“THE HAND OF THE GREAT SPIRIT.”
The reader will remember the mysterious delay on the part of Ralph
Radcliffe in reaching the grove, after he leaped from the back of the
horse, so as to give the darkey full chance to operate against the
redskins who were chasing the little party of prospectors.
Of course there was a cause for all this, and the cause was destined to
prove the means of saving Ralph’s life.
The boy was subject to a sort of vertigo, and would sometimes pass
into a succession of fainting fits that ultimately rendered him insane
for days, and then he would wander around with the vacant stare,
meaningless smile and senseless chatter of an idiot.
The fright, excitement, rough riding, and much rougher treatment he had
experienced in the past few days had upset the boy’s not over strong
nervous system, and when he started for the grove he was taken with one
of his fits and fell from view among the grass.
His recovery, second attempt to reach the grove, the pursuit of the
three Indians, and his rescue by the plucky Pomp are known to the
reader.
In the fight that took place at night Ralph concealed himself in
the thick bushes, but this mode of seeking safety really made him a
prisoner; for, when the brilliant light from the Steam Man was added
to the scene, some of the redskins could see the boy’s shining eyes
reflecting back the crimson glow, and they made up their minds to very
quietly scoop him in for their leader.
They crept around to the rear of the big cluster of bushes while the
fight was at its hottest, and very easily walked away with the boy,
holding a hand over his mouth to hush any cry he might make.
They ran him into the camp of tents, handed him over to the tender
mercies of an aged warrior, bound and gagged, and then they skedaddled
back to the rumpus.
After the fracas was over, and Van Dorn went to the camp, he was
delighted to find Ralph there a prisoner.
“Aha!” he cried, gazing malignantly upon the helpless boy, “you are
back again, are you? You see you can’t keep away from me if you try.
How do you think you feel?”
And the brutal villain, elated over the recovery of his prize, gave the
boy a kick.
Ralph could not cry out on account of the gag in his mouth, but he
moaned with pain.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the wretch, in devilish glee, “it tickles you, don’t
it? I must try to tickle you a little more before I lose sight of you
again.”
Then he turned to one of the redskins at hand.
“Who brought him in?”
“Little Deer and others.”
“Send Little Deer to me,” commanded the white leader.
Little Deer, a small, well-made Indian, noted for his fleetness of
foot, as well as his skill in hunting the animal after which he was
named, was called in according to orders.
The leader looked him over.
The chap had a sharp, snaky eye, and a general sneaking expression.
He looked the spy and sneak from head to foot, and Van Dorn smiled
approvingly upon him.
He took him aside.
“I want to speak with you,” he said. “I want you to do me a service.”
“The white chieftain has but to give his orders,” said Little Deer.
“You know we have said you may command us.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Van Dorn. “But this, is out of the regular
line; and if you can do the service properly I shall say that you are
faithful to your word, and, in addition, I will make you a present of
this.”
He took from an inner pocket of his coat a small and beautifully made
revolver, silver mounted and highly polished.
Little Deer’s eyes fairly snapped as they rested upon the weapon.
He took it in his hands and fairly caressed it.
“For that I would do anything you can ask,” he said.
“Very good,” said Van Dorn, and put the pistol back in his pocket.
“Name the service,” said the redskin.
“I want you to take the captive out a little distance from the camp as
soon as it is light enough for you to see, and run your knife across
his throat,” said James Van Dorn.
“Is that all,” cried the Indian villain, in great surprise. “White
chief, the boy is doomed. When I can see friend and foe I will take him
away.”
By which the red rascal meant that he could perform the service when it
was light enough for him to distinguish a friend from a foe.
“Do so,” said Van Horn, “and the little gun is yours.”
The hours rolled painfully by to the poor boy, and when morning dawned
he was glad to have his bonds released by Little Deer, who lifted him
to his feet.
For a moment the boy was unable to stand alone, but when the blood
began to move through his veins he was all right once more.
A strange buzzing began to rack through his head and the boy feared
that he was about to have another attack of the fits he was subject to.
Before he had time to think much about it Little Deer hurried him away
from the tents with the charitable design of putting him out of misery.
When he walked out upon the prairie he unsheathed his knife and
prepared to carry out his cold blooded intentions.
As he did so the boy’s whole form became convulsed.
He fell to the ground, and writhed and twisted in agony.
His eyes rolled backward in his head, his lips were covered with a
slight foam, the teeth were clenched and bare, and the boy’s entire
appearance was horrifying to the last degree.
He passed from one fit into another with alarming rapidity.
Little Deer seized him and attempted to hold him.
Ralph thrust him forcibly aside, and sent him flying.
The Indian was puzzled, and quite a bit frightened.
In a few moments the fits ceased, and then Ralph got up and looked at
Little Deer and laughed.
The look was vacant, the laugh was without mirth. The boy, for the time
being, was insane.
A little snake, fortunately of a harmless species, crossed their path
at this moment, and with a childish laugh the boy pounced upon it, and
began to play with it, passing it through his hands and around his neck.
Little Deer shook his head slowly with a strange reverential expression
on his face, and taking the boy by the hand he led him back to the
camp, for an insane person is as sacred as a god to the red men.
The camp was astir when he entered it, and the Indians all looked
upwards toward the sky when they glanced at the boy, but Van Dorn,
furious with rage, cried out:
“Why did you not kill him?”
“I could not,” said Little Deer.
“Then I will,” cried Van Dorn, and drew a knife from his belt as he
turned upon the boy, but with a united cry of the deepest horror every
red man clustered around the boy with drawn weapons.
“He is touched,” they said. “You must not harm him or the happy hunting
grounds would never open to us.”
“Touched!” shrieked the ferocious villain. “By what?”
And the answer came in tones low and awestruck from the protecting
group of superstitious redmen.
“The hand of the Great Spirit!”