While the savage scenes described were being enacted in the mountain
valley, a band of horsemen was fast approaching it, making their way
around the skirting spurs that at intervals protruded into the prairie.
It is scarce necessary to say that these were the trappers from Saint
Vrains, nor to add that they were riding at top-speed--fast as the
horses and mules on which they were mounted could carry them.
Conspicuous in the front were two who appeared to act in the double
capacity of leaders and guides. One of them seemed exceedingly anxious
to press forward--more than any of the party. He was acting as if some
strong urgency was upon him. It was the young Irishman, O'Neil. The
man riding by his side, also seemingly troubled about time, was his old
comrade, 'Lije Orton, the trapper.
The two kept habitually ahead, now in muttered converse with one
another, and now shouting back to their companions, to urge them onward.
Some of these came close up, while some, at times, showed a disposition
to straggle.
The truth is, the "mountain men" had brought their whisky-flasks along
with them, and, at every stream crossed, they insisted on stopping to
"take a horn."
O'Neil was the one who chafed loudest at the delay. To him it was
excruciating torture.
"Arter all," said Orton, with the intention less to restrain than
comfort him, "it won't make so much diffrence, Ned. A wheen o' minutes
ant neyther hyur nor thur, in a matter o' the kind. In course, I know
well o' what ye're thinkin' about."
He paused, as if expecting a rejoinder.
O'Neil only answered with a deep, long-drawn sigh.
"Ef anything air to happen to the gurl," continued 'Lije, rather in the
strain of a Job's comforter, "it will hev happened long 'fore this."
The young Irishman interrupted him with a groan.
"Maybe, howsomdever," continued 'Lije, "she air all right yet. It air
possible enuf the Injuns'll all get drunk, as soon as they lay ther
claws on the licker that must 'a been in the waggins; an' ef that be the
case, they won't think o' troublin' any o' thar keptives till thar
carousin' kums to a eend. This chile's opeenyun is, ef they intend any
torturin', they'll keep that sport over till the morrow: an', shud they
do so, darn me, ef we don't dissapeint 'em. Oncst we git upon the spot,
we'll gi'e 'em sport very diff'runt from that they'll be expectin'."
There was reason in what 'Lije said. His words were consolatory to
O'Neil; and, for a time, he rode on with a countenance more cheerful.
It soon became clouded again, as he returned to reflect on the character
of the Indians who were supposed to have "struck" the caravan; more
especially their chief, whose fame as a hater of white men was almost
equalled by his reputation as a _lover_ of white women. There was more
than one story current among the trappers, in which the Yellow Chief had
figured as a gallant among white-skinned girlish captives, who had
fallen into his hands on their passage across the prairie.
With the remembrance of these tales coming freshly before his mind,
O'Neil groaned again.
What if Clara Blackadder--in his memory still an angel--what if she
should, at that moment, be struggling in the arms of a paint-bedaubed
savage? Beauty in the embrace of a fiend! The reflection was fearful--
odious, and, as it shadowed the young hunter's heart, he drove the spurs
deep into the flanks of his horse, and cried to his comrade, "Come on,
'Lije! come on!"
But the time had arrived when something besides haste was required of
them. They were nearing the spot where the pillagers of the caravan
were supposed to have made camp; and the trappers were too well
acquainted with the wiles of prairie life to approach either men or
animals in an open manner. They knew that no Indians, even in their
hours of carousal, would leave their camp unguarded. A whole tribe
never gets drunk together. Enough of them always stay sober to act as
sentinels and videttes.
Safe as the Cheyenne Chief and his fellow-plunderers might deem
themselves--far away from any foe likely to molest them--they would, for
all this, be sure to keep pickets around their camping-place, or scouts
in its vicinity.
There was a bright daylight, for it was yet early in the afternoon. To
attempt approaching the bivouac of the savages across the open plain, or
even close-skirting the mountains, could only lead to a failure of their
enterprise. They would be sure of being seen, and, before they could
get within striking distance, the Indians, if not disposed to fight,
would be off, carrying along with them both their booty and their
captives. Mounted on fresher horses than those ridden by the trappers,
now panting and sweating after a long, continuous gallop, they could
easily accomplish this.
There seemed but one way of approaching the Indian camp--by stealth; and
this could only be done by waiting for the night and its darkness.
As this plan appeared to be the best, most of the trappers counselled
following it. They could think of no other.
The thought of such long delay was agony to O'Neil. Was there no
alternative?
The question was put to his comrade, 'Lije, while the discussion was in
progress.
"Thur air a alturnative," was the answer addressed to all, though to
none who so welcomed it as his young friend.
"What other way?" demanded several voices, O'Neil's being the first
heard.
"You see them mountings?" said 'Lije, pointing to a range that had just
opened to their view.
"Sartin; we ain't all; blind," replied one of the men. "What about
them?"
"You see that hill that sticks out thur, wi' the trees on top o't, jest
like the hump o' a buffler bull."
"Well, what of it?"
"Clost by the bottom o' that, them Injuns air camped--that be, ef this
chile hain't made a mistake 'bout thar intenshuns. We'll find 'em thur,
I reck'n."
"But how are we to approach the place without their spying us? There
ain't a bit o' cover on the prairie for miles round."
"But there air kiver on the mounting itself," rejoined 'Lije. "Plenty
o' tree kiver, as ye kin see."
"Ah! you mean for us to make a circumbendibus over the ridge, and attack
'em from the back-side. Is that it, 'Lije?"
"That's it," laconically answered the old trapper.
"You must be mistaken about that, Orton," put in Black Harris, supposed
to be the sagest among "mountain men."
"We might get over the ridge 'ithout bein' noticed, I reck'n; but not
with our animals. Neyther hoss nor mule can climb up yonder. And if we
leave them behind, it'll take longer than to wait for the night.
Besides, we mightn't find any track up among the rocks. They look, from
here, as if they had been piled up by giants as had been playing
jack-stones wi' 'em."
"So they do, Harry," responded 'Lije, "so do they, But, for all that,
there's a coon kin find a path to crawl through among 'em, an' that's
'Lije Orton. I hain't trapped all roun' hyur 'ithout knowin' the neer
cuts; an' there's a way over that ridge as'll fetch us strait custrut to
the Injun campin'-groun', an' 'ithout their purseevin' our approach in
the clarest o' sunlight. Beeside, it'll bring us into sech a pursishun
that we'll hev the skunks 'ithin reech o' our guns, afore they know
anythin' 'bout our bein' near 'em. Beeside, too, it'll save time. We
kin get thur long afore dark, so as to have a good chance o' lookin'
through the sights o' our rifles."
"Let us go that way," simultaneously cried several voices, the most
earnest among them being that of O'Neil.
No one dissenting, the mountain-path was determined upon.
Continuing along the plain for a half-mile farther, the trappers
dismounted, _cached_ their animals among the rocks, and commenced
ascending the steep slope--'Lije Orton still acting as their guide.