The freshly arrived horsemen, instead of alighting, remained seated in
their saddles.
For a time neither spoke, though their silence might be for want of
breath. Both were panting, as were also the horses that bore them.
"Theer's somethin' wrong, 'Lije Orton," said Black Harris, after
saluting an old comrade. "I can tell that by yur looks, as well's by
the purspiration on yur anymal. 'Tain't often as _you_ put the critter
in such a sweet. What is it, ole hoss? Yeller belly, or Injun? It
can't be white."
"White's got somethin' to do wi' it," replied the old trapper, having
somewhat recovered his wind. "But Injun more."
"Thar's a riddle, boys! Which o' ye kin read it? 'Splain yurself,
'Lije."
"Thar ain't much explinashin needed; only that a party o' emigrants hez
been attackted on Bijou Crik, an' maybe all on 'em killed, fur as this
chile kin tell."
"What emigrants? Who attacked them?"
"Yur fust question, boys, I kin answer clar enuf. They were some
planters from the State o' Massissippi."
"That's my State," interpolated one of the trappers, a young fellow,
inclined to take part in the talking.
"Shet up yur head!" commanded Harris, turning upon the fellow one of his
blackest frowns.
"Whether it air yur State or no," continued the imperturbable 'Lije,
"don't make much diff'rence. What I've got to say, boys, air this: A
karryvan o' emigrant planters, boun' for Californey, wi' thar niggers
along, camp'd last night on the bank o' Bijou Crik. After sun-up this
mornin', they war set upon by Injuns, an' I reck'n most, ef not all on
'em, hev been rubbed out. I chance to know who them emigrants war; but
thet's no bizness o' yurn. I reck'n it's enuf that they war whites, an'
thet Injuns hez dud the deed."
"What Indians? Do you know what tribe?"
"That oughtn't to make any diffrence eyther," responded 'Lije. "Though
I reck'n it will, when I've tolt ye who the attacktin party war, an' who
led 'em. I've alser got on the trail o' that."
"Who? 'Rapahoes?"
"No."
"Tain't the direction for Blackfeet."
"Nor Blackfeet neyther."
"Cheyennes, then? I'll stake a bale o' beaver it's them same Injuns, in
my opeenyun, the most trecher-most as scours these hyar perairies."
"Ye wouldn't lose yur skins," quietly responded 'Lije. "It air
Cheyennes es hez done it."
"And who do you say chiefed 'em?"
"There's no need asking that," said one, "now we know it's Cheyennes.
_Who_ should it be but that young devil they call Yellow Chief? He's
rubbed out more o' us white trappers than the oldest brave among 'em."
"Is it he, 'Lije?" asked several in a breath. "Is it the Yellow Chief?"
"'Taint nobody else," quietly declared the trapper.
The declaration was received by a perfect tornado of cries, in which
curses were mingled with threats of vengeance. All of them had heard of
this Indian chieftain, whose name had become a terror to trapperdom--at
least that section of it lying around the head waters of the Platte and
Arkansas. It was not the first time many of them had sworn vengeance
against him, if he should ever fall into their power; and the occasion
appeared to have arrived for at least a chance of obtaining it. The air
and attitude of 'Lije Orton led them to believe this.
All at once their mutual quarrels were forgiven, if not forgotten; and,
with friendships fresh cemented by hostility to the common foe, they
gathered around the old trapper and his companion--first earnestly
listening to what these two had still to tell, and then as earnestly
giving ear to the trapper's counsels about the course to be pursued.
There was no question of their remaining inactive. The name of the
Yellow Chief had fired one and all, from head to foot, rousing within
them the bitterest spirit of vengeance. To a man they were ready for an
expedition, that should end either in fight or pursuit. They only
hesitated to consider how they had best set about it.
"Do you think they might be still around the wagons?" asked one,
addressing himself to Orton.
"Not likely," answered 'Lije; "an' for reezuns. Fust an' foremost, thar
war some o' you fellers, as passed the karryvan yesterday, 'bout the
hour o' noon. Ain't that so?"
"Yes; we did," responded one of the three trappers, who, standing
silently in the circle, had not yet taken part in the hurried
conversation. "We travelled along with them for some distance,"
continued the man, "and stayed a bit at their noon halting-place. We
didn't know any of the party, except their guide, who was that Choctaw
that used to hang about Bent's Fort. Waboga, the Indjens call him.
Well; we warned them against the fellur, knowing him to be a queer 'un.
Like enough it's him that has betrayed them."
"Thet's been the treetor," said 'Lije. "Him an' no other; tho' it
moutn't 'a made much difference. They war boun' to go under anyhow, wi'
Yellur Chief lookin' arter 'em. An' now, as to the lookin' arter _him_,
we won't find him at the wagons. Knowin' you've kim on hyar, an'
knowin', as he's sartint ter do, thet thar's a good grist o' trappers at
the Fort, he'll stay 'bout the plundered camp no longer than'll take him
an' his party to settle up spoilin' the plunder. Then they'll streak
it. They've goed away from thar long afore this."
"We can track them."
"No, ye can't. Leastwise, ef ye did, it woudn't be a bit o' use. This
chile hev thort o' a shorter an' better way o' findin' out thar
warabouts."
"You know where they are gone, 'Lije?" interrogated Black Harris.
"Putty nigh the spot, Harry. I reck'n I kin find it out, 'ithout much
gropin'."
"Good for you, ole hoss! You guide us to thar swarmin'-place; an' ef we
don't break up thar wasps' nest and strangle thar yellar hornet o' a
chief, then call Black Harris o' the mountains a dod-rotted greenhorn!"
"Ef I don't guide ye strait custrut into thar campin'-place ye may call
ole 'Lije Orton blinder than the owls o' a purairia-dog town. So git
your things ready, boys; an' kum right arter me!"
It was an invitation that needed no pressing. The hope of being
revenged on the hated subchief of the Cheyennes--for deeds done either
to themselves, their friends, or the comrades of their calling--beat
high in every heart; and, in less than ten minutes' time, every trapper
staying at Saint Vrain's Fort, with a half-score other hangers-on of the
establishment, was armed to the teeth, and on horseback!
In less than five minutes more, they were hastening across the prairie
with 'Lije Orton at their head, in search of the Yellow Chief.
They were only five-and-twenty of them in all; but not one of their
number who did not consider himself a match for at least three Indians!
As for Black Harris, and several others of like kidney, they would not
have hesitated a moment about encountering six each. More than once had
these men engaged in such unequal encounters, coming out of them
victorious and triumphant!
Twenty-five against fifty, or even a hundred, what signified it to them?
It was but sport to these reckless men! They only wanted to be brought
face to face with the enemy; and then let their long rifles tell the
tale.
It was a tale to be told, before the going down of the sun.