around, half expecting to descry the too well remembered figure.

“Supper is waiting, and so is our appetites, be the same token in your stomachs that is in mine.  How bees it with yourself, Mistress Cora?”

The young wife had risen to her feet, and the husband was in the act of doing the same, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and Harvey plainly heard and felt the whiz of the bullet as it passed before his eyes.

“To the devil wid yer nonsense!” shouted Teddy, furiously springing forward, and glaring around him in search of the author of the well-nigh fatal shot.  Deciding upon the quarter whence it came, he seized his ever-ready rifle, which he had learned to manage with much skill, dashed off at the top of his speed, not heeding the commands of his master, nor the appeals of Mrs. Richter to return.

Guided only by his blind rage, it happened, in this instance, that the Irishman proceeded directly toward the spot where the hunter had concealed himself, and came so very near that the latter was compelled to rise to his feet to escape being trampled upon.  Teddy caught the outlines of a tall form tearing hurriedly through the wood, as if in terror of being caught, and he bent all his energies toward overtaking him.  The gloom of the night, that had now fairly descended, and the peculiar topography of the ground, made it an exceedingly difficult matter for both to keep their feet.  The fugitive, catching in some obstruction, was thrown flat upon his face, but quickly recovered himself.  Teddy, with a shout of exultation, sprung forward, confident that he had secured their persecutor at last, but the Irishman was caught by the same obstacle and “floored” even more completely than his enemy.

“Bad luck to it!” he exclaimed, frantically scrambling to his feet, “but it has knocked me deaf and dumb.  I’ll have ye, owld haythen, yit, or me name isn’t Teddy McFadden, from Limerick downs.”

Teddy’s fall had given the fugitive quite an advantage, and as he was fully as fleet of foot as the Irishman, the latter was unable to regain his lost ground.  Still, it wasn’t in his nature to give in, and he dashed forward as determinedly as ever.  To his unutterable chagrin, however, it was not long before he realized that the footsteps of his enemy were gradually becoming more distant.  His rage grew with his adversary’s gradual escape, and he would have pursued had he been certain of rushing into destruction itself.  All at once he made a second fall, and, instead of recovering, went headlong down into a gully, fully a dozen feet in depth.

Teddy, stunned by his heavy fall, lay insensible for some fifteen or twenty minutes.  He returned to consciousness with a ringing sensation in his ears, and it was some time before he could recall all the circumstances of his predicament.  Gradually the facts dawned upon him, and he listened.  Everything was oppressively still.  He heard not the voice of his master, and not even the sound of any of the denizens of the wood.

His first movement was to feel for his rifle, which he had brought with him in his descent, and which he found close at hand.  In the act of rising, he caught the sound of a footstep, and saw, at the same instant, the outlines of a person that he knew at once could be no other than the man whom he had been pursuing.  The hunter was about a dozen feet distant, and seemed perfectly aware of the Irishman’s presence, for he stood with folded arms, facing his pursuer.  The darkness prevented Teddy’s discovering anything more than his enemy’s outline But this was enough for a shot to do its work.  Teddy cautiously brought his rifle to his shoulder, and lifted the hammer.  Pointing it at the breast of his adversary, so as to be sure of his aim, he pulled the trigger, but there was no response.  The gun either was unloaded, or had been injured by its rough usage.  The dull click of the lock reached the ear of the target, who asked, in a low, gruff voice: 

“Why do you seek me?  You and I have no quarrel.”

“A purty question, ye murtherin’ haythen!  I’ll settle with yees, if yees only come down here like a man.  Jist play the wolf and belave me a sheep, and come down here for your supper.”

“My quarrel is not with you, I tell you, but with your psalm-singing master ­”

“And ain’t that meself?” interrupted Teddy.  “What’s mine is his, and what’s his is mine, and what’s me is both, and what’s both is me, barring neither one is my own, but all belong to Master Harvey, and Miss Cora, God bless their souls.  Don’t talk of quarreling wid him and being friendly to me, ye murtherin’ spalpeen!  Jist come down here a bit, I say, if ye’s got a spick of honor in yer rusty shirt.”

“My ill-will is not toward you, although, I repeat, if you step in my way you may find it a dangerous matter.  You think I tried to shoot you, but you are mistaken.  Do you suppose I could have come as near and missed without doing so on purpose?  To-night I could have brought you and your master, or his wife, and sent you all out of the world in a twinkling.  I’ve roamed the woods too long to miscarry at a dozen yards.”

Teddy began to realize that the man told the truth, yet it cannot be said that his anger was abated, although a strong curiosity mingled with it.

“And what’s yer raison for acting in that shtyle, to as good a man as iver asked God’s blessing on a sunny morning, and who wouldn’t tread on one of yer corns, that is, if yer big feet isn’t all corns, like a toad’s back, as I suspict, from the manner in which ye leaps over the ground.”

“He knows who I am, and he knows he has given me good cause to remind him of my existence. He can tell you, if he chooses; I shall not.  But let yourself and him take warning from what you already know.”

“And be the same token, let yourself be taking warning.  As sure as I’m the ninth son of the seventh mother, I’ll ­”

The hunter was gone!