The Island Trapper; or, The Young White-Buffalo Hunters
T. C. Harbaugh
The Command was spoken in a low tone to a majestic iron-gray horse.
Instantly the fore-feet were plunged into the loose earth, and the animal became as stationary as a bronze statue.
“Dash me! if I didn’t hear music. Tecumseh, ye heard it, too, for I saw ye prick yer ears before I told ye to stop. Where is the white man who has the audacity to be musical in the Pawnee country? Dash me! I’d like to see him; I’d like to take ’im back to the States and present ’im to Mr. Barnum. Listen! there it goes again. Music, certain, no mistake, and it sounds like that which I’ve heard on Broadway, comin’ from the dirty hand-organs.”
With a smile on his broad, handsome countenance, the speaker leaned forward in the wooden stirrups, with a half-doubled band behind his left ear.
“He’s struck up a new tune, and dash me if it isn’t ‘Hail Columbia.’ I’m gettin’ uncommon curious, settin’ here on Tecumseh, and list’nin’ to the first genuine music I’ve heard for five years, and dash me if—Injun yells, by Joshua!”
The iron-gray heard the new sounds, which seemed to emanate from the same spot as the mysterious music, and turned his head to his master, as if to ask what they meant. A furious light flashed from his dark eyes, and a low neigh told how eager he was to court excitement.
“Steady, Tecumseh, steady!” whispered the frontiersman “The Injun yells come from the same spot as the music; but still, ‘Hail Columbia’ remains unbroken. I can’t stand it any longer. Dash me if I ain’t goin’ to inquire into that music. The old song goes all over me like an electric arrow, and I b’lieve it affects my old horse. Now, Tecumseh, for’ard!”