OONOMOO

THE HURON

BY

EDWARD S. ELLIS

AUTHOR OF "THE TRAIL-HUNTER," "HUNTER'S CABIN," ETC.

NEW YORK

HURST & COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1911,

BY

HURST & COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

"Keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, ain't you got dat cooked?"

A girl, fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated on the ground, beside a squaw.

Mary Prescott.

"If you don't want to be killed, get up," said the young officer.

"Niniotan, my son, is late."

"You have saved me, and I want to grasp your hand for it."

But Oonomoo and the Miami had whipped out their knives.

So terrible did the exasperated Huron appear, that the entire party of Shawnees paused out of sheer horror.

Niniotan stood like a statue, his arms folded and his stony gaze fixed upon the senseless forms of his parents.

OONOMOO, THE HURON.

CHAPTER I.

HANS VANDERBUM.

        The mountain's sides
Are flecked with gleams of light and spots of shade;
Here, golden sunshine spreads in mellow rays, and there,
Stretching across its hoary breast, deep shadows lurk.
A stream, with many a turn, now lost to sight,
And then, again revealed, winds through the vale,
Shimmering in the early morning sun.
A few white clouds float in the blue expanse,
Their forms revealed in the clear lake beneath,
Which bears upon its breast a bark canoe,
Cautiously guided by a sinewy arm.
High in the heavens, three eagles proudly poise,
Keeping their mountain eyrie still in view,
Although their flight has borne them far away.
Upon the cliff which beetles o'er the pool,
Two Indians, peering from the brink, appear,
Clad in the gaudy dress their nature craves—
Robes of bright blue and scarlet, but which blend
In happy union with the landscape round.
Near by a wigwam stands—a fire within
Sends out a ruddy glow—and from its roof,
Cone-shaped, a spiral wreath of smoke ascends.
Not far away, though deeper in the woods,
Another hut, with red-men grouped about,
Attracts the eye, and wakens saddened thoughts
Of that brave race who once were masters here,
But now, like autumn leaves, are dying out.—BARRY GRAY.

"Shtop dat noise! shtop dat noise!" vociferated Hans Vanderbum, growing red in the face with fury, because his repeated commands had received so little attention.

The scene was deep in the forests of Ohio, a short distance from the Miami river. An Indian town of twenty-five or thirty lodges here stood, resembling a giant apiary, with its inhabitants flitting in and out, darting hither and thither, like so many bees. The time was early in the morning of a radiant spring, when the atmosphere was still and charming; the dew lingered upon the grass and undergrowth; birds were singing in every tree; the sky glowed with the pure blue of Italy; and the whole wilderness in its bloom looked like a sea of emerald. Everything was life and exhilaration, one personage alone excepted—Hans Vanderbum was unhappy!

The Indian lodges differed very little from each other, being of a rough,